8 – Opportunities

  When they approached Grando’s club after breakfast, Hector paused to look at the sign. Somehow he’d missed it when they left the day before—an enormous holographic projection on the side of the building that featured a series of neon-hued ladies dancing around the giant letters of the club name: The Velvet Strip.

  Lemon pointed to the front door, propped ajar by a trashcan. “Looks like someone’s here already.”

  They walked through the quiet, dimly lit bar, and Hector’s eyes took in all the nooks and crannies, the little details he’d missed on his way out. It was a big club with several stages and two bars. With the neon lights, holo projections, and strobes turned off, the grim reality of an aging club was more apparent—torn upholstery, stains in the carpet, chipped paint, and the stench of too many spills seeping into the cracks.

  Lemon took him back to Grando’s storeroom office, and when they walked in, a skinny guy with a shaved head jumped, whirling toward them with a hand reaching for a blade he kept sheathed on a spike-studded belt. Grando was sitting at the desk, and he laughed. “Calm down, Jam. That’s our new employee.”

  Lemon stepped to the side, her gaze down, suddenly shy. Considering her behavior the day before, Hector didn’t think it was Grando making her nervous. He stepped past her and gave the new guy a good look. He was unusually tall—the kind of tall that meant walking through doorways was a constant hazard. Corded muscles stood out on his wiry shoulders, and his fingers vibrated even as he clenched them into fists. He glared down his long, crooked nose at Hector. “This runt, Boss?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Jam. I already explained the situation, and I’m not in the mood.”

  Hector ignored the goon, glaring at Grando. “We need to speak.”

  “Talkative all of a sudden, huh? Guess a night of ministrations from the lovely Lemon will do that for a fellow.” He directed half his words toward Lemon and finished up with, “You can get lost for now.”

  “I wanted to talk about—”

  “Later.” Grando waved her off. “We need to talk business.”

  While they spoke, Hector watched Jam—watched how his eyes tracked Lemon’s every movement and his jaw clenched and unclenched. He didn’t like what he saw in those red cybernetic eyes. When Lemon gave up trying to get a word in and walked out, Hector felt some tension bleed out of his shoulders. On some level, he’d decided he was looking out for her, and he needed to nip that in the bud. He wasn’t there to make friends; he had vengeance to get after.

  “…how does that sound?” Grando asked, and Hector realized he’d tuned the man out as his mind drifted down dark, blood-drenched corridors.

  “Say that again?”

  “This guy simple, Boss?”

  Grando frowned, clearly irritated by Jam’s mouthing off, but also probably not loving that Hector was acting like an imbecile. “I said we need to talk about how best to utilize your talents, which means I need to know what you’re capable of.”

  Hector stepped closer to his desk, putting himself just a meter from Jam. “Partners, you said.”

  Grando scowled. “I know my talents. What I need to know is what you can do, so’s I can figure out how we can partner on a thing or two. Clear?” He pointed to the plastic chair before his desk. “See? I even had Jam bring in a chair for you.” As Hector studied the chair, irritated at the idea of Jam lurking behind him, Grando added, “Orin’s going to be all right. Figured you might want to know.”

  “Orin?” Hector shifted, turning so Jam was visible.

  “My guy? The one whose jaw you rearranged?”

  “Ah.”

  When Hector continued to stand, Grando tapped his fingers on his desk, glancing from Hector to Jam and back again. “What’s going on here? I feel like I’m in a goddamn shark tank.”

  “He don’t want to sit with me behind him, Boss.”

  Grando looked at Hector, who shrugged. “Go on, Jam. I’ll call if I need you.”

  Jam smirked, then spat on the concrete—to be fair, there was a drain in the floor not far from the wad of saliva and phlegm. Still, he oozed insolence as he slouched toward the door, dragging his feet.

  “Move it, you prick!” Grando growled, and the goon hurried the last couple of steps, yanking the door open and slamming it behind him. “Now,” Grando said, gesturing, “will you please sit down?”

  Hector sat. Let’s hear your line of bullshit.

  “The way I see it, you’ve got a royal-class aura system, but you ain’t got any claim to being a royal anymore. In fact, the last thing you want is for the Lautrecs or any of the other Noble Houses to know you even exist, right?”

