Sarah Branson

Prologue:

Sergeant Demery Ludlow stepped into the Tilted Sip, intent on getting a quick one before flying back to Bosch. The bar was busy, and Demery had to use his broad shoulders to muscle his way to the bar, though he murmured “’Scuse me” as he did so just to avoid a fight. Sobayton Bay, on the windward side of the island of Fairneau, was not known for its culture and manners, especially this close to the docks. It was, however, known for being a great place to move liberated goods without questions being asked. And now, with the unit breaking up and his steady income disrupted, Demery had done just that. Now there were not only markers in his account but also some actual gold coins jingling in his pockets. He may never be on par with Tom Pikari or Kat Wallace, but he was planning to get the spoils that were due him.

“Gimme a shot and a stout.” Demery raised his red-brown arm and called to the bartender as he listened to the band start a piece that had some merengue rhythms that could barely be heard over the rumble of conversations in the place. The tune made him think of his childhood in the New Caribbean before his parents had immigrated to Bosch. He turned with his beer and leaned back, elbows on the bar as he watched the drummer on the congas and listened to the brass pick up the melody. “Huzzah!” He lifted his beer and nodded in time with the music, his brown hair flipping slightly with each bob.

“You like the tune?” a voice asked at his shoulder. Demery turned to see a fairly tall man wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt that accentuated his well-formed, suntanned biceps but also did not quite camouflage his overly developed belly. He looked like a powerful man going to seed, but his face was pleasant enough.

“Aye, I do. Reminds me of where I grew up,” Demery responded.

At this, the bigger man turned toward Demery and grinned. “New Caribbean, huh? I spent some years there as a young man. Great spot. It’s got the best music, the safest banks, and the most beautiful women!” Here he laughed and Demery joined in because it was all very true.

“How about we share a spot of rum? It fits—for your heritage and your job.” The man gestured to Demery’s Bosch Pirate Force belt. “Name’s Owen, Owen Patricks.” The man reached out a hand to shake in the fashion of the people of the North Central Continent Federal Alliance, and Demery good-naturedly took it. He was by nature a friendly man as well as a man always on the lookout for contacts that could help make him some markers.

“I’ll go you one better. I just made a deal selling some family…” At this last word, he gave an exaggerated wink. “…heirlooms, and I came out a tiny bit ahead. You buy the rum, and I’ll buy us some dinner.”

“Is that right?” Owen Patrick asked. “Interesting. I’m a man who likes to buy heirlooms, family or otherwise.” And here, both men began to laugh. “Why don’t you get a table, and I’ll bring a bottle?” Demery nodded and headed toward a recently vacated table.

Owen Patrick signaled to the darker-skinned barkeep. “A bottle of your finest rum, Nate.”

The man brought it over and handed it across the bar, picking up the markers that sat on the shiny bar top and setting them on the till. “Since when are you drinking rum, Paddy Owens?”

Paddy surreptitiously pulled out five additional markers and slid them over to Nate. “Since I started running a grift on the Bosch. Let’s keep it between us, eh, Nate?” Paddy winked. “And Nate, the name is Owen. Owen Patrick.”

“Whatever you say…Owen.” Nate grinned and slid the new markers directly into his pocket.

Chapter 1: Revenge Denied

I didn’t kill today, and that means I failed.

The sky that surrounds the Coupe and me is a deep and peaceful July blue, with only a few puffs of clouds off to the east. The engines purr contentedly as I return from Safehaven Point, a small city just south of Truvale, and a block of sunshine falls onto my left forearm; even now, the little bit of heat causes my thrall brand a twinge of pain. I swing the Coupe around to complete my base leg before coming into my final approach of the old airstrip. The Coupe, both cockpit and cabin, is silent and seemingly serene. But it belies the cacophony in my brain: Dammit, dammit, dammit, Kat Wallace! Half a bell late. You couldn’t have flown faster? Bet Papa never was late because the kids were sick. Kik had to pick this morning to wake up vomiting and crying? So like a six-year-old. Not his fault, poor kiddo, but still. Dammit! And you know Mac will be right behind him: Twins share everything. Fuck! I was within arm’s reach of that bastard.

My brain continues its enraged rant; my victory playlist remains unused, and my mouth is set in a tight line. As I come in toward the runway, “Pilot Kat” takes over, quieting the noise in my head in order to negotiate a small bit of crosswind. I sideslip to touchdown and then roll and brake until I am near the end of the strip closest to the cave. Then I allow the racket of my anger to return.

“Sweet New Earth! Not again!!” I slam my hands onto my armrests and let my head loll back against the headrest, but my neck muscles remain taut, and I continue to feel the adrenaline flow through me from my momentary confrontation with Senator Rob Abernathy. How could I have missed him this time? The plan was flawless. I had collected all the details, just as Teddy had taught me. And I was set to orchestrate my revenge.

