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Authors: Ann Aguirre

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BOOK: Wanderlust
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Something flashes in his dark eyes, something stark and raw. His answering smile looks like it hurts in ways I can’t conceive. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER 6

As he carries me through the Wickville warren, l re
flect on what it means for March to love me.

The man’s known nothing but loss his whole life. With me he can expect more of the same. I’m a jumper to the core, complete with all the reckless, thrill-seeking urges. Though I’ve changed since I first met him, and I’d like to believe for the better, I’m never going to be a safe bet.

I’m not a woman you bring home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. I’ve seen a chunk of the universe, true, but there’s still so much more to see. I doubt I’ll ever cure this wanderlust, and I’m content with dedicating my life to failing to sate it.

Then again, maybe if I checked with him, he’d say he would rather have two weeks with me than twenty
safe
years with someone else. After all, that’s what I’d say if he asked me. Kai taught me nothing comes with a guarantee.

The sky darkens overhead, heavy with impending snow, and on the far horizon, the setting sun smears the white plain with a diffuse glow. Each breath stings the inside of my nostrils, puffs out like smoke. It’s becoming clear we are unequivocally lost, and we’re starting to draw attention. With March carrying me, we look vulnerable. That brings out the predatory instincts in people.

Buildings low-slung and close together separate Wickville from Ankaraj proper. There, everything shines with chrome and glastique, and even the gutters stay clean. Here, you can find whores, chem, contraband, and wicked music.

During my academy days, I spent as much time as I could out here, away from rules and regulations. I even had a boyfriend, an insanely gifted sax player named Sebastian, who called me a stroppy little bitch. We fought and fucked and fought some more. In retrospect, it’s a wonder I made it to graduation day.

The crunch of footsteps demands my attention, somehow ominous and stealthy. “Put me down. It’s better if I walk.”

Maybe I was getting heavy anyway because he complies without protest. More likely, he figures he may soon need both hands to fight. March offers a nod as a group of hooded thugs step into our path.

The leader says, “Maybe you didn’t know, but this is a toll road. You need to pay us fifty credits each in order to use it.”

First, it’s not much of a road. I’d call it an alley, myself. I can’t help it; I’ll die a smart-ass, maybe right here in this alley. “Is that fifty credits from each of us or fifty credits to each of you? Or—”

“Shut up, woman.” March doesn’t even glance at me. This better be manly posturing to impress the gangers, or he’s sleeping alone for at least a week. Even that threatening thought doesn’t rouse a reaction from him, though. “How about I beat the shit out of you, and we call it even?”

Whoa, there are seven of them. He’s sure feeling his oats after plunging ten meters off a doomed Skimmer. I don’t think I’m going to be much help in a fight, and I don’t have a weapon.

To my astonishment, the head man breaks down into a belly laugh. “March, you rat bastard, how you been? We haven’t seen you dirtside in at least five spins. I almost shat when I saw you on the vid.”

While they exchange backslapping hugs all around, I relax muscles I hadn’t realized I’d tensed. Dammit, they all had me going. And now my hip really hurts because I slid into a fighting crouch out of reflex.

Men.

“I’m all right, Surge. Except we find ourselves a bit disadvantaged in your territory. Our ride went down a ways back, and I have no idea where we are.”

“Let’s get you out of the cold, catch up a bit, and then see what we can do about a lift home. Where
is
home these days?”

Maybe it’s the waning light, but March looks grim and weary. “Nowhere, now. I lost the
Folly
.”

His pal shakes his head. “Rough luck, mate. Let me stand you one.”

They lead us into a pub via the back door, ignoring the red-faced woman who shouts at them. When Surge peels off his winter wraps, I decide he got his name because his wild, springy hair looks like he conducts large amounts of electricity as a hobby. I limp through into the common room, which is grimy, dimly lit, and full of mismatched furniture.

Ah, home.
I might’ve been here with Sebastian, fifteen years ago.

