Double edged, p.10
Double Edged, page 10
part #1 of The Bulari Saga Series
The valley he sees could be in Indira. It’s about two kilometers across, and filled with green. Rows of what looks like soybeans. Squash, maybe. Probably corn.
Jaantzen hands the comm to Manu; his eyebrows rise a fraction.
“You saw this in person?” Jaantzen asks.
Ximena nods. “I took these images. Willem. Imagine if the northern hemisphere could support actual settlements? Or imagine if the southern hemisphere could grow more of its own food? Stop relying so much on Indiran exports?”
“Imagine if we didn’t need the Indiran Alliance,” Manu says.
“Start exporting that food to the Belt planets,” signs Starla. “Then they wouldn’t need the Alliance, either.”
Manu nods, still thumbing through the images. “New Sarjun could support a bigger population, and all those refugees from New Manila and Corusca and Teuça could have somewhere real to go.”
“This is quite a bit of imagining,” Jaantzen says. “But if it’s true, I can see why the Alliance would want to keep it quiet.” Feeding New Sarjun and shipping food out to Durga’s Belt is a huge business already. Control that business, and you could control entire planetary economies. The idea is incredible.
“They’re keeping it under wraps,” says Ximena. “Secret supply requisitions. Disappeared prisoners doing the work. Communications blackout. The whole bit.”
“Then how did Coeur know?”
Her expression closes for a fraction of a second; she’s preparing to lie.
“I can’t help you — I can’t help anyone — if you don’t tell me the truth,” Jaantzen says. He says “anyone” because he’s not ready to acknowledge that her sister’s still alive, not yet. But Ximena takes his meaning and nods solemnly.
“There’s a cult that started at Redrock,” she says finally. “By one of the prisoners there who says he’s some sort of prophet.”
“The Dawn,” offers Jaantzen.
“They have this obsession with death, and purifying the world for the end times. Or something like that. Anyway, they figure this same serum that the Alliance is using to help terraform the desert can transform humans, too. They wanted to get their hands on it, so they paid Thala to steal the samples the Alliance had taken to Indira and ship them back to them on New Sarjun.”
Jaantzen sighs. “And let me guess. She figured she’d take their money, then ship it to you instead, and then make her own money off it.”
“Old habits die hard,” says Manu.
“She didn’t tell me that part — I learned it the hard way when the Dawn started coming after me. Thala said it was the Alliance taking advantage of what should have rightfully been New Sarjun’s.”
“That sounds suspiciously altruistic,” says Jaantzen, and Ximena shoots him a dark look.
“She had a business plan,” she says. “And she didn’t think much of the religious folks who were footing the bill. So, no, she wasn’t here to save the day.”
“And you were going to go along with her?”
“Of course not. I have a perfectly good thing going at Redrock.” Ximena laughs sadly. “Had. While I was waiting for her shipments to arrive, I got a frantic message saying she was in trouble, and that I needed to run. I got out just as some psycho cultists came after me, and I figured I’d try to find this shipment before they did.” Ximena taps a finger against her split lip. “And I guess you all know the rest of that story.”
“Not quite,” Manu says. “How did you find the shipment?”
“Tip-off. Thala was using a friend of hers to ship it in, some smuggler named Yang. She contacted me to let me know where it was.”
Julieta had asked him to destroy the shipment, then told Ximena where it was so she could salvage the case first? Something about this sits very wrong with him.
“My house is yours for as long as you need it,” he says.
She looks up at him, too quickly. “Even if my trouble’s with the Alliance?”
“You wouldn’t be my first Alliance refugee,” he says mildly.
Her gaze flickers to Starla.
“And Gia, of course,” he says, to see if she winces. She does, which he takes as a sign that she’s still got at least part of her soul. Her sister had never felt guilty about her role in selling Giaconda Áte off to rot in Redrock Prison.
“And if I don’t want to stay?”
