part0079

The expectant silence that followed made Sela realize the comment had been directed at her. She glanced at her captain. He bore a strange amused expression, despite the tense circumstances. At least someone was enjoying this.

The comment had come from Phex, a squat yellow slab of a Rhobgic seated at the table across from them. She was particularly mistrustful of their kind. Their biology was the symbiotic pairing of what amounted to an intelligent fungus growing over and invading a host animal frame. More parasitic than anything. Little wonder they were branded non-regs. They dwelled in the dark and squalid environs of the Known Worlds. Judging by what she had experienced of Merx so far, Phex had found an ideal home.

“I get that a lot,” Sela said quickly, before looking away. In truth, she had been designed to grow specifically to her present height with the bone density and muscle mass to match. She doubted Phex would have been interested in that fact.

Sela was scanning the crowd. She was hyped, on edge. The number of people here made her nervous. The tavern was a heavily fortified establishment with one point of entry. She counted four visible security personnel. Two additional, she suspected, were disguised as patrons. And in all probability Phex bore a concealed weapon. She and Jon were at a disadvantage here.

“Good looking female.” Phex smiled, displaying teeth unacquainted with hygiene. “How much?”

Although the question was directed at her captain, it was meant for Sela to overhear.

“No one buys me,” Sela growled. Now the little bastard had her attention.

Jon canted his head. The expression in his eyes was a silent command.

“Not for sale.” He pulled her into a possessive embrace. She complied stiffly, all the while glaring at the tavern keeper.

“No such thing as not for sale here, friend.” Phex’s grin flattened for a moment. “Everyone knows that.”

“Of course,” Jon responded in Commonspeak. His Eugenes accent was flatter, practically undetectable. “But the reason I’m here is to make a purchase , friend.”

“What kind?” Phex squinted, his flabby jowls jiggling with delight. Sela was temporarily forgotten.

“Nav charts. Compatible with a Cassandra interface.”

“Bit of an antique, eh? What’re you offerin’ to trade?”

“Pharms. Quality product.”

“I might have…something.” His Stygian eyes rolled up and to the left in a pantomimed search for memory. “What system?”

Sela wondered if anyone really bought this act. Phex may look like a pile of doughy, rancid wax, but beneath that was a razor-sharp swindler. Dangerous, even.

Jon leaned over the table. “Not a system…a region. The Reaches.”

Phex rocked back in his chair and waved a hand. “What in Fate’s name would you want with the Reaches?” He did not pick up on their desire for subtlety.

“That’s not really important, is it?”

“Important enough to want charts to it.”

The trader leaned forward. His thick-fingered hands rustled around in a bowl of joolid crisps and made them disappear into his maw.

“Perhaps he doesn’t have what we need,” Sela said, repeating the memorized phrase, just as Jon had coached her back on the Cass. That was the way these types negotiated, he had explained. To Sela, it felt ridiculous, inefficient, but she trusted her captain’s insights.

Jon made an exaggerated shrug and started to stand.

“Drink! You’re dry. Where are my manners? Let’s talk over a drink,” Phex erupted with a hollow chuckle.

He brushed crumbs from the table and pounded on its surface with a fist. A stoop-shouldered server appeared.

“Drinks for my new friends here!”

Jon glanced at Sela. He bore the same deadpan expression she had seen before every deployment, but she knew that underneath, he was all nerves. Yet so far, things were unfolding as he had predicted.

Moments later, the server was back. Phex took his drink and gulped its contents in one well-practiced motion. Jon reached for his tumbler, but Sela intercepted. She studied its contents, sniffed. Then, tentatively took a sip. Her gaze never left Phex the entire time.

“Yannish brew. Cheap stuff.” Satisfied, she placed it back before her captain with a curt nod and pulled a plastic smile at Phex that made her earlier scowl look inviting.

His expression darkened. “Breeder, right?” Phex’s pretense of the congenial merchant dissolved.

“That make a difference?” Jon asked, dropping his hand to trap Sela’s against the arm of the chair.

“Always can tell one. Got a look about ‘em. ‘Specially this one,” Phex replied. He turned his sneer from Sela to Jon. “What’d you do…get caught giving it to her in the officer’s lounge? Easy to see that temptation.”