The senator was scheduled for a campaign speech to the Bluest, the informal name of the CNE: Chosen of New Earth, a group of religious fanatics who wore blue, hooded robes of varying hues depending on their position in the church. Everyone actually calls them the Bluies, though not to their hooded faces. To my way of thinking, it is a real waste of a palette of a beautiful color. The Bluies’ influence in the upcoming Federal Alliance presidential election had escalated as the Abernathy campaign embraced their stance on mandatory population increase: more workers, yes, but especially more employers—or rather enslavers, as well— and, in turn, the Bluies had championed the key plank in his platform on “the economic necessity and humanitarian benefit of thralldom.” They were all bastards as far as I was concerned, but having an easy disguise like a blue cloak was too good an opportunity to pass up.

By the time I had wheedled Mama to come over to the house this morning to tend to my sick boy and his likely soon-to-follow brother, I was three-quarters of a bell late. I made up a quarter-bell in flight, but I was still behind. As I flew, I slurped down my hastily prepared coffee, the beans for which I had liberated on my last extraction campaign, and ran over the plan:

Get to Abernathy’s office before his meeting with the Bluie Patrician of Doctrine. Stroll in, bedecked in my lovely blue cloak styled appropriately out of rough fabric to demonstrate humility. This concept was ludicrous given the expensive shoes on the feet and the exquisite hand jewelry that adorned the mostly pale hands and arms that extended from the “humble” coverings. Nonetheless, my humility cloak was the proper shade for a mid-level assistant who might be verifying details before the event and was to be my ticket to my past enslaver’s office. I’d be let in after showing my properly pilfered ID, and then I’d kill Senator Rob Abernathy, foiling his plan to be FA president once again and this time for good. And as a bonus, the blame would be pinned on the Bluies.

Except I was late. And the event had already begun by the time I water-landed off Safehaven Point and then maneuvered my small, inflatable boat quietly to shore and moored it there. But I had to see if I could still achieve my goal, though I had no intention of cutting it too close. I had to get safely home. I had commitments.

I planned to pick up some of my sick boys’ favorite frozen juice slushies on the way home. In addition, Grey was singing, a talent that she surely had not inherited from me, on stage for the first time this afternoon at Bonnet camp, an on-base program for children ten and up to learn a bit of Bosch Pirate Force, or BPF: boxing, marksmanship, and flight simulator use as well as singing, dancing, playing instruments, and theater. Ever popular, it always closed in late August with a full pirate musical that drew spectators from all over Bosch. This was Grey’s first year attending, and today was the first showcase leading up to the big event. Takai was scheduled to arrive home from Edo, where he was ministering to his supposedly ill father, in time to attend as well. So, no cutting it close. Either I would get my target, or I wouldn’t.

I am not nearly so phlegmatic now, however. I throw open the Coupe door and leap to the ground, not even waiting to drop the ramp. I grab the first rock I find and lob it at the rocky bank nearest the edge of the runway with a “Fuck!” It lands with a satisfying crack. Five more rocks, curses, and cracks later, and I am breathing hard and not even slightly mollified. I stand and blow an angry breath out.

Once I arrived at the event enrobed in my cloak, I had been jostled through the crowd of Bluies and ended up in the section closest to the hopeful candidate. The almost-late senator, tall, blond and handsome, was greeting the fortunate members, pressing his knuckles together and then clasping his fingers in the CNE gesture of the joining of forces for strength. As he moved along the margins of the crowd, he took care to charm every believer with his charisma, making sure to speak softly to each person, demonstrating his indisputable compassion for each member of his constituency. Fools. One moment I was watching this charade, and the next, he was in front of me, so close I could have shanked him, and I seriously considered that move. But I would never have gotten away. Our eyes met, and the old fury rose in me as I saw him smirk.

“You get to continue to draw breath today, Senator.” My voice was low as I hissed this through my teeth.

His smug smile broadened, and he leaned in to murmur in my ear, “And you have failed. Again. Mary. Tsk-tsk. Not much of a pirate after all, are you, Captain Wallace? At least you don’t have anyone with you that’s going to die this time.”

I felt my jaw clench, and my right hand clutched at the bone handle of my blade strapped on my thigh as his taunts hit their mark. Even after more than three years, the pain of Will’s death was razor-sharp and caused my old friend, Remorse, to remind me why I ran these missions solo. I pulled back and met his blue eyes in a steely glare. I gave a slight growl, pulled phlegm into the back of my throat, and spat it in his face.

