6

LADY LUCK

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Mo was alone in the back alley behind Midnight Moon. The alley was dark, devoid of any light save for the sun lamp by the rear exit. The shadows were just fine by her. Her clothes were dark as night, from her pleated vest all the way down to her boots and trousers. Coupled with her dark hair and tawny Magmorten coloring, no passerby would notice one teenage girl skulking in the dark. She’d made it here from Kinjoku air station unnoticed, just like Annie had asked. Mo knew the streets around the tower as well as any Zooby. It had not been hard.

Perhaps now he’d stop insisting that she was too young to go on jobs in person.

Mo felt the connection prodding at her, beating like pulses of Ether. Resonating in her pocket as the Soulstone reflected Annie’s call. Soulstone did not grant the power that Sunstone did, but there was no better conduit for reaching others across modest distances. Mo pulled out the Soulstone tablet concealed in her vest and pressed her hand to its surface.

“Took you long enough,” Annie said in her head.

Not quite like hearing his voice. More like the memory of hearing it.

“I’ve been braintickling you for the past five minutes. I almost came looking for you.”

“I’m fine!” She thought back. “Don’t throw this job, worrying about me. I can do this.”

“Alright, don’t get your tights in a twist. You’re up, Sis. Do your… whatever it is you do when you talk to that thing.”

Mo shook her head, although Annie wouldn’t see it.

“I don’t talk to it, dummy. I confuse it. Make it see and feel things that aren’t there. Then make it seem like I haven’t done anything at all. The theory behind it all is…”

“Mo.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

She got the distinct impression of him smirking at her.

Mo rolled her eyes and cut off the connection. Then she moved on to her part in the job. Getting Annie in. The tiny hollowcast projector at the top left corner of her tablet lit up, and Mo reached out into the Soulstone network, into the Athenaeum.

Her mind moved a mile a minute, working against Adolai, the Anima that presided over Skithia. She had worked hard to learn all she could about Anima. Anyone could ask the Anima what it had seen on their own property, even thugs like Nester. It was up to Mo to keep that from happening. Annie couldn’t pull off all the jobs by himself forever. He needed Mo to keep him focused. And to keep him humble. If she let him get too full of himself, he might start to forget what a goof he was.

A tiny blue sphere appeared from the hollow, working through different shades of blue as she worked through her mind. The hollow flashed a brilliant blue, before turning finally to green, indicating a successful interface. She was in. Mo, and Annie for that matter, might as well be Apophis Nester himself as far as the Anima was concerned. She had done her job well, as she knew she would. What would Annie do without her? Mo allowed herself a single celebratory pump of her fist. Grinning, she put her hand to the Soulstone tablet again to tell Annie that the deed was done.

*****

Feeling a sense of triumph and confirmation from his young ward, Wylson grinned. Depositing his empty sepher glass on the counter, he hopped down from his stool, glancing about the room and raising a hand to his mouth in a mock yawn. For an instant, his eyes flicked to a door at the rear of the room. A hollow sign over the door flashed between different languages, Terrish and Ningyu, Crijaht and Orsun. At least seven different tongues, but the multicolored neon symbols spelled the same word in every one.

Management.

He supposed he would need a distraction. He looked back to the gaming floor. It seemed there was a disturbance already in progress coming from one of the card tables. Wylson’s sly grin was becoming wider by the moment. He strolled across the room, sidling around a drunken couple tottering in front of the bar. As he did so the source of the commotion came into view.

A bald man, with a pointed lavender beard and dark-green robes, stood behind a card table. He had a hand full of octagonal cards in one hand and a fistful of luminous gambling snaps in the other. The dealer, a Crijatan in a knitted, scarlet tunic, flipped over a card that Wylson couldn’t see. The entire table, including the green-robed man, erupted in uproarious cheers of excitement. Wylson wasn’t particularly familiar with this Crijatan form of Null Deuces. Low, he thought, but he knew what it looked like when a man was on a streak.

He made his way to the table. This close, he could make out the patterns on clothing on the man with the lavender beard. An intricate web of scroll work was stretched up the arms and collar. Very fine work, indeed.

A man with plate then.

