Vicious Circle Page 4

  As the largest spaceport town on the planet of Deluge, Six Rivers tended to draw as many unsavory characters as law-abiding ones, which made it easier to lose myself among them and avoid the Guild. When they clashed, almost nightly, the bar could get noisy, but as my tab and intoxication grew, the arguments and broken glassware faded into a hazy oblivion.

  Good way to get yourself killed, an internal voice reminded me.

  “Do I really care?” I whispered to my empty mug.

  My younger self would never have permitted this nonchalance. As a Guild member, I drank little outside of the assassins’ stronghold. Alcohol dulled the senses, reduced accuracy and perception.

  My younger self needed to shut up.

  I could have gotten drunk in the basement studio apartment I now called home. That would have been safer. But without the camaraderie of the Guild, I felt desperate for some kind of human connection, even a distant one.

  The pain in my thigh reasserted itself, igniting a fuse cord that burned down to my heel and up to my hip. I sucked air through my teeth, then focused on even breathing until the aftershocks—sequentially decreasing throbs of torture—ebbed. In my jacket pocket, two small bulges pressed against my side, a constant enticement. If I concentrated hard enough, I could discern their shapes in detail, the smooth, rounded glass of the vial with the chipped plastic cover I’d taped to avoid leakage, and the fabric pouch of wrapped, sterile auto-injectors. The weight in that pocket had diminished considerably over the past few weeks.

  The next pain wave caught me off guard. It shot like a laser along the nerves in my leg. At the same moment, my shoulder injury joined the attack, sending white-hot agony across my chest. The two met somewhere around my rib cage, and I doubled over the edge of the table with a groan.

  This was bad, very bad, the worst I’d had since the damage occurred, and without some relief, I wasn’t walking out of here.

  “Are you all right?”

  My spine snapped straight, causing me more torment, and I took in Kila’s concerned expression. Though I hadn’t asked for it, she’d come to deliver my bill. Guess she figured I’d had enough. She placed the slip on the table with delicate, uncallused fingers. Her manicured nails clicked against the wood surface. Somewhere, in the liquor-dulled recesses of my mind, a niggling sensation of wrongness gnawed at me. I shoved it back under its alcoholic shroud.

  “I’m fine,” I managed, convincing no one. Blinking, I cleared the moisture from my vision.

  She frowned, lips pressing together, but said nothing more.

  I drew a few coins and a couple of wadded bills from my pocket and tossed them next to the check, purposely aiming one to bounce and hit the floor. While she turned away to pick it up, I used the table to brace myself and gained my feet without falling. This favorite table of mine sat next to the unisex lavatory—the perfect escape from her sympathy and sickening pity. I ducked inside and locked the door behind me before she straightened.

  Physical pain tasted almost as sweet as grief, and the ephems drank of the dark-haired woman’s pain, drawing it in through Kila’s pores like water through a strainer. It took effort. Almost more effort than they could manage after so much time spent dormant. For weeks they’d let her search, lying in wait within the girl, leading her to this world of legal edge-walkers.

  This woman. This woman might be the one, broken as she was, who could complete their task. She’d come and gone, each time a little darker, the scent of her more desperate as her dependencies grew.

  They could use this woman. She was the one.

  Auto-lights came on as I entered the restroom, startling the glossy-shelled beetle in the sink and sending it skittering down the drain. Maybe no one liked a mess, as Kila said, but the staff hadn’t cleaned the single-person lavatory in some time. My boots stuck to the tile, creating a sound like peeling tape with each step, and a layer of grime painted the toilet bowl a brownish-beige. The odor of bodily fluids thickened the air and turned my stomach, already queasy from not enough food and days of too much alcohol. I convinced myself I didn’t need to use the facilities.

  Instead, I braced myself in front of the cracked mirror, placing one palm on each side of the ceramic sink and clamping my fingers in place. These days, I tended to avoid my reflection, but I forced my head up to look. I didn’t recognize the person in the glass. Her sunken, bloodshot eyes met mine, the shadows around them so dark they looked blackened from a fistfight. Her hair hung around her face in lifeless strings, her complexion resembling that of a corpse.

