The Cyborg Bounty Hunter: In the Stars Romance Page 2

  It’s too bad none of the broadcasted bounties nearby interest me.

  I sigh and turn the volume down. The only reason I take these jobs at all is because they’re the rare type of work available to individuals like me. Tinmen. Even partial-cyborgs like me have a hard time finding better work that doesn’t require relinquishing our personal freedom, which is where I draw the line. I glance down at my arm, the ever-present incongruence in my anatomy. I accepted it for one purpose and one purpose only: to train and gain access to the registry. One day all my efforts will bear fruit.

  When that day comes, I’ll be ready. The man I’ve been waiting ten years to kill will be given to me, and all the time I have sunk into this life will have been worth it. My ancestors scream in my blood, clamoring for justice. They thirst for it. Avenging them is my sole mission. I make it a point to never forget. Remembering, their rage fills my veins with a blazing fire. It’s better than whatever fuels most people’s resolve, even if it did take me years to learn to harness that energy for survival. All of which I did willingly just for the whiff of payoff to come.

  The moorings of the Temis station appear on the horizon. I approach with caution and dock my vessel. Once I’m standing on firm station ground, I waste no time hauling the bastard into the claim-site. The officer on duty appraises the catch, whistling in admiration.

  “Good one,” he says, handing me my bounty.

  “Yeah.” I collect the credits, scrutinizing the documentation to see if it passes muster. The lawmen can be as slimy as the common criminals anywhere in the galaxy, and though the conditions in Temis are better than most, you can never be too careful.

  “Gonna jump to the next one?”

  “Maybe,” I reply noncommittally, wary of anyone too curious about my comings and goings. “Enjoy this one.”

  With that, I head to the nearby strip of shops attached to the terminal platform. The neon lights are enough to short-circuit any self-respecting cyborg, but it’s not my first time here. After the fiftieth visit, systems adjust. Mindlessly, I scan the options at my disposal, trying to settle on a form of entertainment to claim my downtime. A bar? Sustenance?

  How sad is it that I have to weigh the pros and cons of each one?

  You need to get out more.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur exiting one of the establishments. I turn to look, and that’s when I see who it is—a female humanoid dressed suggestively in tight trousers and a ripped top, leaving little to the imagination. Our eyes meet. Her hypnotic stare startles me, beckoning me towards her with primal magnetism. She averts her gaze but takes one last quick peek from behind her cascading locks. That final glance burns into me. It awakens an unforgettable shiver in my heart. She must have felt it too, because her pace slows for a few steps before she scurries away.

  I stare at the place she stood for a long time, unable to shake the prescient instinct she provoked in me. Like two cords of rope tied together in this moment that have been braided together before in the past. It’s a sense of shared ancestral connection the likes of which I haven’t felt for a long, long time.

  What it means, I can’t even begin to guess.

  3 Lily

  One of the names I pulled out of Aaron’s beta-mind—Kilgrove—is conveniently on vacation in another sector. Background research yielded a wealth of information on him. Multiple sources ranging from illicitly accessed administrative paperwork to secret news feeds attest to the fact that he’s not the type who likes to be disturbed.

  Armed with that knowledge, I saunter into Blake’s clandestine command center and blink at the humanoid receptionist. Her synthetic purple hair rests over her shoulder with a slight bend. The strands are straight as an arrow from root to tip with very little flexibility. It’s a natural look for some, but on her, it doesn’t quite fit her soft features and pastel tones. When she spots me, her manicured fingernails tap out an annoyed melody atop her clean white porcelain desk—a symbol of wealth and success in this side of the galaxy. The room is void of any chairs, save the one under her own behind as if to say visitors aren’t welcome. But I ignore this little inferred message.

  “We’re not open for business,” she tells me like I’m some inanimate looking for new clothes to showcase.

  “I’m here for Blake,” I say, my voice frosty. “Kilgrove told me this is where he spends most of his time.”

  The receptionist eyes me with an air of skepticism. “Does he know you?”

  “No.” I stare down at her. “But it’s in his interest to change that.”

  “Just a minute, please,” the girl says after sizing me up once more. She disappears behind a sliding opaque glass door and returns moments later with a changed expression. “Blake is in the sublevel. If you step into that pod over there”—she points toward the sleek, metal contraption big enough for one person to fit inside—“it’ll take you directly to his quarters.”

  Lovely. Just what I want, a private audience with his imperial highness.

  Well, it’s kinda what I want, but the way she said “quarters” leaves me on edge.

  I step into the pod, and it zips downward into a tunnel-like construction. In a flash, it seems to have gone several levels downward, coming to a smooth stop at the sound of a bell.

  After I walk two paces away from the pod, it dashes upward again, leaving me to fend for myself in an unfamiliar environment. I scan the scantily decorated room, impressed that it’s five times larger than my rental. Real estate doesn’t come cheap in Temis, so this guy must be the real deal.

  “Are you lost?” says a curious voice to my left.

  I spin and spot a well-dressed man sitting in a levitating chair, his eyes glued to my chest. What is that about? Are the men here boob fetishists or something? Don’t get me wrong. I have a great rack. But it’s not my standout feature.