Gold probably, perhaps even platinum. Those were the robes of a man who claimed to be able to interpret the future. Prophet predicted futures. This man was a Krystarian Sage, slumming it with the Guildfallen in the Zoo, where his indiscretions could occur unrecorded. This had just gone from business to pleasure. “Let’s see how well you predict your own future.” Wylson mumbled to himself with a grin.

Wylson took up position next to the man. He had to edge around the other players. And skirt behind the woman on his arm. She was Angailian, but with silvery hair and short Crijatan horn on her forehead. Probably one of Nester’s escorts. Judging by the three diamonds of Anurai tattooed on her bare ankle.

Wylson glanced down at the table.

“Nice Hand!” he yelled over the din.

The Sage nodded. “Yes well…” he answered, distractedly.

“Wish I had that kind of luck!” Wylson continued.

“Hmm?” The Sage asked, tossing a pair of glowing teal snaps onto the table.

“I said, I wish I had your kind of luck!” Wylson shouted again.

The Sage perked up at the acknowledgement, basking in it.

“Son, you don’t get to where I am in life without a little help from Causality. And Lady Luck, of course.”

“Lady Luck?! She’s never quite taken a shine to me. What’d you do to get on her good side?!”

The Sage smiled, almost a sneer. “You could say I have a way with women!” The woman on his arm started suddenly, as if she’d been goosed. But her smirk never slackened.

“So you’re not… y’know. Predicting the future? Looking to see what the next hand will be?”

The Sage laughed. “Doesn’t work that way, my son. I am not a Prophet. And it takes more than one prophet to see more than a few seconds into the future. I just take a look at the sighs they leave me, and see which way the solar winds are blowing!” That last shout grew into an excited yell as the dealer revealed another win for the green robed Sage.

Everyone cheered. Some laughed. Wylson joined in, shouting along with equal fervor as he surreptitiously ran his wrist over the Sage’s betting pile. The larger, but much more matte, brass pieces in the pile were worth less than the silver Wylson had been using. Easy to obtain if you had a plate to exchange. And almost as easily counterfeited if you knew what you were doing. And unfortunately for you friend, I don’t.

Wylson backed away from the table, allowing the jostling excitement to mask his departure. He snorted. Too easy. Often, the best way to distract a man was to get him talking about himself. It didn’t matter if you already knew everything he had to say, as long as the man inquisition was engrossed in saying it. Wylson knew all too well what a Prophet’s limitations were.

Now distracting a group of people, that required a little more finesse. Especially if you weren’t going to be there to keep the distraction going, and didn’t want people looking your way once the incident flared up. One had to plant a seed. Then wait just long enough for it to sprout.

Wheeling on his heels, Wylson made his way toward the Simu-suite at the back of the room. He didn’t go inside. He just took up position next to the back office and stared at the prices for simulation experiences that he had absolutely no intention of engaging in.

No, not Wylson. Then again, Uthars: A Night With the Mazerok Empress did sound… intriguing.

Wylson tapped his foot, arms folded. It wouldn’t be long now. Mo might be good at matching wits with the Anima, but Wylson, he had always been much better with his hands than his head. That being said, his first few phony snaps had been obvious fakes. Anyone with half a brain would see his botch job of a coin, and know at a cursory glance that…

“I’m telling you those pieces are fine!” a voice shouted from the gaming floor.

He took a look back at the scene. Black -garbed shoulder-thumpers were all around the green robed Sage, who was vehemently flailing his arms about at the small security force, protesting most adamantly. The Angailian escort was shrinking away from the affair, putting as much distance between herself and the Sage as she could manage. The woman glanced around the room, eyes discerning. Oh yeah, definitely Anurai. Nearly every other eye in the room was on the exchange, those that weren’t were too focused on their own tables to care.

Wylson allowed his grin to grow to full force, splitting his tan, scruff-shaven face. He glanced up at the Soulstone post nearest him. The pole was undamaged, but Mo wouldn’t have signaled if those Soulstone supports hadn’t been made blind to the Anima’s eyes. He reached over and put a hand to the door bar. It clicked open… Unlocked.

