2179 AD: Mankind has colonized the solar system. The colonies of the outer system ("The Jovians") begin a war of independence from Earth and the inner system ("The Terrestrials").
After a bloody battle waged mainly in the asteroid belt, the Jovians get word of an Earth project to clone an army of genetically-engineered super-warriors that would shift the tide of the war. In desperation, a Jovian armada nudges an iridium-rich asteroid into a collision course with Earth.
The homeworld of the human race is rendered uninhabitable. Civilization on Earth ends.
Year 25 of the Second Age of Man (2204 AD): The Jovians and the Terrestrials avoid each other wherever possible. As neutral territory for the trade that keeps the system alive, the Jovians have terraformed the asteroid Ceres, creating a trading post housing half-a-million souls. It is an oasis of civilization in the lawless Belt.
The outpost is called Alexandria Station.
The man and the girl make their way along an ill-lit corridor, staying close together, but not touching. She is barely a meter tall, her long blonde hair pulled back at the temples, the shape of her hidden by a long poncho of rough fabric. His hair is military-short, his clothes snug-fitting and practical, a pistol at his hip in a partially-concealed holster.
Piles of boxes, pipe and loose rock stand in clumps along the corridor, forcing them to weave between to keep moving.
As they pass a particularly tall stack, there is a shout and the man is knocked sideways, his attacker throwing a blanket over him to cover his attack. The girl flinches backward, stumbling and falling into a pile of boxes.
Her escort and the attacker tumble through the refuse, flailing limbs searching for vulnerable points. She scrambles backward between the boxes, peeking out. Terror fills her eyes as she watches the battle.
With a roar, her escort hurls the attacker bodily across the corridor and into the rock wall. The attacker winces in pain, holding his back. He tries to crawl away as her companion moves in on him, muttering.
"Gutter rat," her protector says as he draws his pistol.
A glint of steel from beneath the attacker's clothing, and the military man is staggering backward, blood pouring from one calf. He struggles to bring the gun to bear, but the attacker is upon him, a fist-knife clutched in one hand, the finger-length blade jutting from between two knuckles.
The attacker falls upon him, punching with the blade. The military man makes a few choked grunting noises, then lies still.
From between the boxes, the girl's eyes are full of fright. She stays motionless, watching the attacker slowly get to his feet.
He stretches his back, gently touching the spot where he hit the wall. He scans the area.
"Your little guard-dog's gone now, Missy. Best come out and show yourself."
She trembles uncontrollably.
He wipes the blade on one grubby trouser-leg, and holds it up so the light glints from it.
"This can go badly for you, you know. You don't want that."
She bites her lip, tears pouring down her cheeks.
He looks around the edge of a pile, stepping softly.
"Here, kittykittykitty..."
She covers her head with her arms, eyes tightly shut. She shakes her head violently: no, no, no!
He takes another step. He is inches away now.
"Here, k---"
There is a low growl.
He stops, looking around, blade up. His brow furrows.
Beneath the boxes, her eyes open wide. The pupils have expanded to obliterate the irises, making her blue eyes look jet black. She has begun to pant.
The attacker swings his blade casually around him, looking in every direction.
"Somebody having a laugh?" he says.
Silence.
"You can have some of what he got, if you don't clear out! This ain't your business!"
Another low growl: longer, deeper.
His motions are sharper, more erratic. He tries to point the blade everywhere at once, his eyes wild.
The shadows between the boxes and pipe are deep: many strange shapes hide within.
He scrambles on the floor for the military man's gun, coming up with it in a two-fisted grip.
"All right, then. I said--"
The tiger leaps from the shadows, its roar filling the world.
He brings the gun around and fires, once, twice...
Then the tiger is on him. A great white tiger, over two meters long, paws the size of a man's head, teeth like bone knives.
The noises are horrible. And wet. The man has time to scream once. It cuts off suddenly.
She cowers beneath the boxes, arms over her head, shaking her head over and over. Whispering to herself.
The tiger roars again, loud enough to wake the gods.
The sign over the door says "The Silk Road" in curvaceous, middle-eastern-style script. She moves through the crowds at the entrance without a glance left or right, pushing between clumps of drinkers. One man begins to protest, then catches a good look at her. The complaint turns to a noise of approval.
The crowd is very male. Working-class men with rough clothes and rougher language, laughing together and pounding one another on the back. Empty shot glasses cover the tables and every hand holds a beer mug.
She collects many stares as she crosses the floor and reaches the bar. She pushes between two drinkers and waves down the bartender.
"Vodka," she says.
He glares at her.
She unzips the collar of her one-piece body suit and withdraws a card on a lanyard. Plugging it into a slot on the stained bartop, a large crystal embedded next to it glows a bright green.
"Vodka," she says again.
The bartender shrugs. Taking a shot glass from the back bar, he squints into it, spits and wipes it out with the corner of his grubby apron. He slides it across the bar to her, then produces a white plastic jug from under the bar, splashing a liberal amount into the glass.
She nods to him, then tosses back the shot. A mixture of pain and ecstasy flows across her face, her eyes closed. After a moment, she exhales and sets the glass on the bar.
The bartender is staring at her, a smile curling the ends of his mouth.
"Another," she says.
He shakes his head slightly, the smile growing.
She taps the crystal, which is still glowing green. "Another," she says again.
He chuckles, then turns and yanks the pull-cord of an ancient brass bell attached to the back bar above his head. It rings shrilly.
"Blue flamer!" he shouts, loud enough for the whole bar to hear him.
"Blue flamer!" comes the chorus, heads turning from all around to stare at the woman.
She scowls at him, then looks around her at all the staring faces.
The drinker on her right, a slender man with blonde hair and young features, taps her forearm.
"They call the new hotshot prospectors 'blue flamers' because they come out to the Belt so fired up to make their fortune they've practically got blue flames shooting out their asses."
The bartender refills her glass, the smile still there.
"They don't last long. Brightest candles burn out quickest, if you get my meaning."
She looks around her. The whole room is transfixed.
She raises the glass with great ceremony and downs the shot at a gulp.
There is a murmur of approval. The bartender looks unimpressed.
She smiles back at him, then rears back and hurls the glass into the back bar mirror. The giant mirror explodes into shards with a deafening crash.
"Blue flamer!" the crowd roars, slamming each other on the back and banging their mugs together.
The bartender glares at her, teeth bared. She smiles back at him, the men behind her pounding her on the back and laughing. On the counter in front of her, the crystal has turned a ruby red. She pulls the card from out of her suit and plugs it back into the bar with some force.
The crystal turns green again. The bartender smiles and puts another glass in front of her.
The tunnel is crowded. Men in uniforms search among the boxes, shining flashlights into the shadows. A solidly-built officer with grey at his temples stands in the middle of the aisle, light shining down on the corpses. His eyes are distant.
A man in a suit brushes several men out of his way as he comes. He stops next to the corpse. "Bloody hell," he says.
"That's right," says the officer, not looking up.
"We've confirmed he's a Terrestrial?"
The officer nudges the well-dressed man's foot. "This one's a Moon colonist. Torchship captain. Served in the war. Not sure about the other one."
"Bloody hell." The suit scans the area, wringing his hands. "What do you suppose came through here? Looks like a riot scene."
"I've got some men questioning the locals, but they don't like to talk to Security down here."
"Imagine that."
"Two people have said they saw a young girl leaving the scene, but no one else."
"How young?"
"About so big." The officer holds his hand out at hip-height.
"What, a little girl tore him half to shreds and beat him to death?"
"The Moonie was definitely stabbed. There's blood on the fist-knife that matches the stains on this one's knuckles."
"So this fine specimen jumps the tourist for his credits, kills him, then slices himself to pieces out of remorse?"
"No one admits to seeing anyone else leave. But we did get some other strange stories."
"Like what?"
The officer smiles. "You're not going to like it."
"Then it will join a very long list of things I've heard today that I don't like."
"They say they heard something."
"Something like...?"
"They said it sounded like... a tiger. Or a lion. Some big cat, anyway."
The suit stares at him. "A lion."
"Or a tiger."
"Wandering the outer hull of Alexandria Station, eating muggers?"
The officer shrugs.
"How many people told you this story?"
"Everybody."
"Everybody?"
"We've interviewed about fifteen people so far, and everybody who'll admit to being anywhere around here says they heard some kind of jungle cat. Roaring and screaming loud enough to wake the rocks. Some human screaming, too, but they all made a point to say that it wasn't all human. Said it was the scariest thing they ever heard. Most of them ran."
"Which is why they didn't see the real perpetrator leave!"
The officer shrugs. "It's possible."
"Look, Wyatt. I'm not interested in the drug-addled nightmares of a bunch of outer hull low-lifes. When word gets out that a Terrestrial citizen was killed aboard this station, my inbox will start filling up with a lot of messages that I'd rather not have to answer."
"I understand."
"Are we in agreement that this mess must be resolved in the most efficient manner possible, and with the minimum press involvement?"
"Well, it's not like any of them want to come down here if they don't have to. Might take them away from their cocktail parties."
"Let's not rely on that. All it takes is one young punk with ambition and we're on the Prime Channel five times an hour. This is the sort of thing that can end careers if it's not handled properly."
"And whose career would that be exactly, Mr. Borgia?"
Borgia glares at him. "Hard to tell, Mr. Wyatt. Hard to tell."
They stare at one another a long moment.
Borgia straightens his jacket. "For the moment, I propose an alternate story."
"An alternate."
"This poor fellow," he kicks the mugger's shoe absently. "And his partner..." He raises his eyebrows and nods at Wyatt. "He and his partner, who were likely not on the best of terms: no honor among thieves, and all that, were lurking down here waiting for this Moonie fellow. Not him in particular, mind you, just any tourist with some balance to his name. Definitely not part of a organized series of attacks on Terrestrials: no, no. The two of them kill the tourist, argue over the credits and the missing man kills his partner. Happens all the time."
"I suppose it does," says Wyatt.
Borgia pats down his hair. "All right, then, Mr. Wyatt. I'll expect a full report by the end of the day."