  I knew how I’d come to this state and hated myself for it, but that didn’t stop one hand from releasing the sink and snaking into my jacket to withdraw the vial and injectors. Holding the glass container to the overhead light, I measured the remainder with my eyes. Two, maybe three doses left. More would be hard to acquire.

  Palotrin was an illegal narcotic. That didn’t concern me. In this neighborhood, finding a dealer meant stepping into the nearest dark alley. But the cost… I should tough it out, conserve my resources.

  A shiver of pure need and delicious anticipation passed through me, bordering on erotic. I filled the injector.

  I hated needles. This device minimized my discomfort, needing only to be held over bare skin to activate. I rolled up my sleeve and for a moment was transfixed by the Guild brand permanently embedded in my wrist. Once tattooed, nothing could remove the mark—crossed blades in a circle with a single thread binding them to each other. I yanked the cuff down and shoved up the other one.

  This arm, my right, bore half-healed scars of previous injections. They ran in an uneven line from my wrist to the crook of my elbow. Biting my lip, I picked an unblemished spot and held the injector over it, not quite in contact. The needle shot from the device, pierced my flesh, drove the palotrin into my bloodstream, and retracted, all in a blur too fast for the eye to follow. I dropped the used injector into the waste disposal unit and listened to its grinding whir while I waited for the drug to take effect.

  Experience told me that wouldn’t take long. The chemical traveled through my system, leaving iciness in its wake. I had about twenty minutes before I needed to be prone. After that, my muscles would go numb and I’d lose myself to the drug’s oblivion. Palotrin eased pain in even the worst sufferers, and that easing lasted a full standard day, but it also caused hallucinations and physical impairment, especially when mixed with alcohol.

  None of this presented an immediate problem. I lived a block away, a five-minute walk even with my limp. Normally I’d never take even this risk, but with the pain coming harder and more frequently than usual tonight, I doubted I would have gotten home without using the drug.

  I took a tentative step toward the exit, noting with satisfaction I could put weight on the leg without any pain.

  Something heavy slammed into the door from the opposite side, shaking the handle and the frame. A muffled grunt carried from the bar. I gradually became aware of distant shouting and breakage. Someone screamed; I thought it might be Kila. Then I heard the whine of a fired ripper and ducked to the side as the blast blew the old-fashioned wooden door inward, showering me with splinters. Rippers were brutal weapons, banned by the Guild and favored by those with fewer concerns about clean kills and causing pain.

  I leaned to peer through the new gap and went cold as I spotted one of the slavers attempting to drag Kila through the alley exit. He wasn’t having much success. The barmaid kicked and scratched like a wild feline. Her long nails dug into the man’s stubble-covered face, leaving a blood trail along his cheek. I smiled at his shout of pain. My grin faded when the slaver clubbed her in the side of the head with the butt of his gun. She slumped over his arm. Elsewhere in the main room, merchants slugged it out with the slaver’s friends. Kila was popular with the locals, and the attack started a minor riot in the Flagon’s Flood.

  The last thing I needed right now was to involve myself in a bar fight. Micah always warned me my soft spot for the innocent and helpless would ge
t me killed. Stay within the parameters of the contract. You can’t save everyone. Tonight might prove him correct. I didn’t have much time before numbness set in. I could almost feel it as the drug slowed my circulation and deadened nerve endings.

  I reached beneath my jacket and drew the pistol from my back holster. One quick check of the indicator noted the firearm as fully charged. Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the jagged opening in the door and joined the fray.

  Chapter 3

  THE FIRST drunken idiot to spot me ignored my weapon and attempted a headfirst charge. A sidestep sent him plowing through the remains of the bathroom door. I risked a glance over my shoulder to see him sprawled on the tile floor, passed out.

