Dragonfly (10 page)

I tightened my braid with a nonchalant tug. “You ready?”

He studied me and grimaced. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared upstairs. He soon came back down and tossed me a shiny black combat jacket. “Wear this.”

I caught it, the silken fabric smooth in my fingers. A woman’s jacket. Whose? “Why? It’s not cold.”

He avoided my gaze. “Not the point. You’re too conspicuous. Much as I like the view, you make people look.”

I flushed, and slipped the jacket on. It fit me well, short and tight, hugging just above my hips. I thrust my hands into the pockets, and the nails of my right hand clinked on glass.

My shatterjay.

I glanced after him, but he’d already hopped down the stairs to the airlock.

11

Vyachesgrad station stank of burned fuel and rust, and half the lights in the docking lane were broken. We walked along a corroded corridor past scratched glass viewholes showing workmen crawling up and down the scaffolding in dirty spacesuits, half-repaired ships laid open to space. The air scrubbers buzzed and rattled, and beneath my feet the cracked metal floor rumbled distantly with overstressed gravity accelerators.

We joined the entry line behind a bunch of dirty freightbugs who looked like they’d been in slipspace far too long, their reddened eyes sunken and their flight suits stained with sweat and grease. They sniggered and scratched their mangy hair and harangued each other in Brit so fouled up with pungent Rus cursewords that even I could barely understand them. Not a classy place.

I wanted to cross my arms and fidget. I felt underdressed, over-young, over-smart. Normally when I go undercover like this, I pick less conspicuous clothing, try to go unseen and unremembered. But Lazuli dressed like this all the time, and it wasn’t like she’d had the chance to pack a change.

One of the freightbugs made some crude joke about my legs, and all his friends chortled like hungry jackals.

Dragonfly gave the guy a dirty stare, and I clutched my shatterjay tight in my jacket pocket, my cheeks burning. Yeah, they sure would wrap around your neck, asshole. Right before I tear your greasy head off with them. What was this, the twentieth century?

Dragonfly’s fingers tightened on my elbow, his murmur barely audible under the screeching aircon. “Don’t make a scene. It isn’t worth it.”

My jaw clenched. I wasn’t used to sucking up insults any more. Flash some Axis rank and the knuckle-draggers back off faster than you can say
kiss my ass
. It’s one of the perks of Imperial service. But I couldn’t pull rank now. What would Lazuli do? Probably punch the guy in the face. But if I started a fight and we got kicked off the station, I’d ruin Dragonfly’s plans and he’d cut me loose.

I forced a smile, razors in my cheeks. “Whatever you say, dear.”

A grimy little blonde girl scuttled up, holding the crate of smokes and crystals she wasn’t supposed to be selling tight to her chest. The freightbug slipped her some crumpled plastic for a little pack of orange glitter, and sent me a leering smile. His bloodshot eyes gleamed, one green, one blue. In a dizzy instant, I was back on Port Victoria, a little girl just like this one, scavenging in the grubby spaceport streets, too hungry to say no when a strange-smelling man with one green eye slid cold fingers over my shoulder and promised me apples. Just another sordid day in a crappy childhood, forced to scrap and simper for a living while the Imperial kids had everything they wanted.

Not the same guy. Couldn’t be, not after so many years.

I hadn’t thought about those days in a long time, and the force of my reaction shocked me. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to crawl into the corner and cry, like I’d done then, my mouth bleeding and the taste of bruised apples sick in my throat.

I swallowed, and shook off Dragonfly’s hand. Focus, Carrie. Forget it.

We reached the front of the line, and the Imperial soldier at the security checkpoint looked me up and down with sleepy blue eyes. Young, untidy, his strawberry hair too long, his glossy black uniform gleaming under dirty orange atomglow tubes. The poison pistol in his holster looked dusty and unloved, and he stifled a yawn as he held out a gloved hand for my ident.

I handed the cube over with a sigh, trying to look bored, but my pulse jumped faster, and sweat beaded on my scalp. I didn’t even know what was on the damn thing. I could only hope Dragonfly had done his job properly. For all I knew, he’d set me up. Ekaterina, freight pilot. For the rest, I’d just play dumb.

Corporal Redhead flicked my cube open and slotted it into his viewscreen. Beside me, Dragonfly had already slipped his finger into the blood sampler that would verify his chemistry, calm and unruffled as always.

