Vicious Circle

by Elle E. Ire

  Not too bad. Nothing I could do on such short notice would make the girl into a fighter, but at least she’d lost that privileged look.

  “What, exactly, do you expect me to do with this?” she whispered, begging me with her eyes to take the weapon from her.

  “Not a damn thing. The safety’s on. Just carry it. Try not to act like you’re afraid of it.”

  She bit her lower lip, then straightened, pulling her shoulders back. “I’ll try, but I am afraid of it.” All the blood drained from her complexion. Her breathing came fast and short.

  A strand of hair fell into her eyes. With her hands on the stick, she tried to blow it aside. I took it between my fingertips and tucked it behind her right ear. “I know you are. I won’t ask you to use it. Just calm down, and—” I sucked in a sharp breath as a new spasm hit and threw my arms out to brace myself against the bulkhead. Every muscle from right wrist to shoulder tightened into painful twisted knots. I didn’t drop my pistol, but instead clenched it in a death grip. I couldn’t maintain my position and ended up rolling my body so my spine instead of my forearms pressed against the metal wall.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, moisture seeping from beneath the lids, I willed each muscle to relax, one by one. I tried to control my breathing, but the agony persisted, and I gasped harshly.

  The sound of metal hitting the floor carried over my own panting. Kila grabbed my midsection, and she held me upright. She didn’t possess the physical strength but made up for it with leverage, extending one leg behind her to provide more support.

  The seizure passed. I allowed myself to lean on her for a few more seconds until I knew I could carry my own weight. Exhausted, I let my chin rest on the top of her head and breathed in the scent of berries and flowers that made up whatever shampoo the liner provided among the toiletries. She hummed softly against my chest, tuneless but soothing.

  “Well,” boomed a voice from the turn in the passage, “this explains why you showed no interest in me!”

  Kila hushed and stiffened, and I raised my head slowly to meet the wicked gleam in the newcomer’s eyes. In the years since I’d last seen him, the captain of the Regiment 1 had changed little, in personality or appearance. I holstered my pistol, extending my free hand in a gesture of surrender. The pirate shouldered his rifle, then indicated the two crewmen with him should do the same.

  “Cor!” he shouted, wrapping both his hands around mine. The size of his palms swallowed my fingers until all five were hidden from view. “Woman, you look like shit!”

  “So do you, Derrick.” The thready quality of my voice surprised me. I shifted Kila to one side, keeping a casual arm around her shoulders like we’d known each other for years. It stunned me to realize it felt that way too.

  Derrick Vargas released me to place his hands on his hips. He looked down at himself, surveying his impressive biceps, broad muscular chest, and tree-trunk legs. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, probably tailored for him, but his sculpted musculature stretched the seams of his tan vest. The black animal-hide trousers left nothing to the imagination. “What are you talking about? I look the same as I always have.”

  “Exactly,” I said, letting my lips turn up in a grin.

  I watched the two pirate lackeys’ eyebrows rise.

  Vargas burst out in a blast of uncontrolled laughter, the sound resonating off the metal walls. He ran one palm over the two days’ worth of stubble shadowing his cheeks and chin. “Knew I should have found a way to convince you to stick around, Cor, for the amusement factor alone.” His lascivious gaze wandered over my curves. “And other things.”

  “We got each other out of a tight spot. That’s all. I’m not a pirate, Vargas.”

  “Not exactly an assassin anymore, either.”

  I froze. How much did he know about my removal from the Guild and how much was fishing?

  Vargas turned from me to Kila, then back again. I felt Kila’s piercing eyes but kept my own carefully forward. As far as she knew, I’d left the Guild due to injury. “So, what are you now?” he asked, striving for casual.

  Another tremor shook me, not as violent this time but noticeable. Derrick’s expression showed genuine concern, and I struggled with embarrassment. “I’m tired of standing around in this hallway. How about giving a couple of gals a lift?”

