Grimspace (4 page)

The sky looks like a boiled potato.

An ugly gray-white, overcast, beyond the hangar it's sputtering snow, and March didn't see fit to advise me of the season or provide a winter coat. So I'm shivering, arms wrapped around myself. Hard to look imposing while your teeth chatter.

Don't know what I expected, some kind of diplomatic delegation or another sort of welcoming party? What's waiting for us looks more like a dysfunctional family. There's a tan, leathery man chewing on an unlit cigarillo, yeah, I know—those have been outlawed on civilized worlds for a long time. He's wearing an old-fashioned gun belt, retrofitted, wherein he's carrying the tools of his trade. I
hope
those are spanners.

They don't even manufacture live rounds anymore, do they?

And then there's the old woman with a pouf of silver hair, cosmetics caked into the creases of her face. She looks like a stereotypical holo-representation of a madame; I half expect her “girls” to pour out of a nearby ship and cluster around her, giggling. But nope, that leaves the third member of the quartet waiting for me, a short, slight fellow with a receding hairline and a rabbity face, very little chin. The last person appears to be a surprisingly young woman, although I've learned not to accept things at face value. But she's slim—smooth skin, dark hair…and she has pale green eyes.

My gaze sharpens. There's a J-gene carrier, unregistered, out here in the back of beyond? The Corp should have signed her up, begun her training, and had her making jumps by now. Well, if not currently, then within a year or two. I put her age around eighteen, but I might be wrong.

Well, if I'm holding out for a polite introduction from my new crewmates, I'll wait forever. They've arrayed themselves at my back, silent. I sense amusement from March; he enjoys seeing me at a disadvantage, I think. I don't know why, as he's certainly seen me that way a lot. From the first moment he entered my cell and caught me on the verge of tears, he's seen more of that than probably any other living soul. It occurs to me that, for the sake of symmetry, I should probably kill him.

March cuts me a sharp look.
Okay, what the hell
—

“I'm Sirantha Jax,” I say aloud.

“Yes, we know.” Really don't like the way the old woman smiles; there's a spidery quality to her from her wrinkle-web face to the strands of hair slithering from her bouffant bun. “Your reputation precedes you.”

By dumb luck, I retain my polite smile because there's definite nastiness to her tone. I'm trying to decide how to respond to that, remembering that March told me not to offend anyone, when I feel something drop around my shoulders. Glancing back, I see that it's Saul, the ship's doc. At least he's on my side. He's given me his overcoat; the length is about right, but it would wrap around me twice with fabric to spare. Still, I appreciate the gesture, and I shrug into it fully, nice heavy s-wool.

“Thanks,” I murmur, and he steps back, leaving me to deal with these strangers. Oddly, just by virtue of the coat, I feel more armored, more equipped to do so. “March didn't have time to brief me.”

And the bastard elbows me in the back because he knows I'm bullshitting. Guess it entertained him to throw me in headfirst and watch whether I'd sink or swim. I'm starting to wonder how bad it would've been, lounging around a Corp asylum for the rest of my days under heavy sedation.

The leathery man chuckles. “That's March for ya. I'm Jor Dahlgren. Good to finally meet you.”
As if we've been planning this rendezvous for a while.
I must admit, it's more than a little unnerving to have people making those kinds of pronouncements. His handshake grinds my knuckles together, but I don't wince when I pull my hand back. “This is my mother, Mair Dahlgren, and my daughter, Keri.” The girl inclines her head to me like royalty, and the crone's smile widens, revealing yellow teeth.

“The pleasure's mine.”

Holy shit, they really are a dysfunctional family. A
family
had the power to dispatch someone to Perlas Station, send my AI into maintenance, and manually unlock my cell door? If so, what're they doing on a backward rock like Lachion? Damn, it's cold here. The wind's slicing right through the overcoat down to the slinky s-silk bodysuit. I may look good, but I'm going to poke No-chin's eye out if he gets any closer.

Jor doesn't introduce the little guy, so I turn to him, and he's bright enough to take the cue. “I'm Carl Zelaco, their financial advisor.”

Of course you are. With that face, you couldn't have been anything else.

“A pleasure,” I repeat. And March snort-snickers. “I'm sure we have much to say to one another,” I continue, though I'm actually not. “Perhaps we should adjourn inside and talk matters over?”

I don't actually see anything here but this godforsaken hangar. The sky is wide-open, no sign of civilization, but surely there's
something
. Or maybe there isn't, which is the whole point. As I ponder that, the scar beneath my rib cage chooses that moment to itch, and I can't scratch it. Loras seems to be staring at something nobody else sees, but then, March did say he was a savant. So who knows what that's about?

“An eminently agreeable suggestion,” No-chin Carl says. “Step this way, we have a rover waiting to convey us to the compound.”

Compound?
Hate the way my gaze goes to March, for reassurance or clarification, regardless, nothing that I want to ask of him. But I've already done it because he's nodding at me, just as he nodded at Dina on board the ship. There's a five-year-old inside me who wants to kick his shins.

Insufferably, he smiles.

