CHAPTER 47
We’re on Venice
Minor.
Kai and I vacationed
here once, four years ago. There’s a unique brilliance in the
sunshine, and the quality of the air possesses an indefinable
sweetness. It actually soothes the lungs as you draw it in, soft
and balmy. Back then, I laughingly called it paradise, but today
it’s my prison, however prettily they package it.
And let me say, it’s
a fabulous villa, all shimmering white stone designed in
faux-classical style. Spacious grounds with seven open gardens and
terraces invite you to take a stroll; tiered balconies overflow
with miniature fruit trees. Yes, you can pluck grapes right off the
vine and peaches from the bough. Sweetness drizzles from your lips
down your chin.
Though Keller and his
goons refuse to confirm, I know perfectly well where we are. And
the first time I get access to an unsecured terminal, I’ll bounce a
message so that the whole world knows, too. They’re not blaming
this on me; I refuse to be held responsible for increased Morgut
attacks and diplomatic failure on Ithiss-Tor.
Maybe I took my role
lightly at first, but our time on Emry, and later, on Lachion, put
me ass deep in human suffering. I won’t stand aside. I won’t let
the Syndicate neutralize me with promises of future meetings and
astonishing opulence.
Keller assigned us
lavish suites that actually manage to dim the luxury we enjoyed
while aboard the ship. I refuse to be distracted by promises of
steam baths, pure-earth facials, and deep-tissue massages, however.
I pace my gilt-and-ivory cell, feverish with the need to
act.
Everything is coded.
It practically requires Keller’s permission to take a bath. He
plays the role of host quite convincingly. If I didn’t know better,
I’d almost believe him when he says, “Mr. Jewel has been called
away unexpectedly, but he wishes you all to avail yourself of his
hospitality in the meantime.”
Bullshit.
I’m starting to
wonder if this Mr. Jewel even exists. He might be Keller for all I
know. The voice that spoke through my mother’s voice was distorted
enough that I wouldn’t recognize it if I heard it without
augmentation.
The first day, I
amuse myself playing with the ridiculously sophisticated wardrober
that came with my room. The Fashionista 4000 has patterns and
styles that I’ve never seen before. By the time I’m finished, I’ve
come a long way toward replenishing all the clothes I’ve seen lost
or destroyed along the way.
In some of them, I
might even look like an ambassador, although Dina refuses to watch
me try on outfits and give me her opinion. Too bad, since she’s the
only one of us with any experience in such matters. But maybe I
shouldn’t have asked because she wears a queer look when she shakes
her head.
“That’s all behind
me,” she says quietly. “I’m a mechanic now.”
“Yeah, okay.” I turn
from the mirror, clad in a filmy scarlet dress that gives me the
look of a fetish vid star not afraid to show some skin. “I’m
sorry.”
“I’m going to go see
what Hit’s up to.” The way she leaves makes me sure I’ve struck a
sore spot.
Damn, I hate when I’m
an insensitive asshole. Usually I can see it coming, but this one
blindsided me. Now that I’m thinking about it, I can imagine Dina
sitting in her sister’s rooms, watching them try on clothes,
talking about the parties they’ll attend. Maybe the coup on Tarnus
took place twenty years ago, but she still wears the scars. Hers
just go further than skin deep.
With a sigh, I peel
off the red gown and don something more sensible: skinny white
slacks, white vest, and light woven shoes. While checking to make
sure I got the sizing right on the new clothes, I notice that my
dark hair’s almost three centimeters long now, and it’s starting to
curl. I’m finally losing the lost-refugee look.
With a shrug, I close
the closet door. Most times, when I look at my reflection, I see
the scars to the exclusion of all else. They remind me of the
people who died for the Corp’s greed; I carry their shadows in my
skin.
If I’m a walking
memorial, my life has to mean something. I never used to think
along those lines. Never saw patterns or purpose—I think that’s
March’s influence. I force back the mood shift that threatens at
the thought of him. No time for that. I’ll yearn or grieve, or
whatever the right emotion is, later. For now I’ll do some poking
around; see what I can find out.
Mary, I can’t believe
I have to put my faith in a politician like Tarn. Now that I
understand his angle—and what he’s trying to prevent—it scares the
shit out of me. I hope he can come up with an explanation for where
I am this time. I’m supposed to be on
Ielos, inspiring the pioneers that eke out an existence on the
winter world.
