Paloma’s eyes darted to the implements on hand—the pry tools, the welding rods—even the impact wrenches, if applied with pure blunt force against their target.
“No, too much mess,” said Imbra. “You had the right idea with the firearm. You just need an unregistered number. But I know a guy.”
“Oh, frigg off,” Paloma raised the revolver tensely. “I told you this wasn’t a joke.”
“And I get that. Only—see it from my end for a sec. You come in, and sure, I’m bigger than you, but if I try to stop you, your adrenaline’s gonna kick in more than it already has, while I’m still poking along like this. And for what? Maybe I get the gun from you, maybe it goes off while I try. But a gun’s still better than some of the stuff I’ve got in here. So, yeah, if you go with the gun, it’s easier for us both.”
“And I already have one. What’s it to you if I get caught.”
Paloma’s brows beaded with perspiration. Imbra held his gaze.
“You’re right, kid. I’ll be dead. But you’re here ’cause I did something rotten. Something I truly regret. You think I wanna go down knowing I’ve ruined your life twice?”
Paloma snorted, but also watched, finger restless on the trigger, while Imbra took up a thick black marker from the table and scrawled a name and number on a bit of packaging.
“Here,” said Imbra. “This is the guy. He’s down in the gulch, little outpost away from the road. We can take Bullet, go together. You go in, say I sent you, get the gun. We’ll already be in good territory for digging, so then I just fix myself a nice spot, and you shoot me into it. You’ll have to do cleanup, but way out there? No one’s gonna come looking.”
“Like I’m supposed to believe you’ll help me kill you.”
Imbra shrugged. “Shoot me, then. Right now. Just saying, it’s not smart.”
“Yeah, you say too much.” Paloma raised the revolver again—the one deliberate act in his repertoire. Imbra reached for his mug. Turned it in his hands. Inhaled. At the end of a long sip, his brains still more or less intact, Imbra nodded to the far wall.
“Keypass is back in the top drawer. Ever driven hover before?”
The stretch of road between Imbra’s garage and the bottom of the valley was wide enough for Paloma to get a feel for Bullet without too much risk of dropping off a cliff. Auto would kick in regardless, but Imbra had seen novices panic and override, then overcorrect while their hovers were already boosting themselves horizontal, which just led to the whole craft flipping back, and sometimes striking the cliff on its tumble to the ground. Up in orbit, bubble ships avoided the problem by restricting humans to gunner and maintenance duty; on the subcontinent, as with the rest of the system, it was the rare colony that let organics behind any wheel—ground, water, or sky. But Nov’s northern continent, with all its geological upheavals and active volcanic sites, remained an uneasy mix of new and old: neural implants and road warriors, space elevators and end-of the-line towns, tall tales of interstellar combat and local bridges that were always falling down. Courts that knew they weren’t up to the task of keeping the peace, but kept swinging dead weight where they could.
Paloma pushed the accelerator hard—too hard for his first time behind the wheel, but Imbra knew this was not the moment to tell the kid to ease up. When they hit the end of the road, at the bottom of the gulch, Imbra pointed to their destination—the only light in the whole stretch of valley
desert—and Paloma gave him a withering look before cranking the engine again. Recent flash flooding had left the ground thick with mud, but Bullet surged through at top speed, veering only slightly as Paloma adjusted for the loss in friction. Not bad. Imbra glanced at the kid again—a word of praise as toxic as a word of caution, under the circumstances, but still tempting. Before long, they came to a stop outside the little shack.
“Want me to come with you?”
Paloma’s eyes narrowed at the quickness of Imbra’s words.
“Stay here,” said the kid, taking the keypass with him; the revolver tucked into his waistband. Paloma had a harder time in the mud than Bullet, so it took him a few slips to get his bearings and reach the front door. Imbra looked up while he waited—trying, and failing, to triangulate the shipyards above. Imagining General Asarus at the head of her new fleet, pulling off another system-saving maneuver like the one that first made her famous, during the Allegiance standoff at Fort Five. A satellite passed overhead, and then the shot rang out.
Imbra stood by the hovercraft when Biggs eventually emerged, a rifle slung over the adjustment counselor’s shoulder.
“Good,” said Biggs. “Figured you wouldn’t be far off. Someone calls using your name, that’s a sign of trouble for sure, but how did you—”
“Eh. He’s just a kid. You didn’t—”
Biggs cut a hand through the air. “Only spooked him. He’s quiet now. Conspiracy to commit murder, though—that’ll be something for the courts.”
“Even with the circumstances?”
“Especially with them. Even at his age. They’ll try him as an adult for targeting a declaw, and do the same to him for sure.”
“Counterproposal.”
Biggs tipped his hat. “Shoot.”
“I go to the shipyards. Kid comes with me.”
Even in the low light, Biggs’s face cast in shadow, Imbra could see both brows rise.
“He’ll come at you again, you know.”
“Maybe,” said Imbra. “But a kid who goes on a planned, solo hit in this neck of the valley probably doesn’t have much of a life worth fighting for.”
Biggs considered, then nodded to the door. “And if he says no?”
“Give him his options. You’ll see.”
Imbra waited while Biggs went back in and talked to the kid. Neither voice got loud enough for Imbra to make out the state of things, but he had plenty to keep himself occupied: The low
