CHAPTER 7
l’d love to see Simon
dead.
When his superiors
asked for a scapegoat, he tried to sacrifice me. He knew they
planned to murder everyone on the Sargasso, and he decided to rid himself of me as
well. There were probably insurance payments to collect, my death
benefits. Mary knows he cleaned out my personal accounts before my
alleged body was cold.
He deserves to suffer
in ways I can’t articulate for what he’s done. Seventy-five souls
trusted us to get them safely to Matins IV. Eighty-two died in the
crash.
Even now, I still
have dreams. I wake up screaming, and I can’t stand the smell of
cooking meat. March watches me thinking it over, and I’m sure he’s
tapped into my blood-thirsty thoughts. Then it occurs to me.
Doesn’t matter how bad I’d like to get this dirty job done. I can’t
afford it.
I’ll have to content
myself with imagining bad things happening to the bastard. If he’s
been sent to Whitefish, I won’t have to wait long, though. Someone
will shank him for being an officious little prick.
“I’ll think about
it,” I say, because there’s no way I’m telling Surge about my
temporary financial embarrassment.
The merc looks
disappointed. “Right, then. Another round?”
“One for the road,”
March answers. His expression becomes speculative. “What would you
suggest for someone in deep to the Syndicate?”
“A Eutha-booth.”
Luckily, the other man has his eye on March while he laughs, so he
doesn’t catch my wince. There are home truths, and home truths, if
you know what I mean. “Oh shit, you’re serious? Dunno, lad, that’s
some steep ground. They were fighting a smugglers’ war on two
fronts between Hon’s raiders and the gray men, but the world looks
a whole lot rosier for them now, thanks to your girl here. Maybe
she could ask them nicely to call off the debt.”
Well, that’s not
helpful. Mr. Jewel Brooch didn’t seem inclined to believe he owed
me any favors when we talked at the coffeehouse. Was that just a
few hours ago? Long day.
“We’ll sort it out.”
March pushes away from the table. “Can you call us an auto-cab?
Where’s the closest stand?”
“At the corner,”
Surge says. “And already done. Should be there by the time you make
your way down. It was good seeing you, mate. I hope you and the
ambassador here get things sorted.”
Every time someone
says that, I fight the urge to look over my shoulder. It’s like
being the butt of a joke everybody gets but me. I sure as shit
don’t feel like any such thing. Maybe it takes a while to sink
in.
From the next table I
hear Surge’s guys speculating that I’m bald because I had a
terrible case of nits. I run a hand over my stubbly head and
struggle to my feet. Yeah, it’s definitely time to go.
“There’s some
wreckage four blocks up and over from where we met you. You should
get a good price for the big pieces if you get right over there.”
With a wave, March heads for the front door with me trailing behind
him like a gimp puppy.
I guess diva-Jax
still dwells somewhere inside my scrawny breast because that
doesn’t set well. Then he holds the door for me and offers his
heart-melting smile. As we step outside, I forget my minor
complaints because night-fall in the north is fucking
brutal.
Our hike down to the
auto-cab stand feels like kilometers. There’s a reason people drink
so much, living here. I’d nearly forgotten that part. A group of
homeless men huddle near a trash barrel where they’ve lit a fire.
Such things are illegal, but who’s going to protest?
The Corp wrote this
place off decades ago, and gangers run it now. Starving artists
produce the most amazing music, though. Sweet strains wend through
the smoky dark toward me, notes of throbbing warmth that seem to
hang in the crystal-cold air like tropical fruit. People in
Wickville live with singular abandon; it’s not hard to behave as if
every day might be your last if it truly might be. Until now, I
hadn’t realized how much I’d incorporated that idea into my
personal philosophy, if I could be said to have such a
thing.
“I didn’t realize how
much time you spent here,” March says softly.
I make no response as
we climb into the blessedly heated cab. He doesn’t know as much
about me as he supposes. I wonder what he’d say if he knew I almost
threw everything away—my future with the Corp, my promise as a
jumper—for a saxophone player.
