Black Hole Sun (3 page)

Western Valles Marineris Gorge
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 7. 08:08

Outpost Fisher One, formerly known as Heaven, was once the hub of Martian commerce and space travel. Before the population left the subterranean outposts to build gleaming habidome towns closer to the equator, towns that became cities that left the outposts behind. But now, Heaven is a forgotten storage bin. The Orthocracy converted its space into thousands of dusty storage bunkers full of packaged foodstuffs, bolts of unused fabric, crates of machine parts, and an infinite number of quarantined shipping containers riveted shut and welded tight to prevent the escape of the plague. The disease decimated Earth. Because of Orthocracy controls on commerce. Mars fared much better.

Today the bunkers are almost empty. The woman who emptied them takes an elevator from the surface to the bottom level. Here is where the food is kept. So are the quarantined containers. Her scavengers have already stripped the upper levels of their treasure. Fabric and spare parts for
her connections with the black market. Raw materials to be bartered for transport and good favor. And now, food.

Food can buy anything. It is the rarest commodity, and even better, her crew has no use for packaged, dehydrated meals. Only blood can whet their appetites.

“Start with the last bunker,” she commands a group of twenty raiders as the elevator stops and she twirls out. “Leave nothing behind. Not a scrap. Not a crumb.”

She is a sliver of a young woman sporting jet black tresses that almost reach her tailbone. Ringlet curls frame a delicate, heart-shaped face with alabaster skin so fine that it seems translucent. She lifts the hem of her dress as she exits the elevator, keeping the gossamer fabric from dipping in the dusty floor. Her feet are those of a child. They are bare. As she sweeps toward the raiders, the air fills with the smell of her musky perfume, and underneath it, like a murmur, the unmistakable scent of blood.

Slowly bowing low, their long, matted hair drooping to the floor, they supplicate themselves in response and chant, “Yes, my queen.”

“Dræu make such good pets,” she says, watching them scamper down the long rows of padlocked bunkers. Children were born here. Grew to adulthood. Lived and died and were cremated here, their ashes strewn on the surface to aid the terraforming. They are gone now—as worthless as the dust that drifts from the decaying walls.

“Every little bit helps,” the queen whispers, recalling
the mantra of the original settlers. A whole life lived in a hole in the ground. Rubbish. Sacrifice for future generations. Rubbish. The Orthocracy? Rubbish. The CorpComs? Rubbishier rubbish.

She is going to change all of that. A little more time. A few more raids.

In a few hours, she thinks, this last level will be empty. Then the true treasure hunt begins. The Dræu are hungry. A fortnight has passed since fresh meat was on the menu, and the lack of food has made them surly. Difficult to control. Dræu are splendid warriors, beautiful in their anger and drive to devour everything in their path. Wild. Furious. But like any animal kept on a tight leash, they begin to chafe and soon turn that ferocity on one another. Twice in the past two days, fights have broken out among them. One bad boy even gnawed the meat from his own fingers. He had to be punished to understand the errors of his actions.

Lost in thought, she taps her palm with an electrified prod. It is almost a meter in length when fully extended. Made of titanium. On the tip is a hard steel ball the size of an eyeball. She smiles ironically. Funny, the bad boy's punishment was to lose an eyeball. She removed it herself. With the prod. Then ate it. It was disgusting, but the lesson had to be learned. Pain is such a gifted clarifier.

Down the corridor, a group of Dræu reaches a bunker marked with a large red
X
.

“Leave those be,” she calls. “Your queen has no interest
in spreading the plague.” Unless it becomes necessary, she thinks. When one is planning to overthrow the government, one must never exclude possibilities just because they lead to a global pandemic.

Behind her, an elevator door opens. The occupant's scent is well known to her. “Kuhru,” she says without turning around. “You have delicious news for your queen, no?”

“Yes, my queen,” he growls, a sound that sets her nerves on end.

For a woman reared listening to the splendid melodies of Chopin, the florid operas of Mozart, and the sanguine ecstasies of Masahiro, the steel-on-glass screech of Kuhru's voice is an affront to the ears.

“Yes what?” she says, back still turned. “Details, please, Kuhru. Did you deliver my message to the occupants of Fisher Four?”

Fisher Four is the only other outpost left standing. A volcanic eruption destroyed Fisher Two a decade after it was built, and Fisher Three was closed due to flooding. However, if the Orthocracy filled Fisher One with forgotten treasure, then ipso facto, Fisher Four should be a trove as well. The only complication was the miners, a pesky group of humans who would not desert the mines, even under the threat of death.

“Yes, my queen,” he says. “I delivered your message.”