Once we settle at a sticky table, I find out they aren’t gangers at all but guys March knew in the old days. From what I can gather, they fought together on Nicu Tertius. Mercenaries go wherever they get paid best, and the Nicuan Empire is always in turmoil, so much that half the time they can’t even participate in galactic politics.

By the time the server puts a mug of hot tea in my hand, I don’t care whether the cup is clean. I sip and listen while they catch up. Apparently Surge and his boys are working salvage at the moment; they got tired of fighting other people’swars. Someone named Buzzkill died in the last insurrection, and that’s when they called it a day.

“Is there a bounce-relay anywhere in this dump?” March asks.

His friend points to the far wall. The thing is positively ancient, dates back before the Axis Wars. It doesn’t even have a card reader; you key in your digits by hand.

“Let me send a message to Keri. That was one of our goals today, wasn’t it?”

I nod. “Make sure she got the data, as Tarn claims.”

“And don’t flash your cred too wide around here,” Surge cautions.

March’s gesture says Surge and I are both nervous old women. Well, he’s got that half-right. A few minutes later, he returns, looking satisfied. “She should have it in ten to twelve hours, so we’ll hear back by early morning.”

That’ll have to do. Tarn will want my decision then, but I’m not making it unless I’m sure they don’t need me on Lachion.

“So what’s the story with Tarn?” March takes a seat and picks at a plate of fried . . . something. You’d think I would be used to the way he follows my thoughts by now, but it always seems a little bit eerie. Just like the first time.

Surge shrugs. I can’t remember the names of all his guys, which is fine, because they’re drinking at other tables now. One of them watches me out of narrowed icy blue eyes. He’s a pretty one, if a little grimy around the edges, and I’m not sure what has him so interested. Maybe he’s never seen a bald chick before.

“He was a nobody before last week,” Surge says. “Now he’s pushing to make New Terra the Conglomerate capital, and the fact that Farwan fell apart here is lending him some momentum, but as far as I can tell, he has no more power than any other representative.”

Our waitress sets a carafe down at my elbow. I sniff it. The fumes decree that it’s extremely alcoholic, so I tip some into my weak tea. There’s probably a still in the basement. In Wickville they make the homebrew out of whatever they have to hand. Hopefully, it will take the edge off the pain. Medicinal usage aside, if I drink enough of this brown lightning, I won’t care about my hip anymore.

Some things never change. In poor districts, people do the jobs that bots perform in more affluent sectors. Here, the owners can’t afford maintenance, replacement parts, or chip upgrades. Humans are infinitely more expendable. If a woman wears out, you can find twenty more just like her looking for work.

The one working our table looks pretty close to busted. As if she feels my stare, she meets my eyes, but she doesn’t have enough spark left in her to mind. Her gaze slides away from mine as she trudges on back to the kitchen to schlep the next tray.

March drums his fingers, looking thoughtful. “He’s ambitious then.”

“And I’m his cat’s-paw.” The guys glance at me in surprise, as if they’ve forgotten about me. We can’t have that, can we? “What else is new?”

“You certainly have a history of finding trouble,” Surge says.

Annoyance sparks through me. This prick doesn’t know the first thing about me, other than what he’s read or seen on the vids. And okay, maybe things tend to unravel at the seams wherever I go, but is that
my
fault?

“Lay off her,” March says. He’s smiling, and his tone remains deceptively gentle. “You don’t want to make her mad.”

I liked how he began, but now I’m not sure where he’s going with this. If he expects me to put on a show—
You know, honey, do bitchy Jax for my buddies, come on!—
well, that’s just not happening. I’m too tired.

Surge regards me with bloodshot eyes, a forest bristling from his jaw. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because if you upset her, you’ll have to deal with me. And I don’t think you want that.”

We’re in no position to pick a fight with the people who are helping us. Then again, I suspect I don’t get the whole guy thing, because Surge cracks up again. Fucking men, right?

“Shit, she’s got you trained right and tight, lad. When you donning the collar?”

With a sigh, I down the rest of my spiked tea and feel the warmth washing over me. It’s been a while since I drank anything this strong.

“Jax doesn’t believe in that,” March answers.

