Reputation, Part I

Reputation

Part I

    Tirai winced as she slammed into the reinforced wall, the impact numbing her back right through her armor. Her right shoulder was gone--not that she couldn’t move it, it simply wasn’t there anymore, her nanite skinsuit trying desperately to suture the wound as the arm hung by the thinnest strip of flesh and gnarled metal . There were countless tiny pinpricks of heat as they died at the wound’s edges. Nanosuppressant shells.

    Shit, that’s some nasty ordnance, Tirai thought, gritting her teeth. Guess I should have expected. She mustered just enough energy to lean back into the wall and lift her head to look ahead. Her suit’s onboard detection was shot, leaving her with only plain old eyesight and a cloud of steam billowing out the mouth of the hallway, droplets condensing on her visor. There was no sound, no voice, not even the hum of an energy weapon cycling up.

    “What are you waiting for, huh?” she shouted, weaker than she’d intended. Even that slight effort made her more aware of the gaping hole in her person. “We both know the longer this takes, the more chance I have.”

    Still, utter silence.

    Oh, screw this. Tirai lifted her left arm, biting back a scream as the immense heat of channeling plasma seared her skin through damaged insulation; fired once, fired twice down the hall before the suit’s safety protocols forcibly shut the weapon down and flushed coolant where it could. The bursts blew holes in the steam cloud, but dissipated with loud crackles on the ship’s internal shielding.

    The monster was nowhere to be seen. That had to be good enough. She awkwardly pushed herself back up against the wall and--the monster was right in front of her, in its terrible, dark green glory. As it bore down upon her, Tirai’s mind scrambled for some justification for what was happening. Through the adrenaline rush and the blood loss, she could remember when things had started going wrong.

    “This,” Quenn said, pointing a long finger at a strip of display film, “was just published about two hours ago. I thought you’d find it interesting.” The androgyne laid it out on the table, and slumped into a chair opposite Tirai, wearing a smirk.

    Plenty interesting, she thought as she saw the headline: Monoure Tirai tops 3274 Estarken-Muhler List. She leaned over and read the article slowly, savoring every word of generic journalese in anticipation of the bold-faced, bulleted list she’d been waiting for for eight years.

    “You might notice, by the way, that Ashram Vekar dropped from sixth to twenty-third this year,” Quenn said with a chuckle.

    “Now, now, let’s not celebrate the misfortunes of others,” Tirai said, wagging her finger even as she felt her smile tugging at the edges of her cheeks, her eyes never leaving the film. “Ah, here we go.”

    “Drum roll?” Quenn asked, arching a brow.

    “Not yet. So in third place, we have Saul Trioei and company, who pulled in three-point-eight-three-million enla in bounties this year.” Tirai gave a deferential nod.

    “Bravo, bravo.”

    “In second place, Hozorikoshue Rinui’s crew made off with five-point-one-two-million enla’s worth.”

    “Huzzah,” murmured Quenn, before taking a decidedly unenthused sip of coffee.

    “And finally, ladies, gentlemen and ladymen,”

    “Boo.” Despite the protest, Quenn’s hands began rhythmically pounding on the table between them, steadily rising in tempo.

    “The top of the Estarken-Muhler List, the greatest bounty hunters in the Union, with a take of eleven-point-nine-seven-million enla in thirty-two-seventy-four . . . Monoure Tirai and Quenn Thorvars!” Tirai jumped to her feet and bowed deeply to Quenn’s lonely applause. “Thank you, thank you.”

    “So, I think a celebration is called for,” Quenn said, leaning over the table, blue eyes gleaming.

    “Naturally, you have something in mind? I’ll remind you that I’m the one on the ground getting shot at every time, so some consideration of me might be nice this time.”

    “Hrm. I guess that leaves us with haggling with arms dealers or spending all day in bed, not that I mi--”

    Tirai groaned and waved that suggestion off, sitting back down and taking another look at her name on the list. It felt surreal, even if she had the scars, burns and bullet wounds to prove it to herself.

    “This is what I’ve been aiming for this whole time. We have to celebrate big and . . . and we need to stay on top of this list.” She looked up to see Quenn deep in thought, stroking that delicate chin over and over.

