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I say nothing.
“Pacified too. Hmm. Scurry down from there, you little monkey. We got business.”
I don’t.
“Told Julii she’d go mad,” she mutters under her breath to the Sol Guards. They don’t seem to like her much at all.
“What business?” I ask.
Ignoring me, she bends down to riffle through the small stack of Volga’s letters, which I’ve secured in the crease between the food tube and the floor.
“Don’t touch those,” I snap.
“I must confess, it was interesting to watch. Transit voyages on warships can be tedious, you understand, even with the HC being so full of drama—so thank you for the entertainment.” She begins to read from one of the letters. “My favorite time of day is the early morning. Before it is really morning, but when it’s not quite night. The world is very still. And if you watch closely, you can see it breathe as it wakes up.”
“Those are mine.”
“Takers, keepers, darling.” She begins to read again. I pull myself up to create some slack, and untie the knot so I can fall to the floor. I manage to land on my feet. “There. Now, that’s a predictable monkey.”
I extend a hand. She throws the letters at me and watches me as I collect them. “Hardheaded, softhearted. Bad combination. That Obsidian is one dangerous customer, lass—”
“I know.”
“No. You really don’t. And the Syndicate bounty on her…Julii’s lucky I’ve a professional code.” She whistles. “Wonder what would have happened if you and the beast had to share the same cell a
nd no food. How long before she gobbled up your scrawny little monkey legs? Two days? Four?” She reflects on that a moment. “Probably four. Volga does like to pretend she’s warm and cuddly, even to herself.”
I don’t rush to Volga’s defense. The Brown is so odd. Her nails are painted a brilliant shade of orange. She wears two great diamond rings. And her tanned skin is etched with ornate white lines. Almost like a blueprint.
“What kind of Brown are you supposed to be?” I ask, stuffing the letters into my jumpsuit.
“Brown?” She grins. “I’m whatever my employer pays me to be. And I’ve never quite had anyone pay as well as Madam Barca.”
“Mercenary.” I spit at her feet.
“Hold her down,” she tells the guards. “I want to spit in her eye.”
“Do it yourself, scum,” one of them says, a Martian from Apollonia by his accent. “You’re not our centurion.”
“Scum. Mercenary,” she hisses in irritation. “Why does no one abide the word freelancer?” I blink and she’s nose-to-nose with me. Her hand is around my throat. “Call me Fig.”
My eyes open in surprise and Fig spits a big hot wad of spit right in the left one. She pushes me as I aim a knee at her cunny. Caught off balance, I trip over her foot behind my left heel and sprawl on my ass.
“Bitch.” I fight to get up, but Fig steps back, activating the room’s lights. She moves about the room with a speed that seems almost unnatural, tapping a pattern in the contorted shapes. As Fig touches each bit of the light, the room begins to sprout new fixtures. First a sheet of flooring pulls back and a bed with a cozy wooden frame rises from the floor. She touches a few more bits of the light, and a fire springs up. Then a spit of roasting meat, a table, and a cobbled stone on the floor.
And the puzzle is solved. I had suspicions there was a code.
The room then becomes lost in a Europan storm. All the walls are replaced by images of a roaring sea. Monsters move in the ocean. Waves crash at the windows. But in the midst of the storm the fire crackles. A full kitchen of delights awaits. Floating flame globes drift over a case of weapons big enough to hunt prey bigger than men. And an image, just like the famous mural on the Senate ceiling, bleeds into the storm clouds above, a picture of Darrow and a glorious, comely Sevro standing over a beheaded woman. Even I know it’s Aja au Grimmus. Lionheart is off to the side preening, and a stooped, ugly, but very tall man in pristine white armor patterned with birds and a sun looks sheepishly at the blood.
“Didn’t you realize it was a puzzle?” She’s mocking me. “Low intelligence quotient, I suppose.” Fig examines me, less than impressed. “At first I thought you were on Eph’s crew. But now…” She laughs at me. “Just can’t understand how you made such a dent on the oldboy. Maybe he’s gone senile. Who knows. Quite a turn he’s had of late, however.” She sees my confusion. “Don’t you know? Eph’s a regular hero with the Obsidians. A real bloodbrave.” Fig snorts. “He’s arranged for your exchange. Yours and the big lass. So move your ass.”
Did I mishear? “My exchange?”
“I’d pay half my salary to know why. But that man and I don’t exactly get along anymore. Strawberry Lacuna, long, hot night in Adonis, the camel.” She winces. “Long story. The White is our intermediary, anyhow. But I’ll tell you, something’s got Sefi all hot and spicy.” Her eyes go distant as she considers what it could be. But not in a human way. More like a hyperneedle on a silk loom pausing, then stuttering quickly back into motion. She snaps her fingers at the Grays. “Clean her up, the Alltribe’s got a boat inbound.” They don’t move. “Julii’s orders, not mine. Do it.”
They grab me and haul me to the door.
“Where are we?” I ask as they pull me into the hall. “This some sort of prison barge?” The Grays laugh to each other. “A prison barge,” one cries. “Naw, lass. Welcome to the JBS Pandora.”