Wylson made a quick survey of the room. Every gaze was averted. And with his own eyes scanning for witnesses, he slipped in through the open doorway.

The Management Office was empty, as expected. Wylson had spent half a month surveilling Midnight Moon, and had been a sporadic customer for ages. He’d only seen people entering and leaving the rear office during the day, and they seldom entered through the door inside the club. Nester and his Anurai thugs came in and out through the exterior door, and as a result, the interior door was never watched. Save by Anima Adolai eyes, which Mo had presumably blinded. The girl was a prodigy, and he’d put her up against one of those masked ancients any day. So long as the thing was looking the other way, of course.

Wylson walked right through the sitting room, where a dingy couch was located with a drink rack resting on the opposite side of the room. The couch had that burnt leather smell so common to Hestians. Pinching his nose, Wylson pressed on. He only had eyes for the room in the back.

It had no door, just an open archway, through which Wylson could see a desktop anima accompanied by a cushioned swivel chair, bolted to the floor. There was a waist high engine tower in one corner and a safe in the other, both flickering with the energetic light of Athenaeum activity. Wylson ignored those too.

He stood before the desk console, inspecting the anima statue. It was a bust, with glowing yellow eyes that seemed to follow him wherever he stood. A spark of deity. Not as powerful as a God’s Eye, but good enough for Nester. Wylson’s nose crinkled slightly as he realized who the bust on the desk was sculpted into. That pointed nose and greasy looking hair. Nester had commissioned a bust for his spark in the shape of his own head.

“Prick,” Wylson said, reaching into his coat sleeve and pulling out a shiny Soulstone cube from the flash-sewn compartment. Without ceremony or hesitation, he placed it on the desk, bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience. The hollow display winked on and the desk lights sprang to life. On a hovering hollow display, projected just above the desk, Wylson could see the progress of the transcription he’d initiated. A cobalt-blue progress wheel began to fill, moving clockwise as lines of complex script ran down the hollow. He allowed himself a self satisfied smirk.

“Like taking memories from a baby.”

Suddenly, Wylson had to raise hand and shield his eyes as several bright flashes of red light filled his vision. He had to rub his eyes several times, tears stinging his eyes as he blinked them away.

“What in five hells?”

Wylson leaned forward to inspect the hollow, but before he could discern anything from the script, his arm began to itch as the Soulstone band on his wrist began to resonate. He winced, staring at the thing on his wrist, as his sleeve fell down to his forearm. Something was wrong…

“Dim it, Mo.”

*****

Mo swept strands of sweat slick hair from her eyes, as she stood by the alley door to Midnight Moon’s back office. She could see the progress of Annie’s transcription on her soulstone tablet. It was nine tenths of the way done.

Any moment now, he’d give her the signal and they’d meet up back on Janus Avenue. Mo found herself shaking in her sturdy black boots. Not from fear, but from excitement. Her first real job. Not just finagling with Anima Adolai from her desk at home. Annie would have no more excuses for making her stay back. Not now that she’d proven she could take care of herself.

“What’s this grub doing back here?” asked a rough gravelly voice from behind her.

Dim it.

She turned, slowly, to find two Hestians in tight black garments, standing over her. Both had pale blue skin, and bared blunt, yellowish fangs at her. The Hestians moved toward her, hulking steps oddly silent for men their size. With each step, their rippling muscles strained their tight, black one-pieces with creaks of crisp, ovi leather. Mo’s eyes drifted down to their hips, where each had holstered a single silver revolver.

“The boss don't like scavengers.” the other Hestian added.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“As a matter-a fact, neither do we.” his friend continued.

Mo took a slow step backwards, away from the club’s rear door. Her expression she kept as blank as she could manage. The Hestians skulked toward her, like predators stalking prey. Step. It was as if they were waiting for something. Step. The smallest hint of fear. Step. If she moved too quickly, or allowed her fear to show on her face. Step. These moon heads would see it. Step. And they would know that was the moment to strike. Mo focused on her Soulstone bracelet, and willed her beats of Ether into the wristlet. Step.

“Well,” one of the Hestians growled. “What do you have to say for yourself, girl?”