"Absolutely. Your status reports are my top priority."
Borgia scowls at him.
Wyatt watches Borgia as he strides away. A uniform approaches him.
"Sir, we're about done here. It looks like he'd been hiding over there for some time: we found some empty snack packets and a half-empty bottle of Proof. He must have jumped out when the victim got to this point, but he couldn't finish him off clean. Must have caught his own blade as this other fellow was dying." They both stare a moment.
"Attacker's clothes are pretty ripped up, aren't they, Jenkins? The Moonie's got just the one puncture wound, but this guy's shirt's a mess."
"Yes, sir. Ripped, as opposed to torn. All burst seams and popped buttons. And where's all the blood? Not what you expect from a knife attack."
"Or a tiger?" Wyatt examines Jenkins reaction.
Jenkins smiles. "We don't really believe that mumbo, do we, sir?"
Wyatt shrugs. "The Admin is very concerned about Prime Channel getting wind of an escaped man-eating tiger on Alex Station."
"Well, if it is a tiger, she must not have liked the taste of this one."
"Can you blame her?"
"No, sir. These outer hull types give me gas."
They chuckle together.
"What else did the Admin want, sir?"
"The usual, Jenkins. The usual."
Jenkins nods. "So... a man-eating tiger on the Prime Channel, huh?"
Wyatt stares into space a long moment. "Let's keep this between you and me for the moment, Mr. Jenkins."
"Yes, sir."
Wyatt starts down the tunnel, hands in pockets. "Now if anybody reports an attack by a grain-fed Angus cow, maybe with a side of home fries, you page me immediately, understand?"
"Day or night, Mr. Wyatt."
She sits in a booth in the corner of The Silk Road, hands wrapped around a beer, eyes staring into the middle distance. The drinkers have gone back to their conversations and she is alone.
The slender blonde who spoke to her at the bar approaches with a beer mug in either hand.
"Not going to do anymore throwing, are you?" he asks.
"The night is young."
He holds up the beers. "I brought peace offerings."
She indicates her nearly-full mug.
"The night is young," he says, sliding into the opposite side of the booth and pushing one mug into the middle of the table.
He makes a production out of wiping his hand on his pant leg, then extends it toward her. "I'm Cass," he says.
She takes it perfunctorily. "Venus."
"Venus," he says, nodding.
"No jokes."
"What? You don't like people comparing you to the goddess of love, of beauty?"
"No."
"How about the planet with crushing pressure, scalding temps and the overall smell of rotting eggs?"
"Not so much."
"Ah. Then my work here is done."
"Be seeing you, then." She flashes him an insincere smile.
"How those blue flames working out for you?"
She squeezes her beer mug harder. "Look, is it annoy-the-new-girl day or something?"
"Just trying to make conversation."
"I hope you have other job skills, then, or you're going to starve. Alone."
"You are a prospector, though. Aren't you?"
"If I said no, would you go away?"
"Not likely." He touches a hand to his chest. "I'm a prospector. Me and my brother fly a two-ship. The Leda."
"Fascinating."
"I can usually spot the type. Rugged, determined, independent. Very little use for other people."
"Didn't take in your case, then?"
"Not so much, no. My brother, now..."
"Hey, little brother." A much bigger man appears next to Cass. He is dark-haired and dark-eyed and he looks nothing like Cass. He picks up the beer from the table and takes a gulp. "Who's the femme?"
"Pollux, this is Venus. Venus, my brother."
She hooks a finger at the giant. "This is your brother?"
"We're twins, actually." To her expression, he adds, "Fraternal."
Pollux takes another large gulp. "Look, if you're done with the foreplay or whatever, Chester's squawking about the tab again."
At the bar, the bartender is wiping out glasses and glaring at the three of them.
"What's the matter with your card? It's the same account."
Pollux shrugs and drains the mug. "Forgot it back on the ship." He hands the mug to Cass. "Get me another one while you're up there, OK?"
To Venus, Cass says, "Back in a minute."
"Take your time."
Pollux and Venus size each other up doubtfully.
"It ain't a very big ship, you know," he says.
"What?"
"The Leda. Kinda cozy."
"So?"
He picks at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. "I just hope you don't make a lot of noise, is all."
"A lot of what?"
"You know, a lot of 'oh, ahh, Cass, oh God...' Like that. Makes me itch." He waves his arms wildly in the air to punctuate the noises.
"You son-of-a--"
A passerby punches Pollux in the shoulder, and he smiles and turns to return the favor. The sleeve of his t-shirt rides up, revealing a tattoo of a white tiger on his right bicep.
Venus stops her tirade in mid-curse. She stares at the tattoo.
"What is that?"
"Hmm? What's what?"
"That tattoo. Is that a white tiger?"
He pulls the sleeve down automatically. "So what if it is? A man need to get permission or something?"
She leans back in the booth, stretching an arm across the back. A smile curls the edges of her mouth and she runs a hand through her long hair. "I find white tigers fascinating."
He looks at her like she's grown another head.
"O...K..."
"Why don't you sit down and tell me about it. Was it a military thing, or--"
Cass reappears, a fresh beer in his hand. "All settled. So, what are we talking about?"
Pollux takes the mug from him and takes a half-step backwards. "I was just leaving."
"No," she says, smile broadening. She pats the seat next to her. "Sit with us and talk. Come on."
"Yeah, Pol, sit down and talk. She's a prospector, too."
Pollux takes another step back, still looking like she might bite him. He bumps into a smaller man in colorful, flowing garments and a black turban. The man squawks loudly and turns around. His moustache and small beard are immaculately trimmed, but they give his face an untrustworthy appearance.
"Laffite!" Pollux says, forgetting about Venus. "Where's our money?" He grabs the shorter man by the front of the shirt with the hand that's not holding the beer mug.
"Oh, now, Pollux. How many times must we have this conversation? The credits are gone. Poof! You make an investment, you take a risk. Sometimes these risks do not pay off."
Pollux shakes the man sharply. "You said it was a sure thing, not a risk. We threw an entire load of ore into your little scheme."
"Come, come, my hormonal friend. You cannot win them all. We have made money together in the past, have we not?"
Pollux pulls Laffite's face closer to his. "Hmm. You know, I'm having a hard time remembering."
"I'm drawing a blank over here, too, Jean," says Cass.
"Why don't you refresh our memories, huh?"
Laffite laughs. "Ah, now you pull my leg."
"I'll pull it right off if you don't cough up our credits." Pollux lifts the man clear of the floor by his lapels.
"Ah, Pollux my good friend, I had forgotten the sweet smell of your breath. Like a waste disposal site after Carnival."
Pollux roars and heaves Laffite away from him. Laffite sprawls across a table, raining glasses and mugs everywhere and knocking over several large men.
"Oh, hell," Cass says, downing the last of his beer.
"Things were getting a little dull around here anyway," Pollux says, hefting an empty beer mug as the three men from under Laffite advance on him. He smashes the first one in the head with the mug and the fight is on.
The girl wanders the main corridors of the station, eyes glazed. People flow by her without a glance. She moves away from the crowd down a side tunnel, looking in the windows of shops and restaurants.
She stops outside a shop, looking at a marionette dangling in the window. It is a dancer, with blonde hair pulled back and delicate limbs. She smiles up at it and wanders in the doorway. The sign at the entrance reads "East Alexandria Trading Company".
At the counter, a man in flashing, flowing garments leans on one elbow, deep in conversation with the man behind the counter. The proprietor is a middle-aged, greying and portly. He holds a silvery, egg-shaped object about the size of two fists held together.
"It's so light!" the proprietor says, hefting the object.
"That's because it's junk," says a thirty-something woman as she passes behind him with a small pile of folded clothing. She has mediterranean features and jet-black hair.
The man in the flashy clothes ignores him and nods sagely. "Exactly. Light, phenomenally strong, and best of all..." He winks at the proprietor. "Superconductive."
The proprietor's eyes are wide. He whistles appreciatively.
"Super-something," the woman says, rolling her eyes.
"Now, you understand my hesitation over even bringing this out in the open, much less leaving it in your care for a time. This piece is solid and nearly one hundred percent pure. For those with the proper technology to utilize it, it would fetch ten thousand credits, minimum. So you understand, this would not be the sort of thing you could display in the window."
The proprietor holds up a hand to silence him. "I understand completely. I will store it in my personal safe until your return. For a small deduction, we can put a six-month hold on the item: it wouldn't be offered to the public until after that."
The man claps his hands together. "That would be wonderful. My journey should not take more than a month. The rest of my cargo should fetch ten times the five hundred credits I would ask for this small specimen."
"Five hundred credits!" the woman shouts. "No! Absolutely not!"
"Camelia..." hisses the proprietor. "You are insulting our guest." He flashes her an angry look, then smiles weakly at the customer.
"Rico, he's a shyster! Look at him! Does he dress like an explorer? He looks like one of those dandies that lurks in the casino, separating rich widows from their estates."
He smiles at her like a shark. "My lady, I assure you the item is quite genuine. I have merely changed from my working clothes into something more suitable for meetings with my clients. If the expenses of my expedition hadn't pushed my finances to their utmost limit, you can be assured I would not consider such a desperate fund-raising measure."
She glares at him, arms crossed at her breasts.
Turning back to Rico, the customer says, "Sir, if our transaction will cause your lovely colleague--"
"Wife," she hisses.
The customer blinks, then continues. "--cause your lovely wife undue stress, give it not another thought. I will find another way to fund my trip to Ganymede. I beg pardon for taking up your time."
"Thank you for dropping by," Camelia says, returning his shark-like smile.
The customer reaches for the object, but Rico lays a hand atop it. "No, sir. I apologize for my wife's manners. Her suspicious nature sometimes gets the best of her. I run my shop, and I say the deal is done." He withdraws a box from under the counter and lifts the lid.
"Arrgh!" she says, throwing her hands in the air and grabbing up the pile of clothes again.
As Rico counts out the man's money, the girl slips into the store and stands behind the window display, gazing up at the marionette. Her smile is peaceful. The doll begins to sway ever so slightly.
