Faint Hearts
Griffin Barber and Kacey Ezell
Chapter One
The noise of the crowd and the band reverberated after the relative quiet of the soundproofed office, making me wish, again, for my long-gone angel. If I’d still had the bio-integrated military-issue AI enhancing my capabilities, it could have used my modifications to mute—or at least edit—all that incessant thumping and grinding the band tried to pass off as “music.”
Tongi had hired the band from out beyond the rift, and they seemed bent on slamming through their set as fast as possible. He’d said they were under contract for two shows a night, but the way they were playing left me certain there were no other stipulations in their contract about the quality of each show. I wondered for a second if they might not catch a beating for it. The big Omik club owner was rumored to have some less than savory partners, but he was hiring bouncers as well as bands, the work didn’t require a functional angel, and I didn’t have a lot of options. All in all, I found it best to shut up, show up, and mind my own business.
Maybe these guys were just a shitty band. A Curtain of Stars wasn’t exactly the kind of high-end joint that attracted the best talent. Even if that kind of talent were available out here on the edge of the abyss, which it wasn’t.
“Muck,” Tongi said, the eyes that ringed his mouth beginning an asynchronous blink that always made me uneasy.
“Yes, Tongi?” I had to shout to be heard.
“I have a special assignment for you this evening, special guests that are coming tonight. A Vmog Emerita. Make certain the VIP section remains clear of any unwanted persons.”
“Will do,” I said.
“I am placing a great deal of trust in you, Muck. Please do not show me that it is misplaced.”
“Understood, Tongi.”
“I’ll let you know when they arrive.”
Recognizing a dismissal when I heard it, I wandered down to the main floor of the club.
It being too early for the usual clientele, the majority of people in the club were either hardcore fans or friends of the band, or maybe both. I busied myself keeping the act separate from the fans, even helping out with the eighty-sixing of a couple of mopes who believed the band was there to be pawed.
As the band finished its first set and the club grew more crowded, Tongi emerged from backstage and cornered me with his bulk. “My guest should be arriving in the next hour or so. Clear the VIP room and balcony. Tell anyone who asks that it’s a private party. Once that is done, you will cover the stair whilst Amandra handles things in the VIP room proper.”
“Will do,” I said, edging away. I’m not considered small by human standards, and I didn’t mass less than Tongi, but I experienced a gut-level aversion to being crowded by the big alien. Maybe it was the single, snaillike “foot” the Omik get around on, maybe it was the eyes or the lack of bilateral symmetry. Then again, it could have just been that I didn’t want anyone that close to me. Regardless of what I thought of his management style, I needed the work. There weren’t a lot of opportunities at Last Stop, especially if you have a dishonorable discharge hanging over your head.
Tongi didn’t say anything else, just blinked at me in that creepy, dizzying way of his. I wonder if he knew it bugged me. Probably. He seemed to do it a lot. But since all he did was blink, I slid past him and joined the growing crowd on the main dance floor.
The music pounded through the floor and thumped up into my chest. Curtain smelled like every nightclub I’ve ever been in: a mix of spilled alcohol, regurgitated bile, and astringent floor cleaner. Depending on the species ratios in attendance, I’d occasionally get a whiff of various body odors, too. The ventilation wasn’t great, and a dancing crowd was usually—depending on their metabolism—a sweaty one.
It was still pretty early, but the place was starting to fill up. I pushed past more than a few gyrating bodies on my way to the VIP room. I usually got one of two reactions when I did this: one, they ignored me and remained lost in that weird dance- and music-induced high—although, to be fair, there may have been other types of “high” going on as well—or, two, they turned to me with an offended growl or glare that vanished as soon as they saw the Curtain Security shirt stretched over my chest and shoulders.
Like I said, I’m not a small guy. I may not have had an angel to make me stronger than any unmodified human had a right to be any more, but I put in the work to make the best of what I still had. Even without the use of my biomods, I had a lot of muscle mass and a mug even the most charitable had to call “mean.”
So it surprised me more than it should have when one particular dancer reacted in a totally different manner. He noticed me but didn’t shy away. Instead, he reached out with feathered arms and gripped my shoulders with surprising strength. He was Vmog, and they’d evolved on a planet with less than Last Stop’s Earthlike one G. The species fit a Terran’s ideas of the “birdlike” stereotype, with long, spindly limbs and a prominent, beaklike mouth.
“Kiss me,” he said, his tone insistent. “I’ll pay you well.”
“Ain’t my type, ain’t my hustle, sir,” I said, grabbing his left wrist and twisting out of his grasping, taloned fingers. At least he hadn’t punctured my skin, or worse, the shirt. Skin grew back. I only had the one shirt, and Tongi wasn’t going to front me the credit for another.
“Please,” the Vmog said, his tone high and lilting, cutting through the band’s pretentions to artistry, which seemed to be based on drums, hi-hat, and little else.
“Sorry, sir, I’m on the clock. Have a good time,” I said, pushing past the other dancers that crowded close and continuing my slow journey through the crowd.
As I got to the edge of the dance floor and started up the stairs toward the VIP room, something pulled my gut out of shape, some instinct for trouble. If I’d still had an angel, I’d know why the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. Yet another thing I missed. It sucks, relying on “gut feelings” and human-level attention to detail.
But instinct was all I had. So, after taking two steps up, I turned back and scanned the crowd in search of what had my dander up. I kept my face blank and professional—just another bouncer working the club.
The crowd continued to grow as more and more patrons packed the Curtain to see—it couldn’t be to listen to—the shitty band. Even then, I couldn’t understand it. Maybe if piercings in odd places and a propensity for licking the mic was your thing, they might entertain for a moment. There was no accounting for taste.
I didn’t see the Vmog, or anything amiss after a good, lengthy look, so I let the feeling go, turned, and continued climbing up the stairs to the club’s VIP section.
The collection of velvet and leather seats were still clear; most of the night’s patrons preferred thrashing out their fandom on the dance floor.
Tongi appeared, I think mostly to check that I was where I was supposed to be, but also to drop off some premium Blovic liquorfruit for the VIP bar.
“Not for you, Muck,” Tongi admonished as he slid back into the elevator that went from the main floor to the VIP area and on up to his office.