  I didn’t expect him to take me literally, but I should have known better. Captain Vargas took my shock stick and slung it over his own shoulder, then scooped me into his arms. I attempted a protest, which fell on deaf ears. He gave orders to his men to “follow the usual routine,” and stomped his way through the airlock and into the Regiment 1 still carrying me. Over his shoulder, I saw Kila trailing behind. She’d retrieved her weapon and bag from the floor. She had my satchel as well, though I didn’t remember dropping it.

  A dozen or so armed pirates passed us en route to take the liner, strip her passengers of all valuables, and leave the ship a floating derelict, with a long-range emergency beacon blaring a call for help. Some of them nodded to me, showing deference and recognition. In my current position, I felt ridiculous returning the serious nods, but I did so anyway.

  I knew the Regiment 1 well. She’d been my ride home on a two-week voyage from one side of the outer rim to the other. I held privileged guest status, which meant I had free run of most of the ship, including the bridge, mess, infirmary, engine room, and Vargas’s quarters, if I’d desired.

  I hadn’t.

  That’s where he took us, though, pounding down the central corridor on the primary deck. The ship had become shabby since my last tour on her. Open access panels, exposed wiring, loose housings—all marks of bad times. His cabin abutted the bridge, and the door opened at his approach. I lost a few skin cells as he squeezed the pair of us through the hatch. Then he laid me on a wide couch in his lounge with more care than I would’ve given him credit for.

  Captain Vargas’s accommodations were tacky in every way the liner’s staterooms had been tasteful. Red velvet covered each seating surface: the couch, two chairs, and, of all things, a love seat. I blinked twice, checking for hallucinations. Nope. The love seat remained. Kila sat on it, crossing her legs in front of her and leaning the shock stick against it. She placed our bags next to her on the seat.

  Pictures of naked women decorated the bulkheads, some with artistic merit, some plainly erotic. Kila stared at one, tilted her head from side to side as if analyzing the positions, caught my amused expression, and blushed redder than the velvet. She turned her attention to her fingernails, picking at one that had torn during our exodus.

  Despite the tasteless opulence, the furnishings showed as much wear and tear as the rest of the ship. A piece of underlining hung from the base of one of the chairs. Scratch marks marred the central table. The couch springs squeaked with every shift of my weight.

  I pushed myself upright, unwilling to be treated as an invalid, and planted my boots flat on the thick black carpeting. Well, at least it doesn’t show bloodstains. Derrick removed the shocker he’d taken from me and hung it on a hook embedded in the wall. He sat in an armchair, resting his palms flat on his knees.

  “So, what brings a master assassin and her….” He gestured in an abstract manner toward Kila.

  “Apprentice,” I filled in.

  Vargas’s eyebrows rose, and a smile played about his lips. “So, that’s what you’re calling her, eh?” He winked.

  I shot a quick glance at Kila, but she remained unperturbed. Either the innuendos went over her head or the idea of the captain believing us to be a couple didn’t bother her. Even with her innocence, I suspected the latter, and my pulse jumped a little at the thought. Maybe it was just the spasms.

  I really didn’t know what to make of Kila. Nudity sent her into embarrassed fits of blushing, but not same-sex pairings. Well, some cultures had very open ideas of acceptable partnerships, even on the outer rim. I hadn’t had time to investigate the nightlife the last time I traveled to Lissex. Chauvinism and homosexuality, though
, made for an interesting combination.

  As for me, I’d go with whatever story kept us alive. The particulars didn’t matter. “I don’t share my apprentices,” I added with more force than necessary to make my point clear.

  The captain nodded, all seriousness now. He understood my unspoken message—mess with my friend and earn yourself an enemy. When, exactly, Kila had become my friend, I couldn’t say, but the title fit well enough, so I let it ride.

  “And where are you and your apprentice headed?” Tenacious as always, he’d keep asking until he received an answer.

  No point in lying. He could check the liner’s itinerary if he wanted to know badly enough. “Lissex.” Another look to Kila, who stared straight ahead. “For a job.”

  “Then, ladies,” Vargas said, “you’re in luck, because that’s exactly where the Regiment 1 is going.”

  Now, what would a bunch of space-bound pirates want with a collection of islands inhabited by noble families? They might be accomplished at commandeering and robbing other space vessels, but planet-bound thieving involved a different skill set.

