CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 5
MAD BOUNCED behind the screen to the kitchen. After a tink of glass and the pop of containers, she appeared with two amber mugs with respectable heads.
“Lim brews this.” She sipped. “He calls it a native pale ale. I call it delicious.”
Cheshire sipped. “It’s very good.” He frowned. “It tastes a little like eggs.”
“Doesn’t it, though.” She leaned toward him, an invitation to conspiracy. “I tease him about it all the time. Do you know what he says?”
“No.” He leaned, too, sharing the conspiracy.
“He says, ‘Maddie, it’s a pregnant beer, full of possibilities. Mark my words, Maddie, good things will be born from this beer.’”
He chuckled. “That bastard. Everything was a speech.”
She sat back, settling into her story. “So, I was in Tiamat, and you know what a hellhole it is.”
“I was there a week and it felt like a year.”
“I spent a year and it felt like a lifetime. Everyone related to me dead—Ma, Da, Narrlah and her kits. Rock-jacks take care of their own, but there are limits when you’re stuck in an overcrowded ball of iron ruled by the pussies and their bastard collabos. I didn’t starve, and I didn’t beg, and I didn’t have to whore myself out, so I still have that bit of self-respect.”
“What did you do?” Her beautiful stillness fascinated him. Lim sure knows how to pick them.
She shrugged. “What everyone else was doing: buying and selling on the black market. And with the collapse of the pussy occupation, the market became, well . . . grayer.”
“What did you sell?”
She settled hot brandy eyes into his. “Vengeance.”
He looked away and hid his unease with a sip of beer. “What kind of vengeance?”
“All kinds. The market blossomed after the pussies lost control. Collabos, family feuds, political assassinations. I daresay I made quite a name for myself in that hunk of iron.”
He blinked in disbelief. “Wasn’t it dangerous?”
“I loved it. My da used to say, ‘A rock-jack either learns to hold his breath or how to breathe vacuum.’ Without a family to worry about—reprisals, you know—I was pretty much untouchable. Of course I had my limits: no children and no yakuza. But beyond that, fair game.”
“Excuse me. Yakuza?”
“Japanese syndicate. Probably the last bastion of honorable humanity in that rock. At least, in my opinion. Everyone else was corrupt. But what do you expect after fifty years of occupation?”
Cheshire shifted uneasily, but decided to be blunt. “I expect you’re seeing things as an orphaned rock-jack injected into harsh times.”
She pinned his eyes, but he smiled and said, “Let me guess. You’ve killed men for less?”
She laughed, high and sweet. “Oh, Mr. Cheshire. It’s a business, not a vendetta.”
“How professional of you.” He tilted his head in contrition. “But I guess I am being provocative. Please forgive me. I’ve never met an assassin—at least none that I know of.”
She laughed again, and he smiled at her, relieved by her humor.
“So, how did you meet Lim?” he asked.
“I had a contract to kill him.”
His face locked into a wooden smile; her sweetness now frightened him. Did she murder Lim? He decided not to ask and managed a gruff, “Oh?”
“It was the usual: secret client, payment in mixed ores, method to my discretion. Strange, though. He hadn’t been in that rock more than a day. I had to wonder who he pissed off so quickly.”
“Doesn’t sound like Lim.” He took a guarded sip of beer.
“Probably someone followed him from Sol. Or someone knew him from Sol.” She shrugged. “No matter. I might wonder, but I didn’t ask questions. I watched him for two full days and saw nothing special. No bodyguards, no extra security on his quarters, no attempt to vary his schedule. I decided to wait for him in his bedroom. I might be observed coming and going, but there’d be nothing to link me directly.”
“How did you plan to do it?” Peanut allergy, perhaps?
Her face went blank. “I enjoy working with my hands.” When he didn’t react, she pouted. “You’re a tough crowd, Mr. Cheshire.”
He shrugged. “I’m a friend of Lim’s. You learn to expect the unexpected.” He reassured himself with a touch to his duffel. He could be out the open door in less than a second. “What happened?”
“I stood about an hour just inside the door to his bedroom. I disabled all the lights but one, so when he flipped the switch it’d shine direct in his eyes. I heard him enter the apartment, alone as usual, and klutz around in the kitchen for a time. I wasn’t sure of his night habits—I thought he might watch some tri-d for a while—but pretty quick he was at the bedroom door.”
“And?” He covered his tension with another sip.
“And he said, ‘I’m glad you’re finally here. The wait has been tedious.’ He was backlit by the lights in the living area, and I could tell he was just speaking blindly into the dark of the bedroom. But he knew I was there. Somewhere.” She leaned toward him, another conspiratorial invitation. “To tell the truth, I’d never been so scared during a job. Oh, I’ve been discovered and chased and even pinned a time or two, but I always knew why, knew where I’d screwed up. That . . .” She shivered. “That was uncanny.”
He declined the invitation and did not lean toward her. “What did you do?” He hoped he sounded nonchalant.
“I focused on my breath and assessed the situation. He was alone. His hands were empty. He knew I was around, but not my location. But he was prepared for me. Evaluate: fulfill the contract now or retreat and try again later?”
Cheshire squinted in thought. “Neither. At that moment, there’s insufficient information. Perhaps he’s just making a lucky guess and will walk away. Or perhaps he’ll switch on the light, blind himself, and give you an advantage. But at that moment, sit tight.”
“Very good! Have you ever thought of assassination as a career path?” She sipped her beer. “What is it that you do, Mr. Cheshire?”
He shifted in his seat, discomfited by the non sequitur. “I’m an attorney, though I only just passed the bar on Earth. I haven’t had much practice.”
“I suppose I could make the boorish comparison between lawyers and paid assassins.”
“Of course, but I think you’re anything but boorish. So, you’re standing next to the man you’re contracted to kill . . .”
“And he turned away, stood with his back to the door for a moment and said, ‘The only way out is through the living area, so you have to reveal yourself sooner or later. When you do, there’ll be a drink waiting. Nothing else. Except for some conversation, if you’re interested.’ And he walked away. I heard him in the kitchen. Ice in glasses. Poured liquid. A settling onto the couch facing the door.”
“So, he offered his assassin a drink. Sounds like Lim. What did you do?”
“I waited. Perhaps an hour, likely more. Eventually, I heard him stand. He said, ‘Your ice has melted. I’ll freshen this up for you.’ I waited for kitchen sounds and quick-peeked around the lower part of the door. He was in the kitchen, back to me, but too far to get to without exposure. And the exit door was just beyond him.”
“You were trapped. So, more waiting?”
“Nope. I chose a chair, and I was in it before he turned with a glass in each hand. I swear, he smiled at me as if I’d been there all along. ‘Which glass would you like?’ he asked. ‘Left,’ I said. ‘Your left or my left?’ ‘Whichever left isn’t poisoned,’ I said. And the rest is history. We murdered each other in bed that night, and I followed him down-well a week later.”
“I love a happy ending.”
She lay her head back against the chair and gazed out the window. Her eyes brightened with tears, and she pressed fingers to her lips.
“There are no happy endings in Munchen,” she whispered. “Lim is dead.”