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She caught sight of him from across the room and felt her stomach lurch. Only supreme effort and many years of practice kept a smile on her face. He was just like the rest of them: rich, arrogant, stupid, and worst of all, a tourist.
Springtime on South Pavibon was famous across the Frontier Worlds and it brought millions of tourists. The entire planet was nothing but a string of large islands full of sandy beaches. They were never short of visitors but spring was the worst. The tourism industry did extremely well: the souvenir shops, the restaurants, the hotels, cantinas and brothels. The tourists brought a lot of money to her town of Hydrosphere, of course… but they also brought a lot of trash. Not just the junk the tourists threw all over the place, but the people themselves.
Like this guy. Despite the tropical heat he made a point of wearing an extremely expensive Admiral Orion suit, complete with unnecessary baubles of self-important narcissism. He was an ugly man with an ugly gaze that followed her like a hungry animal. Verda was not an unattractive woman, she knew, but she also knew that this man would never remember her face. He probably never even saw women’s faces. Another burst of revulsion washed over her but along with it came a steely determination. She clutched her mug of Movic tighter for a moment, allowing the revulsion to be completely replaced by the sheer joy she took in her job. A wicked grin tried to spread across her face but she fought it. She gulped down the rest of her bitter liquored coffee and headed toward the bar for a refill that she would never get.
Her eyes were conspicuously elsewhere as she ran full-tilt into the ugly man. He did exactly what he was supposed to do: he reached out to grab her shoulders, to steady her and get a feel for her skin. They were all alike. She looked up at him with surprised eyes and bubbled out a hasty apology. His eyes started to glaze over just holding her but she managed to carefully remove herself from his grip. With another apology and a gushing statement that she hoped he would enjoy his trip she disappeared into the crowd.
It wasn’t until she was well clear of the cantina that she felt safe enough to finger the large chit of Patriniums she’d deftly pulled from his jacket.
For you see, the tourism industry wasn’t the only group who made money off the annual influx of people. There were also the Vagabonds.
“Have a good day, Vee?” Myrna Sanchez asked, her red ponytail swinging in rhythm as she ran on the treadflow.
“Better than usual,” she answered as she flopped down onto the couch. “Hit three businessmen and a guy who had StarTalon written all over him.”
Myrna tsk-tsked her younger sister playfully as she turned off the exercise machine. “How many times have I told you to leave the Cartels alone?” she asked.
Verda, ‘Vee’ to her sister, simply shrugged. “He was drunker than Mayor Bavro on tax day, Emm. I don’t think lighting him on fire would have gotten his attention.”
Myrna grinned widely for a minute as she toweled off her forehead. Her grin disappeared after a minute. “I’ve got some bad news. I think Stalker’s back.”
Verda sat bolt upright, her idle thoughts of dinner evaporating. “Stalker?” she asked, her throat tight. “Are you sure?”
Her sister looked grim. “Pretty sure. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like him. He was gone before I could get a closer look.”
Verda swore with feeling. “What wonderfully rotten timing! The season just started!”
Myrna sat down on the couch next to her sister. “I don’t think he’s going to get in the way of operations. If he was police or CDO or anything official I think he would have struck by now. Don’t you?”
She thought back. They’d first noticed a man watching them about three years ago. He’d kept his distance, appearing and disappearing at will. Myrna had dubbed him ‘Stalker’ and at first they had been extremely cautious. Over time they’d practically ignored him, but now… now his timing was absolutely horrible. “If he is anything official we need to do something. But what?”
Myrna shrugged. “I don’t think we should run, and you know we never hurt people.”
“Why not run?” she interrupted. “There are other cities on this planet just as well off. There’s nothing here worth losing our freedom over.”
“We don’t run just yet,” Myrna said with authority. “Let’s see what he does over the next few weeks. Keep an eye out. Don’t do anything stupid. Then we’ll call a Gathering and discuss it then.”
“You’re the boss,” Verda said, sighing. Her sister was in charge for a reason: she was smarter, more logical, a better organizer and a just plain better conwoman than any two Vagabonds put together. She was usually right about everything.