“Of course not.” I’d tried the stuff before, and it got the job done, but that was the best I could say about it. Even if I were inclined to steal a taste, something in the way it metabolized made my breath stink like burnt rubber, a dead giveaway—and turnoff—for most people.
Just to be sure I couldn’t be accused of hanging out rather than doing my job, I went down to the landing and assumed the position and stance human bouncers have perfected over millennia. It sometimes amuses me to think of myself as some Roman standing outside the baths, hairy arms crossed, glowering at plebs.
I was in position when the Vmog Emerita and her entourage drifted upstairs in a swirl of silks, clacking chatter, and flashing jewels. An hour passed, better music blasting from the sound system while the live band was between sets.
Shortly after the band resumed torturing eardrums, a flurry of motion from the dance floor caught my eye. Two—no, three—combatants whaling on each other, their clumsy combat causing a stir on the dance floor.
I glanced at my fellows guarding the stage, saw a large group of screaming fans had rushed it in a concerted attempt to get next to the singer. No bodies would be forthcoming from there.
I keyed my comm. “Fight on the floor. Three fighting on the floor.”
Crickets.
“Fight on the floor,” I repeated just as two of the combatants brought the third down and started putting the boots to them.
“Fight on the floor! They got o—”
“Deal with it yourself!” Kranz yelled over the comm. I looked back at the stage, saw the lead bouncer wrestling with an Ulgarin.
“Fuck it,” I said, rushing down the stairs and onto the dance floor. The floor was an exercise in aggravation. Without an angel watching out for me, I couldn’t avoid running into people, and without my mods, my body wasn’t up to automatically compensating for each impact without slowing my progress to a crawl. I grit my teeth, turned sideways, and shoved or dragged people out of the way with every half-step forward.
A long few seconds later I broke through the ring of people around the fight. The Vmog that had propositioned me earlier was kicking the shit out—literally, from the smell—of a human on the ground.
“Enough!” I bellowed, straight-arming the upright human in the face and wrapping the Vmog up from behind with my free arm.
The human stumbled back and fell on his ass as the crowd scrambled and pushed to get away from the fight in their midst.
The Vmog grunt-clacked and dropped surprisingly strong hands to my wrist, trying to free himself. I felt skin tear under the claws. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at the strength in his upper chest and hands. I’d read up on the Vmog. They’d evolved from soaring omnivores, where grip strength and chest power contributed a great deal to survival.
“Asshole,” I grunted. Blood dripping from the wounds, I refused to let go as I snaked my other hand up under his beaklike mouth to the tiny wattle of flesh there. Seizing it, I pinched, hard. Something ground together inside before my opponent’s flinch yanked the fleshy bits of my hand. It was the last resistance I had from that quarter. The Vmog went limp, a dribble of orangish foam appearing at the corners of his lipless mouth.
The one I’d knocked over was already scrambling away, bouncing off dancers and clubbers as he fled.
“Fushing shish,” the—spacer, from her jumpsuit—said from the ground. She spat some teeth and more blood on the dance floor.
“You all right?” I asked, shifting the Vmog to one hip so I could look her in the eyes. The Vmog was heavy, even when he wasn’t trying to rip my skin to shreds. It was a bit alarming until I felt his chest rising and falling against my arm.
“Fushing shish,” the spacer repeated. Pupils tight as pinpricks. At least the pins were equally slow to respond to the constant changes in lighting, so probably drugs rather than a concussion.
I tapped my mic. “Injured human patron on the floor. Am removing one from the club.”
“Stand by,” Magi said. “Calling for medical services. Do we need to call Station Security?”
“No,” Tongi said curtly. “Just remove the combatants from my club, Muck. By the side door, if you please.”
I thought about that a moment.
The wattle-pinch I’d used was supposed to wear off after about five minutes. Once that happened, the fellow had already proved he could handle himself. If the drugged-up spacer wanted to press charges, she could ask the club to furnish recordings and I would gladly give her a statement about what I’d seen.
“Some help up here!” Kranz bellowed over the comm. Another group of fans surged up on stage, diving into the crowd.
Seeing no profit to anyone in arguing with the boss and hearing the growing concern in my co-worker’s voice, I made my way to the side door and left the Vmog in the piss-soaked alley, propped up against the wall.
Fuck if I wasn’t made to regret the shit out of taking the path of least resistance.
Chapter Two
The night dragged on without another dust up. By the time I finished helping Kranz get the stage cleared, the drugged-up spacer had disappeared. I figured Tongi would be happy enough with that, since he’d ordered her removed, and headed back up to my post outside the VIP section just as the terrible band was wrapping up their final set.
The lead singer had just announced “Last Call” when Tongi’s voice slobbered in my earpiece.
“Ralston Muck. My office. Now!”
Shit. No one had used my full name like that since I’d left home at fifteen. What else could go wrong tonight?
The crowd near the bar thickened as all of the sweat-soaked dancers and revelers fought for their last fix of the night. I sighed and headed back down to the floor to push my way through. A dozen curt “excuse me”s and one memorable patron valiantly attempting to grab my crotch later, I swam out of the press of bodies and stepped into the staff elevator.
After a short ride, the door slid open before I could touch it.
“Get in here!” Tongi said, grabbing me by my shirt and dragging me into his office.
I stumbled forward, wrenching my shirt from the grip of his most powerful tentacle. I straightened and opened my mouth to protest, but the words died unspoken when I saw the being sitting behind his desk.
The Vmog Emerita was tall, lean. I’d seen her earlier, of course, but not up close. Her features were alien, soft proto-feathers giving her skin a blurred, almost fuzzy look, and her strong, slightly hooked beak prominent in the facial area. All in all, her beauty was undeniable, even to those not of her species. She felt me looking, and met my gaze. The weight of her despair hit me square in the gut right before Tongi actually hit me square in the gut.
I doubled over, coughing.
“Muck, you idiot, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“No,” I wheezed. I wasn’t being a smart-ass, either. It was the truth. I hadn’t the faintest.
“Tongi, please,” the Emerita said. Her voice was soft and lilting, like a deep baritone version of the recordings of Earth birds the Vmog resembled. “It is not the fault of your employee. My darling is a restless creature…restless and reckless and I worry—” She broke off, ducking her head and lifting one winged arm to hide her face.
“The Vmog you beat up?” Tongi continued in murderous tones. “He is one of the Emerita’s consorts, and now he’s gone missing!”
