Minder Rising: Central Galactic Concordance Book 2 Page 7

  “What I wanna know is,” said Rackkar, “what farkin’ new chems that ground hauler driver was on that made him fark the controls and commit mayem on our farkin’ roadway?”

  “That’s ‘mayhem,’ moron,” sneered Chioma. “So you think the driver used his dick on the ‘tronics? Probably a better use for it than you ever thought of.”

  “Wanna borrow the suspension lifter tonight, Chioma?” asked Rackkar, all too innocently.

  “Why?”

  “For your husband, since he obviously can’t get it up around you.” Rackkar gave her a smirk that dared her to top that. Wallo snickered.

  They were worse than hormonal teenagers. Imara cleared her throat loudly, and they all looked abashed. She allowed them wide latitude in teasing and joking around, but put her foot down when it got too personal.

  She sent Chioma to show Faith and Wallo how to check that the other pillar base, which they’d formed earlier, had cooled enough to install the fiber connectors, then asked Rackkar for a quick status update. Her crew of twenty was the top-performing unit in the city. It got them saddled with the hard gigs like this one, but it was job security for them all, plus more variety. Rackkar’s team was working below while Maseló’s team of six handled the platform and walkways above. Because the platform was built with tetrahedron blocks, but the pillars were made of hexes, and the storm-drain conduits were extruded tubes, the final join would be tricky. She told Rackkar she’d swing back by later that day to help.

  The sprawling Novi Nadezhdi metropolitan area, comprising High Spires, Half Spires, and the Rim, was a hodge-podge mix of silicate-block roadways. The lane markings and directions could all be changed with a few commands from the central traffic computers, which in theory also controlled all ground-based vehicles. It was illegal to go off grid anywhere in town, but harder to catch and enforce in the Rim. The ground hauler that had wrecked the metro platform had been stolen from there.

  As Imara turned to go, Rackkar asked, “Should I be saying congratulations?”

  “For what?” she asked. She was only half listening as she considered how and when to move their only working plaz-sealer to reduce delays. Her boss was arguing over the cost of printing the parts needed to fix it, but was fine with it costing twice as much to idle the plaz-sealer crews, because it was a different accounting category. Typical.

  “The manager job they offered you.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Rackkar was trying to act nonchalant, but Imara wasn’t fooled. They’d joined the crew together five years earlier, and he didn’t want to see her go, but wanted to be happy for her. Rackkar had come a long way since those first few weeks when he just about bit the head off of anyone who questioned his actions. She’d finally figured out that he was aggressively covering for his abysmal, nearly dyslexic ability with numbers. Using some stickers she lifted from her son’s crafts box, she’d created an icon and color-coding system that kept Rackkar from making mistakes. In exchange, he’d taught her brawling skills.

  The coding system ended up making the whole crew more efficient and got her promoted to team lead. When they’d invented the crew-shift lead position just for her, Rackkar had been promoted to her old position. She didn’t know if he wanted her shift-lead job or not, but it would be hard going. His social skills weren’t much better than his math skills.

  “I don’t know, yet. My lawyer is still looking at the contract.” She started to say more, but her percomp signaled an incoming live ping from Derrit. Traffic noise made using her earwire impossible, so the conversation wouldn’t be private. Her percomp’s holo display had broken years ago.

  “Hey, binata. I’m on the street with Rackkar’s team. What’s fluxing?” She was trying to remember to call him “young man” in Filipino, since he’d recently become sensitive about being called “baby.” It was a deliberate connection to his father’s heritage.

  “Arlie Sage is selling her old glideboard, and it’s a real good price.” Imara didn’t approve of air boards for kids, but she felt guilty he couldn’t learn how to operate ground vehicles the way she had, in wide-open country roads. She knew he already rode his friends’ boards, anyway. If she told him “no” outright, he’d just do it without telling her.

  “It’s your money,” she said as casually as she could. Arlie was a likable school friend, but the girl was a menace in the airways.

