Sovran's Pawn (The Black Wing Chronicles Book 1) Page 3

  A spark of recognition tickled the back of Bo’s memory. “That’s what you called me...,” she said quietly, struggling to remember.

  Edge pushed himself to his feet and rounded the desk warily. “What did I call you?”

  Bo racked her brain for a moment for the distant memory. Then it was there. Royce and a boy, heads bent together talking; then Bo upended a bucket of water on them. Shouting and laughing, the two turned to her and threatened retribution. Bo smiled at the memory.

  “You called me brat.”

  When she looked up at him, he was grinning. “I did,” he agreed. “So you haven’t forgotten me.”

  “I haven’t exactly remembered you, either.” She shook her head. “I’d probably remember a brother with a name like Edge.”

  “I’ve changed my name since Mondhuoun,” he told her. “Marissa and her son are dead. Let’s just say that due to circumstances beyond my control I’ve been forced to start my life over from scratch. I found I was good at making people disappear, so I took my new skills and parlayed them into what you see here.”

  Bo glanced around the office and arched a meaningful eyebrow.

  “Don’t be fooled,” he told her, the wry smile once more in place. “This office is just for show. The real one is upstairs in my apartment.” He gestured for her to precede him. “We’ll be able to talk much more comfortably there.”

  Despite herself, Bo was beginning to like her brother. As they walked down the stairs and headed for the lift, she realized that she had no real doubts about their kinship. While their features differed, their mannerisms were very similar.

  “Redmaster Blue has a wide variety of interests all over the Commonwealth,” he told her as they entered the lift.

  “In the Sub-socia, you mean,” she corrected him.

  “Technically, Redmaster Blue is not a Sub-socia organization,” he said. “Most of our operations fall into that nasty gray area that military types usually hate. We don’t take part in subversive actions. We leave the gunrunning to less discerning operations. We’re strictly criminals, not revolutionaries. The most radical thing we’ve run has been Olsatien romantic poetry into the Reykik Convent on Lista 5.”

  “Sounds pretty innocuous,” Bo offered.

  He shrugged. “Possession of Olsatien romantic poetry is a shooting offense on Lista 5. Transportation of it is even worse.”

  “Worse than shooting?”

  “Yeah, they make you read it aloud in public.” He said that so seriously, Bo wondered for a moment if he wasn’t joking.

  “At any rate, brat, you’re in no position to sit in judgment,” he reminded her. “You’re a criminal, too.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  They rode the lift to the top level of the warehouse. When it stopped, Bo stepped out into a well-lit room. Sparsely furnished, it was definitely an office. An elaborate reference library filled three of the four walls. Computer monitors flashed a never-ending stream of information. A few workstations sharing one chair broke up the room, but there was no single desk. A well-worn couch filled the only unbroken wall space. It looked uncomfortable, but often slept on. Bo broke off her study of the office and met his sardonic stare.

  “Not much, but it’s home,” he said. Brushing past her, he opened the portal to the left of the lift. “This is the bedroom. The lav is just inside.” He gestured to the open doorway on the other side of the lift. “That’s the kitchen. If you’re hungry, you’re out of luck because I only use that as a place to store beer.”

  “It’s very nice,” she said.

  Edge looked around the office as if trying to find fault with it. “You’re being polite.” He glanced at his chrono, then peered at her. “How long have you been awake now?”

  Bo shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He indicated the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down? We need to discuss a few things.”

  Obediently, Bo sank down onto the lumpy sofa. He obviously had a point he wanted to make, so she patiently waited for him to start.

  “First off, I want you to stay here for a few days,” he said.

  “With you? Here?”

  “Take it or leave it, Bo,” he said. “But you look dead on your feet and this is the only place I can put you that’ll let you get undisturbed rest. You’re safe here. The only way up here is with a code. Once I’m here, no one can get off that lift without my approval. You, however, can ride it down at any time. I’ll reprogram it so that you can have unrestricted access to the apartment as well.”

  Bo folded her arms across her chest and jerked her head toward the bedroom. “Just the one bed?”

  “It’s yours,” Edge said. “I never use it anyway. I don’t need much sleep. I usually end up crashing on the couch for a few hours.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Which brings me to the second thing I wanted to tell you; I’m not the man I used to be.”

  Bo arched an eyebrow at him, but didn’t say anything.

  “I can do anything with a computer. I’ve always been gifted that way. I was always tinkering, trying to find newer, faster ways to access systems. I came up with a computer enhancement system for the human brain. I thought it would give me an edge on other hackers and purveyors of electronic information, and I was right. The only way to test it was to implant them into a live subject. So, I did. Myself.” He tapped the side of his head meaningfully. “That’s when the man I was ceased to exist and I became Edge.”

  He waited, giving her time to absorb what he was telling her.

  “Are you my brother or not?”

  “Yes and no. Your brother is part of who I am, but like, uh… like a program. Edge is your brother, the central Com-Net, Commonwealth Bank and Trust, Redmaster Blue… anything accessible via data stream.”