The queen notes a change in his voice, a higher pitch that indicates he is lying by omission. “How many did you kill? Kuhru, don't lie to me.”

“Two.”

“Just two?”

“There were only three humans, my queen.”

“And if you had killed all three, there would be no one to deliver my message? Very good, Kuhru. Your reasoning skills are improving. Now, did you bring the leftovers to me like I commanded?”

Kuhru says nothing. She turns. Her face is calm, the alabaster skin showing no blush of anger, no signs of emotion. “You didn't!”

“The journey was long,” he growls, trying to soften his voice to evoke sympathy. “My Dræu were hungry.”

Her voice rises, taking on a singsong quality that almost hides the ferocity of her anger. “Your Dræu?
Your
Dræu?”

Kuhru falls to one knee. He bows so low, his broad, thick nose touches the floor. “Forgive me, my queen. I misspoke. All Dræu belong to you.”

She taps the electric prod against her thigh. “Do not think a little bowing and scraping will incur my sympathies. Your queen gave you very explicit orders. One: Give the message to the miners. Two: Bring any kills back to me.”

He fawns before her. “Please, my queen. Do not punish your faithful servant. I—I brought you this.” From the inside of his coat he pulls a small, flat shell. The outside is dappled brown, and the pattern looks like rows of interlocked triangles. He holds it at arm's length. “Kuhru thought you would like it. It is pretty. The queen likes pretty things.”

“Idiot!” she screams, and swats the shell from his hands.

It hits the concrete floor. For several seconds it spins in the dust. When it stops, the queen sees a pattern on the shell—one that should no longer exist on the planet.

She gasps and snatches it up. Takes a closer look and lays a palm on the outside of the shell. Her eyes roll into her head.

Ecstasy.

“It's fresh,” she says, and smiles as if intoxicated. Inside, she
feels
intoxicated. “Kuhru, darling. Where did you find this carapace?”

“Cara—?”

“This shell! Where did you find it?”

“Took it. From the human girl that was left.”

“Impossible.” She cradles the empty shell to her breast, fondling it like a stuffed toy. “They are all dead. Exterminated. But this shell is fresh. And it's small. A hatchling! That can mean only one thing.”

She shoves the tip of the prod into Kuhru's nostril. He squeals in pain, although he is half a meter taller and outweighs her by a hundred kilos. “Gather the raiders. You must travel to Fisher Four.”

“Because of a shell?”

“No, you imbecile,” she says, and twitches the prod to pull him most painfully to his feet. “Because the miners have more treasure than I ever dared dream.”

Temple District, New Eden
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 7. 08:48

Returning the hostages takes us the better part of the morning. Because of the pharmies, they sleep all the way to the temple quadrant on the edge of New Eden, where we reach the Bramimonde estate.

The main house is a cruciform of metal and concrete with high windows. A bank of terraces juts out over the gardens. I grew up in a house like this. Until the CorpComs burned it to the ground as punishment for my father's crimes.

We meet three servants at the rear entrance. Two of them sweep the children away, while the third servant—a silver-haired man in a brown, plain tunic—leads us to Dame Bramimonde's inner sanctum.

“I'll collect our fee,” I tell Vienne.

“Affirmative,” she says. “We will rendezvous at Ares's pub afterward, no?”

“See you soon. And Vienne?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. I couldn't have done—”

“No, chief, I failed you. I should've grabbed the girl before she fell.”

“No. I missed the switch.”

She raises a hand, then puts it down. Awkward movement. Awkward silence. Didn't know she had an awkward bone in her body. She moves with the kind of grace that takes your breath away if you let it. Me, I never let it, because I'm the chief, and the way a soldier in your command moves isn't something you get to notice. Our relationship is purely professional. Not that we have a
relationship
relationship. Just a professional one. That's purely professional.

“It is never the chief's fault,” Vienne says.

It's
always
the chief's fault. Mimi taught me that. But arguing will only embarrass her more.

“Meet you at the pub.”

“Are you sure, chief?” she asks. “Would you like backup?”

“I think I can handle an aged Orthocrat,” I say, and wink.

 

“You incompetent idiot!” Dame Bramimonde screeches as I enter. The air in here is stuffy, and it smells of silk flowers and dust. Same for the Dame. On both counts. “How could you have made such a mess of a simple mission?”

“Nice to see you again, too, Dame,” I say. Then ask Mimi to scan the room. Dame Bramimonde isn't the most trustworthy client we've had.