At the counter, Rico and the man shake hands and the man waves goodbye.
"Best of luck to you!" Rico says. "See you next month!"
The man waves again, glancing down at the girl as he goes by. The smile is now the cat that ate the canary. She shrinks back behind a table as he passes, then watches him as he strolls down the corridor, touching his hat for every wealthy-looking lady that passes.
Back at the counter, Rico and Camelia are arguing again.
"You are the stupidest man ever to live! That man is a thief!"
He smiles indulgently at her. "Camelia, you are a beautiful, shrewd woman, but sometimes I think you are paranoid! That man will be back in a month to retrieve his stone and we will be a hundred credits to the better. Have faith, my little one."
She picks up the object in one hand, hefting it. Rico wrings his hands, watching her intently.
"Goodness, Rico, it is light."
"Now, angel..."
She smashes it down on the countertop, and it breaks into several pieces. It is hollow.
Rico stares at the broken pieces, shoulders slumped.
"Ah! Now I see why it is superconductive, Rico. It is full of foolishness!"
Camelia storms off into the back. Rico picks up a piece and it breaks in his hand.
Back at the front window, the girl reaches up for the doll, but it hangs just out of her reach. She tilts her head to one side, smiling at it. The marionette rotates slowly toward her and the head tilts down, its painted-on smile beaming at her. It raises an arm and waves at her.
"Thief!" shouts Rico, grabbing the little girl's arm. The doll collapses back to its original pose. "Thieving little urchin!"
The girl twists wildly in his grip, a high-pitched mewling coming from her, like a distressed kitten. Rico grabs her other arm to keep her from escaping.
"If you like pretty things, you bring me pretty credits to pay for them, or I bring you to an ugly little jail cell in zero-gravity!"
"Rico!" Camelia says, grabbing his ear and twisting it. He bellows in pain and lets go of the girl with one hand.
Camelia slides the girl's other arm out of his grip and envelopes her. "Are you mad, old man? She is just a baby!"
"A baby old enough to steal!" he says, massaging his ear. "She wanted the dancing doll in the window. I saw her plain as night."
Camelia takes the marionette down from the hook and gets down on one knee. The girl's face lights up immediately, and she strokes the doll's clothes and hair with her fingertips.
"Agghh!" he says, waving at her. "You berate me for buying things that have no value, and now you are giving away our stock to shoplifters."
Camelia only has eyes for the girl, stroking her hair the way the girl strokes the doll's. "She is a scared little girl, Rico. Besides, her parents should be along any moment. Do you think they would buy it for her if they came upon you shaking her like a pair of dice?"
His arms wave as he speaks. "Why don't we put up a sign? Rico and Camelia's Everything Free Shop. We'd be cleaned out and sleeping on the outer hull by midnight."
"Did you lose your parents, little one?" Camelia asks the girl.
The girl shakes her head, still playing with the doll.
Camelia frowns. "No? Are they in the corridor?"
Another shake of the head.
Camelia look up at Rico, face full of concern. He is glaring down, arms crossed.
"You are alone?"
The girl nods.
Camelia gasps and clutches the girl close. The girl ignores her, transfixed by the doll.
"What is your name, angel?"
"Amp," she says quietly.
"Amp?" says Rico.
Camelia shushes him. "Hello, Amp. I am Camelia, and this stupid man is Rico. He is a fool and you are to do nothing he tells you."
"OK," Amp giggles.
"There will be no instructions to disobey, because she is going to Security, right this moment!"
"I told you he was a fool," Camelia says, tickling Amp's cheek. The little girl smiles at her and begins playing with Camelia's hair.
"Camelia-a-a..."
She scowls up at him. "You would turn an orphan over to those thugs and tyrants? Rico, I have often thought you foolish, but never evil. If you make that suggestion again, I may have to change my mind."
"Agghh!" Rico says again, waving his hands. "We don't know she is an orphan. She may be a liar as well as a thief. She has wandered away from the hotel, and her parents will be at the station looking for her! What will they say when they find you hiding her in the back bribing her with ice cream?"
"Ice cream!" Camelia says. "An excellent idea. Would you like some, little Amp?"
Amp nods and her eyes go wide.
"Kidnapping!" Rico whispers fiercely, glancing over his shoulder at the people going by the shop. "That's what they will say, Camelia. You can't take in small children like stray kittens!"
She waves over her shoulder at him as she herds Amp toward the curtain leading to the back room. "Feh, Rico. No one who takes care of a lost child is a kidnapper. When they present to me an acceptable mother, they may have her back. For now, it is our moral duty to care for the child."
They disappear into the back, leaving Rico wringing his hands. He looks over his shoulder out the front door, waves with false levity at a passerby, then winces.
A chair flies over the bar at the bartender, who ducks just in time. It smashes the other end of the giant mirror. As he pokes his head up, Venus stands up on the other side of the bar and says, "Now that one was not my fault."
"Look out!" Cass shouts, tumbling by in a wrestling hold with a man much bigger than he, crashing into a nearby table. The combatant throws an uppercut into Cass's belly, dropping him to the floor. The man stumbles slightly, then his eyes focus on Venus, and his expression becomes predatory.
She smiles brightly at him, then grabs a hunk of his hair in each hand and jump-smashes her knee into his face. He collapses in a heap at her feet. She smacks her hands together and grins at the bartender, who is cowering behind the bar, watching her.
Across the bar, Pollux has Laffite bent backward over a booth table. He's trying furiously to punch Laffite's lights out, but two men are hanging on his punching arm, and he can barely keep his footing. Laffite has his arms covering his face, whining like a puppy.
A series of piercing whistles fills the air, and a dozen uniformed guards burst through the door, hurling patrons away as they come. The assailants get one last punch or kick in, then stand up, stretching and wincing. Most help the man they were fighting to his feet. There is scattered laughter.
"All right! Fun's over!" Wyatt comes through the door wearing a look of distaste. He stands in the middle of the floor like he prefers not to touch anything in the room.
Venus helps Cass to his feet. His hair is disheveled and his shirt torn, but he is unmarked.
"Thanks," he says. He rights a chair and settles into it with a grimace.
"This a pretty normal night for you?" she asks.
He shrugs. "He is my brother."
"Mr. Oort, imagine finding you here."
Cass rolls his eyes and stands to face Wyatt. The gaze at each other a moment.
"I imagine your beefier half is around, as well?"
Across the room, Pollux is drinking the remains of someone's beer and dabbing blood from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.
"Mr. Oort, this is the third time this month I have answered an alert to find you and your brother dressed in torn clothing and surrounded by broken furniture. Any wagers on why this might be?"
"I'm not the trained security professional, Mr. Wyatt."
"True enough. But you have spent a bit of time talking with us, so why don't you take a wild guess?"
"Could it be his weasel musk cologne just drives you guys wild?" Venus says agreeably.
Wyatt turns to her as if he's just noticed her. He examines her openly, then smiles and extends a hand. "Jack Wyatt. Head of Security for Alexandria Station."
Venus looks at his hand, then puts her hands in her pockets.
His smile turns genuine. "I take it you're new here on the station, miss...?"
She stares at him a long moment. "Venus."
"Venus...?"
"Just Venus."
He nods. "I see. Well Venus, I highly recommend the station's orientation tour. Excellent for alerting the new visitor to all the places to go..." He looks down at the spilled beer and broken glass littering the bar, which the bartender is wiping up with a towel. "And the places not to."
"And what sorts of places are those, Mr. Wyatt?"
"If the lady is only on the station for a short time, we have many attractions that would be much more entertaining than this one. Unless you'll be staying with us longer?"
She rocks back and forth on her heels. "I don't know, Mr. Wyatt. I think this place is... well, a riot."
Wyatt chuckles. "A riot. Very sharp."
She laughs insincerely, arms crossed over her chest.
"All joking aside, miss, a lady such as yourself shouldn't have to rub shoulders with this sort."
"Really, Mr. Wyatt? And who should I be rubbing shoulders with, exactly?"
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then bites his lip. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay on Alex Station, miss. If there's anything Security can do to help, please let me know."
She stares at him with her mouth closed until he looks away.
"All right, Castor, let's find that side of beef you call a brother and get this over with."
"Oh, come on, Wyatt. Do we have to go through this again? You're just going to fine us. I can pay it here and save you a lot of paperwork." He holds up his ident card.
Wyatt takes hold of Cass's upper arm and shakes his head. "And deprive Mr. Jenkins of the pleasure of your company? Perish the thought."
Camelia and Amp sit at a small table in a cramped kitchen, Amp eats ice cream from a bowl and kicks her feet under the table. Camelia stares at her, her lips in a soft smile. She brushes stray hair from the girl's face with her fingertips. Amp smiles up at her, ice cream smeared across one cheek.
"Some more?" Camelia asks.
Amp looks down at her bowl, biting her lip.
"How you going to grow nice big moons so the men all do what you want if you don't eat enough ice cream, eh?" She squeezes her arms at her sides to accentuate her breasts and does a big Hollywood kiss. They giggle together.
Camelia smiles and picks up the bowl.
Rico bursts through the curtain from the front of the store, pointing his finger at Amp. "I told you she is a criminal!"
"Oh, what now?"
"I heard two of the deliverymen talking. There was a double murder near the outer hull last night!"
Camelia's eyes light up. "A double murder? Anyone we know? Tell me it was that fat cow Letitia and her imbecile sister." She spoons a big bite of ice cream into her mouth.
"Camelia! How can you joke?"
She shrugs and spoons more ice cream into the bowl. "A girl can dream, Rico. So what does this have to do with our Amp?"
"'Our' Amp? Now she is 'our' Amp?"
"Until circumstances change, we are taking care of the child. We will need a cover story to explain her to people like that fat cow Letitia and her imbecile sister. I have decided that she can be my sister's daughter, on holiday here from the Moon. I will dye her hair and trim it and no one will be the wiser."
"This is madness! She was involved in a murder! For all we know, she planned it herself!" He stares down at her, eyes wild.
Amp looks back and forth between them, eyes wide and lips trembling.