  Rackkar, who was fond of Derrit, gave her a look like he thought she was being too hard-nosed. She snorted. “Wait till you have kids,” she whispered. She knew he’d be a complete pushover.

  “I was, uh, hoping to borrow some from you. I’ve only got enough for half of what she’s asking. I’d pay you back, I promise.”

  “Does that price include the safety equipment we talked about? That was our deal, remember? Otherwise, the board stays locked in the closet.”

  “I’ll ask her,” he said, but his tone said he didn’t hold out much hope. Thank Neptune he wasn’t much of a drama diva, or he’d have been pleading for another ten minutes. Unlike her younger sister, Piera. When they were growing up together, she could make a simple “no” sound like their dad was refusing to save her from a ravening monster about to chew her leg off.

  Derrit was the other reason she hadn’t snapped up the manager job. While it was a higher-paying contract, and more predictable work schedule and income, it would also mean she’d have to cut back the number of days she could work at the bar. Derrit loved meeting all the people who passed through the bar, and she thought he at least ought to have a say in her decision. Money was nice, especially in stratospherically expensive Spires, but it wasn’t everything.

  Telling Rackkar she’d be back in a few hours, she programmed the supply hauler’s autodrive for the next construction site, then fired up the in-cab comp so she could update the repair records on the way. At the rate they were burning glass on the platform repair, she’d need to order sooner than usual. Her current boss and the bit-counters, none of whom had ever spent a single farkin’ day in the field, didn’t seem to understand there was always some waste when they made custom fittings. Not every scrap could be recycled.

  She barely noticed when the automatic traffic-control system rerouted her vehicle to avoid Neptune-knew-what. While she liked driving, it was nice to let the system do it for routine trips. She thanked her lucky stars she ended up in the repair crew, not traffic control and enforcement, which had been her original goal. She’d take melt burns and smelling like cerium paste any day over dealing with parades, TSAC marches, opening day of a High Council session, and VIP processions, not to mention setting autocab flight paths and metro transit schedules.

  When she’d first looked for work after Torin died, the only thing she’d been qualified for was vehicle maintenance, based on her experience in her dad’s shop. She could operate anything on the ground or in low air, and fix most of them, but she had none of the official certifications that got applicants in the door on civilized planets. The best money was on the crew, so she’d wormed her way in, one quick repair and one favor at a time.

  The bartending job had been another favor, too, from a friend of Torin’s who’d put in a good word. She’d known less than zero about dispensing, but with her comprehensive filer’s memory, she’d learned fast. Learning to overcome her tendency to be easily distracted and to not depend on others had been the harder lessons. Torin, with his generous, laughing nature, had delighted in treating her like a hothouse flower, and she’d let him. All she’d wanted was a partner who loved her and a passel of children on a farm on some planet where it rained more than twice a year. And the trip down memory lane wasn’t getting her work done.

  She turned up the music in the cab. Whoever set it last liked surashu thrash, with its screaming, thrumming beat and harsh hexanic orchestration. It reminded her of how Rayle had tried to dance to it the other night, and laughing with Lièrén about it. Thinking about him wasn’t going to get her work done, either, so she found a channel with a nice, swingy matu
lain fusion.

  After tomorrow, she was going to luxuriate for two full days in a row. Two whole days off, from both jobs. It hadn’t happened in a couple of years, and she intended to treat it as a mini-vacation, since she’d never be able to afford a real one. Derrit would be in school both days, and she’d already loaded her vid, reading, and music queues in anticipation. She also planned to do something with her hair, though she didn’t know what yet, other than deal with the silver threads that made her coils look iron gray in her reflection in the cab’s bubble windshield.

  Her only regret was that Derrit would have to wait four days before seeing Lièrén again for training. She ignored the little voice in her head that said she’d regret not seeing him until then, too. It was a waste of energy wanting things she couldn’t have.