“It’s complicated.” Jon reached for his mug. His other hand firmly anchored Sela’s arm in place.

My captain is saving your life right now, parasite. Sela chewed the inside of her mouth.

Phex rumbled on. “Trained killers from the day they’re born. No such thing as a tame breeder, I says. Can’t trust ‘em. I’ll deal with you. Not her. No dealing with breeders.”

Jon regarded their host for a measuring moment across the table.

Perhaps sensing Jon’s hesitation, Phex adopted the chummy salesman tone once more. “My man at the docks no doubt told you, I’m the only one here that deals with newcomers. Not as if you got much choice in the matter. Now I got the maps you need. You have decent goods that I can move, we go talk.”

“I’ll find you when we’re done here.” Jon released his grip on her but kept his stare on Phex.

“Let us discuss this in a more private setting, friend.” Phex’s smile reappeared, victorious. He gestured to a doorway shrouded with the remains of a stained tapestry at the back of the tavern.

Sela eyed Phex with infinite distrust. Her captain rose, ready to follow. She stood.

“Your…retainer can help herself to my tavern’s amusements,” Phex said over his shoulder. “If she’s even capable of such.”

Jon shot her a warning expression.

Sela nodded, squelched.

Separating was a gamble. They would be out of contact with each other; the Cass had no functional vox devices onboard. This had better be worth it.

Jon suddenly pulled her into an embrace. Before she could react, he was kissing her.

“Remember…low profile,” he said in a rushed whisper against her neck. He stepped back, tapping her under the chin. “And…uh…try not to kill anyone.”

And just as quickly he turned to follow Phex.

Sela sighed heavily and looked at the man who had sidled up to her as she stood against the far wall of Phex’s tavern.

Moments before, she had watched him weave through the crowd, obviously trying not to be obvious in his approach. She was reluctant to leave her position. It offered an unobstructed view of both the exit and the doorway to Phex’s lounge.

This Eugenes was her height, but he appeared older by a decade. His eyes carried an open lust that provoked a primitive loathing in her. It reminded her of her days as a booter, before the males figured out she would neuter them for even looking at her like that.

This misstep did not have the benefit of that education.

He planted a thick arm against the doorway over her shoulder, eclipsing everything.

“Buy you a drink, pretty?” he leered, using Commonspeak.

Sela looked him up and down. His features were sallow from untold years of ship-side living. Tattoos dominated the left side of his face, competing with a thick layer of scars at his chin. Silver lined his front incisors in what was, she guessed, the fashion among the dispossessed. He smelled of the same dank shadows of this place.

“You don’t want any trouble,” she warned through clenched teeth. “Move on.”

“Maybe I like trouble.”

Sela was about to reply but stopped when she saw the dim glint of metal within the shadow of his coat. It was the evident outline of an A6 compression pistol, a fairly new Regime issue.

She looked down at the weapon and up at him.

No way a scav like this could possess such a weapon. The A6 pistols were hard coded and could be fired only by the user who had the matching implanted tracer. Expensive tech.

At her expression, his silver smile evaporated.

He grabbed for his weapon. She seized his wrist. He got it as far as shoulder height. Sela threw her weight against his arm and kicked away from the wall. On reflex, his grip tightened, finger jerked against the trigger. The round struck the floor near the toe of his boot. The report was punishing in the small alcove. Sela threw the point of an elbow into his thick neck. The gun clattered from his grip.

Even if he knew she was a deserter, Sela realized she looked like an easy target. Her appearance had often garnered her an unwanted type of attention. Men like this one were always surprised when she turned out to be the opposite. She had come to rely on that.

There was a smattering of screams and a few shouts. Over the ringing in her ears caused by the close report of the A6, she heard a throaty metallic blatting. An automated announcement, in an oddly calm pitch of Commonspeak, competed with the din:

“Your attention, please. Weapon discharge detected. Level four. Section twelve. Lockdown initiated. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The damned energy weapon alert. It seemed the dock agents hadn’t lied.

“Damn it all,” Sela grunted, moving in time to block his retaliatory strike. She squeezed out of the alcove. No longer boxed in, she reached for the knife in her sleeve just as he grabbed a fistful of her hair.

She threw her weight to her left and swung her right arm over his. His balance teetered. She drove a palm into his nose and felt a fleshy snap.