Mo took another step back.

“Well?!”

Step.

“Say something!”

Step.

“Wait, brother.” said the other Hestian, his tone easy and his eyes lidded, as he put up a hand to the first Hestian’s chest. “You very nearly disgrace yourself. Speaking to a female in such a way.” He grinned and chuckled, showing his teeth again as he stared down at her. “I apologize for my brother’s manner. It’s been a long night.”

The other Hestian’s snarl morphed into a similar grin.

Step.

Wall.

Mo’s right boot heel scuffed up against the alley building behind her. She chose not to look around, for an avenue of escape. She didn’t dare take her eyes off of the duo before her.

“Perhaps you would come with us to see the boss?” Asked the even toned Hestian.

She had backed herself into a corner. The Hestian on the left stepped out further into the ally, cutting off the narrow space between himself and a potential escape route. It didn’t matter. Hestians had long legs. Almost as long as the Mazeroki. She doubted she’d make it ten steps before they caught her.

“Then after a short stay,” he continued. “We could find you some food,” says the even one. “And some work.” He licked at his teeth with an oily purple tongue, looking her over. “There’s good money in Magmoran girls.”

“Tesha will not like that,” said the gruff, matter-a-fact.

The even one’s lips curled in a sneer, shattering his thin veneer of civility. He spat, the oozy fleck of spittle making a loud splat as it struck the street.

“Mazeroki whore,” he said. “Soulless, spike-eared harpy. To the hells with what that one thinks.”

Mo tensed, muscles spasming as pressed herself against the wall. The even tempered Hestian turned even again as he stared down at her.

“Now about that work.” he said, oily grin returning to crease his face. “I know an urchin, when I see one. I’m certain we can find a use for you. You may even earn yourself a few snaps.”

Mo took a deep breath. She’d experienced danger far worse than these two brutes, horrors they couldn’t possibly imagine. She had peered into the abyss. There two were nothing. She could defend herself from them if she had too.

Mo put her hand behind her back, reaching into her right back pocket and pulled out a tiny pebble of Sunstone. Just enough. She always had to skrimp with her Sunstone. Annie liked to use most of their allocation to power the engines he was always tinkering with. But he always set a tiny bit aside for Mo. In spite of how he felt about Solars and the things they could do, he could not deny how useful they could be. Especially one like her.

“Still so quiet,” said the even one.

Mo attuned the life within.

“Not for long,” said the gruff.

The Hestian lashed out at Mo, fist grasping at her.

His hands caught only air.

He looked at Mo, then at his hand, as though confused by the fact that she was not currently gripped in it. He glared at her, then grabbed for her again. Again, he caught only air, as Mo deftly dodged to the side. He growled, slashing through the air with a vicious backhand that should’ve sent Mo sprawling. Instead, it merely grazed the ally wall as Mo easily ducked underneath it.

“Slippery one?” The other Hestian asked with a chuckle.

His brother snarled, this time using both hands to try and wrap Mo up in his arms. She ducked and spun causing the Hestian to fall forward and smack his forehead on the wall. He very nearly roared in anger as Mo stared down at him, holding his head and glaring up at her.

“Get her!” He snapped at his partner.

He tried.

He snatched at Mo. Three times. Each time Mo dodged, avoiding even a casual brush of his fingers. It was easy. To Mo’s eyes, each motion, each action, was an echo. A rehash of motions she’d already seen. Whatever they did, whatever they tried, Mo could read it as easily as the pages of a book.

Mo was a Prophet.

It did matter how much bigger and stronger they were than her. It did matter how much faster. Not when Mo knew what they would do, before they could do it.

The gruff Hestian dove for Mo. She jumped, kicking off of his back and landing behind him as he fell into his brother.

“Cracks and Chasms!” He cursed. “Five hells!”

“Lucky brat!” The even toned Hestian growled, throwing off his partner and grabbing for Mo.

It was anything but luck. Envisioning the angle of his grab, Mo jumped back, nearly stumbling into the alley’s trash receptacle. She had a few seconds of Sunstone left in her, but both Hestian were getting up now. She needed to do something, before she ran out of Ether. If that happened these two brutes would make her pay for causing them so much trouble.