With an inward sigh, I turn to follow the leather-tan man. This rover's new, shiny, with plating that makes me worry about the wildlife. “Are we likely to be attacked?” Even the tire rims are spiked, as if to slam another land vehicle. I'm trying to remember what I've heard about Lachion, but this is the last place any jumper would linger. There's nothing to discover or report, just some mudsiders playing—

Wild West, Old Terra style. Ah, shit.

“Oh, I do hope so,” says Mair.

“Probably not,” the accountant answers. “We're pretty far from—” He grunts as Jor slugs him in the gut, but I guess he's used to that because he doesn't double up or fall over, although he cradles his stomach as he walks. Huh, he's tougher than he looks.

“You'll be entirely safe with us,” Keri tells me, smiling prettily, and I have to wonder why her sweetness scares me most of all.

Dahlgren's got his entourage, and I've got mine, I think with some amusement, although Dina would happily shove a shiv between my shoulder blades and twist. I'm less sure of Loras, and Saul, well, he seems to admire me. Or perhaps he just possesses that old world courtesy bred into some men as a relic from a patronymic culture. Whatever the reason, I'm wearing his coat, and he's shivering, so I count that a win.

That just leaves March.
Obnoxious, odious
—

“Obstreperous,” he suggests, sotto voce.

I nod, then jerk my head in his direction. His smile becomes a smirk. Oh shit, he's Psi. He
is
. There's no getting away from him, even when we're not jacked in. But what the hell, I've never heard of a Psi pilot. They're rarer than jumpers and almost always scooped up in early childhood, whisked away to Psi-Corp to learn how to filter out thought-noise. Historically, Psi-sensitives bounced in and out of mental asylums until they killed themselves. Until people figured out they were not, in fact, insane, and they really
were
hearing voices. Thoughts. Whatever.

So add one unregistered jumper, one freelance Psi, and me, and you get—

“—your ass in the rover,” March says.

The dysfunctional family sits, regarding me expectantly. Behind me, I sense Dina stirring. I don't need to be Psi to know she's looking at March, asking with a look,
Can I kill her now, boss?
And the bitch of it, I can't even entertain myself plotting long, intricate revenges because he might hear me. And laugh, knowing I can't carry out any of my threats. Oh, but his day is coming. I swear.

For now, I get my ass in the rover.

We're making good time to the middle of nowhere, and
I still don't have a clue where we're going or why.

Let me just say, that's getting old. I'm starting to think I was better off in my cell. March offers me a tight smile, as if he isn't sure he disagrees. But before I can go all prima donna and start demanding answers, shit gets interesting.

“We've got Gunnars coming up fast,” Keri says, as if she's offering us tea and biscuits, and Jor swears as he swerves hard left, narrowly avoiding a collision with something that looks even sturdier than the rover.

“Those bastards,” Mair growls. “They must have us tapped. No other way they could've known we'd be traveling this route.
Nobody
comes this way anymore.”

“Unless there's a spy giving reports.” No-chin Carl makes this observation, seeming unaware that as the only non–family member in the vehicle, he's most likely casting aspersions on himself unless one of March's crew did it—

This is making my head hurt. I feel like I'm one big crackling box of crazy, and suddenly, I wonder if this is Unit Psych stuff, if I'm delusional and already locked up in the Corp asylum, medicated within an inch of my life. Certainly I feel paranoid—the world I used to live in doesn't make sense anymore. But lunatics don't wonder if they're mad, do they? Isn't it always the rest of the world that's off its nut?

Jor shakes his head. “Doesn't matter. I'll kill her myself before letting the Gunnars get their hands on her.”

Kill…who?
Me?
Frag that. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Nobody said anything about that.” It's Saul, speaking quietly but firmly, from all the way in the back. “That's not part of the plan.”

But before anyone can respond, the rover rocks, and I close my eyes, not wanting to see how the countryside slings back and forth as the back tires fight for traction with the Gunnar vehicle slamming us repeatedly in the side. The reinforced doors seem to be holding, but March is really being battered around. I spare a glare for the careful way he's shielding Keri with his upper body, and then I'm smashed face-first into the front seat. When I right myself, hands braced, my nose smarts, eyes are watering, and I feel a trickle of hot blood running over my upper lip.

“She's bleeding,” Keri says, and I don't understand the rising note of hysteria in her voice.

Hate driving.
Hate
it. I'm remembering more than I want to about physics: drag and inertia and the momentum of, say, the human body when jettisoned from a moving vehicle.

“Open the roof,” Jor barks to his mother, who starts manipulating levers, then the panels part overhead, which seems highly ill-advised, given that there are people trying to kill us, for reasons incomprehensible to me.

“Get those bastards, Ma.”

The old woman looks insane as she pushes to her knees. Her white hair streaming in the wind, she activates another series of controls, and I hear the sound of weapons being readied. She's laughing as she fires, and I have the answer to my question; they do still manufacture live rounds, at least on Lachion. I hear metal hit metal, like a mudsider cannon from some old war holo, and a chunk of their side armor panel blows wide, striking the plain in a cloud of dust.

