Aura Overload

7 – Insurance Policy

Stepping out of the cab, Hector turned to look back inside, locking eyes with first Orin, then Demon. Both men were wearing dark clothes, both were packing blades in shielded sheaths—wouldn’t want PK drones to know they were armed—and both looked very much like they were eager to find trouble. “Keep your distance,” he reminded them. “I don’t want to see your faces.”

Orin threw him a thumbs-up. “Only if you don’t check in.”

“Or we see trouble,” Demon added.

“Even if you see trouble, don’t get involved—not unless I’m about to die.”

“C’mon, Boss,” Orin groaned. “That’s a little hard to judge.”

Hector tilted his head, then shifted his gaze to Demon. As always, he could see the sharp, calculating mind behind those dark eyes. “Let him decide, then.”

Orin frowned, but didn’t respond as Hector straightened and touched the button to close the door. As the cab hummed away, moving to deposit his unwanted security somewhere else, Hector looked down the busy sidewalk, settling his eyes on his destination: Settler’s Cantina. It was a bar that prided itself on serving authentic old-Earth tacos. He was intrigued.

Starting toward the place, he nudged his way past a group of Guard troopers on leave. They were crowding together, waving as a personal drone—a small, green-feathered mechanical hummingbird—recorded them. Their young, bright-eyed faces brought forward memories of his early days in the Guard. His first bunk-mate, Rodriguez—

“Yo, watch where you’re stepping, kid! Trying to crowd into our vid?”

A young trooper with red, spiky hair grabbed his shoulder, jostling him. Hector turned, glowering, and the kid froze, his mouth open, mid-insult.

“Sorry,” one of the others said, grabbing the offending arm at the wrist and yanking the red-haired guy back to the group. “He’s had too much.” She mimed smoking a chem-stick.

Hector shrugged and kept walking. He had enough going on; no need to start a feud with one of the local IG units. He hoped the little almost-encounter wasn’t a portent of how the night would go, but his hope faded when he saw a silver-haired woman looking his way from the front of the bar. She more than looked his way; she pointed. That’s when Hector saw the familiar figure of Frederick’s high-level bodyguard.

He hadn’t noticed him at first because the guy had reined in his aura—no flickering orange glow surrounded him as he pushed his way through the crowd toward Hector. Still, he was an intimidating figure. He wore a compression suit—the kind with sockets designed to receive heavier battle plates. It was matte-black and did nothing to conceal the man’s V-shaped torso or his cat-like movements as he stalked down the sidewalk.

Hector knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid whatever sort of confrontation this was, so he stepped closer to a nearby building, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. Leaning a shoulder against the brick-styled plasteel, he watched the bodyguard approach, noting that the silver-haired woman—Frederick’s mother?—followed behind with another member of their security team, a woman with so many augments Hector couldn’t be sure she wasn’t a synth.

When the primary bodyguard stepped close, Hector tilted his head, looking into his designer violet eyes. “You need something?”

The bodyguard nodded, putting himself at an angle before Hector, part of his attention shifting back toward the two women as they approached. “Need you to hold still, be polite, and don’t do anything threatening while Lady Ventress speaks to you.” His voice was higher than Hector expected, but his diction was clean and commanding; he wasn’t used to being argued with.

“Your name?”

The guy glanced at Hector, and he saw the equivalent of a shrug flicker through his expression. “Flint Tenebrix, Guardian Primus for Frederick Ventress.”

The way he emphasized Tenebrix told Hector it was an earned name; one he’d picked up in the Legion, much as Hector had earned Finalis. “More than just Frederick, it seems,” Hector replied, nodding toward the incoming silver-haired woman.

“Not always,” Flint replied, and the flatness of his voice made it clear that he wasn’t loving his current assignment.

As the woman approached, Hector stood up straight and lowered his hands to his sides. No sense in poking the hornet’s nest.

//I’ve found some information on the Martian net about Frederick and that woman—his mother, Gladia Ventress. They spend time between Tharsis and the Ventress estate on Luna. She’s a sister to Loyal Ventress, the current head of the house.//

And she’s slumming it here? With a pair of bodyguards?

//Though Frederick is high in the line of succession, Gladia is out of favor. I’m reading a lot of speculation: some say that her feuds with Loyal have painted Frederick as an unknown quantity. Some say he’ll be passed over. There are rumors, however, that Loyal and Gladia are secretly working together to help the young Ventress avoid the scheming machinations of the Great Houses.//

Hector nodded. Send the kid out to the family farm, away from the city and politics.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

//I don’t believe they live on a farm. Their estate in Tharsis is sizeable, and—//

Figure of speech, Evie.

The little conversation highlighted to Hector just how much he’d been putting off really digging into his past—into the actors who might be involved. He should have known by then who Loyal Ventress was, but Evie’s mention was the first time he’d heard the name. It was too easy to get caught up in the day-to-day, too easy to forget that he was alive for one purpose, and the things he was doing ought to damn-well lead in that direction.

As he scowled, inwardly chastising himself for going too easy, enjoying too much in this new life of his, the Ventress lady and the heavily augmented woman approached. Gladia didn’t wait around for Flint or the other woman to introduce her. She stepped close to Hector, looking up into his eyes. “I wanted to speak to you, voice to voice.”

Hector arched an eyebrow, meeting her gaze. As he’d thought from his first impression, she seemed old to him. There was something in those eyes that said she’d been through a lot—decades or centuries of learning life’s rough lessons. Her face was youthful and beautiful, but her posture and movements made it clear that her biological age was ticking up there again. He doubted it would be long before she disappeared for a few weeks of treatment. “Me?”