  “They’ll know…eventually.”

  “Well, in the meantime, how about we both make some scratch? You need bits, right?”

  Hector nodded.

  “But what else are you after? I mean, aside from figuring out who screwed you over. Your memories still unclear?”

  Hector ignored the second question. “I need potentia. I can’t succeed until I can stand against the Praetorians.”

  “The royal guard? As in the Emperor’s guards? Are you dogshit crazy? There’s a vid circulating the nets of one of those lunatics wiping out a full nest of Jovian belt pirates, and they weren’t lightly armed! We’re talking power suits, mass drivers”—he kicked his desk drawer—“blasters. You name it.”

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  “Yeah?” Hector shrugged. “I trained with them for a while…before. Why was a Praetorian killing belters?”

  Grando shrugged. “Lies all around, so who knows? All that’s certain is he killed a whole bunch of them and brought their frigate down. He was still aboard when it hit Io, and he walked away! Of course, the propaganda channels say he rescued one of the Imperial nieces from the ravages of the unworthy, but word in the gutters is that she was running away.”

  Hector squeezed his fist until his knuckles popped. “Interesting.”

  “So, you’re serious, then? You mean to get to that level somehow? In that skin?”

  Hector shrugged. “I have what I need up here.” He tapped his temple. “I just need potentia.”

  “Hmm.” Grando rubbed his chin between his thick forefinger and thumb. “I think we can work with that. There’re some bit-making opportunities that might pay dividends in potentia.”

  “I need to get some gear, too. I need to get my neurodeck online.” In his case, his neurodeck was his aura system and vice versa. The same AI managed both, which was standard for Imperial assets of his previous stature—something Grando hadn’t had the first clue about, apparently.

  Grando took a minute to focus on him, his mind having drifted somewhere, likely to contemplate a scheme. When their eyes met, he nodded slowly. “Tired of not knowing what’s going on, huh? What you need? An antenna? You can get auditory implants that have a wireless hookup.”

  “And eyes.”

  Grando nodded. “Sure, sure. But you’ve gotta earn before I throw that kind of scratch your way. Hell, put it this way; you can use your cut to buy whatever the hell you want.”

  “So? What’s the job today?”

  Grando laughed. He leaned back and threw one of his booted feet onto the top of his desk. It was a nice boot made out of animal hide, synthetic or not—Hector couldn’t tell. They were cut in the old cowboy style. The damn boot brought memories rushing back, flickering through Hector’s mind’s eye. He’d been on shore leave, visiting Luna when he’d bought his first boots like that—a popular fad. When he’d gotten back to the barracks on New Galveston, he’d felt pretty damn cocky walking around in them. He snorted, shaking his head.

  “Something funny?”

  “Just an old memory—cowboys on Mars.”

  Grando sucked his teeth and shrugged. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re eager to work, but it’ll take me a while to set up something good. I might have an idea in the meantime, though. I’m guessing, based on what I saw and on everything you’ve been saying about killing…um…” He looked around, his eyes narrowing in paranoia. “Hell, I can’t even repeat it without feeling like I’m putting my neck on the line. Point is, I’m guessing you think you can fight, yeah?”

  “I can fight.”

  “So, how about we go down to Pete’s and see what you’re made of? It’s Friday, which means that tonight he’ll have an all-comers match. He pays out for every win, and he won’t think of cheating me.”

  “Cheating?”

  Grando held his hand out, palm down, twisting it from side to side. “Eh…sometimes he tries to short fighters. You know—they don’t know how much is wagered, so how can they tell if they’re getting their fair cut? He won’t try that if he knows you’re working for me.”

  Hector nodded toward the door. “Jam gonna fight?”

  Grando shrugged. “Sometimes he does. Why?”

  Hector didn’t reply, but his eyes smoldered.

  “Rubbed you the wrong way, huh? Well, he’s got a system, but he’s not as smart as Orin. Anyway, I won’t make him fight you, but if he does…” Grando shrugged again. “So, we’ve got a plan for today, but why don’t you tell me a little bit more about your talents? What’s good about your aura system?”

  “What’s good?”

  “I mean, you smashed the shit out of my two boys in here, but you looked pretty wrecked after.”

  Hector clenched his jaw, already irritated by the conversation. “I was desperate. Used more aura than this skin was ready for.”