“I did not beat him up!” I felt an angry flush paint my skin as I stared up at him. Without an angel, I could neither hide nor control my physiological response to anger, and I felt the lack more fiercely in that moment than I had in a long time. “You told me to remove him from the club!”
“Yeah, well, no one has seen him since! You’re lucky the Emerita is so gracious, or I’d—”
“Enough, Citizen Tongi.”
The voice that spoke didn’t belong to anyone I recognized. I blinked, turned and saw two humans had been flanking the door Tongi’d yanked me through. I shouldn’t have missed them, even without an angel to process peripheral information for me.
One more failure in a string of them.
“Station Security Officer Keyode,” the man who had interrupted Tongi said by way of introduction. He was small and dark, with hair cut close to his scalp. He pointed to the other side of the door and the tall, muscular blond man with a cruel twist to his mouth standing there. “This is my partner, Officer Dengler. Muck, is it? Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
“Station Security is here already?” I asked. Then I got wise and shut the hell up. I did not like the look of the blond guy. And they might be here to close up a case they had instigated by burying me with it.
“I called them,” the Emerita said, her voice wrenching. “Something is wrong. Dzavo is a free wing and a wild one, but he always tells me his plans. Something has happened to him.”
“Can you tell us about your altercation with Consort Dzavo, citizen Muck?” Keyode asked, and while his expression was patient, his tone hinted he wouldn’t be for long.
“Not much of an altercation,” I said, hiding my wrists. “There was a fight on the floor. I was stationed at the VIP entrance, but the other staff were busy and unable to respond. So I did. The Emerita’s consort was in the midst of kicking the spit out of a drugged-up spacer, so I pulled him off of her.”
“Then what did you do?” Keyode asked.
I cut my gaze to Tongi. He blinked at me with all of his eyes while his mouth hole opened and closed. I pretended not to understand the message he was desperately trying to convey.
“I called it in, and Tongi told me to just get them both out of the club.”
“No! I would never tell you to—” Tongi reared back on his foot, thick voice rising.
“We already checked the transmissions, big boy,” Dengler said, speaking for the first time. He stepped up next to his partner and smiled widely at my boss. I immediately knew him for a dick. One of those guys got his kicks bullying people. “Your man here”—his gaze flicked to me—“what’s your name, again? Dirt?”
“Muck. Ralston Muck.”
“Right. Muck here may be dumb and ugly, but he ain’t lying.”
“What happened to the spacer, Muck?” Keyode said.
“I couldn’t physically hold them both, so I took him out the side door and went back for her. She was gone when I returned.”
“But I would never, had I known! Muck didn’t tell me—” Tongi spluttered.
“Tongi.”
It was the Emerita. She rose to her full height and swept her wings back. Her eyes burned. It didn’t take a xenologist to recognize the anger and the fear behind them as she looked at him, then my way.
“I hold you responsible,” she said, enunciating each word as if it were a death sentence. Her wings spread slightly with each subsequent sentence: “Find my Dzavo. Find him quickly. Find him unharmed and I will not seek reparation from you. Is my full meaning clear?” She had fully mantled her wings by the time she was done speaking, the threat posture nearly doubling her apparent size.
“Emerita—” Dengler began, holding up both hands in an effort to calm her.
If she were descended from primates, it might have worked better. As she was not, she cocked her head to turn her hot gaze on him.
He fell silent.
I half-snorted, visions of a raptor eyeing a snail dancing though my head.
“Gentlemen,” she said, ignoring me. “I will return to my ship. I trust you will be quick and most of all, thorough, with your search. I will most certainly learn of it if you are not.”
I nodded, thinking there must have been something about spreading her wings that worked on her chest cavity, making each word pound home like a dire threat. She carefully shrugged them back into place, had to in order to make her exit.
“Emerita,” Keyode said as she passed. Even his dick partner inclined his head in respect as she brushed by us all and headed out into the elevator.
Keyode let out a sigh and turned back to me. “We’re going to need a description of that female from the fight,” he said. “And copies of all security recordings,” he added, looking at Tongi. My boss grunted his assent.
“And don’t leave Last Stop without letting us know, hey, Dirt?” Dengler said, giving me another shitty grin.
“Sure,” I said, because I knew my part in his little play. So much for minding my own business.
I gave them what I had. It wasn’t much, I knew. Keyode did a good job drawing out the little details. He was a fair hand at interrogation. I knew because I’d practiced the skill myself, during the War.
Before my discharge. Before my angel was taken.
“We’ll be in touch,” Keyode said when I’d spilled what I knew. He nodded at his partner and left.
Dengler wasn’t so professional: he winked—actually fucking winked at me—before pushing out the door.
To be frank, I almost wished they would stay a while longer. I needed the job, and leaving Tongi hanging out to dry by his one foot was not likely to win the big Omik’s endorsement for employee of the month.
Here we go, I thought, readying myself for a firing or a beating. Honestly, I thought it could go either way at that point.
“I ought to kill you,” Tongi said, his voice weirdly thin. It was the first time I’d heard him in a murderous rage.
“You’re welcome to try.” In my anger, I fucking meant it, too. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal, but it wasn’t like I had much going and I’ve always had my fair share of anger issues.
“But I cannot,” Tongi said, eyes going wide with a sharp intake of air through his mouth, the Omik equivalent of a sigh. “I need you to find the Emerita’s consort.”
I gestured at the door Keyode and Dickler had left by. “What about security?”
Tongi made a rattling noise with his mouth hole I figured for a filthy slur in Omik parlance. “Security? Are you serious? They’re bought and paid for on every Administration Station from here to your dead Earth. Why would things be any different? And don’t you dare ask by whom. That’s the problem specific to Last Stop: everyone is in someone else’s pocket. Except for you. You’re too dumb to be connected, too desperate to be seen as a threat, and too angry to run. Yes, you’ll do nicely. Find the Emerita’s consort for us. I won’t fire you and she won’t have us both gutted and hung out for her young.”
“She didn’t look like a killer to me,” I said, remembering the sadness in those beautiful eyes. I didn’t mean that she couldn’t, but rather that she didn’t seem callous enough to resort to violence simply to get her way. Then again, that could make her more dangerous, instead of less.
