The Wraith's Story (BRIGAND Book 1) (7 page)

Before Cutter had a chance to anticipate my intent, before even I knew what I was going to do, I gently tugged at a pocket just in front of me — and disappeared.

Foggy and indistinct as she was from my point of view inside the pocket, I could still see Cutter's gray eyes flash angry white. One of her absolute rules was never to jump in the open. My talent was a secret we had kept rigorously. And Cutter, even with her superb skills, was like most Wraiths. She could hide in your blind spots, but she couldn't see the pockets. Not like me. Sometimes I wondered if that was why she forbade me to use them.

But I didn't think of that now. I just wanted to help the Irezi. I didn't really know why, but the sight of her, bound and helpless in the hands of the same power that would swat me into oblivion if they could, filled me with a sudden and seething rage. It wasn't right. None of it was.

I sprinted toward the Irezi, slipping from pocket to pocket so quickly it felt as if I never re-entered the world. The energy veil pulled at my mind. On the other side, I always felt a faint, persistent impetus, like the gravity of a distant star, trying to draw me further into the darkness. In the pockets, I was forever balanced on the edge of a razor.

Behind me, I heard Cutter shout.

What was she doing? The Jacks would turn on her in an instant. And then I got it. As always, Cutter was a move ahead of us all. She was giving me an opening.

 I took it.

All four Jacks were looking at Cutter. She was spitting curses in languages she hadn't even taught me yet. The Rip-Jack turned and stomped toward her, the three hundred kilo mass of his X-armor thudding against the sidewalk. Two of the other Jacks followed. The one holding the Irezi's leash stayed put. Standard escort protocol. They were running their plays right out of the book.

I stepped out of the pocket right next to the Irezi, and yanked the hood from her head as Cutter pulled her Darters. The Rip-Jack jabbed his right fist at her head. I could see the blue-white glow glinting on her magenta hair as the fusion port irised open. Then, a millisecond later, a violet stab of plasma centered directly on where her forehead… used to be.

To their eyes she disappeared, but I could see her, to the Rip-Jack's right, just outside his peripheral arc. As the plasma jet of his puncher ionized empty air, she shot her Darters into the weak points behind his armor's ventral ballistic plate. But flechettes, deadly as they are, don't have much hitting power. She'd found her mark, but he didn't seem to be fazed at all.

She definitely had his attention though. Which gave me just enough time to unclip the Irezi's hands and yank the cloak off of her.

A big gloved fist clamped onto my forearm. The Jack who'd been holding the restraint cable hadn't spotted me until I pulled the cloak from the Irezi, but I'd underestimated how quickly he'd respond. These guys were the real deal. I twisted and dropped, trying to shed his grip, but he countered. If I couldn't get loose, I couldn't fugue.

The other two Jacks were reacting now. Cutter was about to be facing three on one. The Rip-Jack lit up his bender, the deflection field generator they used for shipboard assault, and started turning to his right. Cutter and I made eye contact and I pleaded with my expression.
Run
. She knew I was caught. There was no way for her to help me and, if she didn't move
right now
, one of the Rip-Jack's punchers would vaporize a five centimeter tunnel through her magnificent body.

She let her momentum carry her past the Rip-Jack, momentarily using him to block the other two marines' line of fire. In mid dive, she fired both of her Darters at the one who was grappling with me. Head shots, both of them. She was
so
good.

But his helmet bounced the light projectiles and he responded with a snap shot of his own. Most of the burst from his assault rifle went wide and rounds sprayed into the crowd on the sidewalk. Blood and tissue exploded everywhere. But he hadn't missed. There was a horizontal gash in her pants. And blood.

His voice incongruously tiny from the small speakers in his blackout visor, the Rip-Jack shouted, "We got Wraiths!" and the two Jacks with him pivoted instantly into a defensive stance. The three of them faced outward, covering each other's backs. I knew precisely what would come next. Sweeping bursts on full auto. Downward aim at minus twenty degrees. Each one would saturate the arc in front of him. It was about to be a bloodbath.