  “So, you can control that, though, right?”

  “Right.”

  “All right, you’re good with your hands. I’m assuming you know how to use other weapons, yeah?”

  Hector nodded.

  “Got any problems with enforcing some contracts?” When Hector only arched an eyebrow, Grando elaborated, “You know, collecting gambling debts, delivering payoffs—that kind of thing.”

  Hector already felt talked-out. He wanted to just shrug or nod, but the bastard wouldn’t get the clue if he didn’t spell things out. “I can do that, but it won’t keep me here long.”

  “Right, right. Cause you’ve got so many options?”

  Hector stared.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got other ideas, but what about you? Any ideas?”

  “Can you get me into a rift?” Hector had done it plenty of times in his old life—ventured into the strange portals to nearby dimensions; the source of the aura that had infiltrated the fabric of the Sol System in humanity’s distant past. Nobody knew why or how; the rifts hadn’t originated from anything people had done—not as far as anyone could prove. Still, they’d been a constant for more than a thousand years. One might close from time to time, but new ones opened at a greater rate. At least that had been the case the last time Hector had been alive.

  His question certainly got Grando’s attention. He leaned forward, squinting one eye. “You’re serious?” When Hector nodded, he asked, “Ain’t the survival rate something like thirty percent?”

  “Not for royals.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because they go in with a team; they’ve got gear and backing. You really ain’t a royal anymore. You get that, right?”

  “I need potentia, and—”

  “Rifts are the best way to earn it.” Grando shrugged. “I mean, the bit payouts are good, too.” He chuckled. “Or so I’ve heard. I’ve never seen the inside of one—never had an employee nuts enough to ask me to get him in, either.”

  Hector nodded. “Pay’s good.” There were elements inside rifts that couldn’t be found anywhere else—elements that made certain tech possible: gravity manipulation, fusion, space folding, probably a hundred other things that a grunt like him wouldn’t know about—and that was all besides the potentia blooms.

  “Seven rifts on Mars—last time I heard, anyway. You know how the royals monopolize ’em. They put up a lottery a few times a year, though. I’ll look into it.” When Hector didn’t say anything else, he asked, “Is that it?”

  “What time’s the fight?”

  “Be ready at eight. We’ll walk over together.”

  “And for the rest of the day?”

  “Jesus. I think you’re my only employee who wants me to tell him what to do. I dunno—earn.”

  Hector scowled. “I’m not your employee.”

  “Right, right. Partner. My mistake.”

  Hector started to get up, but then Grando held up a hand. “Hold on, hold on. I know you’re a fish out of water right now. Let me see if I can help you out.” His eyes unfocused, and Hector saw tiny lights flickering in the depths of his retinas. After a few seconds, the crime boss nodded and blinked, slowly refocusing his gaze on Hector’s face. “Got a job for you. I’ll send Lemon along, seeing as the ditzy doll is here four hours before the club opens.”

  Hector thought about defending Lemon, saying it was his fault she was in so early, but he just asked, “What’s the job?”

  “I got a girl, a good earner, who’s been missing for a couple of days. You and Lemon can go see what’s going on with her. You keep Lemon from getting snatched or mugged, and she can do the talking. I have a feeling that’s not your strong suit. Tell her that if she does a good job, I’ll think about a bonus or something.” He reached into his desk, pulled out a little notebook, scribbled a few lines and ripped the page out. “This is the doll’s name and address. Give it to Lemon.”

  Hector took the scrap, stuffed it into his hoodie’s pocket, and stood, but he didn’t leave right away. Once again, he was at war with himself. He wanted to leave; he’d had enough talking. Still, there was something he had to say. “I’ve got people to kill, Grando. I’m not here to play games. We make bits, we earn potentia. I’m not interested in your business. We clear?”

  Grando’s eyes widened, and he took his foot off the desk, sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah, Hector, we’re clear. I’ll put the opportunities in front of you, and you knock ’em down.”

  Hector looked into his eyes for a long moment, as though he could see the verity within. Some people with systems developed talents like that. He never had, but who knew what sorts of surprises were in store for him in this new life?

  Maybe he smiled at the thought because all of a sudden Grando grinned and nodded. “That’s the spirit!”