Myka nodded. “Yes, I know.”
And then nothing. That was it. The moment hung, taunting Brassard more and more as each second passed with only Myka’s steady gaze for an answer.
Finally, Brassard looked down, a flush creeping up his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well.”
If the situation weren’t as desperate, I’d have hugged Myka for this singular smackdown. As it was, Sev Tech was about to gut me to get that data tab so playing spectator to Brassard’s most embarrassing moment lost its shine.
I nudged Myka. “What’s the plan?”
Her face was blank, and she shrugged.
Fuck. She had no plan.
This was it.
Two soldiers approached at Brassard’s order with weapons forward as if we had a chance of defending ourselves. No arguing my way out of this. No way to run. Nothing. I was gonna die while handcuffed to Myka Benton. My corpse would be butchered. Then Myka and Brassard would play tug-of-war over the bloody data tab. Possibly literally over my dead body. My brain helpfully supplied an extended vid of the two of them slipping on my blood to fall on my mutilated corpse, data tab again getting lost among my guts.
At least I’d gotten to kiss the pretty girl before I snuffed it.
Gloved hands clapped my elbows, and a faceless soldier pressed the barrel of their gun against my temple. Noticing that she was in the line of fire, Myka conscientiously stepped back to avoid being struck by an overachieving bullet.
My heartbeat could power a fucking Mega-Mammoth engine as I closed my eyes. The floor rumbled, sending scattered junk bouncing around like a spare wrench left on a faulty Acer Bride 3. The gun at my head withdrew.
“We didn’t call for reinforcements,” Brassard said.
I opened my eyes to see growing confusion among the soldiers. My would-be executioner had backed away several steps, gun half-raised in anticipation.
A crash sent toppled shelves flying across the room behind Brassard, and a small, ancient, military tank powered its way to the center aisle. A chorus of even more heavily outfitted soldiers enfolded the Sev Tech forces within their own, larger, circle of guns.
With a hiss that split the air, the tank hatch lifted, and a worryingly skinny old man poked his head out. His skin was wrinkled like the slack waste hose on an old Skyforce Theta, and he kept his wispy, white hair long and loose, blowing around his shoulders. He was shirtless. Possibly naked. Halcyore had arrived.
Brassard staggered away from the tank.
Halcyore cleared his throat with a gross, phelgmy sound. “The rules of Halcyore’s are clear. Obscene bargains, poor inventory tracking and organization, and—most importantly—no fighting. This means no weapons, no soldiers, no threatening of customers, none of that. Please tell me, Benjamin Brassard of Sev Tech, why are you breaking this most sacred rule?”
Weapons thudded to the floor as Sev Tech soldiers wised up to the situation. My ex-executioner quiet-stepped backwards in hopes of blending with the crowd.
“Look here, Halcyore,” Brassard stuttered. “This woman stole from Sev Tech. This has been our only opportunity to reclaim our property.”
“And so you broke the neutrality rule?”
Brassard was building confidence. I could tell by the way his chest puffed up like a horny male bird. “Given the urgency and the import of the situation, yes. We’re reclaiming a very revolutionary engine design that will transform the entire industry—multiple industries. This theft concerns all of us, as a community, and I’m afraid there was no other way to recover this property.”
Halcyore nodded, rubbing his chin. “Oh, I see. That does sound very important.” He scratched an armpit. “Very, very important. I’m very sorry I hadn’t considered Sev Tech’s priorities when SETTING THE RULES FOR MY STORE.”
That last bit was a spit-filled shout that forced Brassard back another step. He didn’t even have a chance to reply, because Halcyore had only warmed up.
“In all my years of operating this paradise, I have never been subject to such a disrespectful violation of my rules. I give you all the world in this warehouse, everything you could possibly want for mere fingernails! Fingernails! And all I ask is that you don’t bring in your cadre of private soldiers to threaten customers! What part of that rule is too difficult for you, Benjamin Brassard?”
Halcyore spit Brassard’s name like it was an acidic loogy. Oh, and the fingernail thing? Weirdly true. Not the whole nail, but just the clippings from when you trimmed. Nobody knew what was up with that, but you couldn’t argue with a good sale.
Brassard looked as if he were caught in a surprise hurricane. “My greatest apologies, Halcyore. I lost perspective, and I am deeply sorry. I promise, Sev Tech will reimburse the cost for any damage—”
“Yes, you will!” Halcyore pounded the tank. “And you are banished from my paradise! All of Sev Tech is banished! Employees, contractors, consultants…if you are attached to Sev Tech you are dead to me!”
Brassard paled. “Please, Halcyore, the fault is mine. You can’t possibly penalize the—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Halcyore coughed up some phlegm that dribbled down his chin. “Leave this warehouse now! Never return! And tell your employer it’s because you shit on Halcyore’s paradise!”
Brassard dropped to his knees. “Please, Halcyore. Tell me. Anything I can do to spare the company. Anything. Anything you want!”
Halcyore huffed and crossed his bony arms. “Do the unity dance.”
Brassard balked.
“Now. Do the unity dance.”
The unity dance was a dumb thing somebody in the Core came up with after the Colonial War to try to “spread peace”. It caught on