Usually.
It was another cloudless, warm day with cool breezes coming off the ocean; another perfect South Pavibon day. It was the kind of day that brought millions of people to the planet, and thousands to her own sleepy little town. If Verda were an honest citizen she supposed she would have been proud of Hydrosphere’s billing as a Top Fifty Frontier Worlds Location.
As a Vagabond she simply liked the job security; job security that could very well be slipping away. She’d hit two extremely easy marks, netting at least a couple thousand ‘Rins, when she spotted Stalker. He was sitting at a side café that was popular with a particular set of daring clientele but was not considered “mainstream.” It offered foods that were acquired tastes, to the say the least, or it offered normal food in a raw or even living form. The list of health warnings on the door was a mile long but there were enough rich, bored thrill-seekers to give the place a tidy profit.
Stalker had chosen a table that afforded an excellent view of the entire shoreline but that was itself secluded beneath a large seuyta tree. If she’d chosen to take the beach route, which she usually did on Shuday, he would have seen her the entire time. And she probably wouldn’t have even suspected he was there.
Myrna was forever and always getting on her case about her impulsiveness. Verda defended it; it got her bigger and better marks. So far the money had spoken for itself. She’d gotten used to being impulsive, to taking large risks and reaping equally large rewards from them.
So, impulsively, she walked swiftly forward and sat down at Stalker’s table. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her pulse thudding in her ears.
He didn’t shout, twitch, or demand an explanation. He didn’t even spill any of the drink he had in his hand. He simply raised an eyebrow, finished taking a sip, and set the glass on the table carefully. That alone told her a lot about him.
“I’m enjoying the somewhat esoteric fare of this delightful seaside restaurant,” he said in a voice that was deep, rich and almost syrupy. She got a not-entirely unpleasant tingle when he spoke. “And what are you doing here? Besides interrupting my meal, that is.”
She eyed his plate. “You’ve only taken two bites out of your food and that was at least fifteen minutes ago. That means you have been drinking very leisurely. What are you doing here?”
Stalker chuckled softly, sending another tingle through her. “Observant and beautiful both. Tell me, what else are you good at?”
Verda stared at him, the tingle eaten alive by a cold fury. He was far too casual, and she was mad at him for his casualness. He was a threat. She could feel it to her very core. And yet here he sat, pretending to be completely innocent. Her eyes searched his face. A strong jaw, straight black hair, slit-like eyes of a piercing blue that were deep with intelligence and hidden emotions. He was probably handsome. She didn’t care. She was positive that she’d never marked him before. Whether any of the other Vagabonds had… that was a different matter altogether.
“Let’s cut the snarf, huh?” she growled. “You’ve been watching this area for three years, maybe longer. You’re no tourist, so what are you?”
He took another sip of his drink as a particularly stiff gust of wind blew in, rattling the hut and bringing with it a soft spray of salt water. He finished his sip and looked her straight in the eyes.
“I??
?m curious,” he said. “I’ve heard tales, here and there, of the Vagabonds. I wanted to find out more.”
Verda’s heart skipped three beats but she managed to snort derisively. “Whale snarf. The Vagabonds don’t exist. They were invented by the Governor-General as an excuse to raise taxes and send cops on useless errands.”
He spread his arms in an innocent gesture. “And yet here you are, interrupting a perfectly innocent meal being enjoyed by a perfectly innocent man. You’re either hunting a date or you’re scared. If I were a smart man I’d say it was the latter. I’m not smart, so let’s assume it’s a date you want. Tonight at seven? I can meet you here.”
She resolutely closed her mouth, which had opened of its own accord during his speech. Here he was, Stalker, danger to the entire Vagabond way of life, and not only was he lying about his intentions but he had the gall to ask her out on a date!
“Seven sounds perfect,” her mouth said of its own accord.
He raised his glass in a mock salute, drained it off, stood up and disappeared before her brain could catch up with what her mouth had said. She turned to decline the offer, to spit curses at him… but he was already gone. As always he’d disappeared at will.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She’d confronted Stalker and learned nothing. Well, that wasn’t true. She’d learned he was extremely smooth, very smart, and completely unflappable.