So fragging cold, the wind's drilling through me. I hear Loras chanting something low and eerie, like an alien prayer, and the Gunnars retaliate, launch a small round device from side turrets. I don't know what to expect here on Lachion, but it strikes the windscreen and detonates in a low hum that appears to play hell with the rover's engines.

“Oh, that's not good,” No-chin Carl says, ever helpful.

The rover sputters, turbines dying. Our velocity decreases, then we're hit hard. I feel their grapplers lock down, and they pull back, towing us to a halt.

“Anything I fire's going to hit us, too. The rover can't take any more damage and still carry us out of here.” Mair snarls a word that I didn't think old ladies knew. “We'll have to defend,” she continues. “If they want us, make them work for it.”

Jor simply nods and metal shutters come down over all the windows and I see reinforced steel plating shoot up, covering the doors. The only opening's the roof, and I don't completely understand why they're not sealing that, too.

“Air,” March tells me quietly. “The rover doesn't have life support. There are too many of us in here. If we did that, all the Gunnars need to do is wait. We pass out; they cut their way in. Take you, kill the rest of us.”

I'm not sure that's a bad solution, actually. March narrows his eyes, and I offer him a very sweet smile. Okay, not Saul. I like Saul. I can't see anything, but I hear the sound of feet tramping over the rocky ground. There's at least six of them, presumably combat trained. I hear the thunk of climbing feet.

March pushes Keri toward the back, and Saul makes room between himself and Loras. Somehow, that pisses me off as much as anything that's happened. “She's
bleeding
,” the girl repeats, looking between Saul and Loras as if expecting them to do something. “For Mary's sake, keep her out of the wind.”

“I hope you can fight,” Dina calls from the back. “Seeing as they're going to hit you first.”

She's right. I'm in the second row of seats, right below the gap.

“You better,” I tell her. “Because I'm between you and what's coming. When I die, guess who's next, bitch?”

Mair laughs; it's an ugly, grating sound, and I'm not glad I caused it. When she regards me with an approving eye, that's somehow worse. Wordlessly, she hands me a weapon, seeming to assume I'll know how to use it. I turn it over in my hands. I was expecting something more Wild West out of these crazy mudsiders, but this is a standard shockstick—basic principle, hit the bad guy as hard as you can while simultaneously administering a powerful charge that will short his brain pan.

Only one person climbing—why would that be? I heard others approaching…that doesn't make sense. Send one at a time to a small opening that's easy to defend? My internal alarms are all going off even before—

There's a low whine as the Gunnar lobs something down between the open panel, and just an instant before it detonates, I hear Keri screaming. Instinctively I put my face beneath Saul's heavy overcoat, as I identify…gas grenade. Shit, I didn't even know they made these anymore. Frag this, my eyes stream with tears as I pull myself out of the rover. They don't want me dead; I know that.

That's the one thing I'm sure of, these Gunnars, they're not going to kill me, whatever they do to the rest of this motley bunch. I land hard on the hood of the rover, roll off onto the dirt, and the thud takes the wind right out of me. I can still hear Keri moaning, and Mair curses with a fluency that I've only heard in starports on the rim.

Jor is ominously silent, and the rest of the crew scrambles out after me. Except for March. He's shepherding the girl with an excessive tenderness that makes me want to bury my foot in his balls. Was I ever like her? I don't think so. Life…never gave me a chance to be soft. And maybe, if I'm honest, I'm a little jealous—not of March, he's an asshole, but because nobody ever tried to take care of me like that. Not even Kai.

Outside the vehicle, Carl talks quietly with the Gunnars, smiling. I realize he wasn't being stupid earlier; he was boasting. He's wearing a rebreather and a mildly apologetic expression.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience,” he tells me, as if my luggage has been misplaced on an interstellar voyage. “The Gunnars pay substantially better, and I think, given all the statistical data, you'll agree with my assessment. It's the best possible outcome for you to sign on with them.”

Doing
what
?

It seems as if there isn't going to be fight. The gas has thoroughly demoralized the Dahlgrens—but I don't know; I feel like busting some heads on principle. I'm bloody tired of being dragged around, here to there, without a word of explanation. And it's been like that a long damn time, nothing's been right since Kai died, and I am
sick
of it.

Mair chooses that moment to stagger from the vehicle; she stumbles, falls, eyes livid with grief. But as she pushes herself upright, more will than strength, she growls to Carl, “Better to die on your feet than live on your knees. You spineless sack of shit.”

I somehow know that Jor's not coming out of the rover under his own power. Maybe the gas affected him different than the rest of us. But whatever, why ever, he's gone, and Keri weeps against March's shoulder. Mair, with her wild eyes, looks like the living embodiment of the old Furies, come to reap a man's soul. I'm a little afraid of her, and everyone falls back, as she surges toward the Gunnars. For a moment, I think she'll rend them limb from limb single-handedly.

Carl glances to me in appeal, as if I have some power in this insane tableau. Then I realize I do.

“Frag you.” I answer his look in Keri's time-for-tea tone.

And it takes him a moment to process the disparity of the words from the sweetness in my voice. The Gunnars look like killers, all of them. Big men, hard-eyed, well geared, and ready to throw down. That's fine.

So am I.

I'm Sirantha Jax, and I have had
enough
.