Age of X01 - Gameboard of the Gods (22 page)

Mae thought he was joking, but after they were settled into their Windsor hotel, Justin came knocking on her door. He’d lost the tie and simply wore a black jacket over a white button-up shirt with the collar open. Even in casual mode, he still looked polished and stylish, and of course, his hair had been repaired after the temple scuffle. After being surrounded by military men whose styling could at best be described as “efficient,” she was constantly surprised at the effect his meticulous grooming had on her. He looked her over.

“You’re wearing that out?”

“I’m not going out with you,” she said, feeling slightly affronted on behalf of her jeans and black blouse. “I told you that before.”

“Right, right. Because flawless castal princesses don’t lower themselves to the company of common plebeians. Well, rest easy, because this is business. You can’t really abandon me to the seedy streets of Windsor, can you? Maybe some vindictive followers of Apollo will come after me. Wouldn’t you feel bad about that?”

“Yeah. I’d be heartbroken.” Seeing his hopeful look, she sighed. He had a point, after all. “Fine. But I’m not changing.”

He looked as though he might protest but shrugged it off. “Something tells me for you, it won’t matter. Let’s go.”

She didn’t know how many times he’d been in Windsor, but he managed to find the shadiest, most illicit club he could. It wasn’t even an official
establishment and was instead housed in what looked like an abandoned warehouse. When they stepped inside, though, she was blown away that a place like this could exist without being known to authorities.

Hundreds of bodies were packed together in relatively little space, and the room reeked of human sweat and smoke from all sorts of substances. It was almost like being in Cristobal’s club, except cleaner and more high-tech. The place was kept dark, lit only by pulsing colored lights that seemed to be timed to the loud, pounding, percussion-intensive music filling the air. People talked in clusters around the periphery of the room, while the middle was reserved for dancing, which mostly seemed to consist of a lot of erratic body thrusting and rubbing.

“Wow,” said Justin with delight, while Mae felt her body respond to the implant. He made a beeline for the bar, and she fell into step with him.

“How is it possible that someone who bemoaned his fate in Panama for four years chooses the most provincial bar I’ve ever seen in this country?” she exclaimed.

“Difference is in the clientele,” he told her. “These people are civilized.”

Glancing around, Mae wasn’t so sure. Some did seem to be from Justin’s demographic: stylish, affluent people charmed by novel vices. Others looked like the dredges of society and would’ve fit in well in Panama. The bartender, whose mouth was completely encircled in metal piercings, seemed to be a prime example.

“Black Bay bourbon. Straight,” Justin ordered. He glanced at Mae. “Can’t get that in the provinces.” He turned back to the bartender. “You got any ash?”

She suppressed a groan, wondering if her position as a soldier of the Republic meant she should be enforcing its laws.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” said the man, handing Justin a small glass of amber liquid. “It’s good, if you want to get something for your fucking grandmother. You want some serious shit, though, you go for the gates of paradise.”

Justin scoffed. “You don’t have that here.” The bartender reached
down and held up a small plastic dropper, earning an exclamation of, “Fuck me. Hook me up.”

“The gates of paradise? What is that?” asked Mae as Justin handed over a stack of EA dollars. Their sister country still ran on hard currency, which was fairly easy for Gemmans to exchange. Since it couldn’t be traced in the same way electronic funds could, it was frequently used for purchases like this.

Justin accepted the dropper. “The closest those of us without implants can get to being a god.” Without hesitation, he held it to his tongue and shook out several clear drops. He closed his eyes, shuddering as an invisible wave swept over his body. “Damn,” he breathed. It sounded like a benediction. He opened his eyes again and blinked them several times as though focusing. Even in the erratic light, she could see his pupils dilating. “Heavenly. Would this be wasted on you?”

“Yes,” she said sternly. “I don’t need drugs to wind down after a hard day.”

“Says the woman whose life is dependent on neurotransmitters and endorphins.”

She flushed. “That’s not the same at all.”

“Whatever you say.” He knocked back his drink in one gulp and handed the empty glass and vial to the bartender. “Another bourbon.” He waved grandly to Mae. “And whatever she wants.”

She nearly declined but felt awkward just standing there. “Get me a mojito.”

The bartender gave her a flat look. “Does this look like the kind of place that serves mojitos?”

“Surprise me then.”

He made her a martini, explaining, “That’s the prissiest I can do.”

Mae would’ve expected Justin to start trolling for women, but instead, he leaned near her against the bar in companionable silence. He watched the room with interest, and she wondered if his brilliant observation skills still worked when he was strung out on illegal substances. At least he was sipping the bourbon this time. He wore his typical amused and confident expression, but when she gave him a more scrutinizing
look, she swore she could see a glimmer of the sadness she’d observed in Panama.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He glanced her way, and she could tell he was on the verge of denying it. Then, studying her, he changed his mind. “Do you know why the land grants are on hold? Why we’re looking into cults now?”

“Because one of them is responsible for the murders?”

The ghost of a smile flashed over his face. “Well, yes, but I’d much rather solve all of this through placid forensics work—even though I know that’s not your thing.” He grew solemn again. “I got a call from the illustrious Cornelia the other day, letting me know how displeased she was at our lack of progress.”

Even though she wasn’t personally involved with the investigative part, Mae felt offended. “But you’re doing everything you can. Your interviews are…meticulous. You’re getting the data scrutinized again. And we’re not done talking to everyone.”

“You’re a fan after all, huh?” His smile returned, and for a moment, his hand lifted as though he might touch her. Then it dropped. “Meticulous or not, we’re stuck, and Cornelia made me very aware of the ticking clock.” He stared into the depths of his glass. “And so, we’re on to nuts like Apollo’s people—but even that didn’t pan out. I thought it’d be easy, you know. Just a few strokes of brilliance from me, and it’d be put to bed. Now I may be back in Panama before the month’s over.”