  One good thing about a bar fight—alcohol leveled the playing field somewhat. But even drunk I could shoot better than most, and my hand-to-hand combat skills remained superior. Of course, having more feeling in my hands would have helped.

  I managed to fire my pistol once, taking down a slaver holding a wooden chair over his head ready to smash on a cowering local businessman. The shot caught him in the chest, throwing him backward against the bar. The chair dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor. He fell, legs twitching. Down and permanently out.

  I felt no remorse over the slaver’s death. The Guild trained its apprentices in detachment, one of the first lessons learned. The twinge of pleasure and satisfaction, however, surprised me. Usually I experienced no emotion at all. One more psychological rip to sew up later. I shook it off.

  The slaver had Kila halfway through the alley door. She’d regained consciousness but appeared dazed, making only halfhearted attempts to get away. I turned in their direction, ducking when a bottle flew over my head and shattered against the wall. Bits of broken glass showered me, catching in my hair, and fragments clung to my clothing. The movement was pure instinct. My peripheral vision sucked in low-lit bars.

  An explosion took a chunk out of the ceiling, dropping hot metal and plaster on the combatants while rain poured through the new hole. None of the other fighters paused or even noticed. I followed the source to the bar, where the bartender held a blast rifle and shook his head in disgust. We made eye contact, and I shrugged. Blast rifles caused more damage than they were worth. The weapon fired a pulse of energy that would leave a gaping hole in a wall or a body.

  The alley door swinging closed got my attention again, and I saw Kila and her attacker had vanished. I took a step to follow, but something dropped at my feet. Glancing down, I discovered my own pistol on the floor, and I stared at my empty hand.

  Attempts to tighten my right fist failed. The drug was taking hold, affecting my extremities first. I could close the fingers of my left around the weapon’s grip just long enough to return it to my back holster, but I felt like a fumbling toddler with undeveloped motor control.

  Well, there was more than one way to win a fight.

  Using my hip, I shoved through the door and stepped into the alley and the pouring rain.

  The area around the exit smelled of vomit, though the rain had washed visible evidence away. The water soaked through my trousers. My jacket’s material would resist the moisture a little longer. I used a sleeve to swipe strands of wet hair from my face and eyes. My vision was bad enough. I didn’t need additional impairments.

  Exterior lights illuminated the alley in splotches. The slaver had reached the far end with Kila. Her assaulter held her immobile while he leaned into the busier cross street, probably to check for bystanding do-gooders.

  “Let her go!” I shouted over the storm. I stood between two of the circles of lamplight and extended an arm outward as if holding a weapon. Discerning otherwise should have proved impossible in the dark.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. A flash of lightning bathed the entire alley in its yellow glare, revealing my empty hand and my ridiculous pose.

  I lowered my arm and rolled my eyes to the traitorous heavens. The slaver laughed, a grating sound that carried on the rising wind. Instead of escaping with his prize, he dragged her toward me, smirking and chuckling. The rain pasted Kila’s blouse to her skin, and she shivered, though whether that was cold, fear, or both, I couldn’t tell.

  “You have to be the worst merc in the history of the profession,” he said when he got close enough not to bellow. Unsure of my ability to walk, I let him continue his approach. One meaty arm wrapped around Kila’s chest over her breasts; the opposite hand clutched another bullet-thrower. He couldn’t seem to decide where to point it, at my head or my torso, and I realized he’d imbibed as much, if not more, than I had, not that it gave me any advantage with my other problems.

  “I’m not a merc,” I snarled. Mercs didn’t have my training or discipline—well, former discipline—no matter what they believed. The alleyway swayed, or maybe that was me, and I shuffled my feet farther apart for balance. My left boot kicked something that clanged, a piece of discarded metal piping.

  Kila watched with wide, frightened eyes. In the downpour I couldn’t discern tears from raindrops, but I suspected she was crying.

  Whatever happened tonight, I was not letting him take her.

  “What are you, then? Boozer? Addict? Idiot?” He took another step, then another. He wanted to be sure of his aim. With his slurred speech and the way he rocked when standing still, I couldn’t blame him.