Tongi let out a huff, then another, then he sucked in enough air to fill his spinal sac and let it out all at once in the Omik equivalent of laughter.
“You are an idiot,” he said. “Don’t you know who she is?”
I shook my head in the negative.
“That’s Emerita Bellasanee. Look her up. She may be the deadliest being alive.”
Chapter Three
One of the few benefits of working nights is I typically don’t have to get up early. Typically. Tongi’d made it very clear time was of the essence in finding the Emerita’s lost boy, so there I was, groggy and out of sorts, but vertical and waiting outside my shitty digs for a ride.
My PID pinged just as the spherical autocab glided up to a stop beside me. I opened the door and tried not to inhale too deeply as I half fell onto the cracked polymer of the seat inside. Someone had puked in the cab recently, and the autocleaner hadn’t been particularly thorough.
“Yeah?” I rasped at my PID as Tongi’s face appeared above the display.
“Where are you? Why aren’t you at the docks yet? The Emerita is expecting you! I had to do a lot of fast-talking to get you an appointment with her. You had better not be late, Muck, or—”
“The cab just arrived, I’ve got an hour, yet,” I said. “And I live near the docks, so quit freaking out. You’re making my head hurt.”
“You live near the docks?” Tongi asked, his mouth hole twisting in distaste while his eyes blinked asynchronously, a nauseating display. “I wouldn’t house a sick venoril there! Why would you—”
“You don’t pay me enough,” I said. “Did you call for a reason? Or just to give me shit about my apartment?”
“If you live dockside, you’ve got plenty of shit. You don’t need more from me,” Tongi shot back. I had to admit, it was almost funny.
Also, sadly, very true.
“I just wanted to be certain you were awake and would not be late,” Tongi said. I hadn’t worked for him long, and I didn’t know Omik tells very well, but my gut said the rising pitch of his voice meant he was really fucking scared. I took a deep breath and held my tongue.
“Well, I’ll be on my way as soon as we disconnect and I give the cab my destination.”
“Fine. Don’t mess this up, Muck.” Tongi cut the call.
I stared at the empty display for a moment and shook my head.
“You can indicate your destination aloud.” The tinny, electronic voice came from the cab’s speakers overhead. “This vehicle will understand.”
“Right.” I sighed. “Dock Six B. Quickest route, please.”
“Of course. Please remain in your seat at all times. Do not disengage the restraints.” I sat back, let the harness enfold me, and thought about what I knew. It wasn’t much.
First, the missing Vmog. He was young, by their standards, but old enough to be a consort to one of their Emeritas. Vmog didn’t pair off into couple-bonds like humans tended to do. They were a race of artisans, and most focused all of their efforts on becoming the very best in the known universe at whatever particular craft or skill their parents—and there were a lot of parents for each child—trained them to. When and if a particular Vmog artisan reached the pinnacle of their chosen field, they produced a masterpiece. Once that masterpiece had been recognized or released, they assumed the title of Emeritus or Emerita, and lived out the rest of their lives being treated with near godlike reverence by the rest of their very talented race. Godlike reverence that included incredible wealth, harems, and an enormous amount of clout even beyond their field. I had a hard time imagining the relationship dynamics of harem life, especially for those who did not reach the rank of Emerita. Different strokes for different species, apparently.
So, young party Vmog boy, out for a good time, gets into a fight at the club. Why? And with whom? I had the druggie spacer chick’s description pretty set in my mind after passing it to Security. I wondered if they’d found anything useful on Tongi’s security feeds. Not that they would share anything with me, but I knew he had backups. I hesitated to send Tongi a request to have them forwarded to my PID, fearing he’d use the request as a reason to pester me further. I sent it anyway.
It just didn’t figure. The spacer, if she was truly part of some kind of criminal conspiracy, surely hadn’t carried herself like a boss, and had no entourage to prevent me ejecting her from the club. The timeline seemed too tight for someone to order a hit, too. Unless…Unless it was a planned kidnap. From what Tongi was saying and my own research the night before confirmed, Bellasanee certainly had the money to make ransom a motive. Throw the spacer at Dzavo, knowing the fight would get both ejected so lie in wait in the alley and out front, then collect their target. A conveniently softened-up target, too.
Well. As theories went, it wasn’t terrible. But I needed to know a lot more before I could say for sure. And I would need Bella to let me know if the kidnappers got in touch.
The cab glided to a stop and a chime dinged.
“We have reached your destination. Please authorize payment.”
“Charge it to A Curtain of Stars, manager Tongi.”
“Please wait while the charge is authorized.”
I waited in the restraint system, smirking as I imagined Tongi’s irritation. He knew I couldn’t afford cabs, so it would absolutely wound the skinflint to cough up a single credit.
The Omik approved the expense, though, and quickly. The restraints whipped back into their sockets and the gull-wing-style door lifted into the heavily filtered air of the docks.
“Thanks,” I said to the cab as I stepped out. I don’t know why I do that shit. Guess it’s just how I was raised.
I took a look around. Last Stop’s docking areas are extensive. Starships, shuttle terminals, and the vast orbital elevator landings for cargo limited the view. Most stretches of the docks were noisy and crowded, and never failed to give me a headache.
But this section was different. No crowds. People moved here and there, sure, but not a single long queue of passengers or cargo handlers. It was almost pleasant without the press of people. I sniffed. Despite the better maintenance schedule on the atmospheric filters at this end, the proper heavy-metals-and-desperation stink of Last Stop Station’s docks still lingered in the air. I thought the smell and the general absence of people fitting for the last, lonely haven of ships crossing the Abyssal Gap.
Chapter Four
The yacht was luxe all the way. Air filters whispered in my wake, as if my very presence sullied the air. The Emerita was a gracious hostess, inviting me to sit and plying me with refreshments before we got down to business. I refused with what I hoped was polite professionalism. I must have succeeded to a degree because the angry raptor of the night before was replaced with a cooler, more calculating Bellasanee. She confirmed that Tongi had arranged my visit, and the underlying reason—Station Security’s likely corruption—for it.
I eventually got round to asking a few questions: “Was a ransom note delivered?”
“No, not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“I hope such a request arrives. As proof he’s alive, if nothing else.”
Knowing better, I didn’t contradict her. “Did he have any rivals for your affection?”