Time spiraled to a stop for an instant as I watched his expression shift from shock to revulsion and then toward dangerous anger. But neither he nor his anger frightened me any longer. When time restarted, he turned to order his surprised bodyguards to take me into custody, but I had already melted back into the pool of blue, my face covered with my hood as I began to echo the murmurs of dismay of the other Bluies. I shuffled along the perimeter of the crowd, staying just deep enough to be obscured. My eyes darted about as I assessed my best path for exfil.

After a few minutes, I saw my opening: A large vehicle with a logo of a massive black obelisk and the words Obi: We Cover Your Life written in block letters on its side was parked near the congregation. The red-headed cameraperson had his video camera focused on a young, dark-skinned woman costumed in a butter-colored dress as she spoke earnestly to the lens in front of her as the sea of blue ebbed and flowed behind her. I slipped to the edge of the mass of fanatics and then stepped a meter or so away from them, seeming to lean down to fix my shoe.

A quick glance at the Obi reporter and then I dodged to the back door of the vehicle and was rewarded when it opened easily. There I shed my blue cloak and sat on the floor, eyeing the various electronic contraptions and cursing my failure for a good half-bell before the rumble of the Bluies slowly subsided into silence, and the door swung open. I stood and nodded at the astonished cameraperson, who looked to be about twenty years old and stood, with his mouth agape.

“Thanks for the haven.” I patted his cheek as I hopped out.

He recovered enough to start to protest, but by the time he had set his heavy gear down and turned to confront me, I was far down the street making my way to the bay and my waiting inflatable.

Now, back home in Bosch, there are no more rocks in the vicinity to throw. I sigh, shake my head, climb back into the Coupe, pull out my purple pen from my sling bag, and reluctantly put a fourth mark in the Failure column of the tally sheet I have posted just above my primary display. Four attempts to end him in three years, and none successful. Teddy used to say, “Don’t matter how often you fall, girl. As long as you can get up, you’ll make it.”

I stroke the area under the word Success. I will make my mark there. One day.

Chapter 2: Nice Shoes

“Where’s your music? Aren’t you supposed to have that?” I am warming up some broth on the stove as I call to Grey. As predicted, Mac’s stomach bug started about two bells after I left this morning. The blueberry slushies brought smiles to their peaked little faces when I arrived home. And wonder of wonders, they stayed down, but I am not going to try giving them anything significantly solid until after we get back from the show. Mama headed home to “scrub the toxins from her.” She will meet me at the show. I owe her big time. I had missed the messiest part of the day.

My plan is to create a smorgasbord of twin-friendly, easily digested snacks, set up the Obi with a couple of hours’ worth of cartoons, tuck the boys onto the sofa with towels and a couple of light blankets, and pay Liara, the neighbor girl who is home from uni, an exorbitant amount to sit quietly, read, and simply be sure the boys survive and don’t argue too much.

“Grey, are you dressed?”

“Yes, Mama. I’m not a baby.” Grey’s voice rolls down the stairs and carries a distinct tone of irritation. Recently, there have been some eye rolls and deep sighs when I ask things of her. Not so much with Takai, nor with Mama. Just with me. I suppose that is part of being a ten-year-old daughter. She comes into the kitchen, and I look at her and can’t help but grin. She has on a green summer dress that brings out the green in her eyes with a blue belt. Her legs, now coltishly long, extend from the dress and are finished with a rather attractive pair of blue shoes. With tiny heels. Where did she get those?

“Are those your shoes? I’ve never seen them before.” I am making an effort to keep my voice casual.

I am rewarded with a beaming smile and an adorable toss of her shoulder-length, brown waves, which she has loosely fastened with a green headband. “They were Liara’s a few years ago. She said I could have them!”

She looks so pleased that I shift from my intended comment about my hatred of heels to a gentler, “They look lovely with that dress. It all works, Grey.” She smiles again and gazes down at them adoringly. “Do you have your sheet music?” I ask again.

Her face loses its smile, and she looks at me and sighs. “Mama, I told you. Mr. Matthieu has it.”

“Oh, right. Mr. Matthews, the music counselor you told me about.” I am slicing some just-right bananas that Bailey brought for the kids from their last mission to the banana belt and am a bit distracted.

“No, Mama: Mr. Matthieu.”

“That’s what I said: Mr. Matthews.”

“Mama!” Grey stomps her foot hard.

“What?”

“There’s no s!’”

I look at my girl’s frustrated expression. “So, Mr. Matthew.”

“Yes. And he is so much more than a counselor. He knows loads, and he plays guitar and piano and has his own band, and he is going to be my accompanist tonight, so he has the music.” Her voice has gotten louder with each phrase, and I stare at her, surprised by her intensity. She looks away from me. I decide to de-escalate. I realize that under the volume, I can hear both nervousness and admiration in her tone.