Pay Dearly.

The first to his feet swung at Mo. She ducked reaching up and taking hold of the latch on the trash receptacle. It clicked, and the receptacle doors flew open. An on rush of garbage poured out, burying the first Hestian and sending the other toppling onto his back as he stumbled into a deluge of shattered bottles, discarded food, and crumpled metal cans. The clatter turned the silence of the night into a tumult of clangs, crashes, and clinks. Broken up by curses of frustration in the Hestian tongue. Mo smiled and turned to run. She made it two steps before a fist, caught her leg.

Her Ether ran out.

She gasped, shock replacing triumph as her head spun and she looked down into the trash pile. An arm protruded from the refuse, gripping her boot and holding her in place. A single amber eye, peered out of that mess, boiling over with hatred. Anger, pure animal rage. Mo didn’t need any more warning than that.

She strained to pull herself free, hopping on her free leg in order to yank herself loose. But, the Hestian did not let go. He held onto her as he stood up, garbage rolling off of him in waves. The rest clung to him, spots of filth that made him look even wilder. But no more wild than the look in his eyes.

Mo tried one last desperate tug. And finally, her leg slipped free of her boot. Which only sent her toppling to the ground. She toppled past the back door to Midnight Moon, scraping her knees on the street and tear long rips in her stockings. She barely threw her arms out in time to protect her face from the fall. Her bare forearms burned with scrapes as they hit the alley floor, grating against grit and glass dust. Mo heard vigorous scuffing behind her, and she quickly rolled onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows.

The two Hestians stood hunched over her with cruel, vicious glares. She watched in silent terror as the one on the left reached out and grabbed her left leg, grumbling to himself. She could feel his rough grip cutting off the circulation to her foot. This would not be pleasant.

She glared up at them, with what she hoped was defiance, trying not to imagine the worst. Then her eyes caught a glint of reflected neon light at the throat of the Hestian holding her foreleg. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it slid swiftly from one end of the Hestian’s throat to the other. Mo blinked in confusion, as scarlet blood poured from the wound in a river.

Wylson was standing over the Hestian, who raised a pale blue hand to his ruined throat. Blood gushed through writhing fingers and he reeled forward, and collapsed into the street with a loud thud. Immediately, his blue skin began fading to gray. The other Hestian, followed the death throes of the other with wide-eyed horror. The slit pupils of his amber eyes thinned as his gaze shifted to Annie. His cruel sneer was replaced by a contorted rictus of unbridled rage. For the first time since the scuffle had started, he went for the revolver at his hip.

“Wylson! YOU… YOU… SCUM SUCKING MAGGOTY WO…!”

The Hestian’s curse cut off as something sprang from Wylson's raised sleeve. A needle protruded from the Hestian’s flesh, and the man sputtered in shock as his pistol fell from limp fingers. There was no feeling in Wylson’s eyes, no remorse, no emmotion at all. He’d seen the men bearing down on Mo, and he brother knew what he was about, the Hestian would have no opportunity to fight back. The poison was strong, debilitating, and fast acting. Mo did not wait. In one fluid motion she’d leapt to her feet, unsheathing the knife Annie had given her from its hidden sheath in her remaining boot. Then she struck.

His expression went from rage to shock as her knife was buried to the hilt in his side. She felt her expression twist, matching the fury that the Hestian had shown only a moment ago. All the emotions she’d held back, the fear, the rage, came crashing out like a torrent from the nearby sea.

He’d… he’d tried to…

The Hestian,immobilized by poison didn’t resist or strike back as Mo took a firm hold of her knife. As she yanked it free. Blood squirted from the wound, and the Hestian fell to his knees.

She jabbed the blade into the Hestian’s dazed left eye. Destroying the orb and causing blood to run down his face from the socket. But Mo did not stop. She stabbed the blade into the Hestian’s open mouth, which gasped soundlessly and wordlessly. Tooth fragments and spittle flecked the ground at her feet. But she did not stop. Mo’s entire world went white as she stabbed vigorously, again and again and again.