She twitched her wings, the hard edges of her mouth softening in an alien smile. “We are not human, to feel that kind of jealousy. My love is shared equally among my consorts, their adoration of me is equally individual and shared between them as peers.”
I decided not to unpack that statement just yet. “Did Dzavo make a habit of using intoxicants to the point his judgment could become impaired?”
“What is this, an attempt to blame the victim?”
I decided then and there she had a far better grasp of human psychology than I did on the Vmog. “I just want to better understand his history, so that I can judge what happened last night.”
“Yes,” she said, looking away. “He frequently seeks the edge of control. We call such Vmog a ‘free wing,’ or more disparagingly, ‘storm riders.’ Regardless of what our wider society calls him, he is mine, and I, his.”
“Does his pay allow him to indulge in such pursuits without going into debt?”
“His pay?” She shook her head, an odd point of commonality between humans and Vmog. “Dzavo has what you would call an allowance. And yes, it is sufficient for his needs.”
“So he wouldn’t owe anyone a large sum? Not even if he was trying to hide it from you?”
Bellasanee rustled her wings again, this time giving off an air of discontent rather than amusement. She moved her beaklike lips one over the other, which caused an odd susurrus.
“He may have,” she said, finally. “He would sometimes hide things from me. I was never sure why. Perhaps it added to the excitement of his so-called ‘forbidden’ pastimes. I would never deny him anything, you understand. His restless spirit is part of what I love about him, but occasionally…” She let the thought trail off.
I looked away to give her a moment of privacy.
“Emerita,” I said as softly as I could. “I am sorry to cause you pain. But please, if there is anything you can tell me about Dzavo’s illicit activities, it will help.”
She stared into my eyes for a long second, her raptor’s pupils contracting as she studied my ugly mug. Then she seemed to decide something, because she gave a little nod and sat forward in her seat.
“There is a robotics shop,” she said, pitching her voice low. “It’s owned by a Gosrian named Fulu. I’m not supposed to know that Dzavo is a frequent customer.”
“I’m guessing it’s not because he has an interest in robotics?”
She clicked her lips together and then softened her mouth in a smile again.
“An astute guess, Citizen Muck. Go see Fulu, find out what she was selling Dzavo, and for how much. I will send you the particulars of his accounts, so you will be able to ascertain whether or not he had some kind of secret debt.”
I got to my feet as my PID pinged, indicating a large file transfer had begun.
“Thank you, Emerita.”
“One more thing, Citizen Muck.”
“Yes?” I stopped mid-turn and pivoted back to face her. She waved a fingered wingtip and a circle detached from the plush carpet and rose up beside me. Under the circle, a column of slick, warship-grade alloy held several pistol-type weapons, most of them directed energy from what I could tell, but a few looked like old-school kinetic projectile throwers. Each weapon hung suspended by some invisible mechanism in a lighted alcove on the column. It was like a museum display.
Here. On her ship.
She really was rich.
“Two gifts, Rrralston,” Bellasanee said, using my first name for the first time. “Find my love and they are yours to keep. One, choose a weapon. I fear you will need it. Two…” She trailed off with a pause and looked at me with that penetrating raptor gaze again. “Two, I can see the war has left you scarred. Speak with Fulu. She will have everything necessary.”
Chapter Five
It felt weird, being armed once again. The contents of the custom-extruded shoulder rig was an unfamiliar weight. The voidfork wasn’t my favorite weapon, not by a long shot, but it was very lethal, didn’t require a lot of practice or an angel to operate, and had been designed to deceive all but the most advanced detection systems. I tried to put it out of my mind. The last thing I needed was some Security goon to notice my unease and wonder why.
Bella hadn’t given any additional details, but my PID indicated the Gosrian’s botshop was in the industrial sector of Last Stop, just a short walk from the docks. I hadn’t much experience with Gosrians, but everyone knew the plantlike aliens were two things: utter pacifists and extreme capitalists.
I remembered a Gosrian captain I’d busted for dealing drugs from his logistics warehouse during the war, but I’d only been on the arrest team for it. The incident stood out in my memory only because it’s hard to put cuffs on a viny creature that can change the thickness and length of its limbs at will. The botshop looked legit, and far less alarming than the biohazard-marked place next to it. The door opened as I approached, revealing a couple of rows of refurbished maintenance and service bots. I walked on, approached a counter that ran the length of the back wall.
A thick profusion of leafy vines shot from a door behind the counter, pulling a thicker, heavier “trunk” into the doorframe. It shook with a sound like heavy rain in a forest.
I smelled cloves and paint thinner. “Citizen Ralston Muck,” a translator rig said from behind the counter. “I am Fulu Fourth Runner In The Ninth Season. You may call me Fulu.”
“And you can call me Muck,” I said, amused.
“I will call you Honored Customer Muck after this day. All has been arranged.”
“I…see. I am here to ask a few questions regarding—”
Fulu’s shiver interrupted me with the smell of salt and cinnamon so stringent it made me cough. “Honored Customer Dzavo Mekli Bellasanee,” the translator said, “I know. Upon receiving Patron Emerita Bellasanee’s communiqué, I reviewed my connections to Customer Dzavo. I was supplying him with lanklin, a narcotic and aphrodisiac preferred by some Vmog.”
“Were?”
“Indeed, Customer Muck. I ran out. He was not pleased with my lack of stock and went to my competitor and received subsequent and substantial quantities of the drug. I learned today that he has fallen deeply in arrears with this competitor.” A shiver and the vines contracted visibly. An acrid odor of burning soap. “This news is not good. This competitor is not known for their restraint.”
“Who?”
“A human gang calling themselves the Thirteenth Revenant Army.”
I had not heard of them, but the name triggered another memory: the drugged-up woman at the club having a tattoo of what looked like some undead human with a stylized 13 printed on her neck.
“Where can I find them?”
An odd scent filled the air. I didn’t think it was from the Gosrian. Had the translator alerted on something? The devices were multifunction, capable of running a number of expert systems.
Fulu shivered again, casting scents too complex for me to unravel. “Customer Muck, our time grows short. I will send your PID the gang location I am aware of, but I must insist you come back here with me. I must make good on the service paid for by Patron Bellasanee.”
I shook my head, wondering what the hell was going on.
Something crashed against the shop door.
More complex scents. More waving frond/vines. “Please consent to joining me here.”