But I had my own problems. I was still firmly in the grasp of the fourth Jack. I rolled and twisted again, but he knew his Jeet-Kune-Do. He turned with me and suddenly I was flat on my back with his face only centimeters from mine. He wore a light scout helmet with no visor and his green, slightly bloodshot eyes locked on mine. The pupils were dilated. Babies.

Almost all Jacks use a combat drug they call Baby Blues. The pills do a ferociously good job of heightening a marine's alertness and amping up his natural strength. They're also hideously addictive. And, if you use them for long enough, they make you insane.

Even without the help of his little blue friends, this marine was more than I could handle in close quarters. He outweighed me by at least thirty kilos and he knew what he was doing. This was exactly the kind of combat Jacks are trained for. If I didn't do something to change the equation, he was going to kill me. I reached into the big pocket on my right thigh. Placed directly on his forehead, my Darter would do just fine. But he realized what I was trying to do. He shifted his weight to pin my arm and then reared his helmeted head back. He was going to head-butt me. And crush my skull.

The blow never came. His head snapped forward — into a long fingered, pale gray hand. The Irezi. She crouched to my left. The white patterns on her body glowed brightly as she turned his head to face her. She hummed a low song and stroked the side of his face like a lover's caress.

The Jack went limp and then started to weep. He released me and brought his hands to his helmet, ripping it free, then plunging his fingers into his short blonde hair, pulling it at the roots.

I pushed the sobbing marine off of me and bounced onto the balls of my feet, Darter braced in a two-hand grip, ready to fight… nothing.

The street had emptied. Except for a bloody mess on the sidewalk, there was no sign of the scuts the marines had killed. The Rip-Jack was lying on his back, immobile, punchers fizzling faintly against the concrete. His two comrades were crumpled nearby.

What the hell?

The Irezi stood up and I marveled at her. Her long, elegant limbs glowed with subtle shifting patterns. Her blue-green eyes, her gray skin, her buzzed gold hair, everything about her radiated an exotic beauty that bordered on the surreal. She smiled and leaned in to my ear. She whispered to me, then without any fuss, she was gone.

So was Cutter.

I spent hours zig-zagging through the streets of the Ward, jumping in and out of the other place, looking for her. The Irezi. Although I'd never admit that to Cutter. I could only barely admit it to myself. But she was gone —  vanished in a way that even I couldn't comprehend.

Eventually I conceded defeat and ventured to our rally point. The one Cutter and I had agreed on before we went to case the Combiner's place. We always picked the lowest, filthiest bar we could find nearby. It never seemed very hard to find the kind of place we wanted in the Wards. Cheap drinks seemed to be a universal constant down there.

The place we chose stank of sweat, semen and sewage. I could smell it long before I reached the entrance, a sandblasted plastic panel, bolted to greasy metal, topped the door. Whatever lettering had once adorned it was long gone.

I pushed open the door with my elbow, no need to touch anything with my hands if it could be avoided. A purple Martian of indistinguishable gender perched on a chair near the entrance its legs, open slightly — a clear invitation to all who entered — although what services were being advertised seemed a little hazy. I looked away and he/she/it laughed in a low contralto, while stretching into what was probably meant to be a seductive pose.

Cutter was at the bar, a magenta beacon, far to the left, right next to the wait station. I took the stool next to her and counted five empty glasses she had inverted on the bar. She did not slur her words though. I could only see how drunk she was in her eyes. They were slightly pink from the alcohol. Too much uncontrolled blood flow.

"You're late."

"I wanted to make sure no one followed me. Besides we should still have another three hours."

Cutter turned to face me, disgust etched in the corners of her eyes and mouth as she pursed her lips. "Job's off, you stupid girl. Ereena heard about our little dustup. You think she'd want us going in there after that? The place is crawling with Confed – looking for us and that Irezi scut."

She had every right to be pissed. What I'd done was completely unprofessional. You don't blow a job for someone you don't even know. But I knew what it meant to be a target just because you exist. Truth be told, so did Cutter. I couldn't regret helping someone who didn't deserve their fate.

I couldn't explain why I had to help the Irezi, so I didn't try. And I couldn't explain why I needed to find her. Why she whispered, "You'll be needed for what's next." And then disappeared.

So I only mumbled, "Sorry."