I thought of Nikita, all those missions we’d done together, all the people we’d lied to. Deception had always been a thrill, a game. I’d snuck past security undercover dozens of times, but the truth had always been on my side. Imperial soldiers wouldn’t shoot an Axis agent if she screwed up and her cover slipped. This time, I was pretending to be a criminal pretending to be a different criminal; more than one layer of lies that could crack. If I got found out, these guys would fight with Dragonfly over who got to blow my head off.

Still, as Redhead copied my details into his dusty console with one finger and carelessly pushed the blood scanner across for me to use, I felt like giving him a good dressing-down worthy of any company sergeant. He was lazy, slow, careless. Wasn’t paying attention. Hadn’t even really looked at me. If this was New Moskva, he’d be court-martialed.

The fiber optic pierced my fingertip, taking its sample—not as sophisticated as Axis’s lightscan, and sporadically unreliable—and my finger itched as I handed back the scanner. Small lazinesses added up to big holes. With outpost security like this, no wonder Dragonfly and his petty rebels did as they pleased.

Diodes on the camera overhead flickered green as it recorded my image. Redhead glanced dully at my imprint, and my heart skipped. If either of our samples rang alarms, we’d be toast.

But Redhead just yawned and tapped a couple of commands. “Weapons?”

“Can I have any?”

Redhead shrugged. “Course not. All weapons confiscated. Unless you got the proper permit.”

I glanced at Dragonfly, and then I understood. He’d emptied his pistol and particle chargers onto the desk next to an innocent-looking pile of silverplastic cash. My indignation fumed. Imperial soldiers taking bribes. I’d seen it before, but never this blatant. They practically had a sign out. Lying to trick the enemy was one thing. This was just sordid graft. I liked to think the Empire still had some honor.

I plucked out the jay and held it up. I could have had a laser cannon up my shorts and another one down my cleavage and Redhead wouldn’t have noticed or cared. “Just this. And my friend’s got the permit.”

“No weapons.” Redhead made another agonizingly slow entry in his console and tossed me back my data crystal without looking up. “Welcome to Vyachesgrad. Next.”

The dented steel security door crunched aside, motors whirring, and Aragon, a.k.a. Lazuli, a.k.a. Ekaterina the Red Sunday freight pilot, walked right in.

Just like that.

***

The corridor opened into a wide steel walkway that ringed a vast atrium, lit in the centre by a glowing white column that stretched down into the station’s bowels. Opposite, a cluster of shops offering packaged ship supplies and circuitry components were jammed in beside a rowdy snack bar that stank of burned candy floss and a sparkle-lit parlor of virtual shooting games. Engine noise and thudding machinery from the docking arms echoed in the metal walls, and the low iron ceiling shuddered.

People strolled or hurried: mechanics and spacejocks in flight suits and coveralls, a woman and her two ratty kids, a fat greasy guy in an ill-fitting suit. I couldn’t see my new caveman friends. Pity. I could use a good ass-kicking to calm my nerves.

A pair of patrolling marines sauntered by, green laserlight glinting from the tubular accu-sights each wore slotted over one eye. They carried shiny-barreled laser rifles slung low across their tight-molded black combat suits. Looked like Imperial security had a heavy presence here, even if they were corrupt and half asleep.

Dragonfly leaned against a bulkhead waiting for me, hands stuffed in pockets and that annoyingly sweet little smile. “Still alive?”

I scowled, just to make myself feel better. “I didn’t start a fight. Happy?”

“So far. Come on, we’re late.”

I followed him down the metal steps to the next level, where a dirty crowd milled around a bar furnished in dented plastic. Vapid electronic music burbled in a mist of apple-scented shisha smoke and colored lights. Voices and laughter in three languages blurred to hash. We sidled through the crowd, to a dim-lit corner where a grotesquely fat shaven-headed guy sat stuffed into a metal alcove, the table cutting into the smeared khaki flight suit stretched over his belly.

FatBoy saw us, and raised his half-empty beer glass with a sloppy grin. Already two or three empty jugs littered the table. “Ahoy there, ya rotten anarchist scumbag,” he boomed in Brit-mangled Rus, his damp jowls shaking. “Don’t you got a watch? Happy hour’s over.”

“Drinks are on you, then,” Dragonfly said.

He stood aside for me, and I squeezed into the booth on the bench opposite FatBoy. The greasy vinyl stuck to my bare thighs, bacteria no doubt multiplying with glee on my sweaty skin, and I spared a moment’s regret for my lost flight suit.

