Dragonfly (12 page)

“We nearly got arrested!”

“So? You said our idents are solid. And you’ve got freightloads of cash. Plastic a few palms and we’re out.”

Crash: the trigger and the magazine behind a pile of crates. We rounded a corner and he glared at me, exasperated. “Yeah. Right. Tomorrow, maybe, if we’re lucky. More like next week, after they process our asses via carrier pigeon.”

“What the hell’s a carrier pigeon?”

“Never mind. But do you think I’ve got that sort of time? Think I need that kind of attention right now?” He saw my scowl and pulled me to a stop in the shadow of a low bulkhead, his hand hesitant on my shoulder. “Look. I’m sorry that idiot said those things. And I’m sorry you got hit in the face. But you have to prioritize if you want to make a difference. You can’t let little things get in the way of what matters.”

Little things. Like melting my fiancé, maybe? Like tiny Carrie crying in the snow?

Anger shattered my reason to glassy shards. I really didn’t need Freedom Fighting 101 from him. I’d learned enough of his lessons on Urumki.

I shook him off, my pulse aflame. “Fine. Next time, don’t go out of your way, okay? I didn’t ask for your help. You really shouldn’t let little things get in the w—”

A footstep clunked, and I whirled, my hand flashing to the warm glassgun in my pocket. No one. Shadows thickened. Sweat trickled down my neck. Behind me I heard Dragonfly’s pistol charging, a sharp buzz. “Watch it—”

Clang.

Not good. I spun and aimed, left eye squinting in the dark. Too late.

Two people pinned Dragonfly to the metal wall, disarming him. But not the cavemen. Not Imperials. This guy and girl were lean, ravenous, muscles and scars shining under mismatched, spaceworn clothes. The girl was tall and boyish, pale face under white buzz-cut hair, dull steel piercings sharpening her brow. The guy was just a kid, skinny and pimple-cheeked with porcupine brown hair, but his eyes were hard, his mouth twisted tight. And their atomflashes looked hard-used, grips worn, contacts polished shiny from endless cleaning.

Dragonfly closed his eyes and sighed. He looked convinced. Not good.

I switched my aim from one to the other, backing off to get a better shot. “Let him go.”

“Not a chance.” A low voice, musical, resonating so my ears couldn’t pinpoint the source.

And a third figure ghosted from the shadows. Tall, black hair in four-inch dreadlocks, dark urban combat trousers and boots under a molded black armored vest that probably could have fit two of me inside. Muscular dark brown arms, glistening with sweat. Buckled wristguards, no gloves, thorny artwork on one forearm. Pistol strapped to one massive thigh. Big son of a bitch.

He sauntered up to Dragonfly, careless of my arc of fire, and flashed a crooked white grin. “You’re a hard man to find, said the spider to the fly. Let’s have a chat.”

Cocky. Who the fuck were these people?

Dragonfly spat blood, insolent. “I already told you
no
.”

Shades of me and black ops. What did these guys want from him?

“That was then. You haven’t heard my latest offer.”

I circled, all three enemies in my sights. The shatterjay worked better at intimate range. And the big guy wouldn’t go down easy. With shatterglass, I probably couldn’t take all of them before they jumped me. Or killed Dragonfly. That’d save me the trouble. But better the devil you’ve already sold your soul to.

Inwardly, I cringed. Me protecting
him
. What a joke.

But I didn’t have time to laugh at myself. His plasma pistol lay on the floor where they’d forced it from his hand, and I started calculating how far I’d have to dive, the best trajectory and attitude to come up firing.

“Let him go,” I repeated.

“Do I know you?” The big black guy turned, a frown creasing his brow. Diamond earstud, colored glass beads glinting in his dreadlocks, sharp green eyes flecked gold with crazy. He studied me, cocking his head. “I don’t think I know you. I don’t think I like you, either.”

His gaze flicked over my shoulder, and my reflexes jerked a sharp warning. But before I could react, something hard thwacked into the back of my skull, and everything flashed white.

13

I awoke groggy, fumbling for my aching head. Hard floor, uncomfortable under my side. I squinted, icelights glaring. My hand came away bloody. I wiped it on my shorts and wobbled unsteadily to my feet.

The corridor was deserted, red guidelights pulsing softly in the floor. No sprays of blood or vomit. Dragonfly could still be alive. But my shatterjay lay crushed, a pile of splintered glass, like some big black guy (for instance) had crunched it under his boot. And Dragonfly’s pistol was gone.