  I opened my mouth to ask, when the mother of all seizures hit. It snapped my spine straight, jerked my arms and legs rigid, and sent my head back to slam against the bulkhead behind the couch. My teeth clamped down hard, biting my tongue. I tasted blood and spit it in a hoarse curse. “Oh shit.”

  Both Derrick and Kila scrambled to reach me, the pirate captain grabbing my arms and sitting on my legs with half his weight. Kila placed a throw pillow behind my head to protect it from further injury. My vision blurred, and I suspected I had a concussion. The pain made me writhe, but I couldn’t escape it. It felt like someone cut open my fingertips and was pulling out my muscles one centimeter at a time.

  I could hear Vargas demanding to know what afflicted me. Kila’s response was beyond my ability to comprehend. Speech left me altogether. I managed a low groan.

  The next spasm sent me into blissful unconsciousness.

  Chapter 7

  “IF YOU distract the guard, I can get us out of here.” I paced the length of my cell and back. At this rate, I’d wear a groove in the stone floor. The old-fashioned metal bars striated my view of the adjacent holding area, but I could see the other prisoner.

  The burly man whom a guard called “Vargas” looked up from his cot, then rubbed his palm over the stubble covering his face. Either he was naturally hairy or he’d been in here a lot longer than the single day I had. “And how, exactly, do you think you’ll manage that, little girl?”

  I smiled and watched him reevaluate me. From experience, I knew the effect my smile had on others. It didn’t stem from warmth or humor and didn’t inspire those emotions in anyone who saw it.

  “Who are you?”

  I stopped pacing, went to the hole in the corner of my prison, skimmed down my black pants, and peed. My captors hadn’t seen fit to provide anything to clean myself with, so I yanked my trousers up and returned to the bars. The man watched the proceedings with raised eyebrows, refusing to turn away. I didn’t care. I had bigger problems. Like getting out.

  I gripped the cold metal with both hands and forced eye contact by sheer will. The chill of the bars sapped the warmth from my palms and added to my constant trembling. Grission authorities kept the temperatures in their holding cells at just above freezing. To them, cold promoted complacency. Irrational discomfort pissed me off.

  “You can call me Cor. And you?” I already had part of it but wondered if he’d share.

  He hesitated a moment. Names gave power. But I’d given him mine, and he couldn’t appear less brave than the “little girl.” “Captain Derrick Vargas.”

  I scanned his tight-fitting trousers, ship boots with magnetic-reactive soles, white shirt, and dark vest and made an educated guess. “They don’t tolerate piracy on this side of the outer rim, Derrick.” He blinked impassively. “And they do things in the old ways.” I flicked one of the bars with a fingernail, producing a dull clang like a cracked bell. “Bars and beheadings. Gotta love these backwater yokels.”

  That got his attention. A lost look drained his features of all energy, the look of a man who knew his fate and resigned himself to it. He stood and crossed to his own bars so only the two-meter wide cross-corridor separated us. “They hang prostitutes.”

  All right, my clothes fit snugly. The enforcers, the same ones whose boss hired me, by the way, took my jacket when they hauled me in here. My dark brown tank top might have been cut a bit low. However, no one would mistake me for a woman who sold her body to whomever could pay. I opened my mouth for a scathing retort.

  Vargas winked.

  He’d baited me. And won the reaction he’d sought. Two points to the pirate.

  “What’s the plan?”

  I glanced up the corridor, toward the closed door at its end. No one in sight. So far I’d only seen four of the locals, two on the day shift and two on the night, all of them idiots. Idiots with guns. I’d searched every inch of my cell for viewing and listening devices—under my bare mattress on the metal cot, in crevices between the cinder blocks making up the walls—and found none. That didn’t mean the enforcers hadn’t installed them in the corridor somewhere, but worlds employing metal bars and guillotines didn’t favor high-tech bugs.

  “At our next feeding”—I growled the word. The gray sludge they’d brought us barely qualified as food—“make a grab for him through the bars. Make it obvious.”