I nodded. “I ag—” Fulu’s vines swept out before I could get the words out and yanked me bodily off the floor. Ain’t nowhere near as big as I used to be, but no one would say I’m small. Fulu picked me up and pulled me over the counter like a baby.
The door crashed in. I caught a glimpse of three figures in street clothes carrying weapons. One aimed a subgun at me just as Fulu triggered some hidden mechanism that slammed a ceramo-metal shield down from the ceiling along the length of the countertop. With a sound like hypervelocity hailstones on metal, several red-white hotspots appeared. Subgun rounds stopped cold by the shield.
Fulu set me on the ground. “I apologize for touching you so abruptly, Customer Muck.”
“Your competitors?” I said.
“The very same, Customer Muck,” Fulu said. Her translator-device hadn’t so much as risen an octave. She was also not wilting, which surprised me.
“Will this stop them?” I asked, gesturing at the shield. I hadn’t seen any large caliber or heavy-energy weapons, but still.
“It will hold until Station Security arrives. Thibodeau is not with those outside.”
“Who?”
“The leader of my competitors. You will find him at the address I provided.”
“How do I get there?”
“You may depart this location through my compost channels to the lower levels of the station. For now, let me provide you with the order Patron Bellasanee made on your behalf.”
“Order?”
“You had your angel-class AI forcibly removed as part of your dishonorable discharge, correct?”
I felt my cheeks burning, muttered a half-civil “Correct.”
Fulu ignored my shame. “I have certain drugs that will restore partial functionality to most of your remaining mods.” One leafy tendril rose to eye level and uncurled to reveal a portable medichine, complete with full vials of pharma.
My heart leapt, mind leaping right past the “partial” to “restore.” I swallowed an addict’s eagerness, said carefully, “No good if I can’t afford to keep them running.”
“I will continue to supply you at reasonable rates after the initial dose.”
“You’re that sure of prevailing against the competition? I thought you were pacifists?”
“Gosrians are indeed pacifist. There are other competitors than those presently out there. Rest assured, Customer Muck, I am partnered with those who will emerge the victors and with options to expand our market share.”
Part of me wanted to walk away. I didn’t want to be on the hook with Last Stop Station’s underworld. Hooked up with such people, I would find it hard to mind my own business when I saw something else, something I couldn’t ignore, going on.
“Do it,” I said, desire curb-stomping that small, cautious part of me into the dust. In the end, my want was greater than my wariness. Just the possibility I would become even a pale reflection of what I once was, of being that much closer to complete, was more than I could refuse.
Chapter Six
With the near-euphoria of partially restored mods zinging through my system, my chest heaved as I fought to bring my breathing under control. Which was unfortunate, since I was crouched between a stinking recycler and a public autodoc. The blue light from atop the autodoc glinted from the recycler’s bare metal skin. I leaned forward to look at my reflection.
Eyes wide. Pupils dilating…I was high as fuck. And damn if it didn’t feel good. Like I could move in ways I’d almost forgotten. Like I’d had my full strength restored.
Like I was almost whole again.
As promised, the narrow, reeking passageways that housed Fulu’s nutrient and compost cycling system had led me to one of the lowest levels of Last Stop Station. I’d climbed out through a maintenance access hatch and found myself on this cramped, neglected street. Neither one of the devices flanking me looked as if they’d been properly maintained in some time. Even though the blue light indicated the autodoc was functional, the scratched and dented exterior gave me doubts about its ability to provide the emergency life support and hospital transport such devices were required to give under Administration law. The air was redolent with the greasy-sweet stench of bioslime coming from a filtration system long overdue for maintenance and the alien critter processing plant across the alley.
Still, the location provided a view of the street and the cross alley bracketing the address Fulu’d supplied. No vehicles passing out front, no lookouts in front or rear, and no obvious surveillance blisters…which didn’t really make sense. I was just beginning to wonder if I had the right place when I heard it: a scream, like the cry of a wounded avian, cutting through the oily thickness of the night air.
I held still as every instinct insisted I rush in and do something. Memories of other screams, other times, clattered through my consciousness. I took a deep breath and pushed the fragmented memories of flames licking among corpses—and those that were soon to become corpses—away.
If this was the right place—and that cry certainly made it seem like it—then barreling in there wouldn’t help anyone, least of all me. I needed a way in. Too bad Fulu’s compost tunnels hadn’t extended this far. Then again, I would rather avoid repeating that particular experience anytime soon.
If I couldn’t go down…maybe up? I craned my neck and took a good look at the upper floors and roof of the building. Sure enough, no helpful ladders or fire egress routes. There was a botwalk—a catwalk for maintenance bots—up above the recycler. Before the War, I’d have been able to make that jump from the top of the recycler, but now—
Shit.
“Not as good as the real thing,” Fulu had said. But “basic functionality” had to mean some increased strength, right? And hadn’t I already noticed my energy kicking up on the run over here? Maybe…
Shit. Only one way to find out.
I stood slowly, glancing around to make sure that I wasn’t about to be made by anyone who cared, and then launched myself at the upper lip of the recycler unit. Back in the day, my augmented strength would have let me land lightly atop the nearly two-story unit. I was satisfied with the straight leap that let me grab the edge with my fingertips. I adjusted my grip. The metal felt as filthy and slick as it smelled, but my mods responded to the pharma and my demand, furnishing extra strength to my arms and shoulders as needed. I surged up and to my feet, barely grunting with the effort.
I felt a twinge of nostalgia. It had been so long since I felt strong. It felt good.
I just hoped that the clanking sound of my boots as I scrambled to my feet didn’t make too much racket.
My balance was improving beyond human norms, too. I didn’t wobble once as I turned to look at the blank expanse of wall stretching above. Down here, at the station’s docks, the botwalks and maintenance galleries ran above and about the businesses, and other compartmentalized “buildings” tended to be larger and more extensive than those in residential sections. I might have climbed the recycler without my mods, but only by running up part of the wall and making a lot more noise.
Even with Fulu’s pharma, I still wasn’t sure I could make that leap. I was considering finding another way in when a second scream announced I was out of time.
I took a deep breath of the reek, crouched, and leapt.
Pain exploded, searing through my nerve endings as I pushed unaccustomed muscles to, and through, the brink. My mods were suddenly aflame—an uneven burn stuttering along my nerves, like fuel igniters firing out of sequence in an asynchronous cacophony of agony so powerful I closed my eyes for an instant.
