CHAPTER 4
“l wouldn’t have put it so
dramatically,” the pin says. “But that is, in effect,
correct. On the other hand, if you take this assignment, we will
see clear to forgive your mother’s debts. I should imagine even you
have this much filial affection.”
I don’t even know
what to say to that. They’re so convinced I’ll fuck this up, they
aren’t even asking me to try to make a
mess of it. It’s enough that I go? I don’t think I’ve ever been
insulted so casually in my whole life.
“However,” the voice
continues, “if by some unlikely chance, your diplomatic mission
proceeds well, then I’m afraid we shall be forced to collect our
pound of flesh.”
Ah, there we go—the
stick by which they try to force me to do their bidding. My mother
whimpers. Above my left eye, I swear I feel twitching; maybe March
wasn’t kidding about the tic.
“I’d already decided
to take the job,” I say coolly. “More than that, I will not
promise.”
The thing responds,
“That will suffice . . . for now. We will reevaluate your mother’s
situation once we see how your task proceeds.”
Her brooch crackles
as it stops transmitting. Ramona looks older somehow, as if her
maquillage has cracked, revealing worn skin beneath. “You’ve bought
me a little time,” she manages at last. “For that I thank
you.”
“Don’t thank me.” I
feel savage. I’d like to slap her for being so silly. “Who the hell
did you borrow money from?”
At first she tries to
bluff. “I’m not sure, so many documents, and it’s all so
complicated—”
But she doesn’t know
about my ace in the hole. I didn’t ask him to do it, never would,
but sometimes need-to-know outweighs right-to-privacy. I’m glad
March has to weigh those concerns instead of me. If he left the
judgments in my hands, I’m afraid I would use him like an
inquisitor.
The Syndicate? Even in thought, I hear his
incredulity. I know—I can’t believe she’s that stupid either.
They’ve taken organized crime to a whole new level.
No wonder my father
took a safe, painless death. At least I hope he did. I should ask
if he used a state-sanctioned Eutha-booth. That requires a Psych
profile and an affidavit attesting someone is in his right mind
when he decides to end it all. This precaution removes all
possibility that a bereaved family will sue the state because the
situation could have been ameliorated with medication or dream
therapy.
Sometimes death
presents the ultimate solution, though. I’ve never been one to look
at it like that, as I want to make sure I suck every last drop out
of this life before seeing what comes next. I used to believe it
was nothing, just a void, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve seen
miracles happen. Lived to tell of them. At this point, I’m willing
to concede I just can’t know.
Ramona stares across
the table at us, growing visibly unsettled. If I’d known how well
silence worked at keeping people off balance, I’d have curbed my
tongue years ago. Okay, probably not. But maybe I’d have tried
harder.
“The Syndicate?” I
say aloud.
Her eyes widen,
showing threads of red in the white. I see every fleck of mascara
she’s used to thicken her lashes, and the dark liner beneath looks
spidery somehow. Her prettiness is an illusion now, cunning layers
of paint to hide the truth.
“How did you—” She
stops, likely realizing her words comprise an admission.
“That’s not
important.” I take another sip of choclaste.
I’ll never give
March’s secret away. Too many people would want to destroy him if
they knew. He’s never been through Corp training; he doesn’t have
the safeguards in place that prevent him from raping another mind
just because he can. Maybe that should terrify me because of our
bond, but I know he’d never hurt me on purpose. He’s had ample
opportunity since we’ve been together—and as for the rest of the
universe, it can look out for itself.
“You’re different,”
she observes. “And I’m done for. They think you’ll go out there and
make a mess of it. But you won’t, will you?”
I won’t lie. It hurts
a little to make the admission. “Not on purpose. I won’t set out to
create an interstellar incident, not even for you.”
Ramona smiles, a soft
tremulous twist of her mouth. “Then I suppose we’re finished. I
should follow after your father if I have any sense.”
“Did he . . .
?”
To my surprise, she
picks up the cue. Neither one of us specializes in subtlety or
subtext. I suppose you adapt or die. “Yes. Dr. Harmon certified
him. It was quick.”
“Good.” I swallow
back the lump in my throat. “Look, I have some business to take
care of before our departure. I’ll wish you luck, however you sort
things out.”