  When we stood a mere two meters apart, I went into motion. The toe of my boot slid under the pipe, then kicked it up and out. I had no delusions of actually hitting my target, and I didn’t want to hurt Kila, but I got close enough. Besides, even if the bar did hit her, it wouldn’t do any permanent damage. The metal rod passed to the side of the slaver’s head within centimeters, near enough to distract him and force a dodge.

  At that moment, I threw myself forward, slamming into both of them with my shoulder. All three of us hit the pavement hard and separated. I heard metal skittering on concrete, and my eyes frantically sought the source.

  “Get the gun!” I shouted. My roll sent me careening into a damaged auto-recycling bin. The lid popped, and overflowing garbage buried me. I shoved away soiled papers, half-eaten food, and empty containers with my shoulders and knees. My arms had gone numb from the elbows down. My feet tingled. Toes didn’t exist. Rolling, then rocking back and forth for momentum, I managed to end up on my rear.

  Kila stood over the slaver, holding his gun to his head. Dramatic but acceptable. He glared at me. I didn’t like what needed to happen next, but I could think of no alternative. I couldn’t think of much at the moment. Dark, shadowy things crawled at the edges of my vision. For now, I recognized them as the drug-induced hallucinations they were. I ignored them since they weren’t real to me. At least not yet.

  “Club him or kill him,” I said, my voice soft. Training apprentices didn’t bother me. They volunteered to learn the assassin trade. This girl embodied innocence. No one should force another to do violence, but I had no choice.

  Kila’s ragged breath caught at my command. The hand that held the weapon trembled. She backed away from the slaver, never diverting her aim, and she didn’t look at me, but she ended up by my side. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  The slaver watched us, eyes darting from my face to hers. If he saw an opportunity to attack or escape, he’d take it. The rain continued to pour from above. I should have felt cold, but I felt little. “Neither can I.” My chest tightened. Confessing to weakness chiseled one’s headstone. I glanced at the slim figure beside me and sighed. At this point I had no choice but to trust her. I wasn’t getting home under my own power. “Palotrin.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn from the slaver. Working in the bar, she would have seen plenty of addicts, even though she’d begun her employment there only shortly after my own arrival on Deluge. And she’d certainly seen me stagger out once or twice, or, well, more.

  “Sooner or later, his friends in the bar are going to show up.”

  Kila gave me one last hopeless glance, which
I faced head-on. Limbs jerking mechanically, she moved to the man’s side, then behind him. He closed his eyes. She closed hers and swung the butt of the gun at his head. It made an audible crack when it impacted with his skull. He toppled, and I cringed. The kid had no idea how to gauge a knockout blow. That strike fractured the slaver’s cranium. I knew by the sound. If he didn’t die from the injury, he’d certainly have brain damage. I peered into the shadows, trying to detect the rise and fall of his chest, and saw no motion.

  If grief and pain were sweet like dessert, then death was the main course.

  Unable to resist, the ephems surged from Kila’s body, flowing out her nostrils in a puff of chilled breath, then clinging low to the asphalt to resemble rain-induced mist.

  A touch of life force hung about the slaver, too weak to offer any resistance to the invading entities. They surged into his gaping mouth, the tongue lolling to one side, drops of bloody drool coming from one corner to spatter the pavement and wash away in the downpour. No breath to aid the ephems here. They traveled down his throat under their own power.

  Deep in his chest, the man’s heart gave a few final beats. Resuscitation might even have been successful, if done immediately. Sirens approached. There was a chance.

  The ephems wrapped around the crucial muscle and squeezed—squeezed until it burst and the blood flow from the slaver’s mouth turned from droplets to a small stream. Then they soaked up the energy, the essence, dividing it between them and restoring depleted reserves.

  Exiting the way they’d come, they returned to Kila on the girl’s next shuddering gasp.

  She’d done it. She’d taken life, albeit unintentionally. Accident or not, once meant she could do it again. Perhaps they had been too hasty in seeking another killer.