Camelia notices the child's panic, and she slips into the chair across from her, taking Amp's hands in hers.
"Did you see this murder, angel?"
Amp nods, gaze still switching from Camelia to Rico and back again.
"Oh, you poor baby! What a horrible thing for one so young..." She pulls Amp close, wrapping her in her arms.
"Camelia, come to your senses..."
"Oh, Rico, look at her. Is she a master criminal? Perhaps a sharpshooter on some terrorist attack team? Go and run your shop: I will tend to the child."
Rico wrings his hands. "She cannot stay, Camelia. Whatever happened to those men could happen to us next."
"Why would anyone want to kill us, foolish man? For your superconductive egg?"
"For her," he says.
Camelia pulls back from Amp slightly so she can look in the child's face. "Did you know those men, little one?"
Amp pauses. "I knew Captain Reynolds," she says slowly.
"He was your chaperone?"
Amp frowns.
"He took care of you?" Camelia says.
Amp nods, eyes filling with tears. "The bad man killed him. Stabbed him in the belly."
Camelia and Rico both gasp.
"What happened then?" Rico asks.
"Rico, please! Be sensitive. The girl has been through a terrible ordeal."
Rico scowls, then picks up the ice cream container and scoops a mouthful with his fingers.
"Ignore him, Amp. His understanding of people is exceeded only by his ability to stick his elbow in his ear. Now... What happened then?"
Amp begins trembling. "Then the...the..."
"Yes, yes?" Rico slips into the other chair, still eating. He is enthralled.
"Then the tiger came and ate him."
Camelia drops the bowl on the floor with a clatter and Rico freezes in mid-scoop.
Borgia sits in his office, sunk into his chair. On the walls are enormous posters of Alex Station eclipsing the sun, the bazaars full of smiling, laughing tourists, Alex Station security standing at attention under the slogan "We're watching out...for you!"
There is a buzzing and he touches the top of enormous desk.
"Message arriving from Ganymede: priority one," says a gentle computer voice.
"Who's it from?" he says.
"Chairman Herbert Morrison," she says.
He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. "Play it."
The poster of the security guards goes black, replaced by a round-faced man with heavy jowls and a jovial smile.
"Borgia! Regards from Capital City. Spoke with your dear aunt the other day: phenomenal woman... extremely well-preserved. Sends her love, of course."
The chairman examines his nails as he speaks. "Just checking in, seeing what's new out there in the darker reaches. You wouldn't believe some of the stories we hear sometimes. It's amazing the press ever gets anything right."
The chairman chuckles. "For example, just this morning I heard the most ridiculous story about a double murder in Alex Station itself. And one of them a Terrestrial, to boot!"
Borgia covers his face in his hands.
The chairman is having difficulty containing his laughter. "I mean, really! As if an event like that would ever make the vids in the first place, in a tightly-run station such as yours. No, I said to myself, no possible way that my man Borgia would ever let a situation like that get so woefully out of control that the very integrity of the Jovian system was put at risk of an interplanetary incident!"
The chairman stops laughing abruptly and his eyebrows lower. "Because of course if a potentially explosive story like that were to gain considerable mindshare among the public, it might demonstrate that the Jovian government is not in proper control of its territories, as remote as they might be."
Borgia is messaging his temples, eyes shut.
"I do not expect to hear of this incident in tomorrow's news, Borgia. I do not expect to hear of it ever again. If I do hear of it, as anything more than wild speculation..."
Borgia opens his eyes fearfully.
"Well, space is an exceedingly large place. A man could get very lost... in the darker reaches."
After a moment's pause, the chairman brightens and his tone is conversational once more. "I sincerely hope to see you at the Equinox celebration this year, Borgia. Such a wonderful occasion: the very peak of the Jovian season. I will give your family your love. Morrison out."
The image goes black and the security poster reappears.
Borgia stares at it for a long moment, then yanks a drawer open. He bangs a glass on the tabletop and slops some amber liquid into it from a crystal container. He puts the container away and stares at the glass a long moment.
A bell chimes, and he looks up. "Who is it?"
"Head of security Wyatt," the computer says.
He sighs, dumps the drink in a potted plant and tosses the glass back in the drawer with a clank. "Open."
Wyatt enters.
Borgia slams the drawer shut and adjusts his jacket. "So have you found anything out?"
"The Moonie was stabbed."
"As I live and breathe. Really?"
Wyatt's voice remains even. "Blood on the fist-knife matches the Moonie's, stains on the thug's hand match the blade. Thug definitely killed him."
"Mr. Wyatt, perhaps it would save us a great deal of time if you just answered 'no' when I asked you that question."
Wyatt smiles thinly. "The interesting news is what happened to the thug."
"And what's that?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. No marks on him. Died of natural causes. Heart attack, most likely."
"Terribly coincidental, wouldn't you say?"
"Absolutely."
"What about the shredded clothing? He looked like he'd been mauled."
"The forensic team said they weren't cuts, just ripped material. They think he did it to himself."
"So, he jumps the Terrestrial, kills him, rends his garments and expires in a fit of existential angst?"
"That's what the forensic team said."
"How very Shakespearean. Well, I guess that's our main problem taken care of, at least. No tigers roaming the halls after all. Can't say I'm disappointed." Borgia steeples his fingers in front of his nose, tapping them together. "It's too late to keep the Moonie's identity as a Terrestrial a secret, though. Public relations nightmare, even without the beast involved."
"There is one other--"
"I have it!" Borgia claps his hands, standing. "The solution to all our problems."
"You do?"
"A Terrestrial traveller... and his brother..." Borgia points a finger at Wyatt, who watches impassively. "On some sort of shady mission or another on Alex Station, fall to arguing. They scuffle and kill each other. Terrestrial kills Terrestrial! Not our fault, you see. Not our place to get caught up in family affairs, now is it, Wyatt? Personal privacy and all that." His eyes flick from side to side as he thinks.
"But he wasn't a Terrestrial. We think he was a Belter. Born aboard ship somewhere. We're still looking into it."
Borgia points at Wyatt again. "Look, Wyatt. I'm telling you: he was a Terrestrial. Do you understand me?"
Wyatt pauses a long moment. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
"You can't do what?"
"A line of crap like that is sure to backfire now that the press is involved, and it'll be my face in the vids telling everyone he's a Moonie when he's really a Belter. Besides, all my men will know it's a lie."
"You don't trust your own crew?"
"Absolutely. And they trust me. Which is why I won't lie to them to save your silly public relations department some grief."
"Wyatt, let me explain something to you. Mining is not going to save this station. Mining is not going to make this station into what it is truly destined to be."
Wyatt blinks slowly, then stands at parade rest, looking at the ceiling.
"What this station is destined to be, Wyatt... is the center of the universe."
Borgia paces back and forth, hands gesturing wildly.
"Tens of thousands of people from both ends of the system arrive here every day. They bring their families, their money, their dreams. This is a world alarmingly short on dreams, Wyatt. Since the war, people have been reaching out, grasping desperately for some glimpse of the old days. Not the old days as they really were, but the way the wish they had been. The sort of stories your grandparents tell you. Times when dreams came true, when hard work paid off, when love lasted forever.
"I want this place to represent that lost ideal. I want it to be a place where the varied multitude of the human race can come to live out their dreams. Where families can be together, and dreams can be fulfilled. Where the past can live once more."
Wyatt looks at him. "For a price."
"Of course for a price! What do you think I am, an idiot?"
Wyatt gazes at the ceiling again.
"No utopia is free, Wyatt. It's built on sweat and toil and heartbreak, but the trick is to make sure that it's someone else doing the toiling! We can make Alex Station into the greatest aggregation of wealth in the Inner or Outer systems. But these things are built on perceptions. It's not about whether this place is safe or not, it's whether people believe it's safe. People die every day, everywhere. There's no getting around it. Pretending nothing bad ever happens to anyone is a fools' dream, but there are plenty of fools willing to pay to dream it. Alex Station can be the place for them."
"And then what?"
"Then what what?"
"Once every fool in the system is here throwing credits at us with both hands, then what will you do?"
"I'll get off this star-forsaken rock and go back to Ganymede a hero, that's what!"
Wyatt sighs.
"This is the part you should be interested in, Wyatt."
"How's that, sir?"
"There will be a political vacuum when I leave, Wyatt. I will be the shining star of the Jovian government, and my reward will be richly deserved. I will return to my family a hero. That means someone must take my place at the helm of Alex Station. Who better than my trusted Head of Security, Mr. Jack Wyatt?"
Wyatt stares at him, silently.
"You like the idea, I can tell."
"I wouldn't book passage back to the Jovians just yet."
"Oh, it's inevitable. You and I will see to it."
"I meant, there's another problem."
Borgia frowns.
"The girl."
"What girl?"
"The girl several eyewitnesses saw leaving the scene."
Borgia waves him off. "These are the same drunkards and low-lifes that thought they heard a tiger growling. No one will believe them. This is over, Wyatt."
"No disrespect sir, but if that girl goes to the press after she hears about us rewriting the truth, we'll have every mike-pointer on the station breathing down our necks."
Borgia paces, wringing his hands. Wyatt examines his nails.
"All right. We'll hold off on the announcement until we have this girl in custody. Then we can control the situation."
"Custody? You want me to arrest her?"
"Protective custody, Wyatt. I doubt anyone will argue that this station isn't safe for little girls on their own, not after this escapade."
"Then what?"
"We'll blow that airlock when we get to it. For now, find her. I don't want the press getting another whiff of this thing unless they get it from us. Understood?"
"Understood."
As Wyatt turns to go, Borgia says, "Oh, and Wyatt..."
Wyatt turns back.
Borgia hooks a thumb at the posters of Alexandria Station. "Center of the universe. Think about it."
Wyatt exits.
Venus wanders past the sign at the entrance to Khan Al Khalili, people flowing past her in both directions. She smiles gently, gaze flicking from one strangely-garbed person to the next. The stalls are in the Eastern desert style, tables with brightly-dyed canopies above them, lining the aisles and stretching off in every direction as far as the eye can see.