The Dame sits in a high-backed chair. Her face is a white
mask of powder, azurite lips, eyebrows a thin line of indigo, straightened and dyed cobalt bangs, and dozens of strings of cerulean beads woven into her hair. She is Orthocracy aristocracy, meaning that she's fluent in several languages, has exquisite taste in art, and will slit your throat if given half a chance.

“Scan is copacetic,” Mimi says. “Unlike this woman's manners.”

I answer the Dame's question. “The mission wasn't that simple. You left out a few facts that complicated the whole operation.”

“Complicated? Ridiculous.” Dame Bramimonde strokes a flat-faced cat in her lap. Its purr sounds like a series of hic-cups. “I sent you to rescue my daughter and return with the ransom. Instead, you bring me that…that
boy
. I suppose it's my own fault, hiring
dalit
instead of professionals.”

Bile rises in my throat. Right now the Dame's children are getting scrubbed clean, every nook and cranny hosed with water—real water, not the ChemAqua we commoners use. Meanwhile, I'm still covered in dried sewage. My body a walking pile of stink. Having to beg for a contracted commission. I despise Orthocrats.

“What's wrong, Regulator?” She pinches the animal on her lap. It cries out but doesn't dare move. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Nothing has my tongue.”

“Then why are you still here? The stench from your person is destroying the olfactory feng shui of my home. Oh,
forgive me—you don't know the definition of
olfactory
.”

“You do so!” Mimi pipes in before I shush her.

“I'm waiting for the commission,” I say flatly.

“We established,” the Dame says, “that you didn't complete the job as directed.”

“We brought back your daughter. Who, by the way, is not a kid. Why didn't you tell me she was a Regulator?”

She curls her lip. “You lost the ransom and you did not kill Postule. To think he once was my trustee.”

“Postule was protected by shock troops—another minor detail you left out. He got the ransom, but we returned your son. That makes us even.”

“I don't want the boy!” Her voice pitches an octave higher. “If you had returned instead with a sack full of the excrement you've wallowed in, I would be more pleased with the result.”

I smile through clenched teeth. “You know, CorpCom military would be interested in a Dame who hires Regulators to do her dirty work.”

“Sharing that information would be stupid.”

“I've done lots of stupid things.”

“That is painfully obvious.” She sniffs. “What would CorpCom think of a
dalit
who does mercenary work?”

“Unattached Regulators are outside CorpCom military authority.”

“Unattached? Is that what you call working for handouts? Better you had performed self-immolation when your father was disgraced.”

“He wasn't disgraced—he—” I say, and instantly regret it.

Dame Bramimonde's smirk twists into a macabre grin. “Failure is its own disgrace.”

“Pay me.”

“Half. Or nothing.”

“You're a thief.”

“I'm a businesswoman.” She removes a small metal case from a drawer on her console. Tosses it to me. “Here is your coin.”

I feel the weight of the coin. It's not enough. She's shorted me, and I'm not going quietly. “Why just the girl? Why save her?”

“She's my heir, of course. The woman who will take over as CEO when I retire.”

“She's also a battle school–trained Regulator. Why would your heiress become a Regulator?”

“A necessary evil, I assure you. The clichéd warrior CEO is
en vogue.
My daughter will make that sacrifice for the good of her family. Surely you know that as well as anyone, don't you, Durango? Or should I use your real name, Jacob Stringfellow?”

I turn my back on her. Head for the door.

“How dare you insult me in my own home! Better men have seen the gallows for less!”

In the before days, you could be put to death for disrespecting an Orthocrat. “Times have changed, Dame. Deal with it.”

“Come back here!” Her screamed is followed a second later by the crash of pottery smashing against the wall.
“Dalit!”

I'm slamming the door behind me, ready escape this mausoleum, when the Dame's servant blocks my path, darting from behind a silk azalea bush. He gestures for me to follow him to the main entry lock.

He places a finger to his lips and peeks around the corner. Crooks a finger, calling someone to join us.

“Mimi? Scan please.”

“One other heartbeat, cowboy. It's Ebi.”

“Ebi?” I say.

The girl we rescued is gone. In her place stands a regal young woman. Freshly scrubbed, her broad cheekbones emit a warm, cosmetic glow. She dismisses the servant and pulls me into an alcove.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says. “Your davos risked your life to save us.”

“All in a day's work.”

She takes my hand. “If you had only rescued me, I might believe that. However, you saved my brother as well, and I know—I know that his life was not part of the contract.”

I rub my head. “Any Regulator would've done the same thing in my place.”

“But Mother would not have. You saved my brother's life,” Ebi says, bowing. “The House of Bramimonde owes you, Regulator. I swear to repay you one day—in full measure.”