  “Because of the implants?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do they work?” she asked.

  “Great. Not only can I jack directly into a computer system, the implants control a lot of my autonomic systems. My metabolism is steady; I physically haven’t aged more than a couple of seasons in the last six years. I can get fully rejuvenated on just a few hours sleep. I think faster and more clearly than I ever did before. I’m stronger, healthier...”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Are you connected to the Com-Net now?”

  He nodded.

  “While you’re talking to me, you’re processing information on the Com-Net?”

  “Yes.”

  Bo considered the possible ramifications.

  “If you’re constantly going at peak efficiency... that can’t last forever, can it?” she asked.

  Edge shook his head. “I don’t know. My theory is that I’ll chug right along at optimum output until the system crashes. What happens then, I don’t know.” He sat up and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Since you’re all the family I’ve got, I wanted you to know.”

  Bo was torn between her pleasure at finding her brother and fear that it could all be ripped away as quickly as her past life had been. “It’s just us? We have no other family?”

  Edge shrugged. “Well… there’s the Kiara D’or Choh and Aunt Misou…”

  She stared at him, not quite understanding.

  “You really have been sheltered, haven’t you?” He smiled. “Joy Babes undertake special training through a school called a D’or Choh,” he said. “They’re run by families and stratified through a rigid caste system. Marissa was a Kiara. Kiara are Companions to Sovrans and nobility – skilled, elegant courtesans. The Kiara D’or Choh is run by our Aunt Misou. She’s willing to give you a crash course and get you certified as a Joy Babe.”

  Bo wrinkled her nose in distaste. “No thank you…”

  Edge held up a hand. “Now, don’t discount the offer out of hand,” he said. “I want you to go through the training. I went through it myself. I think it’ll help you understand our mother a little better – not to mention give you a unique set of skills and a legitimate alias yo
u might find handy.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m an information broker,” he said, changing the subject. “I want you to work for me, for Redmaster Blue. As you might have noticed, I’m short on good pilots, and among the Sub-socia, Redmaster Blue is an organization that most syndicates won’t dare cross. Like it or not, you are now a wanted woman. It’s only a matter of time before you’ve got a price on your head. That means bounty hunters, fortune hunters, adventurers and worse. If it becomes public knowledge that you’re instrumental to Redmaster Blue, they’ll be less likely to come after you. Short of hiding you away on an uninhabited planet that nobody knows about, it’s the best way I can think of to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection,” Bo said.

  “Brat, you’ve never left the Second Sector,” he said. “You’ve always had the Clan and the Consular Guard as protection against the unpleasantness of the Greater Commonwealth. Without some buffer, something to fall back on... At least humor me. If I’m wrong, at least you’ll have a job and all the credits you could possibly use. If I’m right, it’ll just be another weapon in your arsenal.”

  He shook his head. “I know what your duties as Clan Chief are,” Edge said, unable to keep the tenderness from his tone. “I know you’re honor bound to prove your innocence. I’m giving you the resources and the opportunity to do just that, if you’ll only let me help.”

  It was a tempting offer. “I’m not sure, Edge. I’m used to being one of the good guys.”

  He grinned. “We are the good guys.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m not above bribery to get my way,” he warned.

  Bo’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “How about a ship for you -- all your very own...”

  Against her better judgment, Bo’s resolve weakened. “A ship?”

  Edge nodded. “I’ve got my eye on a beauty. A Tau class Consular Guard light cruiser,” he said, savoring each word as if it were flavored ice.

  “Consular Guard?”

  “Mmm hmm. I’ve been working on a new type of central computer -- the ultimate in artificial intelligence. With my new design, and your programming, you’ll be able to handle it solo. Hell, she’ll practically fly herself.”

  Her own ship! Bo sighed. “The whole time I was in prison, the only thing that kept me sane was the hope that I’d be able to fly again.”

  “And you will,” he insisted. “You can tour the galaxy in your very own luxurious...”

  “No luxury!” she interrupted. “No luxury. No pink and green galleys for me. Leave the interior alone. I like the military look.”

  He grinned. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it. You’re the only sister I’ve got.”

  Bo took a deep breath and released it slowly.

  “It’s a deal,” she said at last. “You’ve got yourself a pilot.”

  Before she changed her mind, Bo offered her hand to seal the bargain. He dutifully shook her hand, and a devilish gleam lit his eyes.

  “Now, it’s going to take some time to get my hands on this ship,” he warned, “and even longer to get it tricked out for you. While I’ve got my people working on that, you can meet with Aunt Misou and go through the D’or Choh. After that, we’ll try you out in the field so you can start making a name for yourself. Wait until you hear what I want to do with your reputation...”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hadis, Linnes IV, Third Sector

  Three seasons later

  He was being hunted. After all these years, he knew when someone was after him. His lips quirked into a small smile. Let them come.