Fuck.

I stumbled for the nearest instrument panel, flicking the screen alight. Smugly, it denied me access. I fumbled in my shorts for my ESE and slotted it. The system blinked and opened, just a simple password that the ESE’s processor chewed up in moments. Diagrams and text glowed green as the station’s logistics logs came online. The clock in the top corner blinked red station time: 0126. Obviously those marines hadn’t bothered to hunt for us once the fight broke up. I’d been out for twenty minutes or more.

Twenty minutes in slipspace. They could have taken him anywhere.

I took a breath, calming. Not too late. Just think …

I found the maintenance logs and flicked through. My finger slid too fast on the glass, skipping a few menus, and I forced myself to slow down. There. Docking lane six, near the entry gate. Magclamps still activated. All slots taken. A quick glance at the video security monitor confirmed it.
Ladrona
was still there.

Which meant Dragonfly probably hadn’t left of his own accord. But I didn’t know which was his captors’ ship. If they even had a ship. For all I knew, they were still here.

My thoughts raced ahead. I didn’t know who these guys were, what they wanted. The only person I knew on the station was Bastie, and for a moment I considered finding him. But I’d already suspected him of treachery, and for all I knew he was in on this. I couldn’t risk giving myself away.

Nothing for it then.

I yanked my ESE from the console and thumbed the sub-ether contact before I could change my mind. “Malachite, you there?”

Black-matter interference howled like wind for a few empty seconds, then Nikita’s voice chimed in my head, distorted faintly with the distance. “Aragon, sweetheart. How are you getting along with Algebra Geek?”

Deep breath. “I’ve lost him.”

“You what?”

The delay didn’t blunt that razor-edged tone and my spine crackled cold.

I shivered, sweating. “I lost him. We’re on an R&R outpost called Vyachesgrad. He bought some stuff—it’s a long story, I’ll tell you later. But we got ambushed and it wasn’t Imperials. D’you know this guy?”

I pictured Dreadlock Boy’s face and the ESE flashed my mental image down the line. Not very accurate, but better than nothing.

Nikita laughed, and shadows flitted across my heart. “It really is your lucky day, isn’t it? Search the dataspace under ‘lunatic fringe’. His Imperial codename is
Spider
. Angry malcontent, stole a navy battleship a while back. Cruises around blowing shit up and getting himself on the news. He and Dragonfly’ll have a nice little rebel reunion.”

I remembered Dragonfly’s eyes, heated with defiance or disgust.
I
already told you no
. “They didn’t seem like friends.”

“They’re not, any more. I’ll send you the file. They had some kind of falling out. It’s better than a soap opera.”

“So what’s this Spider want him for?”

“Screwed if I know. That’s your job, isn’t it?” Short, tinged with hot disdain that prickled my cheek.

My stomach sank. “Look, can you do me the favor and not tell Renko? I’ll get it under control. I promise. I just need a little time.”

The two-second delay killed me, but he came back smooth and smug like a cat’s purr. “I suppose I can lose Lyudmila’s commcode for a few hours. But you owe me, Carrie.”

I sighed. Like I had a choice. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“I like it when you owe me.”

The sultry suggestion in his voice warmed my skin. “I bet you do.”

“Would you like to know how I’m going to make you pay?”

Invisible fingers stroked my thigh, and I jumped. Damn it.

“Get a girlfriend,” I said, and snapped the link before he could get any more creative.

Well, that could have been worse. At least he hadn’t cut me loose right away. But I only had a few hours to put this right.

My ESE buzzed and, true to Nikita’s word, a data package dumped itself on my chip. I flipped through it, my eyes glazing over as text and images jumped into my optic nerves. Spider was Dreadlock Boy all right, the rebellion’s typical angry young man who’d lasted beyond his youth with guile and ruthlessness. Brit by birth, joined the rebel militia young. Urban warfare, fought the Imperial occupation, lifetime grudge, blah blah whine, so sad. Some kind of musician, apparently, and I grimaced. Great. Another self-appointed genius. Thwarted artistic pretensions meant a vicious and fragile ego.