I opened them in time to see I had missed the botwalk’s guardrail.
I stretched, slapping abused fingers against the lower support, slipped. My other hand scrabbled, caught on the metal undercarriage. I clutched the square spar tight, swung painfully as each edge tried to shred my skin. I hung, suspended, chest heaving as I sucked in air to try and quiet the chaos going on inside my body. The thin, extruded metal of the botwalk creaked alarmingly under my weight.
I tried to ignore the pain as I pulled my abused body up and crawled onto the botwalk proper. Fresh appreciation for the industrial noises off the district flooded my nerves as I lay still for a heartbeat and simply panted. Then I rolled over and crawled cautiously along the swaying botwalk toward the wall and the passage where the bots passed through the bulkhead into the building.
I cracked my dome on the edge of the passage as I bent to enter it. Warm, salty blood started to run into the corner of my mouth. It, combined with the scents, tight confines and heat of the enclosed space made my stomach flip with nauseated glee. At least, I hoped it was the environment and not some side effect of the pharma.
Below me, the warehouse stretched like a dollhouse with the roof removed. Thin walls of metal sheeting divided the space into a series of small rooms on the near end, but the rest of the vast interior yawned, a singularly open, dark space.
Rather, an open, dark space with a cavity of light in the far corner. I couldn’t see the source, but the glow lit up the outlines of several interstellar shipping crates stacked in long-term storage cradles and arranged to create a chamber hidden from the aisles between containers. It was probably damn near invisible from the warehouse floor.
Only I wasn’t on the floor. One thing about humans: we rarely remember to look up, and when we do it’s usually a nervous glance or a sarcastic eye roll.
The botwalk branched in a pattern roughly following the interior walls of the warehouse, so I continued crawling, making as little noise as possible. As I got closer, I started to pick up the sounds of harsh, labored breathing—panting, almost. And an almost subliminal whine that made the base of my skull ache.
I couldn’t get directly over the space, but I got close. I couldn’t see exactly what was going on, but what I did see in the light from those portable industrial lanterns made fear and revulsion war beneath my skin.
A single figure—human, like I thought—stood dressed in an old-school polymer surgeon’s apron like I hadn’t seen since the War. He faced the wall directly beneath me, where someone had been strapped upright against a storage rack. I couldn’t see the victim, but to be honest, that was a good thing, judging by the pained keening that continued to throb in the air between us.
I reached for the Voidfork Bellasanee’d given me and slowly brought it forward. The angle was bad, given my prone position, but I squirmed around as quietly as I could until I could see the shiny wet slickness of that polymer apron through the autosights of the weapon.
The torturer stepped forward and grabbed something off a wheeled cart just to his right. I didn’t see what it was, but the keening intensified, and as the figure lifted his hands, I caught the flash and whine of an ill-tuned sonic scalpel in the lantern light.
Good enough. I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The targeting LED flashed briefly, the weapon’s only indication that it was, indeed, forcing two rapidly cycling microwave beams on contradictory frequencies into the target.
Well, the only one other than the torturer’s torso exploding as his insides became his outsides.
The torturer stumbled backwards, then inward over his exploded stomach. His flailing knocked over the tool cart with a crash. I kept my weapon in my weak hand and with my strong hand grabbed the lower edge of the botwalk and half rolled, half dived over the side. My body burned with the same stuttering, ecstatic agony as the pharma fueled my mods, but I didn’t rip my shoulder out of the socket. I hung for just a split second before committing to a mostly controlled fall to the ground.
I landed on the spilled, mingled contents of the cart and torturer, which made me stumble. Good thing, too, because a flicker in the corner of my eye was the only warning I was being attacked. I let myself fall into a full crouch, and the man I hadn’t seen sitting on a stool in the corner swung another sonic scalpel in a glittering arc that made my teeth ache in my skull. It would have cut me, too, but seemed to judder in the man’s hand.
I straightened and backed, trying for a shot. I threw myself aside as he rushed me, nearly losing the front of my shirt in the process. I fired in his general direction. The shipping crate to the left of his head superheated and exploded in a whitish cloud.
“Stop!” I shouted, hoping to distract him.
He wiped the weird visor he wore, leaving red streaks in the white powder slowly settling over everything, He ignored the blood and focused on me, growled, “My lucky day! Now I have two friends to play with.”
He lunged again.
I dodged aside, maneuvering for space and time.
“With friends like you,” I muttered, edging toward an opening in the storage racks. Problem was, I couldn’t find one, thanks to the damn powder—flour, it tasted like—still hanging in the air. But drawing him away from Dzavo was important, too.
I glanced up at the wall of racks where the torturer had been working. At first, my brain refused to make sense of what was in front of me. I caught a shining white flash of bone in a sea of mangled red meat, and the red-brown streaks of blood running through the Vmog’s downy coat from hips to ankles.
The whine buzzed at me again, giving me a split-second warning. This time I didn’t duck. I pivoted on one heel and raised both hands. My right forearm exploded in pain as the jagged scalpel ripped through the flesh and started in on the bone below the elbow.
With my left hand, I fired four shots. The first one melted his protective polymer eye shield. The next two made his eyes explode. The fourth made me turn my head away and toss my cookies.
He slumped, boneless, to the floor, the detuned scalpel striking the ground and carving a running gash into the composite before it sputtered to a stop. I hissed through my teeth and took a step back, shaking my arm out.
I brushed against something big, heavy, soft, and cold. I knew what it would be. I didn’t want to look, but my boots slipped in the blood and effluvia covering the floor and I had to reach out to steady myself on the nearest object.
I figured out what I was reaching for just as my hands closed around the strong, steellike cables that formed the spines of Vmog flight feathers. Dzavo’s mangled wings lay flaccid, stacked atop one another inside an opened shipping crate. They’d been amputated at the shoulder joint of the wing spar, and jagged white bone glistened through the red-brown mass of brutally pulped muscle and tendon.
I swallowed hard and looked away, refusing to think about what I’d found, and what the sight of that mangled flesh and bone meant for Dzavo. Instead, I focused on my own injury, craning my elbow around, trying to see how badly I was cut.
