A fair deal, I think, watching him sprinkle more worm salt into the dish. It suits him, and besides, prison governors have handed out far worse names to convicts on release. Better to keep the number. Better to bear the shame and the sneers than allow them to give you a name.
I drain the glass. The girl has a name, one that I’m afraid to discover.
Just dump her here, the woman from the past whispers. Leave her like the man said. She does not deserve your help.
‘Sorry,’ I call. ‘How much do you remember about the Accorded Companies?’
Damovitch’s face takes on the squeezed, fawning look it does when he’s trying to think of an answer that will not get him into trouble.
‘Ahh,’ he says, grabbing the bottle. ‘War’s in the past. We’re all just citizens, now.’
He tries to pour another slug of mezcal, but I put my hand over the glass.
‘Where were you stationed?’
‘Nowhere special,’ he mutters, ‘on Jericho first, Felicitatum, that is.’
‘Which faction?’
‘The Nightwatchmen.’ Glancing at Loto, he raises his voice. ‘I didn’t fight, not really. I was in logistics, but even for that I am sorry. The Free Limits tricked me into joining, with their promises of open trade and their fancy words. They took the best years of my life.’
I look him dead in the eyes. He shuts up.
‘What do you remember about the Minority Force?’
‘The war kids?’
I nod. ‘The ones the Accord brought up through training camps.’
‘I—’ He swallows. ‘I don’t know. FL always said they were monsters, tortured and augmented ’til they weren’t even kids no more.’
‘The Minority Force were our greatest asset!’ The chair falls to the ground as Loto stands, her eyes blazing. ‘They were our greatest achievement. And you call them monsters?’ A glob of spittle hits the bar, several feet to Sorry’s left. Loto’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Those kids were the bravest of us all.’
‘So what happened to them?’ I ask, hoping Loto will take the bait.
‘War heroes.’ She sniffs. ‘They’re the lucky ones. Set for life, on their pensions. Cushy jobs, easy living on the home planets. Not like the rest of us left behind on these godforsaken rocks among convict scum.’
She takes a step towards me, but Sorry is ready, thrusting a bottle of snake wine into her hand.
‘Here now, Loto, have a drink. I know how hard it’s been for you.’
‘You’ve no idea,’ Loto slurs, grabbing the bottle with its coiled inhabitant, allowing herself to be steered back to her table. ‘I loved them and they kick me out, treat me no better than one of you damn cons.’
‘Listen, Doc, you better leave,’ Sorry whispers when he comes back to the bar. ‘She is in her cups, and she won’t be the only one. Dinner hour is almost over.’
I don’t bother nodding. ‘Here,’ I murmur, digging through my pack. ‘Take these for Rowley.’
It isn’t much, a couple of tabs of muscle relaxant, but Sorry’s face drops into gratitude; the most honest expression I’ve seen that evening. He might be a coward and a worm, but he loves Rowley – one of a multitude ruined by the munitions factories – and cares for him as best he can. For that, I give him credit.
‘May your thoughts be clear, Doc,’ he says.
‘And mine?’
A figure leans in the doorway, better dressed than anyone I have seen for months in a voluminous grey coat, somehow unstained by road dust. Oiled black curls hang elegantly on broad shoulders. They are heavily made-up with swirls of silvery paint that shine against cool brown skin. Twisted metal rings circle every finger.
‘Valdosta.’ Sorry grabs at his apron. ‘A moment, if you please.’ Shoulders hunched, he runs towards the back room.
From the corner of my eye I see one of the drinkers shrink down in their chair as Valdosta walks towards the bar. Even Loto is silent, staring hard at the tabletop. Something prickles at the back of my mind; the reeling sensation that usually signals their appearance.
‘Care to play?’
Valdosta’s open hand rests on the bar. In the centre of their palm is a pair of worn bone dice.
‘No.’ I look away. ‘Those things are dangerous.’
‘Only if you fear the outcome.’
When I don’t reply, Valdosta breathes a laugh and flicks their hand, sending the dice clattering. My muscles tense. Somewhere behind me a chair squeaks, most likely a drinker wondering whether to run.
I stare hard at my empty glass, willing myself not to see.
‘Five and five is ten,’ Valdosta says.
Cold sweeps me, scalp to heel.
‘Sorry,’ Sorry bursts, hurrying from the back room with a paper-wrapped package in his hands. ‘Here it is, my apologies, I’ll have it ready next time.’
When he sees the dice on the bar his face goes pale beneath the sunburn.
‘Thank you, Damovitch.’ Valdosta sweeps the dice away, dropping them into one cavernous pocket, the package into another. ‘I’d stay, but I have a show to prepare for.’ I can feel their eyes, studying the side of my face. ‘Perhaps next time, Ten.’
I don’t let go of the bar until the door creaks closed, until the ringing of jewellery fades into the sounds of the trade post. Even then, my nerves sing like wire in the wind.
‘Who was that?’
Sorry’s mouth is a hard line as he scrubs at the bar with a rag, as if the dice have left a stain. ‘Valdosta,’ he mutters. ‘Runs entertainment. And security. Protection from the Seekers, and from…’ He stops, staring at the spot where the dice fell, then back at me. ‘You should get out of here,’ he says.
* * *
I take Sorry’s advice. When I emerge from the bar people are milling about the trade post’s square in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment. Anything will do: an insect fight, a brawl, a shanking, a drunk falling over their own
