Snowburn

by Frost, E J

  Kez wasn’t wrong about overshooting it. The bowship is creeping between the piers. I eye up the angles, throttle back a little further. Shaker said the bowship would only register the skimmer as an echo, but it won’t look like an echo. To anyone on deck, we’ll be hard to miss.

  Unless we’re concealed somehow.

  “Kez, gimme a read on the pier.” I’ve got my own read on it. The lowest support strut I’ve seen will still give the skimmer about a meter of clearance. But a meter isn’t much, particularly with the wave action, and I can’t see clearly in the glare.

  Kez glances back over her shoulder at me. Her eyes are round. “Uh, about four meters above the waterline.”

  I nod. That’s what I figured, too. “Hold on to your hats,” I tell my passengers, then angle the skimmer between the two nearest pylons.

  I hear Banks inhale sharply as the darkness under the pier swallows the ship. I can’t see anything but permacrete, but I don’t need to. I’ve already made my calculations. The pier is standard Colony construction. One hundred and ninety meters long. Sixteen meters wide. Six meters between pylons. I’ve throttled back to a third of the skimmer’s top speed, so it’s a quick count of one-and before we pop out between the next set of pylons on the far side of the pier. I bank hard to avoid crashing into the adjacent jetty.

  The sealane is crowded. We bob in the wash of a big Infinity yacht that’s pulling out ahead of us. Between the high wedge of the yacht’s stern and the prongs of the bowship filling the eastern horizon, the glare of Kuseros’s sunset is muted, manageable. I sweep the horizon quickly, make a fast adjustment, then swing the skimmer under the next pier. There’s a squeal of metal across permacrete as the yacht’s wake lifts us up to kiss the pier’s underside. One-and and we’re out the other side, so close behind the bowship that it eclipses the entire horizon.

  Kez rises out of her seat slightly. “There,” she breathes, pointing at something I can’t see in the massive shadow of the bowship. “Three degrees north.”

  The throttle slides under my palm as she makes the small adjustment. I see the dark slit she’s angling towards. I throw the throttle forward, trusting Kez to steer, and the bowship swallows us. There’s a funny lifting sensation and my stomach drops a meter or two. I kill the jets. I can’t see anything in the sudden transition from light to pitch blackness but we must be in the sweet-spot under the bowship. We’ll ride along now like a lingus-fish on an orclas.

  I sit back against the bench’s padding. Hear Banks exhale. There’s a faint whisper – wind or the bowship’s jets – from outside the ship, but inside it’s as quiet as a tomb. I grin into the darkness and feel the air next to me shift as Kez finds me and slides onto the bench beside me. I put my arm around her.

  “Did we damage the roof?” she asks.

  “Yeah, Shaker might shave a couple of credits off our deposit,” I whisper into her hair.

  She puts her head down on my shoulder and from the roundness of her cheek against my collar, I can tell she’s smiling. She doesn’t give a fuck, either. Damage to the skimmer is something to worry about after we survive the run. My kitten’s good at living in the now.

  My eyes adjust and I begin to pick out shapes. Erin with her face turned away from us. Banks sitting with his head back against the wall, eyes closed. The long arc of Kez’s legs as she curls them across my lap. I slide my hand up her thigh and pull her nice and tight to me. There’s nothing to do now for eighteen minutes as the bowship accelerates out of the bay and crosses the expanse of open ocean to Outniss Rock. Maybe it’s the darkness, maybe it’s the weird silence, maybe it’s the lingering tension from the first leg of our journey, but no one seems inclined to talk. We sit in darkness, and silence, for seventeen minutes.

  Dropping out of the bowship is harder than getting in. The lift off the bowship’s huge jets holds us in place against the underside of the ship. I have to rev the skimmer’s engine until it screams to get up enough momentum to escape. We shoot out of the underside of the bowship at over a hundred kilometers an hour, trailing sparks.

  Shaker’s not going to be a happy man when he gets his skimmer back. Banks must have the same thought because he meets my eyes and grimaces. I shrug. Priorities. Get Erin to the Cloudlands. Survive the run. Then I’ll worry about the damage to Shaker’s pride-and-joy.