*****

Wylson was stunned at first, and a little proud. He’d known Mo could defend herself, he’d seen to that. She was a resident of the Zoo, used to the rough streets of the Habitation Quarter. This had been a mistake, however. As evidenced by the way she continued to stab at a clearly dead man.

Wylson nearly tripped as he rushed forward and grabbed Mo by the shoulders. It had only been a few seconds since she’d first sunk her knife into Mors’s temple. And already the Hestian was barely recognizable. He pulled at her, as she flailed wildly with the knife.

“Mo! Mo, you got him!,” Wylson yelled. A few of her furious slashes struck home, spattering them both with occasional flecks of warm Hestian blood.

“Mo! Maretta!!!”

Wylson yanked his sister up, HARD before spinning her around on her heels and twisting the blade from her grip. He felt the blade run along his thumb as he did so, drawing a stream of his own blood. That was going to sting in a bit.

He ignored it, looking Mo dead in the eye. Her expression was contorted by rage, drops of drying blood dotting her face.

“You got him.” he said, emphasizing the point with a firm shake.

Mo looked up at him, panting. The tight set of her brow loosening and tears streaming down her face. She froze, going rigid in his grip, before snapping her head downward to gaze at Mors’s dead body. Wylson looked as well.

The bouncer’s face was a ruined, bloody mess. Wylson could no longer make out any discernible features. Blood stained fangs protruded from his nearly severed jaw and his tongue lolled out the side of his open mouth, hanging on by a sinew. His pistol lied at his feet, not a shot fired. Without letting go of Mo, Wylson gave the weapon a swift kick, sending it skittering off into a heap of piled trash.

He could feel her shivering in his grip. He sighed and let go of her arms. With his uninjured hand, he gently took a hold of her chin and turned her gaze from Mors’s ruined face. The body was going gray. Even the Hestians, with their blue skin, went grey and heavy in death, deprived of Ether. As if death turned a body to something very like stone.

“It was him or you,” Wylson said.

She sniffled, eyes still darting towards the body with a shocked, wide eyed expression.

“It’s fine, alright. He was an arse anyway,” Wylson said, releasing her and standing up straight.

Wylson looked around for Mo’s knife. Best not to leave that behind. He saw it on the ground next to Orcis’s corpse. Blood from his slit throat was still oozing from the wound, but beginning to slow. He took a step towards the corpse, bending over to snatch up the knife.

In Sun and Shadow, Prick.

He took a step toward Mo before kneeling again and slipping the knife back into her boot sheath. She continued to stare at the corpse, not appearing to notice.

He took her by the hand, squeezing it to get her attention. She finally tore her eyes away from the body, eyes awash with fear, and perhaps… regret. She bit her lower lip, chestnut eyes threatening to overflow once more. She was splattered in places with dark red blood. Wylson winced. The stuff could make you sick, as bad as any viper bite or Red ZhiZhu sting.

“You… you didn't get any in your mouth did ya?” he asked. They needed to be moving but this couldn’t wait. If the Hestian’s blood had time to set in… “Open.” He said.

She stared up blankly at him. “Open!” He repeated.

She did so. Hestian blood stained something bad so if even a single drop had splattered into her mouth he’d be able to see it. Clean, as far as he could tell. He’d check again once they got home, but he was satisfied for the moment. He nodded to her and she let her jaw snap shut.

“C'mon,” he said, pulling at her arm and forcing a smile. He was itching to be gone. “Mission accomplished. I'll buy you a juice.”

Mo stared up at him, lips parting, before twisting in anger. She slapped at him. He put up his arms to shield himself, as she repeatedly swatted him in a frenzy of feverish smacks.

“Okay! Okay!” he shouted in resignation. Mo stopped swatting. She continued to glare at him, fuming in a silent rage.

“Watered wine?” he suggested. Mo swatted at him again, stomping her foot aggressively as she did so.

“Alright!” he shouted. He sighed, running his fingers through his scruffy auburn hair, and wincing as his burned finger rubbed abrasively against the coarse locks.