I concentrated on the fat guy, cataloguing him for future reference. Older than Dragonfly, hands big and scarred from manual work, a dent in the side of his skull from some old wound. A fighter, not a thinker, even if he was past his prime. My anticipation sharpened. Was it time for action? Would I find out what Dragonfly was up to at last?

FatBoy shot a glance at me, his beetling brows merging in a frown. “Who’s your new girlfriend?”

I swallowed an indignant snort.

Dragonfly just shrugged. “She’s okay.”

FatBoy rubbed stained hands on his stretched flight suit. “I can see she’s okay, kid. She looks more than okay to me. But I don’t recall a threesome in our discussions. Not that I’m complaining, mind.” He leered at me, a harmless wink ruining the effect.

I didn’t care. Enough with the crude remarks. I grinned back, sharp. “You know how sometimes it’s your lucky day?”

“Ha, ha. Capital. I like her already.” FatBoy gave a happy snort.

I leaned forward, the shatterjay ready in my hand. “Today isn’t your day.”

Dragonfly’s hand came down on mine, squeezing. “Calm, children. Lazuli, meet Sebastian Fouchon, known to his alleged friends as Little Bastie the Trash-Hauler. He has a dirty mind and a dirtier mouth and means absolutely nothing by either. Bastie, this is Lazuli. I picked her up ripping off the Esperanza mob’s database, and if you don’t keep it in your pants, she
will
blow it off. There. Now can we act like grown-ups, just for a few minutes?”

Bastie rolled heavy shoulders, sweat spraying, his washed-green gaze merry. “Certainly, old chap. Any friend of yours and all that. No offense, miss. Care for a drink?”

He grabbed his jug and a couple of smeared glasses and poured us each a frothy beer.

I shook Dragonfly’s hand off and jammed the jay back in my pocket, scowling. But my mouth watered. I hadn’t slept properly for what seemed like an age, and my stomach grumbled for lack of real food. A beer would sure go down well.

Dragonfly and Bastie clinked glasses and chugged. Bastie’s went down fastest, but not by much. He smacked his lips, broken teeth shining. “Showing your age, kid. You not drinking, miss? He never said you were one of
those
.”

Dragonfly gave that annoyingly handsome, smack-his-face-in smile. “If only I’d known. It’s hard to get good help these days.”

I flipped him off and gulped down my beer. The cool malt liquid sparkled down my throat and settled happily in my stomach. My eyes watered. Yum. Almost as good as food. I wiped froth from my lips, burping.

When Bastie refilled all three glasses with a laugh, I stifled a groan. I needed to keep my wits about me. The last thing I needed was another heavy night. But Dragonfly just sipped a mouthful, then pulled a smeared glass notescreen from his pocket. He scribbled swiftly on it.

“This is what I want.” He slid the screen across the table.

Bastie took it before I could see, and inwardly I cursed.

Bastie glanced at it and his florid face paled. “Kid, your handwriting sucks.”

Dragonfly just waited.

Bastie took a swallow of beer, his fat throat bobbing. “So it’s on, then,” he said, and his voice rang quieter, his thick Brit accent less pronounced. Like he’d forgotten to keep up his act in the face of what Dragonfly was planning.

My curiosity itched. Even a billion-ruble heist hardly seemed worthy of that. Maybe it was what he planned to do with the money that turned Fat Bastie so pale.

Dragonfly shrugged. “Talking doesn’t get the job done.”

I resisted squirming in my seat. Talking hadn’t done the job on Urumki Mor either, the night he’d massacred Mishka and my friends without so much as a surrender-or-die. The prick was too calm, too off-handed. I wanted to smash his face into the table.

Bastie sighed and erased the writing with a swipe of his thumb. Damn. Maybe I could recreate it later with a magnetic probe, but unlikely. Dragonfly was too paranoid. He’d probably burn the glass to molten dribbles with atomflash before I had the chance.

The fat man pushed the blank screen back across the table. “Well, I don’t wish to say I told you so, old boy—”

“Then shut up. Can you get them?”

Bastie snorted. “Of course I can get them. This is me you’re talking to. Know a chap who knows a chap and all that.” He tapped the side of his fat nose with a conspiratorial wink in my direction. “Know a lot of chaps, me. You ever want a chap, I’m the man to see.”

I smirked. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Dragonfly finished his beer. “
Está bien.
Can you bring them by? You know my timeline.”