'Better get to it soon, girl,' said Ruby calmly. 'Or someone else'll have him. Wouldn't mind a bash at him myself. Good build. Nice ass. And he's got that innocent, little-boy-lost look that always sets my fingers itching.'
'You keep your hands to yourself, Ruby Journey,' said Hazel firmly. 'Anyone touches him but me, and I'll put them in traction for a month.'
'Yeah, but do you love the man or not?' Ruby insisted.
'We have… an understanding.'
'Understandings won't keep you warm in the early hours of the morning. You're just frightened of commitment, Hazel. Always have been.'
'That's good, coming from someone who's never had a permanent relationship with anyone in her life!'
'We're not talking about me,' said Ruby calmly. 'We're talking about you. And Owen. He isn't going to hang around forever, you know. The war brought you together, but that's over. He's the best thing that ever happened to you, Hazel d'Ark, and you'd be a damned fool to let him get away. Right, Jack?'
'Don't look at me,' he said. 'I'm still trying to work out what our relationship is. Besides, I've been married seven times, under various names, and none of them worked out. Being a professional rebel took up a lot of my life. There wasn't always room left for anyone else, no matter how I felt about them.'
'But your job's over now,' said Hazel.
'Don't think I haven't noticed,' said Jack. He started to raise his bottle to his mouth, and then stopped and put it down again. 'I was the man who fought the System. Any System. I defined myself, who and what and why I was, in relation to Lionstone and her corrupt Empire. Now they're both gone, I don't know what to do with myself that matters a damn.'
'You'll just have to learn a new kind of war,' said Ruby. 'It's called politics.'
'I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks,' said Jack. 'Even if I have a new young body. I spent my whole life turning myself into a particular kind of man, only to discover there's no need for that kind of man anymore. Instead, there's just meetings and committees and endless bloody compromises, all the time trying to keep old enemies from each other's throats. And all the time wondering if any of it really matters…' He sighed deeply. 'I suppose I could put myself forward as a bounty hunter, like you and Owen, but I can't escape the feeling that everything here will come crashing down in ruins if I'm not here to oversee the change. They trust me, you see. I'm the legendary professional rebel. The man who finally gave them their freedom. How can I tell them that their everyday little problems bore the shit out of me?'
'Know what you mean,' said Ruby, nodding sagely. 'Know what you mean. Success ruined us. I mean, look at me. Finally I'm as rich as I always dreamed of being. Maybe even more so—hell, I can't even keep track of it all these days. Got accountants for that. They send me statements, but I can't make heads or tails of them. I never knew there were numbers that big. I track down rich criminals, find where they've hidden their loot, confiscate it, and then hand it over to Parliament, minus my hefty commission. Not that I do much of the actual work myself, of course—got a whole bunch of cyberats working for me. They locate the funds and the bastard's location, and then I just bash my way in there and arrest the bad guy. They rarely put up much of a fight once I'm past their defenses. Hell, most of them burst into tears when they see me walk in.'
'Hold everything,' said Jack. 'Arrest them? Since when did you ever bother with arresting people?'
'Oh, all right, then. I break in and kill the bad guys, if you insist on being exact. They'd only be hanged by the war trials anyway, and I can't be bothered with the paperwork. Point is, I am now rolling in money. More than even I can spend in a lifetime. Got a big house, servants, all the latest comforts and luxuries. All the things I always thought I wanted. But you can get tired of things real quickly. They're just toys, when you get right down to it. Even shouting at the servants has lost its charm. There's no fun in intimidating someone when you know you're paying them to be intimidated. And on top of all that, I have this sneaking suspicion that I'm getting soft and losing my edge. There's always someone waiting in the wings to take it all away from you.'
'Yeah,' said Jack heavily. 'The trouble with fulfilling all your dreams is that eventually you wake up to reality.'
'Oh, very profound,' said Ruby. 'Very deep. What the hell does that mean?'
Jack shrugged. 'Damned if I know. But it sounded good there for a moment.' He looked across the crowded Chamber at Owen. 'What's he doing, talking to that Wolfe woman?'
'Maybe she's got some lead on where we can find Valentine,' said Hazel.
'Maybe,' said Jack. 'But I wouldn't trust anything that came from that direction. Last I heard, Constance Wolfe was in bed with the Chojiros. Bad Family. Bad people.'
Hazel looked at him thoughtfully. 'There was something in your voice just then, when you said
'Yeah,' said Ruby. 'This isn't the first time I've heard you put them down. What makes the Chojiros so much worse than all the other aristocratic scumbags?'
Jack stared at the bottle before him so he wouldn't have to look at Ruby or Hazel. 'My mother was a Chojiro,' he said quietly. 'They threw her out and cut her off without a penny, just because she married the man she loved rather than the man they chose for her. They were all bastards then, and they're bastards now. Never trust a Chojiro.'
'You made a deal with them fast enough,' said Ruby. 'You sold out every principle you ever had when you saved the aristos' asses.'
'It was necessary,' said Jack. 'It took the Families and their private armies out of the war. With them out of the loop, millions lived who might otherwise have died. Not a bad bargain. What are a few principles compared to people's lives?'
'Even if it means most of the guilty go unpunished for generations of crimes against Humanity?'
Jack turned and glared at her. 'That's pretty sophisticated talk from a killer for hire! When did you ever care about Humanity? When did you ever have any principles?'
'Never,' said Ruby. 'And I never pretended otherwise. But I might have felt differently in time. I believed in you, Jack. And then you turned out to be just like everyone else.'
It was an old argument, with no end in sight. Hazel turned away and let them get on with it. She looked out across the Chamber, and the crowd seemed to part before her just in time for her to see Owen take Constance Wolfe into his arms and kiss her.
Finlay Campbell, once again the height of fashion, moved smoothly through the packed crowd, like a shark floating on the currents, basking in a sea of prey. His crushed velvet cutaway frock coat was superbly tailored, snug as a second skin, an electric blue so bright it was almost painful on the eyes. He wore thigh-length bruised-leather boots over canary yellow leggings, and wore a rose red cravat at his throat, tied just untidily enough to show he'd done it himself. Such details were important. He wore a pair of pince-nez he didn't need, and his long hair was tied back in a single complex plait. Once such mastery of fashion, the epitomie of the fop and dandy, would have won him admiring glances from one and all, and perhaps even a smattering of applause as he passed. But that was long ago, in another lifetime.
Finlay had changed during his years as a rebel. His once youthful face was now thin and drawn, with heavy lines at the mouth and eyes. The color had faded from his hair, till it was almost white. He was only in his late twenties, but looked more than ten years older. Although he tried hard, he walked more like a soldier than a man of leisure, and his eyes were frighteningly cold. He looked what he was, hard-worn and dangerous, and all his pretty clothes looked only like a clown's costume on a killer. People moved quickly to get out of his way, even when he indicated he might like to talk to them. Although he was no longer the Campbell, and leader of his Clan, in many ways he had become his late father, that feared and dangerous man—a thought that never failed to disturb Finlay.
His failure to fit in worried him. He'd thought he could just adopt his old dandy persona again, and everyone would accept him as they always had. But he had changed too much, lost his youth and innocence on too many assassination runs for the underground, and he couldn't go back. Besides, he found the persona so much of an effort these days; the petty politics of Parliament and its hangers-on were nothing compared to the life-and-death struggles of the rebellion. Then everything he did mattered, had made a difference. Now he was just another minor hero, home from the wars, no more important than a thousand others.
Just another killer pensioned off too soon.