She’d also learned where he was going to be at seven tonight. Perhaps tonight she could learn something else about him.
There was no way she was going to tell Myrna about this, though.
The sun was low on the horizon and the stars were just beginning to peek through the turquoise atmosphere when she arrived at the café. She was intentionally a few minutes early so she could get a feel for the situation. If this was a trap she wasn’t going to walk blindly into it. She’d watched every single person on her way here, looked at every single shadow where somebody might hide, and took a route she’d never taken before. So far, so good.
Lo and behold, Stalker was already there, looking out at the ocean. He was carrying a single pink rose in his clasped hands. Verda snorted. A rose. He was really playing this one. She would have to be careful.
She also hadn’t had a date in five years. Her nerves of steel were rusty and her heart and stomach were fluttering. She took a few calming breaths, plastered her usual smile on her face, and walked out to meet the man who she knew would be the end of them all.
He heard her coming and turned, bowing at the waist. “I was afraid you were going to stand me up,” he said, his face lit by the setting sun. He was handsome, actually, and her stomach fluttered some more. He pulled his hands from behind his back and offered her the pink rose. More flutters. “Would you care to join me for dinner and dancing at the Starlight Gazebo?” he continued.
She took the proffered rose and hand, but kept her grip tight on the latter. “Why not dance here?” she asked, her nerves back. “I need some answers before I join you for anything.”
He smiled, a heart-melting gesture, and put his other hand on her waist. “Answers from me?” he asked, still playing the innocent. He began to dance to some unheard tune, a simple star step. She moved easily with him and tried desperately to be mad that he was acting innocent. She thought of her beloved sister and the rest of the Vagabonds that were also like sisters to her. She could do this. She had to do this.
“You can act as innocent as you want,” she said with resolve. “But we both know the truth. You’ve been watching us for three years. Why?”
He was silent for many moments but she could tell from his expression that he was finally not going to dodge the question. He was most likely trying to figure out just how much to say.
He finally sighed. “I’ve considered asking you for help,” he said simply.
Verda stopped dancing. “Excuse me?” she asked carefully. Of the many scenarios she’d pictured this was certainly not on the list.
He clasped his hands behind his back and flashed a nervous smile. “I know, it doesn’t make sense. I could probably make a lot more money turning you Vagabonds in.”
“I told you already: the Vagabonds are a myth invented by the Governor-General.”
He looked at her with those piercing blue eyes. She felt suddenly exposed, as if he were searching her very soul. “You seem to have a grudge against the Governor-General. Any particular reason you don’t like William Greco-Stevens?”
She tensed without wanting to and cursed herself for it. An obvious giveaway. She gritted her teeth. “I don’t have any particular reasons for anything. I’m interrogating you, not the other way around.”
He shrugged, still far too innocent and calm. Confound him, anyway. “I simply wanted to know if your reasons were strong enough to consider a joint effort to drain him dry.”
She stood up straighter and immediately cursed herself again. Another giveaway. She wasn’t in control. Stalker was pulling her strings like an expert and she was reacting like an amateur. It was time she pulled her own strings.
“The more important question is what your grudge with the Governor-General is,” she said, careful to not call him by name lest she tense up again.
He smiled again, still completely in control. “He took the two most important things from me: my job and my reputation. I want to see him pay for that.”
She decided to gloss over the details of the ‘job and reputation’ for just now. “How do you want to see him pay?”
“I want him to lose the same things: his job and reputation.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
He shrugged. “He’s hosting the Mantroc Gala on this fair planet in two weeks. I was hoping to do something to him then.”
She looked past Stalker to the darkened ocean on the horizon, trying desperately to not let her surprise show. The Mantroc Gala was the biggest event on South Pavibon. Every year the Vagabonds avoided it like hard vacuum: there were simply too many cops and prying eyes to risk anything. And if the Governor-General himself was coming the amount of security would easily quadruple.
“What were you hoping to do?” she asked in spite of herself.
