Fifteen
FIFTEEN
Security contractors are permitted to use deadly force when necessary (a) to protect a client’s person or property from imminent harm, (b) to evict trespassers from Company property, or (c) in self-defense.
—Starhome Exploration Group, colonial policy
The Old Warehouse.
Regular public transportation in Tenacity doesn’t go there, at least not with any sort of frequency or regularity.
After a brief stop back at the Summer Suites hotel to change into clean, non-bloodstained clothes, Isako hires a car and pays extra for a driver willing to go there and wait to take them back.
She doesn’t want to waste time; having slept away most of the daylight hours, she doesn’t have many left, and she certainly doesn’t want to be stuck in a freelancer-populated area after dark.
The driver is an elderly man past standard retirement age who eyes the two of them uneasily. “There’s not going to be any trouble, is there?”
Seeing two atiers traveling together is like seeing two emergency vehicles going in the same direction.
A sign of a problem significant enough to warrant a costly and expert response.
The fact that they’re going to the Old Warehouse is enough to make anyone jump to conclusions about what they’re going to be doing there. Evictions.
“No trouble,” she promises, perhaps prematurely. “Just going to talk to someone.”
The man doesn’t look convinced, but the scrip she offers is enough incentive. The Company’s retirement allowance varies based on rank and seniority and isn’t always enough to live comfortably if you’re from a poorly funded or low-performing division.
In the car, she grumbles to Kob, “Does everyone know about these Field 93 survivors except me?”
“No, definitely not. SoCon GasPro did a good job of sweeping it under the rug.” Kob is pensive as he draws the hood of his parka over his head. “But it’s still probably one of the Company’s worst-kept secrets, at least among the badgeless.”
She still can’t square the circle of Rain Kob being among the badgeless .
“So what was Martim like?” he asks her.
“He was a hopeless tryhard.” She tries to say it lightly, but her voice falls off. “Nearly useless with the longknife, possibly the worst I’ve seen. Smart as hell, though. Insanely driven. Not even thirty years old and already on the cusp of an Exclusive contract, from what I heard.”
“Sounds rewarding to be a mentor,” Kob says. “I never tried it, myself. The Agency asked me, but I told them I wasn’t interested. Never felt like I had the time. And part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to be encouraging young folks into the edge life.”
“I’ve had nine apprentices over the years,” Isako says. “I kept doing it because… I don’t know. It made me feel like I was valuable to someone other than my client.”
She doesn’t always know how much impact her mentorship has on the eventual trajectory of the young atiers she trains, but in Martim’s case at least, she’s sure the kid, despite all his other qualities, wouldn’t even have been licensed if she hadn’t taught him how to draw a weapon without hurting himself.
Although it sounds remote, the Old Warehouse isn’t that far from the center of Tenacity.
After all, the area is one of the oldest in the cityhab.
At least half of the surrounding buildings are made of old Earth materials, polymer and aluminum panels repurposed from the hull of the Great Ships, functional and blocky in appearance, poorly insulated, always meant to be a temporary structure to be replaced by newer and better construction materials shipped from the homeworld once stable trade routes were established.
The Great Silence ruined that plan; the Founders were forced to scrap much of what they’d hoped to accomplish and instead make do with old stuff for decades or centuries longer than intended.
There are no Company facilities operating here anymore; the area was abandoned and scheduled for demolition years ago, but someone with influence must’ve petitioned Cityhab Planning to give the Old Warehouse a stay of execution, perhaps arguing for its importance as a historic structure.
The long bureaucratic process to determine the fate of the building allowed freelancers to move in.
Maybe that was the intent all along. It’s sometimes surprising who in the higher ranks of the Company aids the badgeless by donating shelter, food, water, and goods.
Charity is common, but as Isako muses cynically, offering freelancers actual jobs is rare.
Nearly every division prioritizes filling roles internally where possible and handling variable labor requirements with contractors.
Atiers are a specialized, high-demand exception.
Freelance labor is a last resort. It makes more sense to keep someone who already has a badge working than to hire someone who’s already had their chance and lost it.
When the car comes to a stop, Isako and Kob step out into the cold. The temperature is far below city standards. Isako pulls the hood of her coat over her head to cut the sharp chill that fingers across her face and steals her breath.
They’re in what used to be a shuttlecar parking lot.
It’s occupied by rows of pop-up housing units—rectangular shipping containers converted into tiny temporary apartments for freelancers.
Laundry hangs frozen stiff on lines strung across the encampment.
A communal water tankard sits behind the units, wrapped in barbed wire to prevent someone from making off with the whole thing.
Isako wonders idly how they keep it refilled and above freezing.
Several of the units have satellite antennas rigged to their roofs to illegally connect to the Companynet.
A couple of freels sit on plastiwood benches around a noisy heating unit, smoking leaf and nursing thermoses of warm drink clasped in gloved hands, watching a grainy futsal game on a single cracked screen.
As soon as they catch sight of Isako and Kob, they’re on their feet. Contractors don’t show up here; when they do, it’s bad news. Especially if they’re carrying longknives.
One of them shouts, “Tracs! The fucking tracs are here!”
Panic begins to crackle through the encampment.
Some people start running—to flee, or to grab weapons to fight, or to warn others, Isako’s not sure.
Damn , these jumpy fucking freels aren’t even going to hear her out, are they?
Her hand goes to her triggersheath; so much for her promise to the driver that there wouldn’t be violence.
“ Wait just one fucking vastblasted minute now ,” Kob bellows, stepping ahead of her with hands raised far from his own weapon. “Is this how you treat a badgeless kithman these days?”
His booming baritone voice makes people stop in their tracks.
“Strikebreaker,” hisses a woman with a long face and mean overbite. “I’ll believe you’re a freelancer when they send someone to terminate your ass. Can’t be soon enough.”