  Then again, maybe I’ve been meeting all the wrong men. I think back on Aaron; he and Blake seem to have that douche thing down pat.

  Once he shifts his gaze to look at my face, his expression darkens. “Kilgrove referred you.”

  It’s not a question, just a statement of fact. I scour my mind for a witty reply but draw a blank. Instead, I approach him, pull pretense to lean over out of thin air, and give him a good view of my cleavage. He gapes, raises an eyebrow like he’s intrigued, and then leans back against the seat, arms folded in front of him. “Interesting.”

  There. That’s my in. I regard him coolly and say in an aloof, even tone, “Hardly the most interesting thing.”

  His amusement knows no bounds. The smarmy egotist cocks his head to the side and asks, “Tell me what I’m supposed to be impressed with.”

  “I’ve been told that you’re the best in town,” I say, switching back to vaguely seductive. I inch my way closer to him, biting my lip. “That you know how to put an info-trader to good, steady work.”

  “Depends on the info-trader.” There’s a glint of mischief coupled with suspicion in his eyes. “Depends on the work she seeks.”

  “Seems to me that Kilgrove, like our mutual connection, wouldn’t have told me about you if I weren’t...” I search for the word. “Capable.”

  “Ah, but Kilgrove didn’t tell me about you, and he’s conveniently not reachable at the moment.” The man doesn’t even blink, only stares. Gauging me.

  I know if I twitch one muscle out of turn, he’ll make me, so I will myself to freeze with an air of self-importance.

  “Well, proselytizing to the cynical is just as useless as preaching to the choir.” I shrug. “The net result is null. I came to introduce myself and offer my services. Word on the street is that you could use someone—”

  “Capable?” Blake interrupts me. “You know too much for an outsider.”

  “Consider that my job reference,” I counter.

  “I thought Kilgrove was your job reference.”

  Yeah, I talked myself into this corner. I get closer to him and take a seat directly in front of him. An aluminum slab shoots ou
t of the wall, separating the previously unobstructed space between us. I look at it, puzzled, and then back to Blake.

  “Lunch,” he says simply. “That’s the table. Doria will come in a minute with drinks and food.”

  “Ah.” I nod like I’m on sure footing as far as where this is all going, though, for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to proceed with the conversation. I thought Blake would be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of infotrade procurer. I thought he’d take one look at me and recognize my talent even if I am incognito.

  And now he wants to stage a grownup tea party? Who is this guy?

  True to his word, Doria—the receptionist who greeted me at the door—arrives via the pod portal and bustles in, ferrying a tray of Temis delicacies. It’s another aspect of this so-called higher-up that’s inscrutable to me. Donner never displayed any kind of extravagance or showed any inclination for indulgence. Doria sets down two identical platters with intricate clockwork embellishments on the side, and pairs the meal with a gelatinous, green substance served in metal goblets. Like an apparition, she fades back and leaves without making a sound.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” Blake says, launching straight into his plate.

  “What is this?” I point to the glob that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be our drinks.

  “A Temis Taunt,” he replies, as though that’s supposed to mean anything to me.

  “Charming.” I take the flatware and start cutting the alien meat in front of me, slowly and deliberately.

  “You did not answer my question.” His gaze probes me, its weight lingering on my skin.

  I look up and meet his eyes head-on. “Who I am isn’t really the question, though, is it? I’m not here for a social call, Blake. Kilgrove passed some information to me, and I’m here to see if there’s anything worth my time.”

  At that, Blake scoffs. “Worth your time? You expected to waltz in here, demand a job, and leave with a new command secured? I know nothing about you—where you’re from, what your abilities are. Are you a neurapath?”

  “You know a neurapath worth her ability would neither confirm nor deny that.”

  There he is again, scanning my face for any sign of some actionable intel. I relax my mind, letting the tendrils of my ability flow and expand inside the room in search of something to connect to. His personal comm buzzes, and I extract the valuable nuggets of information I need. It’s just as I suspected: Blake is a total hedonist. The bulk of the activities lined up for him involve women, booze, and other such merriment.

  “I need to look into your background before I make any commitments,” he says at last. “If you’re all of what you say you are, you will hear from me.”

  “Don’t take too long.”

  “Or someone might snap you up?” It’s his turn to play coy and detached.

  “You said it, not me.” I stand up and turn my body toward the pod, signaling that I’m about to depart. “Until next time.”

  “It’ll be a couple of days.” He brings a slice of the alien meat to his lips and chews like a barbarian. “Won’t you stay for your meal?”

  I grin. Blake’s schedule might be a study in self-aggrandizing asshole conduct, but one doesn’t rise to his position if they’re incapable of reading the cards as they’re dealt. For all his nonchalance, I know he needs me more than I need him—or, rather, that he might see it that way. I won’t jump through hoops. That’ll only hurt my cause. His kind isn’t particularly adept at being organized. Brawn, brute force, and a favorable territory might have gotten him this far, but there’s not a question in my mind that he’ll come calling sooner rather than later.

  I have intrigued him just enough to make that a certainty.

  “Maybe some other time, Blake,” I say, balancing my words on a knife’s edge. “Enjoy your grub. And your ‘Temis Taunt.’ Looks delicious.”