He shrugged again, his façade finally cracking. “I don’t really know. Steal the Shards? Make it look like he did? That’s why I need your help.”
Plans and possibilities shuttered through her mind and she felt a grin spread across her face. She turned on her heel and started to walk away before Stalker could see just how much this was affecting her.
“Wait! Will you help me?” he called after her.
She looked over her shoulder, smothering her grin. “Meet me here in three days. I’ll see what I can do.”
She continued to walk into the starlit night, her grin unstoppable, her impulsive impishness roaring like a firestorm within her. This was a perfect opportunity, the perfect crowning achievement and ultimate revenge she could have ever hoped for.
She just knew her sister was going to say no.
“No!” Myrna practically screamed. “You know why we never attend the Gala! Especially with the Governor-General coming!”
Verda pulled out every trick in her book. Myrna stood steadfast. Verda finally pulled the ultimate card. Myrna cracked. She sighed. “Let’s see what the others say,” she finally conceded.
Gatherings were rare events for the Vagabonds. Each woman had a sector and an area of expertise and they were expected to take care of each without intervention. Funds were distributed by several dozen drop sights and each Vagabond was expected to give at least some of their income. The total percentage was left up to each operative. To host a Gathering was dangerous but occasionally necessary. This time it was urgent.
The reactions of the twenty-one women were mixed, as could be expected. Five of them were absolutely fanatic about going along with the plan; these were the five that thought they should go to the Mantroc Gala every year anyway. Seven were equally strong in their opinion against going. Two were adam
ant about not trusting Stalker. Four didn’t care about Stalker, they just wanted to see if they could pull it off. The other three just wanted to know what Myrna and Verda thought. That left nine firmly against and nine firmly for, with three undecided.
In the end it was really up to Myrna. Nobody else could make a decision of this magnitude. Verda sat back and watched her older sister. They were close, closer now than they’d ever been. They’d found their shared love of con work and pickpocketing. Verda could almost read Emm’s thoughts. The Vagabonds’ very vow was to make chauvinistic males pay a very painful and expensive price. And yet here they were on the verge of making a deal with a man who might very well be leading them into a trap. On the other hand, the Mantroc Gala was a prime fruit ready to be plucked from the trees; more money could be taken in one night than the Vagabonds made in six months.
And then there was the Governor-General. Forget that he was placed in his position by the NovaSons. Alpha Cartels weren’t omniscient despite all their claims to the contrary. Forget the security that would surely be added to protect the man. He was a long-standing emotional wound for Myrna and Verda… and a chance to make the most chauvinistic of pigs pay big.
Verda knew what her sister was going to say before she even said it. “We’re going to do it,” Myrna declared.
The nine opposed made various noises of exasperation, but every single woman in the room owed their lives and livelihood to Myrna’s tactical and logistical genius. None were about to question her motives. None knew her personal feelings might be getting the better of her. Verda knew. But they were the same feelings she had and she didn’t care. The risks were nothing compared to the potential gain.
Myrna looked at her sister. They both nodded slightly. Verda couldn’t help an evil little grin from spreading across her face. This was going to be fun.
The two sisters met Stalker at the same time and place. He was dressed in a different suit, one that was more expensive but less flashy than last time. He also had another pink rose. He looked slightly astonished to see two women approaching him. He looked between them and bowed to Myrna. “If I had known my contact had a sister nearly as lovely as she I would have brought two flowers.”
Myrna and Verda exchanged surprised glances. It was an established fact that Myrna was the prettier of the two. It had always been that way. Verda had accepted it and even appreciated it; Myrna had had to hone her skills to make up for the fact that she was easier to notice than her sister.
“A lie is a horrible way to start off this meeting,” Verda said. “And before we go any farther, let’s get some introductions in order. Who are you?”
Stalker flashed his heart-melting smile and Verda could tell that not even Myrna was unaffected. “I am Ford Barton. Do I get the privilege of addressing either of you by name?”
Myrna smiled her own winning smile and for the first time in history a man didn’t immediately offer her everything he owned. “I am Myrna and this is my sister Verda. Have you come up with any plans for the Mantroc Gala, Mr. Barton?”
