Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
Kob is waiting right where she left him, hands still stuffed into the pockets of his heavy coat, fleece-lined hood pulled up over his head.
The big freels who’re apparently in charge of security at the Old Warehouse are still standing around, too, watching Strikebreaker venomously, making sure he knows how much he’s hated and unwelcome.
Isako’s never seen a bear, or dogs, but she’s seen the creatures of old Earth in images and movies, and that’s what comes to mind when she sees Kob alone: a bear circled by angry, fearful hounds.
If it weren’t for his size and reputation and the fact that he’s still got his longknife, the pack of them might’ve tried to take him on.
“Let’s get out of here.” Isako leads the way back to their hired car. She’s relieved enough to let out an audible breath once they’re inside the vehicle and it starts moving.
Kob pulls down his hood. “So, you talked to him? Learn anything useful?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” She feels jittery and disquieted. “Waterboy says Sandbar Uchi ordered the airshield dropped on Field 93 and that all the other survivors were terminated on Uchi’s orders.”
She tries to imagine Forest Greves ordering the deaths of his wagemen, even known obstructionists.
She can’t. Even in defeat, her client was torn up about signing dismissal notices.
He went so far as to save her from becoming a ronin, the damn fool.
She’s always known she was lucky to work for someone who actually cared, and that not all directors are the same—but she’s never faced such a stark reminder.
“Unfortunately, Waterboy’s not exactly a reliable witness,” she says.
“The guy wasn’t even there when it happened.
And he seems more than a little fucked up in the head from it all.
Sounds like he was also involved in the bombing plot to kill Uchi.
He’s found a place in United Freelancers as a kind of proselytizing mascot.
Someone the badgeless can rally around—the sole survivor, the victim-hero. ”
“He’s better off than the others.” Kob stares out the window. Dusk fell while they were at the Old Warehouse and the temperature outside is plummeting fast, even in the properly lit and heated parts of the cityhab. “So what are you going to do now?”
Given what she’s learned over the last day, she should focus on digging into Uchi’s role in the Field 93 disaster.
As Waterboy pointed out, nothing will reverse the outcome of the Company investigation, but just because Uchi’s been legally exonerated doesn’t mean he’s invulnerable to public opinion.
With enough damning evidence and a citizen outcry, a few key Board members might be persuaded to change their votes and keep Uchi out of their ranks.
That would be enough to satisfy Savannah Minto.
That’s what she should do, logically. But her instincts tell her otherwise.
“I’m going to find out how Martim died,” she says.
“He’s in the center of all this—the Field 93 disaster, the investigation and hearing, his client’s Board nomination…
The timing of his death can’t be a coincidence.
Someone wanted him out of the way before the Board vote. That’s what my gut is saying.”
She wishes she had a more well-thought-out answer, but right now, her brain feels like mush.
She’s still sore from last night and wants desperately to get something to eat, take a shower, and sleep for ten hours.
“I’m grateful we ran into each other again,” she tells Kob.
“It’s a miracle, honestly. I appreciate all the help.
I’ll drop you off at your place, but let’s get together again, after all this is over. ”
Before either of us runs out of time.
Kob crosses his thick arms and gives her the slow drawl of a smile she remembers well. “Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“What? No, that’s not… You bailed me out of a knife fight, let me crash at your place, and went into freelancer territory for me. You’re under no obligation to stick around or do anything more.”
“What if I want to? One of the few advantages of being a ronin is choosing how to spend my time. I’d like to stick around and help.”
She’s not sure what to say. “Are you offering to work with me as a subcon? I don’t think my client will authorize my scripline to pay atier rates.”
“I’m not an atier anymore, remember? And I’m not doing it for scrip or to get back into client service.
I didn’t know Martim nearly as well as you did, but it bothers me, too—what happened to the kid.
Besides, I’m not going to pass up the chance to work with you one more time, Isa.
