Part One "The Point": Section Ten "Settling the Score"

START AT THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST SECTION

 

 

Soul and Tirion sat at the back of the Tendril Lounge, a high-end nightclub in the port of Ophir, the Empire’s colony on Avareen in the Durne system. Inside, it was warm, and dark—except for the moonbeam spotlights pulsing on the stage where Irina danced to desert music from the Sudan of Earth’s distant past.

Soul slammed back a vodka. That was his fourth, but Tirion wasn’t worried about it. The alcohol wouldn’t make a difference—not if it came to that. It even occurred to him that it might help, because now it was only going to be a matter of killing Anzar for setting them up. Neither one of them was going to see the outside of the cantina if it turned out to be an ambush, and they knew it. It was simply a matter of squaring things for Armand before it was all over. That much they could do, even just the two of them.

Irina twisted and writhed, all the while maintaining an aura of mystic nobility, a wordless wisdom. She had a hook in Tirion. Irina was free. She was dark and cryptic. Long ago he had made the wrong choice. Now he was stuck with the honey-haired gold-digger and nothing was ever enough. But Irina was still here. Her following had grown into a cult, but she had never sold out. That was part of her allure—what made her so popular. That and the serpentine shape of her. The body-warmed leathers. That flawless inscrutable expression drawn upon skin like white sand.

“Bring me one of those.” Tirion pointed to Soul’s empty shooter and the new girl with the always-serious face went off to the bar with the flip of a ponytail. Irina was finishing her routine.

“It’s a bad idea meeting him on our turf,” said Soul. “Everyone knows us here. We’re pissing in our oatmeal.”

“It’s his turf too. Make him less cocky.”

Soul looked up. Irina was taking applause for her act. “That chick is nuts. You know that, right? The desert witch thing? I'll give her this much: she does put the 'hot' in 'psychotic.' Still wish you would snap out of it.”

Tirion didn’t answer. They’d been through it all before. The only reason Soul was bringing it up now was because of Armand. That was a big loss, and no matter what he said to the contrary, Tirion knew that Soul was putting this one on himself somehow. It didn’t make sense, but that’s how it was and there was no point trying to talk about it now, not with everything that was coming at them.

Anzar appeared in the main entrance, framed by a backdrop of city light that etched the features of his fine beakish nose and that poker-face mouth of his. Long dark hair hid his eyes like a cowl, but he didn’t look happy to be there. The club was so dark he couldn’t see their table from the door and Stacy had to lead him over, winding between the flotilla of small, round tables, moving from side to side with practiced grace, lifting up on the balls of her feet to clear the chair-backs. Stacy motioned Anzar to their table, and Tirion kicked a chair out for him. She flashed Soul a smile with a little wave and said "Hi" before wading back through the crowd. 

Anzar stood there looking down at them, from Tirion to Soul and back again. The aching strains of a violin came keening through the room as Ameera began her veil dance. The shifting light from the stage reflected off the skin of Anzar’s clean-shaven face. “I could have zapped you the creds for this thing. Why this? It’s dark as Ha-Satan’s ass-crack. I’m liable to break my neck in here.” 

Soul stood up and placed a hand on Anzar's shoulder. “Nice suit. Sit the fuck down.” His eyes were icy—not a hint of the drink as he pulled back the flap of his jacket to let Anzar see the .45 in his waistline. "Think hard before you get too creative."

Anzar looked down at the pistol and gave Soul a dirty look. He sat down. “You'd be doing me a favor. I wake up every morning at three A.M. these days. I can’t stop thinking about death. At your age, you’d never understand. Why don’t you give the pistolier routine a rest. Paris-16 was a setup, okay?”

Tirion grunted. “You don't say. They replaced the entire dome with compound."

Anzar looked around. "And you still managed to pull it off. Jesus fucking Christ are they pissed now. They're serious, my friend. They want you two gone. And me for that matter. That jump point stunt. It makes them look bad. Jesus Christ. "

Stacy brought Tirion's drink and he waited for her to move off into the crowd. "It's a bad situation." He shot his drink. "But we knew it was going to be like this."

Ansar responded in a mumble, as if talking to himself. "For business, all this heat is no good. God knows who they send now. No good. No good." Then he raised his eyes. "Except for you, I suppose. Blackout never misses, right? Once again. It's surreal. Even when you lose, you win."

Tirion brushed the comment aside. "Yeah? And let me guess what's next. The sponsor for this op was Stellar Core, and they didn’t pay.”

“Oh, they paid,” said Anzar. He slid a cred stick across the table into a beer ring. “Guess their rep was worth not sticking it to me…if it was Stellar Core, like you say, getting rid of their own problem. I still can't verify the client.”

Tirion stared down at the cred stick like it was radioactive. “I’m taking this one in metal, not ones and zeros.”

“Gold?” Anzar’s voice was deep and credulous.

Tirion nodded. “Metal is money. Creds are just horseshit numbers they make up out of thin air—they can be deleted, invalidated, and traced. You think I’m using those digits to repair the Recluse? You must take me for an idiot.”

Anzar said, “That stick is clean.”

Soul's eyes flicked over, “How do you know?”

Anzar glowered, but answered in Tirion's direction. “Because I cleaned it. That cred came straight through the Zurich-Andromeda pipeline.”

Tirion sighed. “Okay. Okay, thanks.” He took the stick. “You could have kept it and told us they stiffed you.”

Anzar straightened his tie. “What's with the strongarm tactics? I thought we were past all the street crap.”

Tirion shook his head. “Kel and Finch, that was just business. Armand was different. We're a little off our game right now.”

“Yeah,” said Anzar. “Yeah. Okay? I know.” He tilted his head in Soul’s direction without looking over and begrudgingly said, “Sorry.”

Soul pushed his shades back over his eyes and watched the crowd.

“Anyways…,” Anzar added, “there’s enough cash on that stick for you to buy two ships. That was a big hit. Every corp in the galaxy’s hunting the Recluse now. You can finally ditch her.”

Soul and Tirion traded a look.

Anzar caught the look and shrugged. "Ooorrr...you can fix up the Recluse and live on slam and five-star pussy for the rest of your life. None of my business."

"The Recluse was Armand’s ship. That’s all,” said Tirion. “With him dead, that ship means something to us.”

"What?" Anzar's eyes narrowed like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I could tell you were pissed. Hell, anyone can understand. But I figured...you know...that you knew why to be pissed." He glanced around, then leaned in with his head cocked to the side. "Look. I really thought you knew..." Anzar was looking down at Soul's pistol.

Tirion's voice was mounting to a growl. "Out with it."

"Armand isn't dead. It's worse than that." Anzar looked between them, hesitating. "Stellar Core has him."

Tirion slammed his fist into the table, drawing a few eyes from the sea of dark faces.

Anzar licked his lip nervously and continued in a lowered voice. "They've buried him deep in the Labyrinth."

"How deep?"

"Sub-level four deep. And...and I can guarantee you, they'll be putting him through the wringer if they ever get him conscious."

Tirion pushed his forehead into his hand and began to rub his own temples. "Those corp motherfuckers."

Soul sat down, flipped up his shades, and looked Anzar in the eye. "Let's talk weapons."

END OF PART ONE

 

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