She stops in the middle of the aisle, causing a minor traffic jam. She looks up at the open air above the bazaar, the view reaching all the way across the axis. It is hazy, but the bazaars and housing and small farms on the far side of the station are visible in outline. She stretches her arms out and takes a deep breath, the smile widening. Then she moves with the crowd, looking into the stalls as she goes, hands behind her back.
At a jewelry stall, she notices a silver necklace with a tiger pendant, carved out of ivory. She picks it up and examines it closely. The olive-skinned little man behind the counter watches her like a hawk. He wears dark robes of a rough material, and his fez is battered and stained.
Venus notices him watching her, and she holds the pendant up. "Where did this come from? Do you know?"
He stares, mouth shut.
"Did you take it in trade, or did someone make it for you?"
Nothing.
"Look, it's important." She fishes her card out of her body suit and holds it up. "You savvy important?"
He nods. He holds out his left hand, four fingers up, then his right, with two up.
"Six? Six is all you're asking?"
He shakes his head, frowning. In two distinct motions, he holds up four, then two.
"Forty-two? That's robbery. I mean, it's pretty and all, but... How about twenty-five?"
He stares blankly.
"Twenty-five?" She held up two fingers, then five.
He rolls his eyes, holding his chest as if having a heart attack, then indicates thirty-five.
She holds up three, then makes a zero with her thumb and index finger.
He puckers his lips and scowls, but he pulls out a fist-sized box with a keypad and slot in the top, punching a few keys. The light on top turns red, and he hands it over to her.
Venus slots her card and the light turns green. He smiles and accepts the box back from her.
"Thank you," she says, hooking the thin chain around her neck.
"Pleasure doin' business with ya," he says with a thick Brooklyn accent.
"Got a thing for tigers, I see?"
She turns away from the seller to see Cass standing behind her. His left cheek is darkly bruised.
She winces. "Did they do that to you in jail?"
"What, this?" He touches the spot. "Nah, I think it was a chair leg or something. We never even made it into a cell. Wyatt just likes to jerk Pol and me around. Not sure why."
"Harassment's better than a rubber hose in some windowless back room," she says.
"I suppose." He works his jaw from side to side. "Somebody got me a good one in the jaw, too. Lucky I didn't lose a tooth. Laffite, probably."
"The little guy that looked like a pirate? Your brother seemed to think he ripped you off."
Cass smiles sheepishly. "Yeah well, accounts vary. We've done business with him in the past, and when it's done, Pol swears we'll never get mixed up with him again."
"And then?"
Cass shrugs, smiling. "Pol swears a lot."
They walk along the aisle, people swirling around them.
"You caught him at a bad time. Tomorrow's the anniversary of my parent's death, and he always fights a lot this time of year."
"I'm sorry. How long has it been?"
"Eight years tomorrow."
"That's terrible."
"Yeah."
They walk in silence a few seconds.
"What did you say to him, exactly?"
"Who?"
"My brother. You've got him spooked or something. It's kind of amusing, but I'm curious."
She looks away from him, lips tight. Then she relaxes.
"I asked him about his tattoo."
His face lights up. "The tiger."
"Well, yeah. Does he have others?"
"Several. But I figured that was the only one you'd had a chance to see. I wasn't gone that long."
"Are they all white tigers?"
He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "No..."
"Oh."
He stares at her, eyes narrowed. "That's impressive."
"What?"
"That little thing you've got of asking questions that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. You got me nervous, and I barely even know you. I see why Pol's scared of you."
She rolls her eyes.
"Why the tiger?" Cass says.
She stops walking, and he stops with her. After a long moment, she sighs and begins walking again. "Have you ever heard of something called 'Project Jericho'?"
"No. Some kind of religious gig?"
"I don't think so. My father was an anthropologist, specializing in the Early Space era. I spent most of my childhood in his two-ship, the Becca Anne - that was his nickname for my mother - going from one satellite to the next, digging through old archives, interviewing historians, that sort of thing.
"Then about five years ago, he started finding things about this 'Project Jericho'. Just bits and pieces at first, but he got obsessed with it. He abandoned all his other projects and focused in on this one.
"He'd always bent my ear off about every little detail he uncovered - I knew more about the Titan food riots of 2119 than any eight-year-old should - but once he started on Jericho, he got distant. Sometimes he'd even leave me with friends or colleagues and disappear for weeks. When he came back, he'd sit and stare out the ports for hours, thinking.
"He started drinking a lot more, too. Scribbling in his notebooks and drinking pouch after pouch of Proof when we were in transit somewhere.
"They say that's what finally got him. I was finishing up my degree on Europa, and one day a bunch of Jovians in uniforms showed up and told me they'd found the wreckage of the Becca Anne off a little rock in the Belt, smashed to bits. 'Straight-forward collision incident', they said.
"They couldn't find his body, but the blood on the cockpit wreckage was a pretty good indicator that he hadn't been in a suit at impact."
Cass nods slowly. "Decompression's a bad way to go. I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "That was almost a year ago. I took the money the government gave me and bought a singleship. There's nothing out here for me to do, so I decided I might as well finish what he started. It's the least I can do for him."
"And the tigers have something to do with it?"
Her shoulders sag. "I'm not sure. All his notebooks were with him onboard when he died, so I've got almost nothing to go on. I've talked to people, asked everybody he ever knew if he'd talked about it with them, but I haven't gotten anywhere."
"So you're continuing your father's life's-work, only you don't know what it was?"
She scowls at him. "I know a few things. I know Project Jericho has something to do with the War. He spent a lot of time searching the Belt for clues about it, so it must be out here somewhere. A few months ago, I was talking to a man on Vesta who told me about the White Tigers. Apparently they were some elite Terrestrial kill squad during the war: assassinations, covert ops, like that. He didn't know much about them, but he said people in the Belt were terrified of them in the last years of the War, and they had their own nickname for them."
"What was it?"
"The Ghosts. The Killing Ghosts."
Amp sleeps curled up on a cot in a small storeroom, a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her hair is trimmed to a neat bob and tinted dark brown now: Camelia's color. On a box next to her head, a water glass sits next to the marionette from the front window.
Her face pinches with fear or pain, and under the blanket, her body jerks. She moans. When she jerks again, a squeak forces its way from her lips and the water glass rattles slightly.
She twists her head from side to side, mouth opening and closing. The glass rattles its way off the box and clanks loudly as it hits the floor.
Amp whispers the word "no" over and over under her breath, her movements becoming more violent.
A low growl comes from the far corner of the room. The marionette lifts its head up and looks into the darkness toward the sound.
In the kitchen, Camelia sits at the table in her nightdress, hands around a mug. She stares thoughtfully at a picture on the table: younger versions of herself and Rico smiling into the camera. We hear the clank of the glass hitting the floor, and she looks up suddenly.
There is a few seconds of silence, then the growl.
Her eyes go wide, and she crosses herself. She waits, but there is no sound.
She gets up and quietly crosses the room to a door, listening at it. We hear nothing but her accelerated breathing. She licks her lips, looking down at the doorknob. Finally, she turns it and eases the door open a few inches.
Through the crack, we see Amp sleeping, her face peaceful. The covers are half on the floor, and the glass lays on its side next to the bed.
Camelia slips into the room, her smile returning. She picks up the glass and sets it on the table, where the marionette's head is still up, staring behind her.
She fusses with the blankets, arranging them around Amp gently. Camelia looks down on her a long moment, sighs and turns to go.
The tiger is blocking the door. It growls.
Rico lies sprawled across a bed on his back, shirtless. His arm is across his face and he is snoring.
A woman's scream jerks him from sleep, almost tumbling out of bed.
He sits up, blinking and listening.
Another scream, longer and louder this time.
"Camelia? Camelia!"
He throws off the blanket, bursting out of the room and into the kitchen. The door to Amp's room is shut, but the noise comes from behind it, now Amp's voice mixed with Camelia's screaming, Amp shouting "Go away! Go away!"
As he reaches for the doorknob, the tiger roars.
Rico falls back against the table, eyes wide. The shouts of the women continue, Camelia shouting "Rico!"
Rico crosses himself, grabs a butcher knife from next to the stove, and grabs the doorknob. It won't turn. He yanks frantically at it, but it won't move.
"Camelia!" he shouts.
"Rico! Rico!"
Rico backs halfway across the small kitchen, lets out a roar of his own and charges the door.
Inside the room, he crashes to the floor atop the splintered door, the knife skittering away under the bed.
Camelia is on the bed, backed into the far corner. Amp is curled in her lap with her face against Camelia's breasts, hands over her ears, still shouting "Go away! Go away!"
Rico fumbles under the bed and comes up with the knife, spinning around wildly. There is no tiger.
On the box, the marionette's head flops back onto the wood with a small clack.
"Go away," Amp whimpers.
Wyatt strides alone down a darkened corridor. He halts at an unmarked door, rapping on it five times. He pauses, then raps three times. He pauses again and raps once.
The door opens from inside and he enters.
A rough-dozen men are already inside, some in Security uniforms, some dressed like shopkeepers. They share bottles and talk quietly amongst themselves.
"So what's been going on?" one of the shopkeepers asks.
"I've just come from talking with him," Wyatt says.
"And?" says one of the uniforms.
"He offered me the station."
An excited murmur goes through the group.
"What?" the shopkeeper says, eyes wide.
"He's got it all planned out."
"Well, that's good, isn't it?"
Wyatt scowls. "I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it."
"I wouldn't trust any plans that one makes, no how," says the uniform. "Bleeding idiot, born and bred."
"Our plan's solid," another shopkeeper says. "And we already got so much invested!"
There is a murmur of agreement.
Wyatt looks around the room, assessing the faces.
"This changes things around. I think we'd be fools to go ahead with anything else until I've had a chance to think this thing through. If we can get this done without bloodshed, I'd say we have to consider it very seriously." Wyatt rubs the bridge of his nose. "I hate to do this, but we have to abort."
This receives a mixed response. Arguments start up in several places.