“Please, call me Ford. All my friends used to.”
“‘Used to?’” Myrna asked.
Ford shrugged. “Before William Greco-Stevens ruined my life and I actually had friends, yes.” He paused. “I see that you share your sister’s hatred for the Governor-General.”
“You see nothing of the sort!” Myrna snapped. “Do you want our help or not?”
He bowed his head low. “My apologies. I have made no secret of my disdain for the man. Your stake in all of this is your own. And yes, I do have a few plans. Would you care to sit down so we can discuss them?”
Myrna shook her head. “Not here.”
They went to one of Myrna’s favorite ‘quiet spots’ and spoke long into the night. Well, Ford and Myrna did. Verda was not the planner her sister was. She was the impulsive one. She spent the time listening as closely as she could, but mostly she watched Stalker. She still couldn’t seem to call him Ford. He had been an intermittent and always-distant part of her life for three years now. Actually meeting him had done nothing to diminish the exotic mystery that seemed to clothe him. He was unflappable, he was extremely smart, and he was gorgeous. Verda sighed quietly to herself. She’d been the unseen sister her whole life. She knew she was attractive but the moment anyone interested in her had met Myrna… well, that had been it. For a few years she’d hated her sister for it but had eventually realized it wasn’t anybody’s fault. Her sister was simply prettier, more level-headed, and just plain better at everything.
It was obvious that Stalker found Emm’s plans absolutely flawless. “Simply amazing,” he had said more than once. Verda sighed some more. She couldn’t blame him. The plan, or the parts she’d actually paid attention to, seemed perfect. She wondered if Emm had secretly been planning to hit the Mantroc Gala at some point.
“What do you think, Verda?” Myrna finally asked.
“I think it’s sound,” she said. “You know me.”
“This isn’t a situation where your impulsiveness will win you over,” Emm said, sounding annoyed. “You’re going to have to follow everything to a tee.”
“Unless the plan breaks down somehow,” Ford said, leaning back and stretching his broad, muscular shoulders. “Then impulse just might come in handy.”
Myrna bristled. “The plan won’t ‘break down,’ unless you know something I don’t,” she said hotly.
“My apologies, Myrna,” Ford said, bowing his head again. “I’ve survived for many years now by realizing that no plan ever survives combat completely. Backups, contingencies, and plain winging it have kept me alive.”
Myrna bristled some more but seemed to calm down. “Two weeks, then?”
Ford smiled and this time it wasn’t a friendly, heart-melting thing. “Two weeks and we topple the Governor-General for good.”
The two weeks did not pass uneventfully. The Vagabonds trained every day in different locations and worked on the plan. Beth managed to get her hands on an up-to-date floor plan of the Palace where the Gala would to take place. Mildred got a list of the Governor-General’s personal bodyguards. Helen and Susan got personnel lists for the South Pavibon Public Protection Force, in addition to many of the cops’ personal likes. Verda had smiled at that one. Helen and Susan were twins and were rather famous for their exotic dancing. They made a pretty good living before they even fleeced their ‘customers.’ She hadn’t found it the least bit startling to know just how many so-called public protectors frequented the brothels they had sworn to protect the public from. Even better, a few days later the twins had come back with personal invitations to work at the Gala itself.
“Nothing like an inside job,” Myrna said, complimenting the two. “This just might be easier than we thought.”
Each day Emm did her best to get Verda to participate in the planning. Each day Verda did her best to pay attention. She could follow three or four of the proceedings but after that got bored. Her sister was exasperated but knew better than to push. They both knew that it had nothing to do with a short attention span or an inability to grasp what was going on. It wasn’t even that she didn’t care; she simply worked differently from the others. Her brain and skills did best under pressure and under fire, inventing plans on the fly and following them through. Pre-planning was something she rarely did. But she still participated, still did her best to make sure that all of the Vagabonds were going to be in perfect form for the biggest job any of them had ever attempted.
It was going to be beautiful.