  Vargas nodded slowly. Then the guard would throw himself back, colliding with the steel blocking my exit. “Why don’t you reach for him?” The pirate cracked his massive knuckles. The message was clear: “I’m the man. I have muscles. I’m better suited for this.” Except he wasn’t.

  I shook my head. “Did you watch them at lunch? They won’t come near my cell. They’ll kick the tray to the bars and let me stretch for the food. They know what I am, and they’re a lot more afraid of me than of you.”

  He eyed me again. His gaze lingered on my hips and breasts, too distracted by my femininity to use logic. “What are you?”

  Raising my left hand from the bars, I let him see my bare forearm. Even at this distance and with the impaired view, he should clearly discern the Guild tattoo. To my satisfaction, he blinked twice. “Do you know how to twist a man’s neck at just the right angle so it snaps before he can scream?” I asked him, voice emotionless and even.

  “I’m in.”

  My stomach rumbled, and I pressed one hand to my abdomen to quiet it. The sound of several locks disengaging carried along the corridor to the cells. Turning, I retreated to the cot and sat upon it. I let my shoulders slump and my head hang but kept watch on the passage through a curtain of my hair.

  “Shouldn’t you be—?” Vargas began but hushed as the door flew open and one of the guards marched in.

  He carried a single tray bearing two bowls of inedible crap. As predicted, he set the tray down in the center of the aisle, took one container off, and pushed the tray and remaining bowl in front of my cell with his boot. When he carried the second to Vargas, the pirate made a sudden grab for his throat. The guard threw himself backward.

  I was up and at my bars before the guard made contact. My arm went through the narrow space and around his neck. One twist and a sickening wet crunch and the enforcer dropped at my feet. I glanced at Vargas while pawing through the guard’s uniform. The pirate looked ill.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never killed anyone before,” I snarled, coming up with the keys. Deftly, I inserted them in the exterior lock and let myself out.

  Derrick Vargas puffed out his broad chest. “Certainly. But I’ve never seen a woman do it with her bare hands.”

  This time I had the wicked gleam. “You haven’t associated with the right women.” I hesitated a moment before unlocking his cell. He might prove more trouble down the line, but he’d done his part, and I owed him. I turned the key.

  “Clearly not,” he said, stepping out. “May I now consider you my ass
ociate?” He reached a hand as if to rest it on my shoulder, then thought better of it and lowered it to his side.

  “I’m not your enemy.” The pirate relaxed visibly at my words. “As long as you don’t touch me without permission.” He stiffened again, and I smirked, belatedly realizing I’d left a half-open door with that statement. Bending, I took the enforcer’s gun and turned it over in my hands. The bullet-thrower felt awkward and heavy compared to my confiscated laser, and the barrel had rusted. I hoped it would fire if I needed it to.

  I stepped over the body, feeling no remorse. The locals petitioned the Guild and hired me to rid them of a nasty serial killer. “Set a murderer to catch a murderer,” they’d quipped. I wasn’t some random psychotic—I was a trained professional. But I’d held my tongue.

  When I finished the job and delivered the corpse, the head enforcer claimed his government lacked the funds to pay me. Given the primitive state of the colony world, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

  What did surprise me was when they convicted me of murder and used that as their excuse for not paying. They locked me up and set the date for my public beheading. Which made them a threat to my life. Which nullified our contract. Which gave me a whole slew of new Guild-approved targets.

  Never piss off an assassin.

  Extending the guard’s gun before me, I pushed open the door at the end of the corridor. The remaining enforcer sat at a ramshackle desk covered in hard-copy files in actual paper folders. He glanced up when I entered, eyes widening when he saw his two prisoners in the doorway. I put a bullet between those widened eyes, spattering the wall behind him with his brain matter. It ran down the rough stone surface in gray gobbets. At least the archaic piece of hardware worked. Behind me, I heard a choked gag.

  Vargas swallowed audibly. “Remind me not to make you angry.”

  “That was your reminder.” I moved to the main entrance of the otherwise empty jail building and peered outside. The hour was late, the sun having long set, and the street stood empty. In the distance, I heard sirens. Someone had called in the sound of gunfire.