  There is nothing quite like issuing a subtle insult to make a male’s attention hit its peak. I sashay out of the room and step onto the pod with a gait that oozes sultry innuendo. Although I don’t look at him, I feel his gaze on me. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and steal a staged glance back at him before the portal hums to life and zaps me back to the reception.

  Always leave them guessing.

  Two days come and go before I receive word from Blake. He’s assigning me to a partner, a supporting cast member in my path. Suffice it to say, I’m not a happy galactical dweller. Secret beggars can’t be choosers, though, so I have no choice but to concede to whatever approach he takes to running the show. For now, anyway. Let him have his taste of some sweet victories in molding my role. When the time comes to be ruthless, Blake will bend to my will. He can be conned, as our meeting and this subsequent development have proved. Those initial few seconds with him were unnerving, but it’s become clear to me that I don’t have to worry about getting tangled in a web of his creation.

  My wardrobe for the meet is simple and nondescript, ensuring I blend in seamlessly with the crowd. I take every precaution in case I have to make contact with the tellers. Those droids are programmed to note anything strange, and they’re better judges of what constitutes unusual behavior than even the most accomplished living beings. They can’t afford to screw up even a very small job using one of the Nivron Corporation’s credit banks without their permission. It’s certain annihilation and obsolescence for them if they do.

  I enter the building with a personal comm I lifted on my way here. (Okay, so it wasn’t as euphemistic as ‘lifting’—I picked someone’s pocket, despite hating playing the part of a pedestrian criminal. In my defense, it isn’t permanent theft. I’ll put it in the station’s lost and found once I’m finished with it.) The job requires a prop, and what better prop is there than a tiny gadget I can pretend to become absorbed in, totally engrossed in whatever I’m reading?

  I take a seat on one of the buffed glass benches and continue to be utterly fascinated by nothing. Every once in a while, I’ll scan the interior of the building with as much stealth as I can muster and make mental notes. Before I came in, I had also scoped the outside. With those two sets of observations in mind, I comb through the surface of the systems running. It’s no surprise that their tech is high-level. That’s a given—it is a financial institution, after all. And though I don’t have enough time to get through all of it just now, my window of time allows me to poke some holes into the invisible fortress that encases this place.

  The time-piece confirms my growing suspicions: my “partner” is running late. The communiqué I received said he’d be wearing a ruby blazer. A ruby freaking blazer. That alone made my eyes spin, not roll, in my sockets with the garish amateur tone of it all, but it’s not my organized micro-heist, so... I’ll stick to the grunt work, mind my own business, and warm the benches when I should be out collecting information, and I’ll do it with, well, if not a smile, then at least a calm demeanor.

  Several more minutes pass. I sense the droids assessing me, which means there’s no choice but to abort the mission. I clutch the personal comm, gazing into it with a tortured expression, all the while giving off emotional distress signals to the droids. It’s a Hail Mary pass to manipulate their sensors with biological cues, and also one of the most curious talents in my neurapath bag of tricks, but it always gets me out of a bind when executed correctly.

  No one chases after me, and no alarms go off as I exit the credit-bank. As soon as I’m out the door, I stumble into someone.

  Someone in a red damned blazer.

  I jump back, smooth out my clothes, and look up to give them a stern glare. When I see the man’s face—the face of what I imagine death looks like. His grin sends chills down my spine.

  Donner. He’s bracketed by security droids.

  “Imagine my surprise when I learned my dear, old acquaintance, Blake, came into possession of a very shiny toy I lost.”

  My mouth opens and closes, but words do not form. I stammer for several seconds, struggling to breathe when my lu
ngs turn to lead and my heart sinks in my chest. I know my game face is slipping, so I shake it off. Mentally, I go through over every scenario that could play out.

  I don’t have the physical wherewithal to maneuver my way out of this. If I try to run, my stitches will come undone long before I hit the speed I’d need to give those damned droids of his the slip. If I were in peak condition, there might have been some semblance of hope for me. Two droids isn’t a lot.

  As if sensing that I’m not going to resist, one of the droids hangs back by the credit booth. Not long after that, the other darts off to a coffee kiosk. Bloody Donner and his unassuming programming flair. If anyone watching knows that I’m in danger, they must think me an idiot to not go off when the “security detail” consists of domestic droids. They wouldn’t know that Donner’s expertise is training individuals to shift from docile to feral in a split second.

  My eyes land on Donner’s face again.

  “Prepping for a run, Bunny?”

  Hate—pure, unadulterated odious energy—washes over me at the sound of that nickname. I don’t get a chance to react, though. Fast-approaching footsteps scrape the metal landing and cool the intensity of my exchange with Donner. I glance backward and find a tinman approaching. My eyes shoot back to Donner, and to my surprise, he looks afraid for the very first time.

  Maybe he’ll run. Please, please let him run away.

  “Let’s chat again soon,” he says before taking off.

  4 Cole

  One minute, I’m enjoying the moment of quiet, and the next, my neural-port alarms blare to focus, alerting me to a facial recognition match. My expanded peripheral vision zeroes in on a man.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper to myself.