  The sun has nearly set while we’ve been tucked under the bowship. Only a thin red band remains on the horizon, shading to purple and midnight blue overhead. The Broken Moon is up, bloated and red with reflected light. In the darkening ocean, Outniss Rock is a series of low black humps. I angle the skimmer towards the tallest, longest hump.

  “Anywhere in particular?” I ask Banks.

  Banks nods. “Far side. Tower Beach.”

  I swing around the tip of the island, clearing the bowship’s massive wake as it continues to accelerate out to sea, and immediately identify Tower Beach. On the southern side of the atoll, a low, black sand beach ends in a pile of weathered boulders. A few of the boulders form a distinctive spire, which glows dull red in the fading light.

  The beaches on this side of the atoll, sheltered from both the mainland and the Cloudlands, are alive with light and movement. Each beach hosts two or three bonfires, which flicker seductively. Around the bonfires, black stick figures swirl, silhouetted against the flames. Guess the Mirrormen really are dancing tonight.

  There’s no bonfire on the expanse of sand below the rock tower, but there are two small skimmers bobbing just beyond the breakers. Banks nods at them. I pull up alongside the one furthest from the beach. A thin silver cord stretches from each skimmer to the rock tower. I pick up the skimmer’s control and am about to click dock when Banks says, “You mind beaching, Mister Snow?”

  I glance at Kez.

  “C’mon, sass.” Banks holds up his hands. “It’s gonna be a bitch to load up out on the water.”

  Kez nods. I put down the control pad and open up the throttle again.

  The skimmer beaches neatly, the rattle of gravel under the jets replacing the whush of water. I kill the engine. Let the skimmer settle on a slight angle, following the pitch of the beach. Banks rises and crosses the canted deck, skidding a little. He pops the door and jumps down onto the dark, wet sand.

  I beckon Kez with two fingers and point to the bench Banks has just vacated. The interior of the skimmer is dark, so I doubt anyone looking into the skimmer from the firelit beach will be able to see inside. But in case a stray beam from the setting suns light us up, I don’t want anyone seeing Kez’s sweetly curved shape at the front window. “Stay there, kitten.”

  She nods. Settles onto the bench I’ve indicated. Erin ignores me, but she doesn’t seem inclined to move. She’s a bitch, but she’s not stupid.

  I move to the doorway and stand there for a minute, hanging onto the cool metal rim, feeling the salty sea breeze lick my cheeks and chin. Assess the situation.

  The beach is a short crescent of black-flecked gravel, no more than ten meters across, bordered by scrubby purple foliage, tumbled rocks and gravel mounds. In the fading light, the gravel glimmers. The bushes luminesce. The black rocks crackle. An occasional bright jet reaches up into the clouds like a long white finger. I grimace at the thought of the rad dose we’re getting. Looking around, I can see why smugglers would choose this spot. It’s well-concealed, distinctive, and of no use to anyone but the MAO-A whackos jumping around the fires a quarter klick away. Still, I don’t like spending any time in their stomping grounds. Particularly when I’ve got such sweet meat under my wing.

  I turn my head slightly and meet Kez’s wide blues. “We’re out of here in five minutes. I don’t give a fuck what your boy’s doin’.”

  Kez nods. “Should I get the finboards out?”

  “Yeah.” I glance at Erin. “Suit up.”

  I expect an eye-roll at least, but Erin’s suddenly all business. She packs away her specs and palmtop with quick, economic movements. I turn back to the beach when she starts shrugging out of
her assassin chic.

  A pair of man-shaped shadows have detached themselves from the rock tower. They meet Banks as he trudges up the gravel shingle. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but the pitch of their voices is urgent, agitated.

  I’ve got no hair on the back of my neck, but it’s standing up anyway. Time to go. “Kitten, make that three minutes.”

  She nods with a rustle of dreadlocks from where she’s unstrapping the finboards. I cross behind her, to the bench where my gear is stowed, ignoring Erin’s dusky gold nakedness on my way. I want some blades.

  There’s no place in the shadowsuit to hide my blades. No pockets. No patches. Whoever designed this fucking thing should be shot. Grimacing, I strap my wrist sheaths outside the suit’s sleeves. They’ll be clearly visible – there’s no mistaking what they are – but they’ll also be easily accessible. I shove my feet into my boots. The water will ruin even the treated genSkin, and they’ll be fucking heavy once they’re wet. I don’t care. I’m not leaving my kukris behind.