Jaantzen leans forward, steeples his fingers. “I would like you to be my guest for now,” he says. “Though you’re not a prisoner. So long as you agree to tell me the truth about everything.”
“Not a prisoner, but I can’t leave.”
“I think you’ll find we can both help each other quite a bit.”
Ximena looks like she’s about to argue, but instead she sits back, pressing her lips into a thin line.
“There is one more thing,” she says. Her gaze shifts between Jaantzen and Starla, as though wondering how much Starla’s told him.
“How do you know your sister’s alive?” Jaantzen asks.
Ximena’s shoulders relax as though in relief she didn’t have to break the news. “Her captors contacted me with proof. They wanted me to find the case and bring it in trade for her life.”
“The Dawn.”
“I assume so. They didn’t say. Willem, I need your help.”
“I’m not giving them anything.”
“I’m not suggesting that. Those bastards have my sister, and I have to help her.”
Jaantzen watches her coolly. “Years ago, I promised you I would cease my vendetta against her life, and for fifteen years I’ve watched her thrive. Now you’re asking me to rescue the woman who murdered my family.”
Ximena takes a deep breath. “When you came to me for help freeing Starla, my price was hard for you to bear — but you did it. With grace. Now I’m coming to you for help, and I know there is no parity here.”
“I see that.”
“But I am in your debt. And Thala will be in your debt.”
“The idea of Thala being in my debt unnerves me,” Jaantzen says, then raises a hand before Ximena can respond. “If I help you rescue her, it’s not to set her free. It’s not out of obligation and friendship to a business partner. You’re both trading one captor for another.”
“But I trust you. Far more than them.”
“If I rescue your sister, it’s because I see the value in what she’s stolen from the Dawn, and I don’t want them — or anyone — to have her as leverage. I want you to know that.”
“I understand.”
Jaantzen doesn’t look over at Manu; he can sense his lieutenant’s cold, reproachful gaze, feel the tension in every angle of his pose. I’m so sorry, Jaantzen thinks.
“I’ll help.”
Ximena closes her eyes, a brief flutter. “Thank you.”
Jaantzen stands, buttoning his suit jacket. He holds out a hand to Ximena, who rises to meet it. Her hand is ice cold, but her grip is firm.
“I’m late for an appointment,” he says. “Starla, will you drive me? Take Major Nayar down and inform the Anahoys. We’ll follow in a moment.”
Manu doesn’t look at him until the elevator doors close.
“Manu — ”
“You can’t be fucking serious.” Manu is still, a single vein pulsing in the hollow of his neck. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
“I don’t like it. But we can use her.”
“Use her? Nobody uses her. Blackheart uses you.” His expression is dangerous, deadly. “Or have you forgotten what she’s like?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything. We control her, or we let the Dawn do it. Or, worse, they let her loose to take her old territory back, only this time she has an extreme advantage.”
“Control her.” Manu bites the words out.
“If she’s truly still alive, I want her where I can see her, not hiding in the shadows.” Jaantzen leans forward, locking his gaze on Manu. “And she will see justice, Manu. I promise you.”
Manu takes a sharp breath at that, reining in whatever else he might have said.
“I need you tonight. I can’t afford to be down my best man, but it’s worse for us all if you go when you shouldn’t. You have to tell me if you can do this.”
Manu’s always warm eyes are flint. Three breaths, and decision made. Manu nods.
“Good. Go with the Anahoys. Take Major Nayar and her cargo back to Cobalt Tower. Find out what she knows about where her sister is being held and make a plan for as soon as possible.” To rescue Coeur, he does not say. But the muscle twitching in Manu’s clenched jaw tells him the message is clear.
“On it, boss.”
Manu stands stiffly and goes to pick up the case. As he walks past, to the elevator, Jaantzen stops him, a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. He keeps his grip light; he’s seen this arm laid open sinew and bone on Gia’s operating table.
“Manu. I’m sorry.”
After a long moment, Manu meets his gaze. “I know,” he says, a slow, tired breath. “I think we’re all going to be sorry.”