The big night seemed to come quicker than anyone had expected. A hundred firework displays flashed across the sky as the sun set on the watery horizon. Each of the Vagabonds was to arrive at the Gala on her own, each one had her own job to do, and Verda couldn’t have felt better about it. Myrna took a cab, but Verda decided at the last minute to walk. It was one of those warm nights she loved so much and the excitement of a huge score made her almost giddy.
She was three blocks from
the Gala when a certain man sidled up to her. “Mind if I escort you to the Gala Event, Verda?” Stalker asked, grinning.
She snorted but found herself staring. He was in his best suit yet, his hair just shy of messy and just too messy to be perfect. No man had ever looked better.
“Certainly, Mr. Barton,” she said, entwining her arm through his extended elbow.
The streets were packed. The Mantroc Gala event was huge anyway but with a Governor-General attending it was going to be gigantic.
“This is good,” Ford said, his eyes scanning the crowds.
She knew what he meant. The more people there were, the better their chances of succeeding. And they had to succeed tonight. Ford led the way toward the front doors and she took a deep breath, her smile locked in place. This was it.
The plan was really very simple and two weeks of practice had honed each of the Vagabonds into a machine. The first priority was security. Everyone involved had pretty good guesses as to what the setup would be like… and looking around, Verda felt her smile grow just a bit bigger. They’d pegged it, down almost to the exact point where the guards would be standing. The patrols were within ten feet of where they should be, the cameras were on the proper pillars, and the plainclothes bodyguards were looking as conspicuous as possible.
The second priority was mingling. A slow waltz that sounded like it was Journeyman era was playing and Ford gestured toward the dance floor. She hesitated. This was the part that was definitely not in the practice; this was the part that she was completely unsure of. But she kept her smile in place and joined him on the dance floor. A Vagabond and the man she’d only known as Stalker, a man who she’d been absolutely sure was going to be the end of them all. But right now none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he was a superb dancer.
Half an hour flew by without her even noticing, which never happened. But she didn’t care. In fifteen minutes the final part of their plan would begin and for the first time she didn’t want it to. She was enjoying herself too much, and even more shockingly she was enjoying being in the company of a man. This one is different she kept telling herself. She was even starting to believe it.
“It’s time,” he whispered in her ear, tickling her and sending goosebumps all over her skin. She took another deep breath and, on impulse, kissed Ford Barton on the cheek.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, gazing into his blue eyes and wanting to linger there.
He smiled crookedly and gave her a playful push. “Get going,” he said quietly.
She took one last deep breath and headed back toward the Alcove of Stars. It was a display area, full of expensive and gaudy items that was enough of a tourist attraction in its own right. The upper crust who sniffed disdainfully at beaches and bikinis would still have a reason to visit South Pavibon, especially at the Mantroc Gala. Even more so now… for the Governor-General always traveled with the Five Shards of Landfall.
Her breath caught in her throat despite her jaded attitude. It was almost impossible to be near the Shards and not feel some connection to the past. According to the history buffs the Five Shards were remains of the engine of the first Journeyman ship to touch down on a Frontier Worlds planet. A Doctor Von Morgen had written entire books about the subject. Three hundred and sixty years ago the Shards had been functioning pieces of a Memphis engine, taking the Journeyman on the long trip from Old Earth to the new worlds...
She shook her head. They were small pieces, the largest no longer than her forearm, passed down from the original ship captain’s family… which is how they ended up in the hands of a lowlife like William Greco-Stevens. She felt her muscles tense and had to consciously relax them. The so-called ‘Great Families’ had been leeching off their historical connections for hundreds of years with few, if any, of the modern members actually contributing anything. The Governor-General of the Australis Province was just another parasite and this time he was going to pay for it.
Verda glanced casually to her left and hid her smile. Sure enough, exactly on time, Myrna was making her way to the right spot. Any second now and the distraction would begin, and the two best Vagabonds would set to work on their greatest job.
“Guards! Alert!” a syrupy-smooth voice shouted suddenly and Verda felt her blood freeze. It can’t be! She spun around and noticed in her peripheral vision that her sister had already bolted.