I skimmed through his record: a catalogue of bombings, kidnappings, armed assaults. Much more conspicuous than Dragonfly. He’d evaded capture so far through strike-and-run tactics. Strange that I’d never heard of him, but the galaxy was a big place and insurrection festered everywhere. He cruised around in a stolen Imperial battleship—how the hell did you steal a battleship?—with his crazy-ass crew, kicking heads and breaking things. Shock tactics, mass destruction with maximum terror, civilian casualties an optional extra. Nice guy. He and Dragonfly were welcome to each other.

But I couldn’t let my prey get away that easily. And face it, if I lost Dragonfly, I was screwed. Renko and Surov could have a sideshow to their little war, fighting over who got to kill me first.

I snapped the ESE off and let my lazy eyes refocus. I hadn’t seen a battleship docked as we approached, and Spider would be even madder than he looked to bring it in here. He must be standing off somewhere at a safe distance, and came here in a shuttlecraft or something. If he’d made it to his ship, I was in trouble. No way I could track him through slipspace when he had such a big headstart, even if I could fly
Ladrona
, which I couldn’t, not with Dragonfly’s biochem crawling green death all over the console.

I couldn’t second-guess them. I had to start with what I knew, which was that I wasn’t even certain they’d left the station yet.

I switched the maintenance console off. It was useless without access to any surveillance cameras or entry records. For that, I needed the Imperial dataspace, and that prickly cybercreature would notice if I tried a remote uplink to station security. I needed to access a console the marines used. But how?

I wiped my nose, blood smearing sticky. No time to waste. If I’d had my Axis ident, I could’ve dropped my cover and pulled rank. But I had nothing except my ESE. Not even a weapon.

I thought of Dragonfly’s stolen metalgun, and brightened, then I remembered he’d dropped the firing mechanism in the trash compactor. Even if I found the rest of it and bluffed, it wouldn’t look functional, not even to the idiots who passed for Imperial security around here.

Guess I was left with lies and attitude then.

I grinned, buoyant. No problem. They’re what I’m good at.

***

I eased my head past the steel bulkhead’s edge, stilling my breath. It was late, and the young marine sat at the security desk alone, his black diagonal jacket unclipped, playing a virtual lasergame on his little touchpad. He was doing okay too, kicking horned-alien ass in a razorcut maze of death. His cap lay folded on the desk, and his pistol sat snug against his blackclad hip, the holster clip fastened. No doubt he was better at the laser game than the real thing.

You’d think these repair-and-refuel stations would run around the clock, but the maintenance crews had manning issues like everyone else and worked a reduced night shift. After local midnight, the workshops and entry stations pretty much shut down, unless you’d scheduled them at extra cost, and everyone went to the bar. This guy had obviously drawn the short straw tonight. He’d have backup on etherwave, but for the moment he was alone.

I watched him for a while longer, but he didn’t lift his gaze from his game. I could hardly blame him. This place was like the grave. Unluckily for him, his night was about to spring alive.

I raked my hair half-loose from its braid, palmed my eyes to make them wet and red, and let my jacket slide off one shoulder, pulling my top down to show a bit more flesh. I sucked my cut lip hard to make the blood flow, and smeared my mouth, leaving a fat scarlet stain.

Ready? Deep breath. Ready.

I stumbled around the corner, panting and catching my fall against the bulkhead. The marine jumped up, dropping his game.

I staggered. “Please, help me. That man, he attacked me, I don’t know what …”

I fell toward him like a proper damsel in distress. He ran forward, trying to hold me up. “What? Where?”

I pointed wildly behind me. He looked up. I clocked him in the temple with my elbow, and he crumpled without a sound. Quietly, I eased him to the floor. He’d have a bruise and a sore head, nothing more.

I unclipped his pistol and stuffed it into my jacket, and hurried to the desk. Only a few minutes until he woke. I prodded his console alive. He was already logged in. Too easy. I flipped to the entry logs and accessed video. A bunch of images, headshots of everyone who’d alighted at Vyachesgrad this week. I jacked my ESE, downloaded them with a data-ripper and ran them through face recognition with Spider’s picture from the Axis file. Handy little kit, this ESE.

It only took a second or two. There he was, dreadlocks and diamonds and that crazy-ass grin. A terrorist who kidnapped bank robbers. Fascinating.

I retrieved his entry log data from the console. Spider was calling himself Lukas Radjevich, and he must have bribed the guards with some pretty gifts, because he’d been here since yesterday morning and security hadn’t lifted a finger.