Wyatt raises his voice above the furor. "Just for the moment!"
"Oh, come on, Captain!" the uniform says. "I've got guys on their way in from Vesta right now! I don't know if I can get a hold of them in time."
"Find a way."
"But the plan's solid!" the shopkeeper repeats. "We been over this front to back. There's never going to be a better time, sir. Begging your pardon."
Wyatt fidgets a moment, then straightens his back. "No."
The group groans.
"Look!" Wyatt says. "I understand what you're thinking. But if Borgia's told anybody else about grooming me, anybody here or back on Ganymede, then this little stunt is going to point straight back to me, and we'll all be in the sunward airlock by morning."
More grumbling.
He holds up his hands. "I understand what you're feeling. I am with you: my hand to God. But we have to think past tomorrow. Being king for one day then a corpse for the rest of eternity isn't much of a victory. We need something we can defend, something we can sustain. We must be patient."
"Patient? Or scared?" asks the uniform.
There is silence. Wyatt holds the man's gaze until the uniform drops it, muttering an apology.
"All right, head out. We'll meet back here as soon as I can figure a way to make this work to our advantage. And gentlemen?"
They stop, looking at him.
"The dawn is coming. I promise you that."
Amp sits on a stool just inside the door of the shop, the marionette in her lap. She watches the parade of people going by and strokes the doll's hair.
From behind the counter, Rico uses a rag to wipe the countertop and Camelia chews a thumbnail. They both stare at Amp.
"I know what I saw. It was a tiger. White as milk and teeth like..." She shivers.
"I have told you already that I believe you. I heard the roar myself."
Amp looks over at them and smiles, rocking back and forth happily.
They both smile too wide, waving at her.
"Do you think she'll kill us in our sleep?"
"Rico! She is an angel." Camelia goes back to gnawing her thumbnail.
"An angel who keeps company with a devil. A devil with four feet."
"She wanted it to go as badly as we did. You heard her screaming; poor darling."
"And where did it go when it disappeared, eh? There are no secret passages in our storeroom: it's rock on five sides."
"Perhaps we hallucinated it."
"What, you are putting drugs in the food now? Our lives are not interesting enough?"
Camelia gestured to the girl with her chin. "Perhaps she made us hallucinate it."
Another long moment of silence.
"She will kill us in our sleep," Rico repeats.
"Will you stop saying that, you foolish old man? The girl wishes us no harm!"
"If not in our sleep, then what about in her sleep, eh? You said she was sleeping when you first saw it: it might come from her nightmares. She would wake the next morning to us lying in lakes of our own cooling blood!"
"No more of the 1-credit vids for you late at night. You have monsters on the brain."
"Maybe some of those stories are true! You have a better explanation?"
Amp looks back at them, kicking her feet. This time she waves.
They wave back, sudden smiles far too wide.
Rico and Camelia disappear into the back of the shop, whispering together. Amp turns back to the people outside. A young boy's shout catches her attention, and she cranes her neck to look.
Three boys about her age in shabby but serviceable clothing run down the corridor, knocking a ball back and forth between them, using their heads, shoulders, knees. They jostle people constantly as they move along, laughing.
Amp giggles as they pass the window. One of the boys sees her watching and waves.
As the boys move away toward the bazaar, Amp sets the doll down on the window ledge and jumps down from the stool.
She moves through the crowd, slipping between people. The boys' laughter is fading, and she moves more quickly, taking several turns within the market itself until finally she comes to a halt, looking around and listening.
Her happy expression fades, and she nibbles a fingernail.
She looks around her, takes a tentative step in one direction, then stops. She looks behind her, then continues slowly in the direction she had been going.
The crowds begin to thin as she moves along, and she reaches the edge of the bazaar. The corridor that leads out is empty of people, much darker and dirtier than the corridor to Rico's shop. She stops at the entrance, hugging herself and looking around.
A man sitting on a pile of rags watches her as she moves slowly toward the exit. When she turns suddenly back toward the bazaar, he stands and intercepts her.
"Are you lost, little girl?"
She looks up at him, eyes wide. She takes a step backward, and he matches it.
"Your parents around somewhere?"
Her mouth opens and closes, but she makes no sound.
He gestures toward the tunnel opening. "I think I saw them going this way. Come on, I'll take you to them."
She squeaks as he grabs her hand and pulls her toward the darkened corridor, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd moving behind them.
The tiger explodes from the darkness, hitting him full in the chest. The beast's momentum carries them both twenty feet into the back of a stall, smashing it to pieces and bringing the heavy canopy down on both of them. Amp sprawls on the ground where she stood.
The crowd beyond the stall backs into a large semi-circle around the wreckage, several large lumps beneath the sea of torn cloth. Excited discussions murmur through the throng.
There is a low growl. The crowd goes silent.
The largest lump moves. The crowd shifts.
The lump shifts again and the cloth slips from around the tiger, exposing it to the shoulders as well as its victim, who lies motionless with his head at an unnatural angle. A woman screams, and the tiger roars again, deep and tremendous.
The crowd panics. The patrons flee in every direction, knocking over more stalls in their haste. The tiger roars again, and it is almost drowned out by the screaming of the people.
Wyatt walks through the wreckage, looking down on the body with the expression of a man smelling something bad.
Jenkins stands at the far end of what used to be the stall, hands in pockets.
"How many people were here?" Wyatt asks.
"At least fifty. I've got a dozen who swear the tiger came right at them before they fled."
Wyatt squats next to the corpse. "No blood on this one either."
"Nope."
"Neck's definitely broken."
"That could have been from landing on the edge of that table there."
Wyatt pokes the broken timbers with a finger. "Must have hit it pretty hard. Almost like he was shot out of a cannon."
"Well, nobody heard a cannon, sir, but I can make inquiries."
Wyatt looks at him with a deadpan expression, then back down.
"What I wonder, sergeant is whether a man could get up that kind of speed on his own."
"He'd have to be some kind of sprinter, sir. World-class high-jumper, perhaps."
"With some kind of death wish."
"And a pocket full of dizzy dust to confuse the locals into thinking they saw a tiger."
"As you say." Wyatt squints along the body. "He was coming from that direction, then?"
"Yes, sir. We searched it, but no cannons so far."
"Remind me again, Mr. Jenkins: can I have you flogged?"
"Not under the current administration, sir, no."
"Future administrations may not be so squeamish, Jenkins. Keep that in mind."
"Duly noted, Mr. Wyatt."
Wyatt stands with a wince and steps carefully through the broken boards and lumps of cloth toward the tunnel. He scans the ground and squints out into the darkness.
A sound catches his attention. He pauses, then looks down out of the corner of his eye, not moving.
Amp gazes back up at him out of a niche behind some boxes.
Wyatt makes a production out of pulling out his notepad and tapping its screen with his fingertip. Over his shoulder he shouts, "Let's wrap this thing up, Jenkins. Meet you back at the station. I'm going to poke around a bit more."
"Got your cuffs with you, Mr. Wyatt? In case you find the beast?"
"That will be all, Mr. Jenkins."
Wyatt waits a few moments, watching Amp surreptitiously. Finally, he bends to re-tie his shoe and speaks to her softly.
"Not the best area to be out alone, young lady."
She shakes her head.
"Tigers about, from what I hear."
She nods.
"Do you have someplace to go?"
"I'm staying with my auntie Camelia."
He nods. "My name is Mr. Wyatt. What do they call you?"
"I'm Amp, sir."
"Well, Amp, I don't want to see you out and about again. Do you understand?"
She nods.
"I'll check in on your aunt from time to time, see how you're doing. All right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Run along, then. It's the next corridor in that direction. Keep your head down."
She disappears.
He stands, brushes himself off and wanders into the bazaar.
From out of the tunnel, Laffite appears, watching Wyatt's retreating back. He looks in the direction Amp has gone and stares thoughtfully.
"It's real," Wyatt says.
He stands at parade rest in front of Borgia's desk. Borgia fiddles with a pen and licks his lips.
"A tiger? On the station?"
"There were too many witnesses this time. No sound effects down an echoing hallway, these people saw it close up."
Borgia puts his head in his hands and moans. "Oh, I'm ruined, Wyatt, ruined!"
Wyatt rolls his eyes.
Borgia yanks open his desk drawer, slamming an empty glass onto the desktop and glaring defiantly at Wyatt as he uncorks the bottle and splashes a healthy amount into it. He caps it and swirls the liquid around as he scowls into the glass. "No need to look so smug, Wyatt. This is a problem for you too, you know."
"Of course."
"If I don't get promoted out of this place, your chances at succeeding me are null and void. You have thought about it, haven't you?"
"Center of the universe, sir."
"Exactly. So keep that smirk off your face and get this thing taken care of. Quietly."
Wyatt examines his nails. "Absolutely. I mean, what if this thing stayed loose for a week? Or a month? It would look very bad for you, wouldn't it?"
Borgia glares at him. "What do you mean?"
Wyatt shrugs.
Borgia sits in silence for a long moment. "I don't know why I put up with you."
"The question, Mr. Borgia, is why I put up with you."
Borgia's eyes blaze. "Get out. Pack your things and get out. I want your resignation on my desk in one hour. Do you hear me?"
"That won't get your tiger problem taken care of, will it, sir?"
Borgia is silent.
Wyatt leans on the desk, looking down on the Administrator. "Keep this in mind, Borgia. My men are loyal to me. Not you, and not Alexandria. I'm a Belter; you're just some Jovian stuffed-shirt. For now, making you look good means speeding up the day when you go back to Ganymede for your just reward, with a hearty recommendation for your loyal security chief, of course. But continue these tantrums, and I'll take my chances with your successor. Do we understand each other?"
Borgia averts his gaze, still scowling.
Wyatt returns to parade rest and clears his throat. "What are your instructions on the tiger problem, sir?"
"Tell them it's an escaped circus animal. Put out a bounty, but be vague on whether the beast is taken alive."
"Very good, sir."
"I want it off this station in twenty-four hours, Wyatt. If I wake up tomorrow and that thing is still prowling my corridors, you may find you don't have as many friends on this station as you think."