First he swipes his
card and then taps out our destination on the panel. With a soft
swoosh, we’re on our way.
Numbness sets in. Not
from the cold, though I can’t seem to warm up all the way. Too much
has happened. I can’t parse it all.
My mother, my father, my past . . .
Everything feels like
it’s on a collision course. No matter what choice I make, somebody
loses. In the old days I wouldn’t have cared. Fuck the lot of them;
what did they ever do for me? I’d have gotten drunk, flashed my
tits, and danced on a table. I’d have thought of nothing but my
next jump. For Mary’s sake, these days, I even regret the trouble
the exploding Skimmer will cause poor Squid.
When the hell did I develop a conscience?
“When you came for
me.” March answers the unspoken question with an expression I can’t
interpret.
There’s something to
be said for a man who tunes into your moods like this. He wraps an
arm around me and leans his head against mine. Sometimes I sense in
him a deep-seated fear. It’s like he wants to hold me so tight I
can’t get free, but conversely, he’s afraid of frightening me away
with such visceral need.
He’s right to fear
that. I love him, but he terrifies me in some ways.
“It’s a pain in the
ass.”
“Get used to it,” he
says dryly. “Once you start caring, it’s hard to stop.”
“Great.”
We ride the rest of
the way in silence. I feel a little queasy from the homebrew, or
maybe it was the microorganisms in my tea. By the time we climb out
in front of headquarters, I’m grateful for the shock of frosty air.
Wickville seems farther away than the kilometers we
traveled.
“I’ll walk you to
your door.” In his eyes, I glimpse an endearingly roguish twinkle
that warns me he doesn’t intend to leave me there with a chaste
kiss.
I’m not in the mood
for love, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes. We’re
questioned once by the automated security system. Luckily March
remembers the pass codes. To my mind, modern life just offers too
many numbers that we’re supposed to keep track of.
Up on the eighth
floor, I key my room open and stare. “What the fuck . . .”
The place has been
ransacked, well, as much as an impersonal, nearly empty room can
be. I don’t have anything. Anyone who
doesn’t realize that is dumb as a rock. Correction, March gave me
back my PA, 245, which he found at the hostel where Velith took
me.
She is literally all
I own, and I keep her with me at all times now. Discovering that
I’m dead broke makes her all the more valuable. Since she has
perfect recall, she’ll make an ideal assistant for an ambassador
who needs to get everything just right from customs to mealtime
etiquette. Just last night, she asked me to get her a droid frame,
so she can better serve in that capacity.
So she’s my most
important asset. I’m like the tinker and his horseshoe nail from
the stories. Numbly I step inside and start tidying up.
“Shouldn’t we call
security? They might be able to find out who did this.”
I shrug. “If you
like. I don’t feel up to dealing with it tonight, though.”
He takes a closer
look at me. “You don’t look good, Jax.”
“Thanks. You’re
fantastic for my ego.” I manage a wan smile. “It’s been a long day,
and dropping out of the sky didn’t help. I’ll be fine after I get
some rest.”
“Hope so.” Maybe it’s
because I know him, but he’s not doing a good job of hiding his
concern.
I understand why.
This isn’t like me. I’m not the pale, listless type, and I can
count on one hand the number of times I’ve been sick in my
life.
“You want to stay?”
Even as I ask, I press the button to enlarge my bunk from a single
to a double.
We’ve been assigned
to executive quarters, so I have a san-shower in the suite, a vid
station, and a customizable sleep unit. The only thing we don’t
have is a wardrober, but the Corp was run by a bunch of skinflints.
March has his own room on ten, but I don’t imagine he’ll be
returning to it. He smiles at me and hangs his things next to my
winter gear. It doesn’t take long to set the room to rights, given
how little I have in here. Nothing seems to be missing.
“I was hoping you’d
ask,” he says. “Shower?”
“Yes, let’s.”
Maybe things will
look better in the morning.