9
Jaantzen
“I should go in with you.”
Starla’s stopped the Dulciana just shy of the steps to Leone’s home so that the passenger door will open into a thornbush. It’s a clear sign she’s not ready to let Jaantzen out without giving him what’s on her mind; he wills himself to relax.
He’s not in the mood.
“Things aren’t normal right now,” she signs. “I need to make sure you’re safe.”
“No,” Jaantzen says, then lifts his hands. “No seconds at dinner,” he signs. “It’s tradition.”
An exasperated look. “I’m not a second. I’m — ” Starla’s fingers pause in midair and he hasn’t a clue what sign her hands were on the verge of forming. “Your daughter,” she finally signs, the sign clipped and fast, the hesitation in it unacknowledged.
“If I bring you — ” He’s trying to speak and sign, and in his frustration he doesn’t have the energy. When he’s this close, her lens mostly transcribes his voice better than he can sign anyway.
Yet it’s a crutch he uses too often. He forces himself to speak her language, scowling at the clumsiness in his hands.
“If I bring you, the others will insist on bringing their seconds. Or their heirs.” He doesn’t know the sign and fingerspells it, pushes himself past her sudden stillness at the word. “Go home. Get some rest. You’ll need it for later tonight.”
Her lips quirk to the side. “You trust these people?”
Jaantzen lets out a sharp breath. He isn’t in the mood for this conversation.
“These people are my . . .” He spirals his hands, trying to think of the sign. “Friends.”
It’s not the right word, but he’s not sure what is. If he were speaking, he would have said associates, but even that word doesn’t have the right connotation. What does one call a pack of disparate predators in uneasy alliance? A coyote, a jaguar, a cobra, a scorpion, a lion standing back to back?
Certainly not friends. And he doubts most in that home tonight would consider him their peer.
“Julieta Yang.” Starla tips a skeptical eyebrow at the woman’s namesign. “She told us to blow up her shipment, but also told Ximena to go get it?”
It’s been gnawing at him, too.
“They accept you when you’re useful,” Starla signs, and there’s a deep bitterness in her face that he doesn’t expect. “They don’t know you, they don’t know me, and they don’t want to.”
He lifts his hands, but he’s far too slow.
“All these society people see is where you come from.”
“Starla — ” he says.
“And that’s their mistake.”
“Thank you,” he says. Then, in sign, “Keep an eye out; I don’t plan to be long. I’ll call.”
Starla looks for a moment as though she’ll argue, but she decides against it. “Fine,” she signs, the gesture sharp and deliberate.
She moves back to the controls, but he touches the back of her hand.
“Tonight,” he signs, “this thing with — ”
She cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “You need me.”
Jaantzen lets a smile touch the corner of his lips. “That’s what I was going to say,” he signs.
Starla’s skeptical side-eye softens and she gives him a faint nod, lets the Dulciana roll forward, presents the chief justice’s rising staircase to him like the opportunity it is. Jaantzen rests his hand on the door handle. For a man brought up without parents, he thinks he’s done a decent job with the daughter he inherited. In fact, inheriting a daughter already broken and raging had been liberating where raising his own children from pure blank slates had been a source of crushing anxiety. He remembers watching his son and daughter play as though he were a voyeur, hand over his mouth in case a wrong breath was enough to destroy their happy, fragile lives. Celebrating each of their few birthdays with a growing sense of dread, knowing they were one year closer to understanding him. Judging him.
He remembers lying in bed at night listening to Tae breathe, knowing that at least they would have their mother — once they grew old enough to realize the kind of man their father truly was. Because surely by then she would have realized, as well.
Would he have allowed his natural-born children to be involved in the darker sides of his business? Would Tae have allowed it? Certainly not.
He tries to picture the laughing three-year-old girl of his memories, all grown up and pointing a weapon at an already-bleeding shard-cooker while she waited unbothered for him to order her to pull the trigger.