  CHAPTER 6

  * Interstellar: “Niji Adoor” * GDAT 3238.213 *

  Ex-Jumper Lakshmi Patwardan was prepared to dislike Field Agent Lièrén Sòng based on his personnel file alone, and the stiff, serious look on his face in his official holo pretty much guaranteed he’d either be one of the priggish saints, the arrogant pricks, or the heedless lopars that the CPS Minder Corps seemed to specialize in. At least he’d uncomplainingly accommodated her request to meet on the Nieji Adoor, her personal interstellar ship, which was a small point in his favor.

  Her official excuse for meeting on her ship was because it was easier to maintain confidentiality, but it was mostly because she needed as low a gravity setting as she could get. Although her mind was still sharp as a shrike’s, low-G was the only way to tolerate the Stage-4 waster’s disease that was making her a prisoner in her own body, and would eventually kill her faster than low-G syndrome ever would. It was one of the nasty little caveats not mentioned in the CPS Jumper Corps recruitment brochures.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “You’re on time, so you must have missed the transfer accident.” Space stations, always looking to cut costs, often overbooked their ground-to-space transfer ships. One docking accident could screw up passenger schedules for hours.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. I rented a shuttle and flew myself. Your hospitality gave me the excuse to regain some temporary independence.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  He shrugged a shoulder and gave her a slight smile. “I never learned to operate ground vehicles, so I’ve had to rely on autocabs and public transportation while recovering from the accident.”

  If he was sneering at her through his politeness, he hid it very well.

  He was better-looking in person, and his strategically gaping vest and red shirt, and tight, racer-striped, wide-waisted black pants with an asymmetrical peplum were a far cry from the stodgy corporate suit in his photo. He had a nice physique but was considerably shorter than she was. Then again, everyone was. At well over two meters, she was tall, even for a Jumper. He moved well in the three-quarters gravity setting, suggesting he had experience.

  She ushered him into the office area and offered a comfortable chair and refreshments, then trotted out her standard speech to explain how the CPS advocate process worked. She was an independent specialist in CPS procedure and policy, and her job was to represent the CPS employees’ best interests in investigation cases. She reminded him that, under Concordance Command regulations, having an advocate was a right, not a privilege, and that he should ignore anyone who tried to tell him otherwise. The CPS sometimes liked to pretend they were exempt from the military code of conduct. She couldn’t help but add a non-standard caveat.

  “I can’t legally be compelled to repeat our conversations or communications, but that doesn’t mean a rotted kumquat if I get jacked for a session with a CPS or OII telepath who wants to muck about in my mind.” She tried to keep the needles out of her tone, but wasn’t sure she succeeded.

  He nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. I’m sorry if you have been subjected to that in the past.”

  Lakshmi eyed him suspiciously, thinking he might be mocking her, but he seemed sincere. So far, he’d been deferential and humble, which was rare for any high-level minder in the CPS, most of whom believed they were the universe’s gift to humanity. She let herself relax a little. Stress was bad for her.

  Still, she preferred people with more in-your-face emotional transparency. It was too easy to imagine he was hiding a lot, above and beyond what the covert types usually hid. What was his unit’s cover story again? She peeked at the records and snorted softly. Trade facilitation, indeed.

  It occurred to her that the CPS-mandated enhancement drugs might be flattening his emotional affect, and asked about them. He explained he’d just started yet another protocol because of the recovery treatment plan.

  “Do you take them regularly, or just when you’re tested?”

  He looked confused. “I couldn’t pass the random tests if I weren’t taking them as prescribed.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the number of ways I’ve heard to fool them. Implants, neutralizers, flushlines, lookalikes...” She trailed off, inviting him to share his method.

  He shook his head, frowning slightly. “I’d think it would be self-defeating to reduce one’s effectiveness that way.”