He mentally kicked himself, knowing that he never should have involved her this deeply. But what could he have done? She’d been insistent. Had he said no, she’d likely have followed him anyway. Which would only have turned out worse and probably gotten them both killed. Still, it was no excuse. This would NOT happen again. Not if he had to tie her up and stuff her in the back of the Junk Stop.

The thought of any harm coming to his sister made Wylson’s blood boil. He wished Orcis and Mors we’re still alive, so he could kill them all over again. And then a third time for funsies.

“Next time,” he said. There won’t be a next time, he thought. “You won’t have to wait for me. You turn around, and I’ll be there.” Mo folded her arms, mouth pouty and sullen. “I promise,” he added.

Mo stared up at him for a moment, scrutinizing him with squinting eyes. Then, expression softening, she gave him a firm nod. Confirming that she would hold him to that promise. They had been lucky this time. But in Wylson’s experience, luck was a fleeting thing. It had abandoned that Sage, earlier hadn’t it. And it would do the same to Wylson soon enough. In the end, you could only really count on yourself.

Lady luck was a rotten cow.

Wylson’s eyes began to sting again and he put his hands up to rub them clear again. Dim it, that hollow had really done a number on him. Mo stared up at him, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. “Let’s clean this place up.”

Mo stared up at him, lips pursed, until he gave her a gentle shove to get her moving. She turned on her heels glancing over her shoulder at him as she stepped over to the spot where she had dropped her boot. Bending over, she slipped it back on before looking back toward him and tilting her head towards the alleyway behind her in a jerking motion.

“Yeah, I know. We need to be gone.” he said, pulling a bronze, cylindrical object from his coat pocket. “We’ll be quick.”

Wylson couldn’t leave any indication behind that indicated their presence, not with the two bodies they’d left in their wake. Most murders in the Zoo went unreported until it was far too late. Nester, however, would have cops in his pocket. They’d be here in hours, as soon as Orcis and Mors’s absence was noticed. Theirs deaths would leave behind aftershocks, traces of their tremors of life. Wylson would need to do away with those before they left. He twisted the upper half of the tube, and a hole opened in the top, a dark glittery smoke wafting from the orifice.

“Ready?” he asked, tilting the cylinder, but not completely up ending it.

Mo put her hand to her tablet, giving orders to the Spark inside, then held up a hand to give him a thumbs up. He nodded to himself, upending the tube completely. The black powder poured from the tube, glinting in Skithia’s crimson moonlight as it dispersed across the alley. Wylson smirked as the powder vanished into the darkness, or seemed to. He looked over at Mo. “And just like that, we were never here.”

She continued to stare at the screen, but nodded in confirmation. The scrub powder was made from the same material as conveyors and tremors would not last long under their influence.

Leave nothing you don’t have to, take nothing you don’t need to.

He grinned. Unless you really want it. The old leatherneck’s first rule of somewhat unlawful business operations.

Wylson grabbed Mo by the wrist, pulling her toward the alley, before letting go and breaking into a jog. She followed as they headed toward the alley. Wylson put a hand into his pocket, feeling for the data cube. Still there. The fee had been good for this job, but he was beginning to second guess the wisdom of taking it. Moving up from a bronze to silver currency plate was hardly worth it. Tangling with Merchant Lords and Anurai? It was suicide. That Soulstone cube in Wylson’s pocket suddenly began to feel quite heavy indeed. Again he felt that resonance in his Soulstone wristlet, beats traveling up his arm and into his brain.

What is it? Why’d we steal it? Are we going to drop it off right now?

Wylson glared at Mo. “You know I hate it when you do that.” He groused.

Mo winced, breaking off the link to him, but continuing to stare up at him with questions in her eyes.

He snorted. “I don’t know what it is,” he answered. “It was all in Anima script. From the oracle herself for all I know.” He turned a corner, and Mo followed on his heels. “But I’ll tell you what. I sure am glad we don’t live in Gratis right about now.”

Slowly Wylson picked up speed, and dragging Mo along with him, disappeared into the darkness of the musty Tetamin night.

*****

“All life is but a show, in which we are all the players. Our performance is brash and unsophisticated, our delivery slow and mismanaged. It is play for fools, as empty of meaning as it is of purpose.”

Anonymous

The 3rd Century AE