Waited, unbothered, for him to ask her to cross a line he does not want her to cross — a line he assumes she has not crossed, though admittedly he can’t be sure.
Starla may not have been the child he created, but she is the one given to him. And sometimes — a stab of guilt at the thought — the universe knows best.
His hand is on the handle and his heart is pounding as he wills himself to say one last thing. His hands learned the sign nearly fifteen years ago, but they still balk every time he tries to form it.
Who do you think you are, a voice from inside seems to ask. What right do you have to say it?
He takes a deep breath.
“I love you,” he signs.
And Starla’s fierce expression softens, the corner of her mouth quirks up into a reluctant smile. She gives him an amused little shake of her head, then leans across the seat to kiss his cheek. He catches a lingering whiff of perfume, wonders what prompted her to wear it today.
“I love you, too,” she tells him. “Be careful in there.”
Chief Justice Geum-ja Leone greets him with a clasped forearm and kisses on both cheeks that she pulls him down to receive. She’s grown shorter and boxier each year he’s known her, silver hair shorn tight against her scalp, expensive Coruscan opal earrings hanging heavy from her pale ears. He hasn’t seen them on her before, and trade with Corusca has been almost impossible since the Alliance cracked down on a rebellion there five years ago. Probably a gift from Julieta, then.
For a New Sarjunian supreme court judge, Leone has expensive tastes. If pressed, she’ll say she’s handled her family’s existing assets well, but Jaantzen has padded her pockets with enough of his own funds to know where the money is coming from. Everything on this planet is decided in the end by the judiciary, and having a good — if expensive — relationship with someone like Geum-ja Leone is the cost of doing business in this town.
Some of the biggest business deals and most lucrative alliances have been made at her dinner parties. To get an invitation is to get access to a tier of society a street kid like Jaantzen never could have dreamed existed. His friendship with Julieta ushered him into the fringes of Justice Leone’s social circle, and his role leading the fight to oust Coeur had earned him a standing invitation to those dinner parties. Starla’s right — he’s always suspected most here still see him as a street criminal brought to heel. But tonight he’s not here for their approval. He’s got bigger problems on the horizon.
“Willem!” Leone says. “It’s been too long.”
“It has, Madame Justice.”
She accepts his proffered bottle of wine with a little gasp of delight. “I’ve had my eye on this vintage,” she says. “Have you been spying on me?”
Jaantzen smiles.
“Julieta has the spies,” he says. “My secret is simply attention to detail.”
Leone just laughs and holds out her elbow to usher him to the sitting room, moving her attentions to a light banter on the weather.
Jaantzen’s mind isn’t in the right place for pleasantries. In general, but especially tonight. As a younger man, he hadn’t understood the point of small talk, or how much negotiation occurs in who remembers children’s names or the host’s favored wine varietal. Now he understands it, he just doesn’t get the same delight the others seem to.
Julieta may have schooled him to take away some of his roughness, but there’s still a fundamental divide between those who were born to the high-society game and those who wear it like a second skin over ingrained habits. He sometimes wonders if they can’t see his feral nature in his eyes, or if they just choose to ignore it.
Let them look down on him. Which of them would’ve survived a childhood in the streets with him and Coeur?
Leone plucks two glasses from her waiter’s tray, presses one into his hand. “You must try this aperitif,” she says. “The liqueur is made with plants gathered wild on Agate Ridge, I think it’s just splendid.”
She sips, then watches him taste; it’s surprisingly refreshing, light and bubbly with just the hint of herbs he can’t put his finger on. “It’s wonderful,” he says.
“It’s from a new distillery. I met the owner recently and was impressed. She’s from Carama Town; what she’s built from nothing is really quite commendable.”
Jaantzen gives her an encouraging smile and waits for the pitch. Leone has always had a soft spot for a slum kid with a can-do attitude.
“And I thought,” she continues, “wouldn’t a cocktail like this just be wonderful on the Jungle’s menu? You two must meet.”