    “You’re absolutely right.” A nod, then, “Oh. Oh, yes, I’ve got the perfect idea. Nothing else can even compare.”

    “My telepathy’s a bit weak, Quenn.”

    “Ah, just thinking . . . why not take a little vacation to Marduk? We have the money, and now that we’re at the top of the list, we can easily rub elbows with wealthy folks. Very wealthy folks who need things blown up. Those are your favorite kind of people.”

    Well, you’re projecting a bit there, Quenn, Tirai thought. When they’d first started working together, it had annoyed her that someone bright enough to pilot, navigate, fix armor and manage all their business contacts seemed unable to grasp caring more about being the best than about money. The years had proven her wrong; Quenn understood it well enough, and even admired it, but was content to take on pragmatism as a further duty.

    “I’ve never been to Marduk, but I’ve heard good things, same as everyone else.”

    “Don’t believe everything you hear about Marduk, because it’s better. You’re going to love it, trust me.” Quenn showed a rare full grin and reached across the table to wrap long fingers around Tirai’s hands. “I mean it.”

    “All right,” Tirai said, laughing softly. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you that earnest about anything before. Marduk it is, then.”

    She watched Quenn’s tall frame drew up all at once, hands letting go of hers to clap, excited noises and rushed revelous ramblings melting together into one incoherent stream. Her partner jogged past, stopped, turned, planted a single kiss on her lips, and was gone down the hall towards the cockpit.

    Of course we’re leaving right now. Regardless of Quenn’s excitability, she returned to her coffee, re-reading the article and scanning the rest of the list. Fifty names; some of them newcomers, plenty she recognized, even a handful she’d worked on bigger jobs with. Something seemed to be missing, though. Where’s Orin Leung?

    Tirai reread the list again, slowly. The name was nowhere to be found; odd, given that Wong had topped the list six years in a row. She’d met Leung once before, and he hadn’t seemed like the type who’d go in for an early retirement--and what was he, thirty-three, thirty-two? Younger? He had the look of a man who’d give up the ghost before the job. Of course, there were plenty of possibilities. He could have left Union space, joined a PMC, started one. Shame Estarken-Muhler took themselves seriously enough not to mention anyone who’d stopped working with them.

    Ah, well. Good luck to him, wherever you are, and thanks for keeping the seat warm for me. She tapped the film off and went to join Quenn at the helm.

    Marduk was everything Quenn had promised and more. The planet offered every kind of entertainment, from the grav-circuit racing Tirai had been itching to see live to the grand opera she was forced to admit was not gut-wrenchingly painful as she had predicted. Along the way, they’d made plenty of contacts, more than enough to start the year off right. Quenn’s smooth talk and Tirai’s now-golden reputation made sure that much of the cushy work was being thrown their way; no open bounties, just internal corporate stuff. Some hapless idiot takes seventy-two-million out of the company coffers, he’s not a threat, but has enough money to get far away, and going to the Union means the mess goes public, wealthy folks embarrassed, etc.

    Of course, that’s Quenn’s idea of a good time, Tirai thought. She didn’t blame her partner, knowing it was about keeping her as safe as possible. Sweet, really, but since she’d found her name topping the EML, she’d felt that fighty streak in her broadening. Even as a kid, she’d followed the careers of bounty hunters, and knew well enough that those who took the gilded path as soon as it was open went soft, retired early, and died in their sleep. Unacceptable.

    While Quenn was busy haggling circles around the banker brigade one night, Tirai was swapping stories with their drunken head of security, once a bounty-hunter, born and raised on Marduk. To her delight, when she asked how someone never on the Estarken-Muhler List got such a nice job right out of retirement, he blurted out something about a private bounty circuit only available on-planet. Legit criminal targets, sure enough, but clientele whose own records were more troubling. The public wouldn’t ever hear the details, but the people who needed to know, would.

    That’s more like it, she thought. A few more drinks had him explaining how she’d get access, and some arm-twisting got Quenn to go along with it, if only to humor her. That night, they picked up the necessary credentials, a few juicy looking dossiers, and ended up with enough business for half a year. A week later, they set out.