“I did once. It didn’t work out.” I scowl, thinking of Simon. “I don’t suppose you know people who could get to him? He’s being held in a secure facility.” It’s a throwaway remark, one I don’t expect to bear fruit. I should have known better. These are former mercs, after all.

“There’s always a way,” Surge tells me with a wicked smile. “But it’ll cost. Depends on where, of course, but we probably know someone doing time same as your ex. How bad do you want the man done?”

 

 

 

CHAPTER 7

l’d love to see Simon dead.

When his superiors asked for a scapegoat, he tried to sacrifice me. He knew they planned to murder everyone on the
Sargasso
, and he decided to rid himself of me as well. There were probably insurance payments to collect, my death benefits. Mary knows he cleaned out my personal accounts before my alleged body was cold.

He deserves to suffer in ways I can’t articulate for what he’s done. Seventy-five souls trusted us to get them safely to Matins IV. Eighty-two died in the crash.

Even now, I still have dreams. I wake up screaming, and I can’t stand the smell of cooking meat. March watches me thinking it over, and I’m sure he’s tapped into my blood-thirsty thoughts. Then it occurs to me. Doesn’t matter how bad I’d like to get this dirty job done. I can’t afford it.

I’ll have to content myself with imagining bad things happening to the bastard. If he’s been sent to Whitefish, I won’t have to wait long, though. Someone will shank him for being an officious little prick.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, because there’s no way I’m telling Surge about my temporary financial embarrassment.

The merc looks disappointed. “Right, then. Another round?”

“One for the road,” March answers. His expression becomes speculative. “What would you suggest for someone in deep to the Syndicate?”

“A Eutha-booth.” Luckily, the other man has his eye on March while he laughs, so he doesn’t catch my wince. There are home truths, and home truths, if you know what I mean. “Oh shit, you’re serious? Dunno, lad, that’s some steep ground. They were fighting a smugglers’ war on two fronts between Hon’s raiders and the gray men, but the world looks a whole lot rosier for them now, thanks to your girl here. Maybe she could ask them nicely to call off the debt.”

Well, that’s not helpful. Mr. Jewel Brooch didn’t seem inclined to believe he owed me any favors when we talked at the coffeehouse. Was that just a few hours ago? Long day.

“We’ll sort it out.” March pushes away from the table. “Can you call us an auto-cab? Where’s the closest stand?”

“At the corner,” Surge says. “And already done. Should be there by the time you make your way down. It was good seeing you, mate. I hope you and the ambassador here get things sorted.”

Every time someone says that, I fight the urge to look over my shoulder. It’s like being the butt of a joke everybody gets but me. I sure as shit don’t feel like any such thing. Maybe it takes a while to sink in.

From the next table I hear Surge’s guys speculating that I’m bald because I had a terrible case of nits. I run a hand over my stubbly head and struggle to my feet. Yeah, it’s definitely time to go.

“There’s some wreckage four blocks up and over from where we met you. You should get a good price for the big pieces if you get right over there.” With a wave, March heads for the front door with me trailing behind him like a gimp puppy.

I guess diva-Jax still dwells somewhere inside my scrawny breast because that doesn’t set well. Then he holds the door for me and offers his heart-melting smile. As we step outside, I forget my minor complaints because night-fall in the north is fucking brutal.

Our hike down to the auto-cab stand feels like kilometers. There’s a reason people drink so much, living here. I’d nearly forgotten that part. A group of homeless men huddle near a trash barrel where they’ve lit a fire. Such things are illegal, but who’s going to protest?

The Corp wrote this place off decades ago, and gangers run it now. Starving artists produce the most amazing music, though. Sweet strains wend through the smoky dark toward me, notes of throbbing warmth that seem to hang in the crystal-cold air like tropical fruit. People in Wickville live with singular abandon; it’s not hard to behave as if every day might be your last if it truly might be. Until now, I hadn’t realized how much I’d incorporated that idea into my personal philosophy, if I could be said to have such a thing.

BOOK: Wanderlust
7.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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