"...and then the tiger came and ate him."
Amp spoons the last of her ice cream into her mouth and smiles up at Rico and Camelia.
Rico twists a dishrag between his hands and mumbles to himself. Camelia licks her lips and sits down... across the table from Amp.
"Do you know where the tiger... comes from, sweetheart?"
"Out of the darkness," she says, licking her fingers.
Rico squeaks and wrings the dishrag harder.
"Is that where it is now?"
Amp nods, smiling. "It's sleeping."
Rico and Camelia exchange a look.
"When will it wake up again, Amp?"
Amp shrugs.
Camelia stands and paces, gnawing her thumbnail.
"This is madness," Rico says.
Camelia speaks slowly. "It only comes when she is frightened. Last night she must have had a nightmare. Was that it, sweetheart? A nightmare?"
"Only when she is frightened: a man-eating tiger, Camelia!"
Camelia waves him off. "These men were not eaten. It is just an expression, Rico."
"Small comfort: mauled to death is just as dead. I will be sleeping with a stick until further notice."
"Acchh... You will be sleeping in the corridor if you do not close your mouth and let me think!"
A bell rings in the front of the shop, and the two of them freeze, looking at each other.
Out at the counter, Laffite stands and casually looks around the shop. He rings the bell again.
Rico appears, his too-wide smile in place.
"Monsieur Laffite! Welcome back! The diamond cufflinks are holding up well for you?"
"The cut-glass cufflinks are holding up as well as can be expected, Rico."
Camelia peeks through the curtain.
"And Miss Camelia! How good to see you again. Please come and join us."
Camelia comes out, closing the curtains carefully behind her. "Monsieur Jean."
"Is it not a beautiful day, my friends? A day for adventure, perhaps."
"Adventure?" says Rico, feigning innocence.
"Adventure indeed. There has been adventure aplenty in the bazaar already this morning."
"Oh, really? We had not heard. Busy, busy, busy, you know..." Rico wipes the counter with the dishrag.
"Oh, yes. A man was killed today. Killed, they say, by a white... tiger..."
Camelia snorts. "A tiger. The Laffites begin their drinking a bit early in the day, I think."
"I did not see it myself, dear lady, but there were many witnesses. There can be no mistaking it. The beast destroyed a stall in the bazaar and broke the neck of a low-life thief and kidnapper."
"Kidnapper!" Rico breathes.
"To be sure. A little girl was to be the victim. The slave trade is alive and well, my friends. It pains me to say so, but..." He shrugs. "A beautiful little girl, as well. Young and fresh as a daisy, her hair brown as sweetest chocolate."
He blinks and pretends to see Camelia for the first time. "Why, it was almost the same color as your hair, Miss Camelia!"
She scowls at him, arms crossed. "What is it you want, Monsieur Laffite?"
"It is not so much what I want, dear lady, as what you do not want."
"And what is that?" Rico says, still feigning innocence.
"I believe you have a pet for which you have no further use, and a young angel who would do well to avoid public places for a time. Am I right?"
They say nothing.
"I have, as they say, a plan."
Rico and Camelia look at each other, Rico's eyes hopeful.
"What is your price, Monsieur?" asks Camelia.
He waves her off brusquely. "Today, nothing! Absolutely nothing. I have everything in the System I could possibly need, and am happy as a man could be without being taken bodily to heaven."
She watches him skeptically.
He pretends to wipe a smudge from the countertop with a fingertip. "Of course, life being what she is, this may not always be the case. What comes, goes. What goes, comes again. And one day, your friend Jean Laffite may appear again seeking a favor. And when that day comes, I hope you will think of him kindly."
Rico and Camelia exchange a glance, and Camelia's shoulders sag.
Laffite straightens his jacket. "Fear not, my friends. I will return in one hour and we shall open a bottle of wine and conspire in the grand manner."
Pollux sits at a small round table outside a restaurant called Casablanca, eating a wrapped sandwich and making a mess. White sauce drips down the side of his chin. He fights with the sandwich, which insists on trying to unfold itself and dump its contents in his lap. Cursing under his breath, he hurls it onto his plate with a splat and picks up his drink.
His table is against the low fence separating it from the main aisle and people flow by constantly. He stares vacantly into the crowd, chewing.
He flinches violently at something he sees in the crowd, looking wildly about him. Shoving his chair back and ducking low, he serpentines between the tables toward the restaurant entrance itself, elbowing other diners accidentally as he goes. He disappears through the shadowy doorway and after a moment there is a distant crash of glasses and tableware.
Venus wanders up to the entrance to the restaurant, examining the menu on the post outside. She sizes up the clientele and the building itself and then walks casually through the patio and into the restaurant itself.
From one end of the low building, Pollux dives through one of the glassless windows opening onto the patio. He lands on a table full of food, dumping it on its side on the flagstones, sending the four patrons sprawling in all directions.
He lies on the ground, splattering with hummus, ice cubes and strips of pita bread, broken pieces of table all around him. There is much shouting from inside and outside the restaurant and he glares up at the other patrons, wiping food from his hair.
Venus comes back out of the place with a paper menu, reading it as she walks back to the street. She pauses next to the devastation, looking down at Pollux.
He freezes, eyes flicking from side to side like a cornered animal trying to escape.
"How's the falafel? Good?" she asks.
He glowers.
She goes back to reading the menu and wanders away.
The waiters and hostesses close in on Pollux, shouting incomprehensibly. A man in a white suit scans the wreckage, poking his tablet. The light atop it turns red, and he holds it out to Pollux with a tired expression.
Pollux sighs and digs in his pockets for his card.
A buzzer chimes in Borgia's office. He looks up from his tablet and shouts "What now?"
The door opens and Jean Laffite enters.
"Who are you?" Borgia says. "If you don't have an appointment you'll have to go to hell, too many things going wrong already today." He goes back to punching the screen with a fingertip.
"I understand, Mr. Borgia. Large white cats and small white girls. Which is more trouble, would you say?"
Borgia looks up from the tablet.
Laffite raises his eyebrows.
"What do you know about the girl?" Borgia says.
"Less than I should, perhaps, but enough to know what to do about her... and her feline friend."
"Friend?"
"The one showing such an appetite for the less-popular members of your society."
Borgia tosses the tablet on the desk and leans back. "Is there a point to all this?"
"Indeed, sir. The only point that matters. The return of the status quo."
Borgia stares at him, arms crossed.
"But forgive my manners. I am Captain Jean Laffite of the trading ship Barataria Bay, at your service." He bows deeply.
"Captain, I have half-a-dozen armed officers in the next room who enjoy nothing more than hurting people like you in the name of the law. Either speed things along or get out. What do you know about the tiger?"
"A majestic beast. More trouble than it is worth, in its current environment, but this would not necessarily be true in some of the places I frequent."
"Like where?"
"It is my understanding that the beast was destined for the private reserve of a certain Jovian nobleman whose name you would recognize if I were so indiscreet to mention it."
"Really?" Borgia's eyebrows raised. "Is it Mendeleev?"
Laffite mimes locks his lips with a key, then waggles a finger at Borgia.
"LaForte. Comstock?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mr. Borgia. There is a such thing as integrity, even in these pragmatic times. In fact, the original purchaser's name is not important: I have not actually met the gentleman in question. I have, however, met his nemesis."
"His nemesis?"
"The man who bests him at every turn: in business, in social circles, in politics. The burr under his blanket that keeps him awake nights drinking pink liquids to soothe his stomach. We all have someone like this, I daresay. Would you agree, Mr. Borgia?"
Borgia groans and nods.
"This is the man I have made contact with. This is the man who has agreed to pay the fare of this grand animal if I can get it onto the Barataria Bay and out of the Belt quietly. A princely sum for a kingly animal, if I do say so, but it does help to have a corner on the market." Laffite chuckles to himself.
Borgia watches him through narrowed eyes. "What's to stop me from contacting him directly, and pocketing the fare myself?"
Laffite smiles. "Ah, but the name eludes you, Mr. Borgia."
Now Borgia smiles. "Remember those guards I mentioned a moment ago, Mr. Laffite? Let's keep in mind whose station you're on."
"Of course, of course. I am but a lowly merchant traveller, attempting to ply my trade in the most efficient and pain-free manner possible. However, there still remains the problem of catching the beast."
"I think I have a bit more manpower at my disposal than you do."
"Very true, but how many can you afford to lose trying? Me, I don't think you'd miss too much."
"They would be heavily armed and in full body armor."
"Crunchy outside, chewy inside... sounds like heaven to a tiger."
"What makes you think you can handle it better?"
Laffite touches his belt and smiles. His hand moves too quick to see and there is a deafening crack.
Borgia's coffee cup breaks into two pieces and flies off the back of the desk, narrowly missing Borgia's lap. He tumbles out of his chair with a cry.
Laffite coils the bullwhip with practiced ease.
Borgia peeks over the edge of the desk, eyes wide.
Laffite smiles evilly and says, "I know a thing or two about tigers."
"What... what's it going to cost me?" Borgia says, swallowing.
Laffite sniffs. "Today, nothing. Absolutely nothing." Then he smiles.
As Rico and Laffite enter the small storeroom where Amp sleeps, there is a crash of wood and pottery from behind the door.
Amp is on the bed across the room, hands firmly in her lap, smiling sheepishly.
Rico peeks around the edge of the door, but there is no tiger.
Laffite steps around him, hands on hips. His smile is genuine. Amp examines him curiously.
"Amp, this is Mr. Laffite," Rico says, eyes flicking from corner to corner. "He would like to talk to you."
The three stare at one another a long moment. Amp scratches her nose.
"Well, I leave you two to talk, eh?" Rico scurries out the door and shuts it behind him.
Laffite still has not moved.
Amp squints at him. "Are you a pirate?"
He touches his moustache. "Do I look like a pirate to you?"
"Yes."
"You are a smart girl."
She picks up her marionette and hugs it to her chest, still watching him.
"I understand you can do magic, yes?"
She looks wary.