The wound felt Abyssal Gap–deep, but the lingering burn of Fulu’s pharma kept my mods working, preserving function in my hand and slowly staunching the flow of blood. I figured I’d be all right eventually. I would have wrapped it if I could’ve found a clean piece of cloth in that darkened abattoir.
Instead, I turned to look at Dzavo. He still keened in pain, but it was softer than before. Weaker.
“My name is Ralston Muck,” I said, for lack of a better idea. “Bellasanee sent me to find you.”
Dzavo’s body twitched at the sound of her name. His keening tapered to a whimpering stutter. I started walking toward him, sliding my feet along the blood-slick floor.
Gunshots exploded nearby, echoing through the empty space above us. Apparently the shooters from Fulu’s had returned, and Security presumably followed.
“Shit,” I spat, looking around. “I gotta get you out of here or we’re both dead. Just gimme a second…” I broke off as I caught sight of the scalpel resting half-under the cart. My stomach churned, but I bent and picked it up anyway, toggling the switch to bring its infernal hum back to life.
The sound made Dzavo keen once more. He thrashed feebly against his bonds.
“I know!” I said. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only thing that will cut you loose fast enough.” I pitched my voice to penetrate his fear but he wasn’t able to get past the scalpel’s noise or the sounds of violent conflict from outside
He dragged in a deep, sobbing gulp of air that made the vast muscles that covered the cavern of his chest ripple. His limbs stopped thrashing, but he couldn’t stop the keening. I tried to tune the sound out as I brought the scalpel up and severed the first of the restraints holding him against the rack.
His fist clenched, but did not lash out at me. Good.
I went after the second arm restraint. Again, no violent response, just a vast tremble beneath my off hand. He slumped against me, a string-cut puppet, making my mods burn again as I struggled to hold him up. I had read somewhere that Vmog had, unlike terrestrial avians, quite a dense bone structure, but I was still surprised by the muscled weight of Dzavo’s body draped across my bent-over back. I cut his legs free next. That done, I flung the scalpel away, happy to hear the sound of the polymer case cracking as it hit a shipping crate and smacked wetly to the floor. I grunted, feeling my overtaxed and under-trained muscles screaming as I positioned Dzavo in a fireman’s carry. I looked up, judging distances. Cursing, I started the slow, painful climb up the storage racks back to my botwalk above.
We were halfway through to the alleyway when the remaining gangsters found the two bodies and their hostage gone. The sounds of their arguing and panic chased me as I pushed Dzavo through the small opening ahead of me.
Outside, the alley still stank, but after the visceral stench of that makeshift torture chamber, even the miasma of the docks was sweet.
“Come on,” I said. “I know how we’re gonna get you out of here.”
“I can’t…fly…” Dzavo said, voice Dopplering up through frequencies my battle-bruised ears would never hear without an angel.
“I know, buddy,” I said between gasps of exertion. “You’re still alive. Bellasanee loves you. Don’t give up on her, hey?”
“Bella…”
Somehow I managed to get him down off the botwalk and safely to street level. The growing weakness in my shoulders and legs told me that I had burned through Fulu’s pharma. I swayed there, mods stuttering. My arm hurt, a line of acid fire from forearm to hand. My fingers were growing numb. I gritted my teeth and levered Dzavo up over my shoulder for the last little bit of the way.
“Let’s hope this thing still works,” I said, kicking the hatch on the decrepit-looking autodoc. The inside lit up, just as it was supposed to do. A moment later the hatch slowly opened.
“Place patient inside receptacle.” The autodoc’s computer-generated voice was calm and soothing, and repeated the phrase in several languages. I let out a breath and eased Dzavo down to rest within the vertical cradle inside.
“Look up,” I said.
Dzavo let out a groan but opened his eyes wide and stared into the optical ID scanner. A number of automated sensors took readings, while another battery of instruments slid needles into his flesh.
“Welcome, Consort Dzavo. Emerita Bellasanee has been informed of your impending arrival at the station hospital facility. Please relax as the anesthetic takes effect. Please step away from the autodoc,” the calm voice said.
I closed the hatch as Dzavo closed his eyes. The autodoc whisked the cradle away through the secure tubes leading to the hospital and much-needed care.
I sighed, took off my torn jacket, using it as a makeshift bandage for my arm, which had resumed bleeding. I ditched the voidfork, stomping on it a few times to release the self-destruct nanites inside. That disposed of, I stumbled out of the alleyway opposite the entrance to the warehouse.
At least three Security vehicles were out front, positioned to form a barricade blocking off the facility. I could see Dengler’s blond hair as he sighted a weapon on the warehouse door.
I turned my back on them and slipped out into the crowd of Last Stop residents moving away, carefully not seeing anything. Like draft animals with blinders on, Last Stop’s denizens made it their business to mind their own fucking business.
Halfway back to my dockside place, my blood-soaked jacket started dripping. Fatigue washed over me, threatening to buckle my knees and suck me under. I kept stumbling forward, just another junkie coming down from a high. Fuck.
I shoved that thought away and pulled my PID, stabbing at it until Tongi’s face appeared.
“The Emerita called from the hospital. Her consort was badly injured. You should have hurried.”
“He’s alive, isn’t he?”
“He is, and says he would not be if not for you. You may keep your job.”
Red crowded in from the edges of my vision. I didn’t know if it was blood loss, fatigue, anger, or withdrawal. It didn’t matter.
“Tongi, I need a medic.”
“I do not—”
“Tongi, I saved the Emerita’s consort. You owe me. Use your connections to find me a medic and don’t ask any questions!”
Silence. The big Omik’s mouth opened and closed as his eyes blinked in sequence.
“Fine,” he said, his tone ratcheting up to annoyance again. “But then we are even.”
“Whatever.”
“Send your address over. Someone will meet you. And Muck?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever figure out who she is?”
“The Emerita?”
Tongi laughed, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.
“Not just any Emerita. Emerita Bellasanee was the premier weapons designer of the War. She designed the Planetflare system. You know, the one used against Earth? How does it feel to know you bled for the female who destroyed your species’ homeworld?”
He cut the connection. I paused for a moment, and then shook my head and shuffled forward again into the flow of foot traffic. Just like before. Nothing had changed. Eyes down, looking neither right nor left. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. Blinders fully on.
Minding one’s own business was good for the faint of heart, and I was feeling very faint by then.