“I’m sure you’ll find no lack of agreement, but until then, I’m one of you whether anyone likes it.” Kob points to the building at the end of the parking lot–turned-encampment. “I’ve been to the Old Warehouse before. Ask the folks in there if they haven’t seen me without my badge since last year.”
A wiry man with shaggy graying hair points accusingly to the triggersheath on Kob’s leg. “You still have your longknife.”
Kob glances down at his own thigh and gives an untroubled shrug. “And I’ll wear it until the Agency sends someone to take it from me.”
The realization hits Isako like a kick to the stomach. Technically, contractors who’ve lost their license are not allowed to carry longknives. She’s been thinking that Kob has more than a full year of grace, but for policy violations, the Agency could decide to send someone after him at any time.
Not someone . There’s only man they’d send. The Ronin Killer.
She can’t believe the Partners would do it.
She doesn’t want to believe Constance would agree to that.
Contractors can’t be said to have much love for one another generally, but Strikebreaker is still one of their most respected and admired.
So far, he hasn’t harmed or betrayed any of his clients, his colleagues, or the Agency.
All he’s done is stop working. An image problem for the Agency, no doubt, but enough for them to send the man with the guns?
Come to think of it, the Agency could censure her for ethical misconduct for not reporting Kob’s weapons violation and his whereabouts to them.
This bothers her for two whole seconds, until she remembers that since she doesn’t intend to sign another client contract or renew her license again, her good standing with the Partners is not something she gives a fuck about anymore.
The long-faced woman glares over Kob’s shoulder at Isako. “What about her?”
“She’s on contract,” Kob answers. “But she’s not here to do anything to you.”
“Why the fuck should we believe anything you say? You could be playing a long game just to put a knife in our backs.”
Isako steps up next to Kob, annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous.
If there was going to be an eviction, you’d have gotten warnings for weeks to clear out.
Two atiers wouldn’t be showing up alone.
We’d have a couple dozen gencons with us, with shock batons and armor and big trucks.
You’ve seen it happen before, haven’t you? ”
Uncomfortable shifting. No doubt they have; many of them are probably here because they were chased away from squatting in other divisions. “Why the fuck are you here, then?” asks the wiry man.
Kob nods toward the Old Warehouse. “My friend wants to talk to Waterboy.”
The freelancers glance at one another and seem to subtly close ranks. “What for?”
Best to give these people just enough information to get them to cooperate. “I want to hear about Field 93,” Isako says. “From someone who was there, instead of from the official documents that exonerated Sandbar Uchi.”
“Why’re you looking into Uchi?” The woman eyes her skeptically, but she’s not sounding quite as hostile as she was at first.
“I’m an atier,” Isako says. “You know what that means? I get the tough jobs that directors never make public. My client opposes Sandbar Uchi, so it’s up to me to bring him down. I’ll work with anyone I have to, including freelancers.”
“She’s the best in the business,” Kob puts in. “Better than me, even.”
Isako wants to protest his flattery, but she recognizes it’s calculated to have an effect.
These badgeless folk don’t know her because she’s been ensconced inside Astrocom for a dozen years.
But they know and fear Kob. If Strikebreaker says this woman is a better trac than him, well then, she must be one terrible bitch indeed.
“If Waterboy’ll talk to her, that’s up to him,” says the gray-haired man, hunching his back and shuffling away toward one of the shelters.
The other freelancers follow his example and draw away warily, not suggesting welcome by any means, but no longer standing confrontationally in the way of the two contractors.
“Come on,” Kob says, leading the way toward the open loading dock door of the Old Warehouse, where a line has formed in front of a table.
Freelancers bundled in parkas are handing out items from boxes—hats, scarves, meal kits, blankets.
Two burly men stand to either side of the door with their arms crossed, presumably to keep things orderly and prevent anyone from trying to make off with more than their share.
One of them, a gruff, barrel-chested fellow with a red beard spilling from the hood of his warmsuit, gives Kob a long, hateful look.
“My cousin was in the Utilities Strike, you know. Allied Shiftworkers faction. They were sold out, thanks to your sneaky backstabbing stunt with the Mechanics. All for a two percent difference in wages and five percent on heat and water. Two and five percent. Most of them ended up termed. You proud of yourself, you bastard?”
“It was a bad time all around” is all Kob says.
To most people, the bearded freel would be large and formidable, but not next to Kob. The man spits on the ground. “Even if you are badgeless, I wouldn’t give you a cup to piss in.”
Another freelancer working the table in a trapper hat speaks up unexpectedly. “Cut it out, Red. That’s not what we’re about here. We’re all the same now.”
“No, we’re most definitely fucking not,” counters the first man. “We’re not all murderers .”
“I’m only here to introduce a friend, not to cause a scene.” Kob calmly pushes his hands into his pockets and takes a step back before things can escalate. “Better if I wait out here anyway. Waterboy won’t want to see me.”
It shouldn’t be a surprise to Isako that Kob’s engendering so much hostility.
Blame it on the fact that she’s had a lot on her mind over the last twenty-six hours, but she didn’t think about his situation when they got in the car.
She didn’t consider that her friend might be walking into danger by coming here with her.
They still hate him. Of course they do.
Although Rain Kob’s lost his badge, he’ll never be accepted among the badgeless. Which makes him an outcast among outcasts. As his grace period runs out, Kob can’t even count on the fraternity of the downtrodden.
The realization fills Isako with dread. The only way Kob’s making it another year is if he gets his badge back. Pulls himself out of being a ronin, lands another contract, returns to being who he was.
She glances ahead into the dim interior of the warehouse, then back at her old partner.
Kob pats the top of his triggersheath. “I’ll be waiting right here,” he promises.