Page 8 of Spark Transform

“That was just letting off steam. Lost four good crew to one lethal minder, plus the chief shithead threw me out of a second-floor window.” She grinned. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to shoot off a hellrail in Terro District?”

It had been exciting, but the profit margin was too low and the military too diligent about recovering their property. She did reserve one or two toys for herself before she offloaded the rest.

A smart-ass grin lit Khenzan’s face. “We should apply for an urban renewal license from the city planners.” He snapped his fingers. “Speaking of the city, before I forget, we shouldn’t use Quint Core again for the build-out. I got it from the city clerk that they’re paying twice the usual tips to inspectors.”

Khenzan’s circumspect phrasing amused her. He used his sneaky telepathy talent without compunction, as he’d done with the lab manager and chemist. He’d undoubtedly browsed through the clerk’s mind while paying the fees in person. Offering extra tips — bribes — meant Quint Core was using shoddy materials or worse. The city’s economy was in decline, but the local construction economy had bottomed out like a black hole.

She’d had the foresight to diversify her crew’s lines of business away from construction security a few years ago, so they were weathering the downturn better than some. But none of her crew would be buying paradise-planet vacation estates anytime soon.

Before she made it halfway to her custom-printed glass desk, the office door chimed. The security monitor showed Tycall, one of her muscle-modded enforcers, teeth bared in anger.

Khenzan confirmed Tycall’s identity, then waved the door open.

Tycall entered, dragging a skinny, bloodied, silver-haired man behind her by a power whip around his chest. Tycall slid him forward on the smooth floor, then put her cleated boot on his shoulder.

“Sewer slime been multi-cribbing with the Daringos and the Ridrats. Pro’ly others.” Tycall, a mid-level shielder and a ramper, favored the popular feline look, with golden skin and a tawny lion’s mane on her head and wide shoulders. Her pointed predator teeth gave her speech a distinct whistling accompaniment.

The man on the floor squirmed. “Lies! It was her! She set me up!” His mottled purple skin suggested a botched makeover or an exotic chems habit.

Gezi caught Khenzan’s brief eye twitch, then gave Tycall and the squirming man a gleeful grin. “Bohat’s blue balls, I love it when they squeal.”

Her first independent business had been delivering pain to people who liked it, such as the unlamented late chief of her present crew. She’d broadened her horizons since then, but kept the skills in her repertoire for sentimental reasons.

Tycall rocked her weight onto the man’s shoulder until he cried out. “Slime skimmin’ too. Thinks I don’t ken he collected our delivery money from the customer, resold the package to the Ridrats for top bounty, then sold the Daringos the coords so they could steal and resell the package to our customer.” She leaned in and sneered at him. “Thinks he’s clever.”

Khenzan looked like he’d just swallowed putrid pond sludge. “He chems Canals and Gatesea street kids to sell to twists at the spaceport.”

The man thrashed violently. “Subbin’ minder! Get outta my head!”

Tycall triggered the power whip, making the man’s body jitter like a puppet. “Seal it!”

The odor of sour urine permeated the room.

Gezi blew out a long, calming breath. In her younger days, she’d have killed him herself and left a bloody, stinking mess on her beautiful synth-sapphire floor. “Recover the funds, make sure he doesn’t have any merch waiting for a buyer, flatline his memory, and sell him for bio parts.”

They’d probably have to issue refunds and pay off the Ridrats, otherwise known as the Ridderth police, but they could at least make a profit on the slime. Blackmarket cloners were always interested in untraceable DNA sources.

“It was Tycall’s orders!” wailed the man.

Tycall roared and raked his chest with the curved claws she wore on her knuckles. Blood welled and soaked his tunic. The man squealed loud and long as Tycall dragged him out of the room.

Gezi let the smile drop from her face with a sigh. “See who the package was, and make sure we priced the hostile pickup correctly. If we’re handling dangerous targets with beaucoup enemies, we deserve higher compensation.”

Khenzan tapped the earwire he always wore and subvocalized, then listened for several moments. “Package was an illusionist, Minder Corps veteran, ex-Minder Corps contractor, did kill jobs on the side. Nearly made it off planet. Customer was one of Hujuru’s CPS cutout corps, for the usual rate. They forgot to mention the package was also a teke. Extra stunner shots took care of the problem.”

“Very well,” said Gezi. “Refund the delivery fee to the customer, less twenty percent for withholding safety intel. Split that between Tycall and the pickup team as a bonus. Contribute to the Ridrats’ sex-toy fund or something so we stay off their undesirables list. Ask Daringo politely to pay an inconvenience fee, or make them wish they’d never dreamed of dusting our starlane.”

Khenzan subvocalized her instructions.

Some crews had trouble working with the CPS, but Gezi had found the Covert Ops chief Hujuru to be a fair-dealing customer. Hujuru undoubtedly suspected they’d traced all her cover corporations back to her, but appearances had to be maintained.

As far as Gezi was concerned, the CPS’s funds were as good as anyone else’s. Paradise vacation villas didn’t come cheap.

Chapter 5

Planet: Mabingion • GDAT 3242.189

Renner leaned a shoulder against the wall next to a high-top table in the shadows of a busy, pleasant pub he’d never been in. The transitional neighborhood bordered the Canals but aspired to respectability. The perfect place for people from different social spheres to meet after a day shift and be unremarkable. Which was undoubtedly why Arco Charrascos, the semi-famous journalist who’d found him in the rubble, had chosen it. Clever red angel.