I don’t know about you, but those were some of my best years. ”
She can’t meet Kob’s eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I won’t do shadowcon-type work. That’s the one place I won’t go, if it comes down to it,” Kob says. “And if at any point, you don’t want me around, I certainly won’t force my company on you. Just tell me you’d rather handle this assignment alone and I’ll leave you to it.”
An inspired thought comes to Isako with a jolt.
If she can draw Kob back into real work—not low-level freelance odd jobs like nightclub security and guarding food trucks—he’ll remember what it’s like to be an atier of the Agency.
He’ll return to being who he really is: Strikebreaker .
Not this shadow version of himself. The fact is: His very life depends on it.
What she saw during their visit to the Old Warehouse made it obvious that he’s got no chance as a freelancer.
The idea of him ever reduced to that level makes her feel nauseous.
Her last assignment doesn’t have to serve only Savannah Minto and the reunionists. She can save Rain Kob. That would be a far more meaningful way to end her career.
Besides, she admits to herself, the prospect of teaming up with her old partner again, having someone at her back, knowing she’s not going to be alone for this last contract…
She could use Kob’s help. And he could use hers.
“Fuck Earth, where do you want to go for dinner?”
“Funny you should ask.” His grin is a flash of white in the dark. “Since you’re in SoCon GasPro with a client-authorized scripline, I know just the place.”
The ma?tre d’ at the Cove restaurant looks uncomfortable when Kob requests a table for two. “And how will you be paying, sir?”
Only a freelancer would ever be asked the question.
Ordinarily, the host would not bother to ask; he would turn them away at the door by telling them there were no tables available tonight.
Or tomorrow night. Or any night in the foreseeable future, so sorry.
But a pair of rather large, hungry-looking longknivespeople merits greater consideration, freelancers or not.
Isako steps up next to Kob so the host can see her badge. “I’m taking my colleague out to dinner. We’d like to sit somewhere we can discuss business in private.”
The man acquiesces and leads them to a secluded table for two in the farthest corner.
Kob gallantly pulls out the seat for Isako, then settles expansively across from her.
Candlelight flickers from an elegantly tapered glass holder in the center of the white tablecloth.
The ambiance is a bit much, but she’s too hungry to suggest they go elsewhere.
The server offers them a selection of purified waters, and Kob chooses a premium label. “The specialty here is fish,” he says.
Isako nearly spits a mouthful of expensive water.
“ Fish ,” she exclaims, too loudly. She drops her voice.
“How generous of a scripline do you think I have?” She wonders if she was wrong about Kob wanting to help her.
Maybe he just wants to take advantage of her wallet.
“If Director Minto notices the charges…”
“Relax, we won’t go overboard,” Kob assures her, examining the wine selection.
“Come on, Isa, you’ve been doing this for long enough that you know directors don’t pay much attention to the costs as long as you get them results.
One nice dinner is hardly scripline abuse.
” He looks up at her seriously. “Besides, when are either of us going to get another chance to try seafood?”
He has a point. She’s been too busy thinking about her assignment to have come to grips with the fact that they’re both on strictly limited time.
When the waiter returns, Kob orders them a bottle of wine and Isako squelches her discomfort over the extravagant price tag and orders the tasting platter for two.
“So how did you find out about Waterboy?” she asks, when the waiter departs.
But Kob is grimacing, squeezing his eyes shut as if the dim lighting in the restaurant is too bright. His left hand starts trembling uncontrollably; he clamps his right hand over it and puts both hands under the table.
“Are you all right?” Isako asks in alarm.
Kob takes a shuddering breath and lets it out again, forcing his tensed shoulders back down from where they’ve bunched nearly up to his ears.
“Migraine,” he groans, his face still taut with discomfort.
“They come on suddenly sometimes. Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.
” He gets up and makes his way toward the restroom, walking unsteadily.
The waiters look at him askance, perhaps wondering how such a big man could already be drunk.