But Myrna ran right into the trap as Ford Barton, Stalker, grabbed her, cuffed her and bodily hauled her toward the guards. Verda’s feet felt welded to the floor and her tongue was somehow attached to the bottom of her mouth.
“I have reliable information that these two women were planning to steal the Shards of Landfall,” Stalker said, his voice painfully loud in Verda’s ears. She managed to catch her sister’s eyes but the fire in them made her flinch. Her sister would never forgive her. The Vagabonds, if they survived, would never forgive her.
She would never forgive herself.
“I suggest we increase security immediately,” Stalker said, his voice still unnaturally loud. “We cannot know how many others are involved.”
“What’s this commotion?!” a wheezy baritone voice asked.
Verda’s heart made a reservation with her feet as she felt the handcuffs close on her arms. She knew without looking who was speaking. But she had to look. She had to see it with her own eyes. She raised her head and, sure enough, there was Governor-General William Greco-Stevens, attracted by the noise. He looked at Stalker and then at the two girls who’d been captured. And he twitched.
“Hello, Father,” Verda said.
The stunned silence seemed to fill the entire room for but a split second. “Verda! Myrna! What in the name of the Barons are you doing here?!”
“They were planning to steal the Shards, Governor-General,” Stalker said, the creep.
“Get them out of here,” Greco-Stevens hissed. “Before-”
“You have children?!” a tall, leggy blonde said as she suddenly appeared. “Willaim! You lied to me!”
“Taffy, honey, I can explain!” the Governor-General said desperately.
“Explain it to the lawyers!” the blonde said, her face bright red. “We’re through, you Siitral!” She spun on her diamond-plated heels and was gone as quickly as she came.
Several veins were clearly visible on William’s face as he slowly turned back around. “Get the Shards to safety,” he said quietly, his throat seeming to throb with every syllable. “And then bury these two somewhere dark and deep.”
“Burying us won’t get you anything,” Myrna spoke up. “The press already know your little secret.”
“Shut up!” the Governor-General shouted, his face turning an unhealthy color. “Just shut up! Guards, get them the vret out of here! And get the Shards to my ship! NOW!”
Stalker saluted. “Yes, sir! Guards! Take the women to the southeast post where a car is waiting for them. Governor-General, I’ll…”
Willaim Greco-Stevens was already gone.
Verda looked at Stalker, her throat tight as unbidden tears came to her eyes. “Why?” she whispered.
He smirked at her, a hateful little gesture. “We’ve all got jobs to do. Guards, you know yours.”
And with that he was gone, striding off to betray and crush some other person’s life.
The walk to the car was short and silent. The ride in the car was long and silent. At least, it was silent at first.
“I’m sorry,” Verda said finally.
Myrna sighed and lifted her head off the headrest. “You betrayed our tenets, our fellow members, and your sister by listening to a man.”
Verda felt her heart splitting.
“But I forgive you,” Myrna sighed.
Verda looked at her sister, stunned. “Wha?” she stuttered.
Emm actually smiled. “Our father ruined our lives more than either of us have ever admitted, Vee, leaving us and Mother when he did. Any chance to avenge that wrong… well, I would have done the same thing. I did the
same thing, Vee. I made the decision to follow through.” She leaned her head back and lowered her voice. “It was worth any try.”
Verda smiled and choked back a few tears. It had been worth it. She looked out at the city lights, her spirits soaring. They might have lost, but they had tried. That counted a lot.
The car pulled to a stop in front of a small warehouse and the doors were opened. The guards pulled them roughly from the car and marched them over to a small access door. Verda felt her stomach being squeezed tight. “You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?” she asked as the guards shoved them through the door.
“Why on Prime would I kill you?” a hauntingly-familiar cultured female voice asked from the shadows within. “You did such a splendid job.”
The sisters stopped dead in their tracks and exchanged startled glances. “Mother?” they both asked at the same time.
Their mother stepped from the shadows, a cigarette in her mouth and a smile on her lips. “You look good, girls. How have you been?”
“What are you doing here?” Myrna asked, her voice as stunned as her face.