March pays our tab
with a swipe of his card. Mary, why do I feel this ridiculous
weight as I walk away from her? She looks so alone, sitting in the
coffeehouse with her stupid big hair and her black dress with the
jewelry that monitors her movements.
At the door, I
collect my layer of outer garments and wrap up again. We step out
into the white swirl of an Ankaraj winter. He takes my hand, and I
feel his warmth through two centimeters of s-wool.
“So that’s it?” he
says. “You’re not giving her another thought?”
“Would you?”
He considers for a
moment. “I can’t say. My mother died when I was five. My father
remarried, and my step-mother never cared for me, but she had
Svetlana . . .” The wind carries his words away, or perhaps he
simply doesn’t want to talk about her. “Anyway, I don’t know. It
just seems strange.”
“What does?” When I
spy a gap in traffic, I make a break for it. We’re getting our own
Skimmer, dammit. I’ll try to talk the guy at the garage into
loaning us one. I need to find a bank.
“I just didn’t think
you ever gave up on people you love, that’s all.”
Ouch. Low blow. We
duck into the tunnel that leads down to the vehicle-maintenance
bays. The Corp owned a fleet and a half, and the Conglomerate is
still taking inventory. They won’t notice if one vanishes for an
hour or so. The ramp winds down and around for quite a ways, but at
least we’re out of the wind.
“I haven’t seen her
in sixteen years. And I didn’t like her
when I lived with my folks. Sometimes I find it hard to believe
Ramona is my biological mother.”
Lucky break, I know
the guy working this level. Squid washed out of the academy because
he suffers from heterochromia iridium, which he hid by wearing one
tinted contact. Unfortunately, two different eye colors meant he
didn’t possess the J-gene, and he lost some IQ points inside the
simulator before they got him out. These days he’s only fit to
patrol the vehicle-maintenance lot.
The thermal vents
mean I can pull off my hood. Should have known something was wrong
when my mother didn’t say anything about my hair, or lack of it, as
soon as I bared myself at the café. I wave to Squid, who glances
behind him to see who else I might be signaling.
Damn, what’s his real
name? Ira. Huh, Squid might actually be better, though the name was
meant as a jab at his IQ.
“Hey, Ira! How’s it
going? How’ve you been?”
“Uhm. Okay.” He
pauses with an expression of what I take to be perpetual confusion.
“Do I know you?”
I smile at him. “It’s
been a long time. We were at the academy together. You think you
can hook me up with a Skimmer?”
His moon-pale brow
wrinkles up in a scowl. “I’m not supposed to let anyone take them.
They’ve been . . .” Ira struggles over the word, and I wince in
sympathy, though he doesn’t notice. “Confiscated!”
“I’m sure that
doesn’t apply to the newly appointed ambassador of New Terra,”
March says smoothly. “If you don’t believe me, confirm with
Chancellor Tarn. Of course, he might be annoyed with you for making
the ambassador wait, as well as interrupting his conference with
the Ielosian representatives.”
Damn, the man is
good; poor Ira looks bewildered. I imagine I don’t look like an
ambassador, but then again, how many would he have seen, spending
his life roaming around vehicle maintenance? If this works, this
gig might have perks I hadn’t even imagined. Assuming I don’t die
horribly on the way to Ithiss-Tor.
“I didn’t know you
were an ambassador,” Ira says finally. “You should really have a
badge or something. I can let you borrow a B-class Skimmer, but you
have to bring it back before my shift ends at five. Please?” he
adds, as if remembering he needs to be polite to me.
“Absolutely,” March
assures him. “We have no plans to leave the city.”
That sends a cold
chill down my back. Famous last words, best-laid plans, and all
that. March takes the codes that will start the engine, and I
follow him toward the black-and-red-striped one in the far corner.
Ira trails behindus, obviously conflicted. I gather he likes
following the rules, and we’ve made him break them.
“Who’re you anyway?”
he asks March.
Who flashes his
saturnine smile. “I’m the guy who kills anyone that messes with the
ambassador.”
Wow, I like the sound
of that. Ira doesn’t venture any more questions before the engine
purrs to life. Then we’re up, up, and away.