"Sorry for what, exactly?" She tilted her head to the side and studied me. "Sorry for almost getting us killed? Sorry for losing our first real job — and maybe our ticket out of here? Or sorry for making me wait here for hours thinking you were dead?" She looked away quickly, but not before I saw the moisture welling in her eyes.

I was stunned. No matter how many times she used her training to enthrall my body, no matter how often I held her close in the dark while she battled the demons of her sleep, Cutter had never once lowered her guard.

She was the master. I, the pupil. As much as I loved her, not once did she ever reveal what she felt for me. If anything.

"All of it." I whispered.

"Whatever." She tossed back the shot in her hand.

"I'll get us some money." I offered. I didn't know how yet, but I'd think of something. Suddenly, I was desperate to please her, to prove my worth.

She shrugged and laughed a callous exhalation, "Well, at least we could buy another round!"

Then she raised her empty glass up high and slapped it upside down on the bar. She gestured to the bartender – a squat Jovian whose face was so smooshed it looked he'd like lost a fight with a puncher.

"Let's get out of here." I pulled on Cutter's arm but she yanked away from me.

"What? This place not up to your standards, Little Wraith?" She really was buzzed. She'd never used that name in public before.

I knew I should go. Let her dose herself into oblivion and then sleep it off. But I couldn't leave her. For the first time since Cutter took me in, I was afraid — for her.

While the bartender poured, I looked around the room. The purple whore was straddling the lap of a thick Jovian. He produced a wad of cads from his back pocket and stuffed it down the front of her shirt. He stood, his face pressed to her belly, and carried her toward the back. He had friends with him. Looked like they might have plenty of cash to spare, and enough booze in them to flood the Lower Wards.

Perfect.

I pushed away from the bar as Cutter knocked back another shot and did my best slut-walk over to the Jovians.

"Hi." Was my lame excuse for a flirtatious introduction. Lucky for me, that was all the encouragement they needed.

The shortest of them kicked out a chair for me with his foot. I turned the chair around with the back facing them, and straddled it the way I'd seen Cutter do sometimes.

I could feel her eyes on my back. Her anger stung along my spine, as clearly as if the Mandate's trackers were still clinging to my vertebrae.

This had to be quick.

The shortest one was easily 150 kilos and maybe a meter and a quarter tall. His stubby fingers looked like sausages ready to burst from their intestinal casings. His face was pockmarked from a lifetime of radiation in Jupiter's hellish orbit. The two others with him were a bit taller, and twice as drunk. I could tell from the dilation of their pupils they were struggling with the concept of me, possibly even the number of me in front of them.

The short one grunted in my direction. "You selling?"

"Only if you're buying." I ran my tongue over my upper lip suggestively.

He laughed and smacked the table. "Well then, this is my lucky day." Then he pulled out the thickest stack of cads I'd seen at one time and slammed it down. "You can have a couple sheets..." His eyes squinted and his thick tongue wet his lips. "After," he said.

"Uhhh. Nice try…" I said. Then, with the speed only a Wraith can manage, I pulled at a pocket in front of me, snatched the money, and disappeared.

I ran. It didn't take me long to make it back to our room, only a couple of clicks away. I hadn't been there more than five minutes before Cutter came bursting through the door. Her lip was bleeding profusely and she had a bald spot at the front of her forehead with patterned pins of blood already appearing.

I ran to her, wrapped my arms around her waist and helped her to the metal chair at our small steel table. "What happened?" I cried. "Why didn't you run?"

 She spat bloodied mucus at my feet. "I needed to blow off a little steam, so I stayed to make sure they didn't follow you. I don't think they'll be following anyone tonight." She laughed and placed her right hand on the table. Her fingers bent in an unnatural curve.

"Cutter, your fingers are broken!"

I ran around the room and gathered what I could – a strap of bandage, some water, a few utensils. I dropped to my knees in front of her and coaxed her injured hand from her.

I splinted the broken digits with the only things I had — a couple of small knives. As I worked, I joked how she'd really be dangerous now, with steel claws.

She watched me in silence – staring at each movement of my hands. I felt her gaze on my lips as I talked to fill the silence — about how much money we had. About how we could move somewhere better. Safer.