“Taking care of the Governor-General of course,” another familiar voice said from the door. Verda spun around and would have launched herself at Stalker if her handcuffs hadn’t still been in place. “What’s going on?” she demanded
“Miss Abigail Sanchez has been trying to take down William Greco-Stevens for many years,” Stalker responded. “And tonight, with your help, she finally succeeded.”
“Mother?” Emm asked.
Abigail took a long drag on her cigarette and let it out slowly, her smile spreading. “It’s true. That rat-Siitral is finished. It’s been too many decades, but finally he’s finished.”
“But how?” Verda asked, her head still spinning. “Getting his bimbo to leave him does nothing to topple him from power. Sure, it hurts and he deserves it, but it won’t do anything permanent.”
“Yes it will,” Abigail said with authority. “He lied to the only wife the public has ever seen him with. They’ll start digging and his sordid past will come to the fore. More than that, he lost something the Greco-Stevens value far more than family values. Mister Barton, are the Shards secure?”
Stalker grinned. “They won’t notice the fakes until they’re out of the system. We’ve got the originals all packed up and ready to go.”
Verda stared at Ford Barton, her reality doing several back flips. “You used us as the distractions? Why didn’t you tell us the truth?”
“Because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it,” Abigail responded for him. “Working for your mother? You two don’t hold me in much higher esteem than your dear daddy. I also wasn’t sure if you could handle the job.”
“I knew they could,” Ford said, smiling. “I watched the Vagabonds for three long years. I knew they were perfect.”
Abigail snorted. “I have to be honest, girls. When Mister Barton told me that my own two daughters were head of a con organization… it was better than I could have hoped.”
“So you used us,” Myrna repeated her sister’s accusation. “Used us to distract Father, to break up his latest marriage, and distract the guards so that Ford Barton here could steal the Shards.”
“You’ve got it,” their mother said, smiling. “By the week’s end your dear daddy will be a broken husk of a man if the Greco-Stevens even let him live.”
“You could have trusted us,” Myrna said after a moment of silence.
“Well, I trust you now. And that’s very good.”
Verda tore her eyes away from Ford. “Why is that very good?”
Abigail’s smile grew larger as she took an even longer drag from her cig. “Because,” she said, exhaling the smoke. “I’ve got another job for us.”
The sisters looked at each other, each slowly mirroring their mother’s smile.
The Vagabonds were back in business.
Torch Angels
Author’s Note
Emergency crews have a long and turbulent history in the Frontier Worlds. Funding for any sort of medical or emergency function comes very stringently from the Barons and so most technicians are forced to look elsewhere to cover operating expenses. Many planets are more than willing to support medicine and public services through minor taxation, but there are still plenty of places where the First Response teams are composed entirely of volunteers because money is tight.
The Emergency Deep-Space Ship Utility Mechanic/Medics, or EDSSUMMs, are a fairly new addition to the Worlds but have gained almost instant recognition. They are nicknamed Torch Angels after the Torch of Life, a highly sophisticated piece of machinery that is extremely unique: they carry the smallest Memphis Engines and Kanjer Machines in existence. The details of Memphis Engines are public knowledge and the benefit of having one installed is the by-product of breathable atmosphere and drinkable water, both highly important in the realm of deep-space rescue. The Kanjer Machine, being strictly of Baron design, is sequestered in a special container in the Torch that will disintegrate the entire machine, along with its holder, if it is ever tampered with. This extreme paranoia and self-preservation by the Barons is very typical. Quite a few lives have been lost because of a glitch in the Torch that caused the machine to activate its security wrongly. The Barons don’t particularly care; as long as the secret of the Kanjer Machines remains safe, collateral damage doesn’t matter.
Also, most ship designs are lacking escape pods. Travel between the stars is generally safe enough that most manufacturers forego the added expense of putting in said pods.
On a personal note: I prefer to write stories that are grounded in reality, no matter how fanciful the science-fiction itself is. Because of that, this story was written with the consultation of my mother, who once upon a time served as an EMT and was nearly a Paramedic. Here’s to you, Mom!