“Me?” she mimicked, scoffing. “Don’t play the innocent fool with me, boy. You’re the smartest, most dangerous person on Freddy’s team, and I’ll appreciate you not to waste my time.”

Hector didn’t respond, but his eyebrows leveled out and his expression gave the woman enough pause that she hesitated before speaking again.

She glanced—just with her eyes—toward Flint, then cleared her throat and said, “I want to offer you some extra work.”

“I’ve got my plate full with—”

“This won’t be a taxing assignment; I don’t have any additional duties to assign. I simply want you to do what any good teammate would do, and I’ll incentivize the matter with some extra funding.”

Hector realized what was going on, and he allowed himself to relax a little. He nodded. “You want Frederick back in one piece.”

“Precisely. If you’re good to Freddy, if you help him and see that he comes through this little excursion none the worse for the wear, I’ll see that you’re given an anonymous grant—something that will help you move on to more prosperous endeavors.”

She was effortlessly smug—a tone in her voice that said she was doing anyone she deigned to speak to a great favor. Again, Hector wondered how old she was, but for a different reason: had she been alive when the Contis were slain? Had she been involved? If not directly, had she profited from their slaughter? She was a Ventress, wasn’t she? How much of that smug, self-assured personal power came from wealth stolen from Hector’s charges? How much had she gained from the destruction of his good name?

His thoughts must have entered his eyes because Gladia Ventress took a step back and the two bodyguards bristled. Hector saw the man’s hand flexing, felt the surge of aura in his pathways. He heard a faint whine as the woman spun something up—a shock charge or maybe some kind of bladed implant. With a tremendous effort of will, he inhaled and exhaled, pushing his vengeful thoughts deep into a bottomless well in the darkest corner of his mind. He forced a convincing smile and offered the Royal a proper bow.

“I’ll do my best to see that nothing from that rift kills Frederick.”

The two bodyguards relaxed, but Flint’s eyes were still hard, still scrutinizing Hector. Gladia smiled and nodded. “Good. I’ve done a little research into your past—nothing too remarkable, but it’s clear you’ve got talent. I don’t see why you should languish at this rung of society, so to speak. After all this business is over, after you’ve received your reward, I’d like you to contact Leo Chan-Ventress in Tharsis. I’ll see that you’re afforded an opportunity that will open more doors.” She glanced at Flint. “Send him Leo’s contact information.”

“Yes, Lady Ventress.”

The woman turned and walked toward the street where a sleek, glossy-black sedan had pulled up. As she got into the vehicle, her other escort close behind, Flint stayed put, watching Hector like a guard dog might watch a stranger at the door.

//I’ve received contact information for Leo Chan-Ventress.//

“Got it,” Hector said, glancing down the sidewalk toward the bar where he was supposed to meet his team.

“Don’t worry about them; your commander saw us talking.”

Hector frowned, annoyed that he hadn’t noticed Mathews. “We’re done, right?”

“One more message.” Flint’s eyes ignited with bright orange flames. “Something happens to that kid in the rift, if I so much as have an inkling that you might have had anything to do with it—”

“You’ll kill me. Got it.” Hector turned on his heel and stalked toward the bar. He could feel Flint’s eyes on his back, like two laser-scoped sniper rifles. He soaked in the feeling, reveling in it. Like pain, he knew that fear could be conquered by embracing it. So what if Flint attacked him and beat him to a pulp for his insolence? So what if he killed him? It wasn’t like he’d never died before.

No attack came—no further threats or ultimatums. He stepped into the bar and felt the heat of Flint’s gaze die away. He smiled at the idea that it was like stepping out of the sun. Had he imagined all that, or had the guy used some sort of aura ability? There were plenty that might explain the sensation: intimidation techniques, scans, even subtle mood-altering boosts. Remind me to look into that guy.

//Already on it.//

Nodding, Hector looked around, noting the concrete floors, the stylized sodium lamps hanging from industrial rafters, the game tables and rigs, and the many people gathered around the bar.

“Hector!”

He turned to the voice and saw Kristina waving. The team had gathered in a far corner of the bar around a simulation rig. He didn’t see any sign of Perry, so he figured the big guy was in the machine. The others were watching a crystal-glass display on the wall as Hector drew near, and he saw it was a flight sim game. Whoever was inside the rig was trying to navigate the upper atmosphere of a gas planet while pirates took potshots at their ship.

“That Perry?” he asked, thumping the rig.

Frederick nodded. “He’s better than I thought he’d be.”

“What does that mean?” Kristina asked.

Frederick winked at her. “Well, he’s a big guy. I always picture pilots as more your size.”

“Oh really?” She leaned close, tilting her pink cocktail glass to her lips. “What do you know about my size?”

As the two continued to flirt, Mathews took Hector’s elbow and pulled him aside. “Any trouble with the Royals?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Just wanted to buy an insurance policy for the kid.”

Mathews snorted. “The kid, huh?” She clicked her tongue, nodding toward the bar. “You’re a drink behind.”

“Ah, c’mon. What’s the plan here, Commander?” Hector nodded toward the team cheering and laughing at the screen. “You want us to get into a brawl with the locals to build trust or something?”

“Just get a damn drink, smartass.” She nudged him toward the bar, but grabbed his shoulder as he started to walk away. She leaned close and, in a hoarse, booze-flavored whisper, said, “But, you know, if the locals start shit, you’re down, right?”

Hector barked a short laugh. “Yeah, I’m down.” When he locked eyes with Mathews, his smile shifted into a wolf’s grin. “As long as I can scrape the losers.”