  He stepped out onto the sidewalk from the mass-transit station, leaving the cloying odor of exhaust fumes mixed with stale urine behind him. His blue eyes studied the scene, taking every minute detail in a glance. Two seasons of long hours and constant scrutiny had taken their toll. He needed to blow off a little steam, but being careless would get him killed. Spotting no imminent threat to life or limb, he let himself relax a little. Orienting himself by the street signs, he headed off in search of his evening’s entertainment. He looked forward to not being the entertainment for a change. The occasional ground cruiser sped past, sending an acrid wave of exhaust fumes roiling towards him. He breathed deeply, reveling in the sheer baseness of it.

  That was the beauty of Third Sector cosmopolitan areas like Linnes IV. You still had the modern conveniences of the Inner Commonwealth without the sterile conformity of places like Trisdos or Cormoran. It was still possible to engage in countless forms of vice, all of varying legality.

  A scantily-clad prostitute languished against a street lamp, offering him a jaded smile and a lurid promise as he passed. Smiling to himself, he refused with a shake of his head, not even slowing his steps. An elderly vagrant sprawled in the shadows of an alley, his threadbare coat hanging open. With barely a glance up at him as he passed, the old man muttered gutturally to himself and drank from a bottle for warmth. A couple huddled in a doorway completing a transaction of some illicit substance with a humanoid, which was scarcely more than a dark silhouette in the shadows.

  Half a block ahead of him, an expensive ground cruiser pulled to a halt and a well-dressed man stepped out, followed by two tall, bored-looking beauties. They went immediately to the brightly lit doorway of a well-known nightclub and passed through without challenge.

  He smiled to himself again with the same jaded amusement. It looked to be a profitable night. In no time, he reached the same doorway. With a knowing smirk and a nod for the doorman, who waved him through, he bypassed the line of hopefuls waiting to get in and descended into the smoky club.

  He stopped at the edge of the balcony overlooking the establishment and patiently studied his surroundings. Surreal lights in shades of blues and reds cast odd shadows on the walls and floor. Mirrored surfaces reflected the lights and created a greater illusion of space. Tables scattered across the next level down huddled around a stage and a dance floor. Joy Babes and Skyhoppers lounged on the stairs, landings and benches, or leaned against railings and columns alongside amateurs looking for companionship, their next fix, or their next ride off-planet.

  Tucking his hands into the pockets of his long black coat, he slowly made his way down the curving stairs, carefully keeping to the middle, well away from the predatory females holding vigil as he passed. More than one gave him a speculative look or a welcoming smile. He was pragmatic enough to credit their interest to his expensive clothes and not any other particular allure he may possess. While there was some off chance he’d been recognized, he doubted any of them could put the correct name to his face. If they had, they would likely have been more aggressive in their approach.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a humanoid female in impossibly high heels and an obscenely short skirt waited beside a small service counter. She greeted him with a friendly smile. “Good evening, Mr.…?”

  “Roarke,” he said, bracing his arm on the counter. “Darien Roarke: Gambler by trade, drunkard by inclination.”

  He studied her with a predatory smile, waiting to see if she would call him on his alias.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Roarke.” She avoided his stare. “I have your reservation right here.”

  Either she believed the lie, or she was too familiar with assumed names to find it odd that he would use one.

  “You’re a bit early for the Five-Point game,” she went on, never missing a beat. She handed him a voucher card and smiled. “Please, have a drink, take a table, and make use of one of our hostesses. Anything you order will be added to your final bill.”

  “Anything?” His eyes traced her long, shapely legs before returning to her face. “Anything at all?”

  In the dim light, her eyes glittered with avaricious interest as she glanced from her readout of his financial status back to his face. Bracing her elbows on the service counter, she leaned forward in a practiced move that deepened her cleavage and parted
the edges of her top to show a tantalizing amount of creamy skin.

  “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

  Disappointed to find her such an easy conquest, he thanked her, tucked the voucher into the inner pocket of his coat and turned towards the bar. Even if he were inclined to ‘make use of’ a hostess, she wasn’t his type. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who ever let her hair get mussed.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed. Whoever followed him was certainly skilled. No matter how many times he scanned the crowd, he couldn’t see anything out of place. The media wouldn’t have been so discreet.

  With a small smile, he determined to deal with that problem when it presented itself. In the meantime, he had traveled all this way to play competitive Five-Point, and he wasn’t going to leave until he’d won at least the stake he’d had to put up to be invited to the game.

  He never made it all the way to the bar. An attractive waitress dressed similarly to the hostess approached him for his drink order. She returned quickly with his drink and left with equal haste to attend to another client. He found a place that gave him a clear view of the entrance and the staircase. Unfortunately, it was in an open bit of floor space between the dance floor and the bar.

  As he kept a casual vigil for whoever was after him, he found himself a prime target for the Joy Babes and other single females in search of an evening’s sport. One after another, in twos and threes they approached him, leaned on him suggestively, and propositioned him, their hands moving over him with unwarranted familiarity. Keeping one hand on his voucher, he tolerated the attention with outward amusement. The fact of the matter was it no longer titillated him as it once had. He found the constant assault annoying. However, certain parts of his anatomy enjoyed the attention more than was prudent.