  I debate over my vest for a moment. I haven’t been shot at yet, but there’s still time. There’s also a couple of blades in it, and a hundred hard credits in the lining. A glance at Kez shows that she’s got her backpack slung over her shoulders. She packed five thou against expenses, so she’s still got a couple grand, even after paying Shaker. Her backpack bulges with everything she’s stuffed into it. I fold the vest and leave it with the rest of my gear. There’s no way I’m going to fit the vest into her backpack, and I won’t be able to swim with it on. If Shaker finds my emergency stash, he can put it towards the damage I’ve done to his baby. I’ll just have to try to avoid getting shot.

  I fasten the flight webbing over my gear and take a finboard from Kez. While I tote one and shove another towards the door with my foot, she starts unstrapping the third.

  Out on the shingle, the discussion between Banks and his fellow smugglers has risen in volume and gesticulation. I’m not interested in sticking around to see the outcome, or whether their noise attracts the attention of the Hyp-ed cannibals doing their war-dance down the beach. A sliding noise to my right heralds the arrival of the other finboard. I expect Kez to be pushing it, but it’s Erin, sleek and curvy in her shadowsuit. She mimics my pose, hanging onto the lip of the doorway and leaning out of the skimmer to survey the beach. It puts the shelf of her boobs right under my nose. I have to give her points for persistence.

  “This is not a good place to be,” she says.

  “You’re not tellin’ me anything I don’t know, sister.” I nod at the surf whispering across the gravel. “Get wet.”

  She jumps down onto the beach. Casts back over her shoulder, “I always am.”

  I toss a finboard down to her, ignoring her most recent version of I’m telling you I’m available to piss off my sister. It’s just habit for her, since she’s seen where things stand between me and Kez. Realizing she can’t get beyond any man choosing someone over her makes me feel a moment’s pity. But I push the feeling away. Erin’s a killer, and you don’t feel pity for predators.

  I glance over my shoulder to check on Kez. She’s fastening flight webbing down over the gear she’s leaving behind. Given she looked like she was barely wearing anything, her gear makes quite a pile. Where the fuck was she hiding it all?

  “C’mon, kitten,” I encourage her. “Let’s get out of here.” #

  “Aye-firmative,” she says, but she sounds distracted. She stands uncertainly, hands on her hips, looking around the skimmer. Then she moves towards the front controls and snaps the transponder out of its socket. She twists the little piece of mech. Flicks those big blue eyes up at me, underlit by the yellow glow of the transponder’s directional image.

  “We’ve got twenty-two minutes before the second bowship passes Outniss.”

  “Let’s be fashionably early.”

  “Aww.” She gives me a mock pout. “We’ve got time for a stroll on the beach.”

  Under any other circumstances, I’d like that. But here an’ now, that seems like a good way to end up as barbeque. “Rain check.”

  Her big grin. “So you owe me a double-bag of the universe’s best flash aaaand a walk on the beach.”

  “Move your ass before someone decides to cook it.”

  She giggles and grabs one of the finboards as she jumps out of the skimmer. I admire the very fine view of her backside in the shadowsuit for a moment before I toss the skimmer’s control pad next to the throttle, hook an arm around the last finboard and follow Kez out onto the beach.

  Erin’s already in the water, up to her waist, her pale hair a gleaming banner against the dark suit and darker water. The lights on her finboard wink, and she gets a knee up on it just in time for the board to lift her neatly out of the water. Where did the killer-call-girl learn to surf? Maybe her life isn’t as different from Kez’s as she’d like us to believe.

  Chapter 22

  The finboard is unwieldy out of the water, so I twist the fin to turn it on and toss it into the waves. It rights itself quickly and bumps against the skimmer’s door. I shove it out further into the surf with my foot and glance back at Kez.

  She’s standing ankle-deep in the water, staring back at the shore. At three dark figures who are climbing over the rocks between our beach and the next. Fuck, I knew we’d been here too long.

  “Kezra,” I growl.

  She holds up one hand. Tilts her head to the side. I follow her line of sight and focus on the lead figure. Big man. Hundred and thirty kilos, maybe more. It’s not all muscle, but he carries it well. His chest is an imposing barrel and his arms are meaty slabs. He’s naked to the waist and the dying light glimmers on his sweat-streaked, deeply tanned skin. His ears, bristling with implanted cartilage, stand up from his shaved head like serrated fins. No mistaking him. Dag.