  Lakshmi tried to keep the incredulous look off her face, seeing as Sòng looked perfectly serious. Maybe she’d been right about him being a saint, even if he wasn’t priggish. Had she ever been that blindly trusting of the CPS? She looked at her hand, shaking with the effort of holding onto her coffee cup, and admitted that she had. The difference was, she’d wised up a lot sooner.

  “So,” she said, “what kinds of questions have our OII friends been asking you?”

  “Initially, they were concerned about the accident, but now, they’re more interested in why someone might be trying to kill all of us.” His impeccable Standard English accent made it sound so casual.

  “That’s… unexpected,” she said slowly. “Care to elaborate?”

  He told her how three of his coworkers had died in the past week, including the supervisor, and counting his partner’s death in the accident that had nearly killed him, that only left four field-unit members still functional.

  He brought out his percomp, an ugly but powerful unit that looked like it went with the corporate suit, not the racy flier outfit he was now wearing. “When I downloaded the unit’s historical case files and reviewed them for commonalities, I didn’t…”

  She cut him off before he could continue. “Did the OII ask you to do that?”

  He shook his head. “No, it was my initiative. I haven’t spoken to the OII about it yet.”

  “You might want to find another way to get that data next time, if there is a next time. I don’t recommend it. Eventually, the OII will pull access records, and they’ll have some pointed questions for you.” She hoped he was smart enough to realize he’d need a good explanation ready when they did.

  She asked him to relay as accurately as he could the questions the OII investigators had asked him so far, and wrote questions while her comp recorded his words. At least he’d been smart enough not to talk to them while on happy drugs, or to volunteer information, and had remembered to take notes and invoke his right for an advocate immediately. Some of her clients had all but cremated themselves before calling her, then expected a miracle.

  “When do you expect to talk to the OII again?”

  “I have an appointment two days from now.”

  “Good. Scheduled meetings usually mean they aren’t trying to play games.” She took the last sip of her coffee as she reviewed her notes. “What day is it in Spires now? I can’t keep them straight.”

  “It’s Sunday, Star Zero, Sol, whichever you go by.” He smiled sympathetically. “It’s easy to lose track of planet-based days when you live on a ship.”

  She supposed he’d know, since his official assignments were often on regular military or CPS ships, with the occasional space station for variety. Damned hard on a personal life, though. He proba
bly knew that, too. Oh well, it wasn’t her place to give him the “either you order chaos, or chaos orders you” speech. He was an adult and could make his own choices.

  “I see they temporarily assigned you part time to the smaller Spires field office. What are you doing for them?”

  She made more notes as he explained that he’d been catching the office up on its filing and improving their procedures to make it easier to keep up with the work in the future. It made sense. His cover-story job had him doing similar work for his own field unit. His unit’s supervisor had even gone to the trouble of dressing up his personnel record with a couple of commendations for it.

  He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Yesterday, Supervisor Yamazaki rewarded me with the task of doing the same for the CPS Testing Center next door, since they, too, are behind on their filing. Their datasets are more… repetitive.”

  “Talk about your crappy jobs.” She shook her head. “Imagine if you had to do that all day.”

  “I am thankful that my health doesn’t yet permit me such an opportunity.” She almost missed his slight smile and wink.

  She laughed out loud. She didn’t think he had a sense of humor until then. He offered to pour more coffee for her, and she accepted. Watching him pour without spilling a drop, in low-G no less, she had the feeling he’d been trained in tea ceremony. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Yes.” He opened a new file on his percomp. “First, is the investigation taking longer than usual?”

  She looked up the dates and saw it had been eight weeks since the flitter crash. “Yes, but the fact that they haven’t hauled you in more often, especially considering the recent deaths, is probably good news for you. It means they aren’t actively working to throw you off the sky skimmer to balance the load.”

  “I see.” He made a note.

  “I probably don’t have to tell you, Agent Sòng, but if someone is targeting the unit, you should watch yourself. Maybe they’ll come back and finish what they started.”