“Why did you go there in the first place?”

He looked back up, surprising her with a hint of the sadness she’d seen at their first meeting. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Mae didn’t want to, but she felt sorry for him. No matter his faults, he’d been put into a bad situation—maybe even an impossible one. Bringing him back had most certainly been an act of desperation on Internal Security’s part. “Maybe you can find that woman, Calliope—”

“Callista,” he corrected. “And maybe. I don’t know. Not many people can disappear, but she could. She’s got ties to underground networks of religions, ones that hide from SCI. Those groups stick together and help each other stay under the radar. Most of them wouldn’t go anywhere
near a servitor like me, but she’d help me. I know she would.” He finished the bourbon and gestured the bartender over. “More paradise.”

Even the callous bartender looked taken aback. “That first shot should last all night.”

Justin put some cash on the bar. “It’s been a long day.” After a little more hesitation, the bartender swept up the money and handed over another vial. Mae bit her tongue on her own protests and watched as Justin took it down. His depression melted away, or was at least hidden. That dashing charmer returned, and he stepped closer to her. “You want to dance?”

“No. And that’s not dancing.” She cast a contemptuous look at the dance floor before returning her gaze to him, feeling slightly discomfited by his proximity. “It’s just an excuse for people to rub themselves up against each other.”

He leaned close. “If memory serves, you didn’t mind that once.”

“I’m going to ignore that because you’re high off your ass right now,” she snapped. “And if memory serves, you don’t go on second dates.”

“I’m not asking you on a date, princess.” The intensity of his eyes was all-encompassing, his voice velvety and coaxing. The same voice he used to get what he needed from interviewees.

Her earlier sympathy dried up. “I’m sure you think that over-the-top term of endearment is cute, but it’s really not.”

“It’s not cute. It’s true.” He looked at her in a way that somehow managed to see both the past and the present. “You know, the first time I saw you—before the alley—my whole world came to a stop. Everything else in that room faded to nothing, and there was only you, with your beautiful neck and your winter-sunlight hair and eyes that commanded the room.” He tilted his head in thought. “Do you know stephanotis?”

Mae swallowed, suddenly feeling as though she were back in Panama with a man who knew her inside and out. “Stephan-what?”

“It’s a flower. We should find some and go back to the hotel.” He reached out and ran a hand over her hair. “We’ll make a wreath of them and crown you in majesty, and then the world will ignite between us….”

Mae jerked away, embarrassed to find she was holding her breath.
She was a soldier who killed without hesitation, not a woman swayed by pretty words. “Go dance. I’m sure there’re plenty of women just as far gone as you who’ll be enthralled by your flowers and fumbling advances.”

“I’ve never fumbled in my life.”

She turned away, angling her body so that her back was to him. Tense, she waited for more, but it never came. When she finally dared a look back, he was gone. The bartender strolled over.

“Refill?”

She shook her head and left for a wall near a back exit. It gave her a good vantage of the dance floor but kept her away from most of the crowd—not that it stopped her from getting hit on. She should’ve left. There was no reason for her to be here. She didn’t even know why she’d come. Yet, something in her couldn’t abandon Justin, especially now that he was in the throes of drugs and alcohol. Not that he seemed to need much help. Each time she caught a glimpse of him, he was talking to a different woman, his face alight and full of that oozing charisma. He seemed to be on top of his game as the night went on, confident and in control, even after a trip to the bar for another drink and vial. It made his earlier proposition that much more insulting. Disgust filled her, and she welcomed it. It was easier to deal with than attraction.

Blinking out of her own troubled thoughts, she focused back on the dance floor. She couldn’t see Justin, but she could make out a few people standing around, looking at something on the floor. One of the gathered people shifted slightly away from whatever they all were watching, and Mae caught a glimpse of the jacket Justin had been wearing earlier. Her adrenaline spiked. She sprinted over to the gathered people, none of whom seemed in any particular hurry to act or move. Her stomach lurched as her worst fears were realized. It was Justin, sprawled on the floor, eyelids barely open as his breathing came fast and shallow. Alive—for now. As she quickly knelt down beside him, she wondered just how much trouble she’d get into if he died.

CHAPTER 13

TWO PERCENT

Justin opened his eyes and promptly closed them again—the light hurt too much. He waited a few moments and then decided to try again, this time using his hand to shade his eyes. Even that small amount of motion was uncomfortable. The muscles in his body felt limp and sore. The view above him revealed nothing, as that’s where the light source was, and only made him close his eyes again. With great effort, he tried to shift his body over and look to the side. He was on some kind of hard, uncomfortable bed, and his body complained against it accordingly.

Still keeping his eyes shaded, he blinked rapidly and tried to bring the room into focus around him. The walls gleamed dully in an inoffensive shade of taupe, and a large dark square hung nearby, which he assumed was a window. There was someone standing near it, appearing only as a shadowy figure. That figure approached, and he could start to discern more tangible features: lean body, golden hair. His Valkyrie.

“Hey,” he said, surprised when his own voice had difficulty coming out. There was a strange taste in his mouth. “What’s new?”

“You’re an idiot.” His angry Valkyrie.

“That’s not really new.” She stood in focus now. Her face looked strained, and most of her hair had fallen out of its ponytail. “What happened?” Then, before she could reply: “A bad trip?”

She nodded. “What were you thinking? You could’ve killed yourself!”

“Hey, it was good stuff. Really good.” It had been. In addition to making him feel like he was made of that spun-sugar stuff that kids ate at the Anchorage summer market, it had also distorted his vision so that
everything around him was edged in color. Glittering people, ringed in brightly hued auras, left trails of colored light when they moved.