  I shove the finboard toward Erin and wade back to Kez. I don’t know what she has in mind, but whatever it is, she’ll need backup.

  “What’s the play?” I ask her in an undertone when I stand beside her. The Mirrormen aren’t headed towards us. They’ve fanned out, but they’re moving in Banks’s general direction.

  “They’ll kill Banks,” Kez says, still watching Dag.

  “Maybe we should kill them first.”

  She looks at me over her shoulder and grins, eyes and teeth gleaming in the twilight. “I love you.”

  I nearly stumble. Not what I expected her to say. Or when. I shrug, but file it away for later. ‘Cause maybe she does, and not just when I’ve offered to save her friend’s ass. And if she does, I want to hear it again. Preferably when we’re both naked.

  I stride out of the water. It’s only a few steps, but it gets the Mirrormen’s attention. They angle towards us. The wet sand crunches as Kez walks up beside me. When we’re within speaking distance of the Mirrormen, Kez stops and smiles. It’s not her usual mischievous grin, or even that sly, sexy smile I’ve seen a couple of times. This is all fangs and razors. “Hey, Dag,” she says.

  The lead Mirrorman looks glazed. Radiation exposure, Hyp, and violence. From the streaks and spatters on his chin and chest, I’d say he’s already had an extra helping of all three. He stares at Kez for a long moment while the other two Mirrormen draw up beside him. Finally, a spark of recognition lights his cloudy eyes.

  “Oh, yeah,” he drawls. “Lightfoot. I remember you.” His two cronies chuckle nastily. “How’s the leg?”

  Kez scratches her head, like she’s considering his question. When her fingers drop away from her dreads, light flickers around her fingers.

  That’s a move I recognize. Show time. I drop, twist and pull my kukris out of their sheaths. As I rise, Kez flicks her fingers at Dag and one of those writhing lines of light wiggles through the air to carve a bloody cavity in the big Mirrorman’s face and chest.

  He screams, high and thin.

  “Surprise, fucker,” Kez snarls. She takes two running steps, spins and slams a low side-blade kick into Dag’s knee. With the mom
entum from her spin and the power of those strong, runner’s legs, she chops his knee out from under him. He won’t be walking any time soon.

  Dag crashes to the sand with the reverberation of a tree falling.

  Before the other two Mirrormen can react, I leap, slashing with the kukris. I take one of the Mirrormen in the neck. The kukri’s wicked edge severs the Mirrorman’s head. It bounces wetly across the sand. The other Mirrorman turns just as I leap, bringing up a spiked baton and raising it over his head. Bad move. His swing exposes the underside of his arm. I reverse the sweep of my kukri and bring it up in a long arc, slicing through his underarm. The edge grates against bone but doesn’t stick. Good blade. His arm flops uselessly; the baton clatters to the sand. Got the nerve. A high-pressure spray of red tells me I got the brachial artery, too. Fucker’s already dead, even if he doesn’t know it yet. He crumples, whimpering and clutching at the wounded. I step back, flick blood off my blades, and glance at Kez.

  She shakes her head. Holds out her hand.

  I move around the fallen Mirrormen, transfer my kukris to my right hand and take her hand with my left. She pulls me away, down the beach. She’s right, time to retreat. We’ve been here way too long. “Leg’s fine,” she tells Dag. “Thanks for asking.”

  Dag twists and kicks at us, but he’s in too much pain to mount much of an attack. I side-step his flailing foot. Let Kez pull me down the beach. The crunch of the sand under our boots changes to splashes. We’re in the water, and although that doesn’t really make us any safer – the Mirrormen got to Outniss somehow, so they must have skimmers of their own – I feel better getting off the beach. Enough that I sheath the kukris, making a mental note to clean them later. I don’t want blood gumming up those very fine blades.

  Kez lets out that three-note whistle she first used to identify herself to Banks. He waves. He’s already moving towards our skimmer, dragging a net full of small parcels. The smugglers he met are retreating to their own skimmers. Good thing, too, because more sweat-streaked, bare-chested figures are climbing over the rocks.