He must think I’m the
biggest fuckup in the world. When we win free, I’m going to take
this job seriously. I can do this. I can be more than Jax the
jumper. I’ve already memorized half the list that Vel went over
with me. Morning to night, 245 drills me mercilessly, and it’s not
like I have anything else to do.
Hit would like to
slaughter everyone on the estate and steal a ship. But then she
tends to solve all problems with a closed fist, which explains why
she and Dina get on so well. Fortunately, cooler heads have
prevailed so far, and we’re doing recon, trying to find out how
many men are at this place, what types of ships are docked here,
and what security we can expect—Vel’s forte.
I hate relying on
Vel, but my options are limited. Realizing I’m pacing, I wheel as I
come up against the glastique door that bars me from the terrace. I
could key it open, as Keller kindly gave me security codes—but it
wouldn’t help in the grand scheme of things. We’re prohibited from
wandering off estate grounds—“for your own safety,” as Keller put
it—and there’s a shock field around the perimeter to protect us
from marauding native animals, since the undeveloped portions of
Venice Minor consist of wild jungle and dense rain forest.
Well, I have to do
something. In the last two days, the only
thing I’ve achieved is a light tan. While I no longer look so sick
or pasty—and daily injections seem to be shoring up my rickety
bones—I need to accomplish something substantial. The past months,
I’ve felt like deadweight that just slows people down.
As I’m getting ready
to head out, the door bot tells me, “You have a visitor, Sirantha
Jax. Allow entry?”
“Who is it?” I’ve
learned something since March walked into my cell on Perlas
Station. I always ask the caller’s ID now.
After a brief pause,
the bot answers, “Vel.”
I find that oddly
charming. The bounty hunter doesn’t use nicknames or terms of
endearment, but he’s adopted my mode of address for him? From what
he’s said, his people don’t adopt new customs easily, which makes
their ability to mimic alternate forms all the more
intriguing.
Most Ithtorians would
consider the way Vel lives vulgar. There’s a certain stigma
attached to concealing his true appearance. The ability developed
as a trait meant to enhance hunting prowess, not to allow an
Ithtorian, who is clearly superior, to pass among the soft
skins.
“Let him in.”
The door swishes
open, and Vel steps inside. He’s getting better at smiling in
greeting, simulating the type of expression that people wear when
they’re happy to see someone. I smile back because whenever he’s
around, I feel steadier.
“They gave you the
princess room.” He takes in the elevated bed with its elaborate
netting, and the furniture that shimmers with gold.
I arch a brow. “I
figured everyone’s room looked like this, which must make you boys
feel less than manly.”
He radiates
puzzlement, though his face doesn’t alter noticeably. “How could a
color scheme affect my gender?”
“Never mind.”
Sometimes I forget that while Vel might be masculine, he is
definitely not a man. “What’s your room
like then?”
I figure he’ll get
around to the reason behind his visit, and it doesn’t hurt to be
social. I could use the practice since the Ithtorians will be
judging my manners.
“It is green,” he
says.
Well, that doesn’t
tell me much. Thankfully, it doesn’t matter.
“You want something
to eat or drink? I have a full gourmet kitchen-mate in here. And
there’s a peach tree on my balcony.” I must admit, playing the
hostess doesn’t come natural to me. I’m ready to demand what he
found out, which doesn’t bode well for my aptitude for political
maneuvering.
“If it contains
citric acid, I will become ill. Thus, I must decline.”
At this point, I give
up. I can practice the art of patience later. “Have you finished
with your recon? What can you tell me?”
He takes a seat on
the long, soft white sofa. “I have. I took a look around the
compound, examined security measures, and listened to Grubb and
Boyle for an extended period of time. When they were otherwise
occupied, I managed to access one of their personal communication
units and I downloaded all relevant data. After lengthy analysis, I
believe I have detected a fault in their security that can be
exploited. But it will require complex planning and some sleight of
hand.”
“Vel,” I breathe. I
somehow manage to control the urge to hug him around the neck. “I
knew you’d come through. Tell me what you need.”
“It will take
everyone, operating in tandem, to make this work,” he says. “But I
believe I’ve located an old terminal in the sublevel of the
structure. It has been decommissioned, but if you take Dina with
you, you should be able to patch back into the system. I don’t
believe such a task would surpass her capabilities.”
Given that I’ve seen
her repair a ship with glue, copper wire, and pure voodoo, I’m sure
he’s right. “Okay, what will the rest of you be doing?”
He tells me.