He touches his chest. "I am a magician myself, you know. I am surprised we have not met before, in magicking circles."
He sits on the edge of the bed near her, rummaging in his pocket. He comes out with a gold coin, large and with rough edges. He holds it to the light. "It pays well, being a magician."
Laffite offers it to her and she takes it, turning it over in her hand.
He holds out an open palm and she places the coin in his hand. He rests his closed hands in his lap.
"Would you like to see some magic?" he asks.
She nods.
"All right, then. I will need my coin back."
Her brow furrows. "I already gave you your coin!"
He blinks. "Did you?"
"I put it in your hand!" She pulls his fist open, but there is no coin. She pulls open the other hand, but no coin there, either.
"It has vanished!" he says, eyes wide. "You are quite the magician after all!"
She smiles, but squirms uncomfortably.
"It was very well done, but I must insist on having the coin back. Sentimental value, you see..."
He reaches under the dark hair behind her left ear and produces the coin.
Now Amp beams and claps her hands.
He smiles, returning the coin to his pocket.
Giggling, Amp leans forward and reaches into his flowing, curly hair. She produces a doubloon exactly like his, showing it to him.
Laffite's mouth drops open. He reaches for the coin, but she protects it. "No, this one's mine!" she laughs.
He licks his lips, gazing at the doubloon, then sighs. "Perhaps you and I will have more to talk about in the future. For now, let's see this tiger of yours, eh?"
Khan Al Khalili: mid-day. Amp is wandering alone, the throngs pushing past her without a sideways glance. She stops near the dark corridor where she was almost abducted, glaring into it.
From out of the crowd, a man in dirty clothes and long, unkempt hair runs at her, shouting. "You won't get away this time!"
She screams loudly as he grabs her, slinging her under one arm as he runs. The crowd parts around him and angry shouting begins.
He makes a break for the corridor, but a foot sticks out of the crowd and trips him, sending them both sprawling. Angry patrons from all directions descend on them, dragging Amp away from him and pinning him to the ground. In the tussle, his hair is knocked loose and we see it is Cass, looking very frightened.
Amp is being pulled away from him, but she is fighting the good samaritans. He catches her eye and shouts frantically, "Now, now, now!"
Amp blinks once, and the tiger's roar fills the air.
The crowd's angry yells turn to screams, and both Amp and Cass are dropped to the ground as people start to flee.
Cass jams his wig back on his head and scrambles to his feet.
The tiger struts out of the corridor, head low. Cass falls to his knees in front of it, fear covering his face. As the beast gets closer, he holds up his arms and closes his eyes.
From the crowd, there is a shout, and the crack of a bullwhip. The people part and Laffite strides out of the throng, flipping the long black whip from side to side.
The tiger stops, crouching back from this new attacker.
Cass clambers to his feet. Holding his wig on firmly with one hand, he sprints off down the corridor out of sight.
"Dread beast!" Laffite shouts to the cat. "You shall not have her! Back, back I say!" He cracks the whip again and the cat takes a small step backward.
The crowd shouts its approval. Laffite acknowledges their adulation, raising his hand in gratitude.
The moment he turns away, the cat crouches and charges him.
Amp screams, "Look out!"
Laffite turns back, eyes wide, as the tiger bears down on him with teeth bared. Several women in the crowd scream. Many people run.
Just as he is about to be mauled, Laffite takes a step to the side, grabbing a handful of skin on the side of the tiger's neck and slinging himself onto the cat's back.
The tiger scrambles to a halt as Laffite settles himself then cracks the whip again with a triumphant shout. The tiger roars and rears onto its hind feet, giant front paws clawing the air.
The crowd riots, running in every direction. Laffite shouts again and the beast is off down the main aisle of Khan Al Khalili, sending patrons diving into stalls on both sides.
Laffite shouts again, and the tiger turns down another aisle, sending more people running. Uniformed officers with nightsticks appear near them and give chase, but they can't keep up with the running animal.
On and on they go, chaos in their wake, Laffite shouting joyfully and cracking his whip.
The tiger takes a final turn, heading out of the Khan into a tunnel that comes to an abrupt end only a few strides away. The tiger puts its head down like a battering ram and barrels straight at the wall.
Laffite pulls back on the tiger's scruff, but to no avail. The beast hurtles on.
Laffite hurls himself off the beast's back just in time. It scrabbles to a stop, slamming into the boxes against the far wall.
Laffite pulls a large lever on the wall of the corridor, and a door rises out of the floor as the tiger roars and climbs to its feet again. As the door reaches the ceiling and seals off the tunnel, the words "Barataria Bay" come into view in large brown letters.
Laffite leans on the switch, breathing hard. Behind him, the crowd cheers and claps their approval. The security men look around them, then at the door, then at each other, shrugging.
Laffite waves weakly to his adoring public. At the edge of the crowd, Amp appears. They lock eyes and he winks.
She smiles.
Amp sits in Camelia's lap behind the counter of the East Alexandria Trading Company. She plays with Camelia's necklace and Camelia strokes her hair. Rico stands on the far side, watching them.
A bell rings as Laffite and Cass enter the shop, Laffite leaning heavily on a polished black cane with a gold duck for a handle, wincing at every step.
"Uncle Jean!" Amp shouts, running out to meet him.
She hugs his legs, and he half-smiles, half-winces at the impact.
"Easy, little one. Uncle Jean's knees are not what they used to be. Your tiger was quite the ride." He waggles a remonstrative finger at her, but she ignores him.
Cass stands behind him, looking uncomfortable.
"This is my business partner, Castor. He played the part of the hooligan in this little adventure."
"Thank you, sir, for all you've done for our little girl," Camelia says.
He smiles sheepishly.
"I would have gotten someone bigger, but his brother is... not well-disposed toward me at the moment."
Cass' smile turned to a scowl.
Laffite pats him on the shoulder. "But I embarrass you. I thought they would like to thank you in person. The money was transferred back into your account before we left, just in case this little adventure was... too much for me. I thank you for your open-mindedness on this situation."
"Any time."
"And the next time Pollux and I cross paths, remind him to take pity on an old man, eh?"
Cass smiles and leaves. Amp returns to Camelia's lap.
"So what must we do next?" Rico asks.
"I must leave for at least a week or two to sell my story to the Administrator. It's no trouble: there are several places I must put in an appearance from time to time to ensure my colleagues I am not yet dead." He smiles at Amp.
"This little one must stay out of sight at least until I return. Little brown-haired girls are a bushel a credit on this station, but no need to press our chances. Am I clear, little one?"
"Yes, sir."
"And we will not see the tiger again, will we?"
"No, sir."
"It would not be good to make a liar out of your dear old uncle Jean. So, my good friends, I bid you farewell."
Rico clasps his hand. "Bright stars and flat skies, Monsieur. We will not forget this kindness."
Laffite winks. "I will make sure of that."
After Laffite leaves, Camelia stands. "It is time for lunch, I think. Now, no running off into the bazaar, understand? Cute boys or no." She waggles her finger at Amp.
"Yes, auntie."
Camelia disappears through the curtain, leaving Rico and Amp together at the counter. She fiddles with her marionette toy, and he watches her cautiously.
She smiles at him, and he smiles back, too wide.
Her brow wrinkles.
She stands the marionette on the counter, and when she lets go, it remains standing.
Rico breathes in sharply, clutching the counter's edge.
The marionette begins to dance, flinging its arms about and tapping its plastic feet on the counter.
Rico watches, and as the dance becomes livelier, his smile softens and becomes more real.
The doll does several jump-turns in a row, then drops to one knee in a prim curtsy.
Rico flinches and looks down to find Amp standing next to him, holding his hand.
"It doesn't always have to be tigers, you know."
He chuckles, then laughs with his whole body. He sweeps her up into a big hug and she squeezes his big neck in her tiny arms.
Pollux leans heavily on the counter at the Silk Road, several empty shot glasses arrayed around him, a full beer mug in front of his eyes. His eyes are bloodshot.
The stool next to him squeaks as it moves and he startles, looking around blurrily.
Venus settles into the seat next to him.
He sits up, sniffs a couple times, tries to stand.
She lays a hand atop his forearm and says to the bartender, "Vodka and a beer back."
He looks down at the hand and blinks.
"Sit," she says.
His shoulders sag and he settles back into his seat.
The bartender brings her drinks, and she tosses back the shot without a grimace.
He watches her, his eyelids at half mast.
"Your brother's a good kid," she says, not looking at him.
"Know that," he says, belching.
"Ran into him in the Khan the other day. He didn't jump through a window or anything."
Pollux rolls his eyes and sips his beer.
"We talked a little. About good stuff, and bad stuff."
She looks over at him, and he looks back. After a long moment, he nods and breaks the gaze.
They sit in silence a moment. She traces the lip of her beer mug with a fingertip.
"You know, my father was killed almost a year ago. A couple weeks short of a year, as a matter of fact."
He picks up his beer, stares into it a moment and says, "Sucks."
"Yeah. I wasn't sure how I was going to handle it, but I thought it'd be best if I wasn't alone in deep space when I found out. So I'm here."
He nods.
She raises her mug. "Tell you what. I'll start feeling like hell right now, and we'll drink to their memories together. How would that be?"
He chuckles. "I can't imagine anything more painful."
They clink glasses and drink.
She wipes foam from the edge of her mouth and says, "Now, about that tiger..."
He pouts. "Oh come on, with the tiger again?"
She smirks. "Just tell me. You'll feel better, I'll stop pestering you, you can stop jumping through restaurant windows..."
He rolls his eyes.
She waits.
"Fine. Couple years ago, Cass and I been drinking for about a week straight and we decide to go get tattoos. We had to get the same thing, and that's what we decided on. Got 'em white so we wouldn't have to pay extra to get all that orange painted in."
She laughs. "Cass has one, too?"
"Well, yeah."
"I didn't know that."
"You had biceps as flabby as his, you'd wear long sleeves, too."
They smile at one another.
"But why a tiger?"
He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Chicks dig tigers." He raises his mug.
They clink mugs. "Some of us, do, Pol. Some of us do."