Hotter on the Edge (10 page)

"Scavs," Jace said, unsurprised. He wiped sweat from his neck with the bottom of his shirt.

"What do you mean?" Simon demanded. How were they getting inside Sol City? Who was harboring them?

"Coming in through the mines," Jace added. "I thought you knew."

"No."
Gods, no
. "How?"

"Miners were shit-pissed about King Sol taking some mica or somesuch bad business."

Red. And the bad business had to be his. He'd been so angry about Sol appropriating the cache, that he hadn't considered that his brother miners would be angry too. That morning's show of solidarity took on another layer of dark feeling. They hadn't blamed him for the other miner's deaths—they thought he was a hero for finding it in the first place. The Sols were the target of their rage and grief.

The scavengers would be just the beginning.

Jace pulled out his plugs; the whitemist had lifted. "Seems like they've been letting them in through some secret dark passage."

Simon knew where. All the lifers did—it's where they sold mica on the black. Where he planned to unload this haul to his buyer.

Not important now. "How'd they get into the palace grounds?"

"I dunno."

But Simon could guess. If the miners were letting them inside the mountain, then someone equally as stupid or angry or greedy might be opening a door on the palace—somewhere the resistance fields didn't protect. Like the guest areas.

Simon held out his hand. It was steady considering the rage burning inside. "I want your slicer."

"Hell, no." Jace did a quick check of the shadows, as if he might have to use it himself.

"Give me your slicer, or I'll kill you."

Jace lifted both brows at the cold ferocity in Simon's voice, but handed the slicer over. The weapon felt slim and deadly in Simon's grasp. His hand was used to larger, heavier tools.

"What are you going to do?" Jace asked.

It was too far to shoot at the shadows from here. The resistance fields would diffuse the energy pulse anyway. He had to get close. Save her.

"Finish loading," Simon said. "I'm going to a wedding."

***

Mica checked the wedding program, which was printed on real paper and handwritten in curving, flourishing letters that sparkled with flecks of muscovite, white mica, at every shift of the page. So far, the wedding had progressed one third of the way through the thirty-two programmed performances, readings, and pledges.

…a lover's spat?

…where could he be?

She disregarded the empty seat at her side—Simon!—forced a pleasant face, and lifted her gaze to Lavinia Supernova, a virtuoso opera singer who now entertained during an interlude between the calling of the Frust genealogical line and that of the Sols.

…well, I'll take him if she's finished…

…heard he was once a miner…

Mica couldn't see who whispered, as she sat in the innermost of the concentric circles reserved for blood relatives or, it appeared, any famous actor or personality calling themselves close friends of the family, whether they were or not. The circles banded out, and since everyone was wearing a wavering aura of light, the effect was the same as if the sun blazed just as brightly right there in the room; only stars were visible through the domed glass overhead.

The singer dropped her voice down low enough to break the soul, and then lifted up exquisite sound to call down the stars, but Mica only heard perfect notes of anxiety.

He had her ship. Her codes. Was her consort. If the Peace were smart enough to ask questions before firing, he might just have a chance. And then there would be questions, but she could take those on. She had the appropriate answer ready.

In spite of her fears, a little glow burned in her chest. She knew exactly what she would tell her father. Exactly what to say to the shareholders:

Consider it
my
dowry, given to
my
husband. An exchange made, and therefore binding. It was also a little trap for Simon, too, but then he'd captured her a couple days ago. It was fitting that she capture him right back.

Had he started yet? How long would it take three strong men to move all that mica? Would he find her tonight, or did she have to endure until tomorrow?

The opera singer leapt octaves until she warbled an extended note at the extreme limit of human hearing. Her uplifted hand trembled with her vocal power, and then clenched at the terminating blast of sound.

As it was a wedding, no one clapped at the performance. Lavinia Supernova ceded the center of the circle gracefully, but still a little discomfited. The media bobs tracked her to her seat, while others floated in the air to relay every expression and murmur of the wedding to the sector. Mica vowed to have a private wedding

An aging but highly respected actor of ancient Shakespeare returned to the platform to announce in serious, almost grievous tones, the next listing on the program. "And now the reading of the Sol family line. If you please, Drummond and Pilar Sol."

Father and Pia rose from the other side of the circle and stepped up to the center. Father was dashing in his ceremonial black tunic and trousers. Pia was a ray of golden light, her gown a slim, sensuous shimmer, just warmer than her skin tone. Her dark hair fell in loose curls, and the diadem at her crown sparkled like dew on flame.

Father cleared his voice lightly, then began the reciting of their lineage. "The family Sol reached out from mother Terra in the year 2763, lead by the intrepid Alejandro—"

A high crash of shattering glass brought Mica's attention sharply upward. Shards rained from the dome as dark figures slid hand and boot down dropping ropes. Pia had fallen under the collapse of glass, and Father was lifting her up as Mica started forward, panic shredding her composure.

She screamed as a scavenger clubbed Father in the head, sending him reeling back, bloody, into the first circle of seats.

There were five men, no six—seven!—as yet another dropped into the Hall. All were lily-pale and swathed in dark rags. The guests screamed behind her, a clamor of chairs as they fled. Media bobs advanced for the best shots of the drama.

Pia was pulled up by her hair. Her long, graceful neck was exposed, a slicer gun pushed under her chin.

Fear gripped Mica as if she were held by one of the scavengers, too.

"Old man!" the scavenger with the slicer yelled. "Old man, look at your daughter!"

Mica did as the scavenger told her father to do. She looked at trembling Pilar, at Pia, her baby sister. Hakan lunged forward. Another scavenger struck him in the face. Kicked his gut. And the one with the slicer shot him.

Mica had to do something. This was her family. Her life.

"Look, old man!" that scavenger screamed again. "Your Sol line ends here!"

The scavenger was waiting until their father lifted his head so that he could see the moment Pia died. But their father was still crumpled on all fours.

The scavenger's attention was briefly brought up, his gaze scanning the Hall as many rapid footsteps echoed through the space. Had to be the Peace entering through the ground floor doors, though there was no way they could get a clear shot at the one holding Pia.

"Get him up!" The scavenger with the slicer yelled.

Mica watched as her father was roughly lifted. He brought his chin up, his dark eyes full of horror.

The scavenger dug the barrel of his slicer gun into the flesh of Pia's chin. She made a soft sound, choking for air. "Watch your heir die!"

Which snapped Mica out of her horror. "She doesn't inherit Sol," she called out calmly. "I do."

The scavenger looked over at her, interest alight in his eyes. "Okay then," he said, "you die first."

The slicer swung her way. The tip of the barrel lit. She felt nothing, but knew she was hit because she fell backward, and as her sight dimmed, she spotted Simon at the lip of the dome above, reaching toward her and bellowing, "No!"

***

All sound and color withdrew from Simon's world as Mica fell back. When a sense goes absent, like hearing or sight, the others grow stronger; likewise Simon's void filled with pain—a sense unto itself—which he harnessed into cutting rage.

He fell upon the scavenger horde.

The slicer burned as he gutted two men in one swipe of laser fire. The weapon was knocked from his hand and bounced like a toy under a ribbon-festooned chair, so he grabbed fists of glass from the floor and planted them into the scavengers' faces. Their mouths opened, but he heard none of their screams.

Something burned at his chest, which dripped wet and warm, but he wanted to laugh in their faces because he couldn't be hurt. He felt no pain. He was beyond all that.

He jabbed an elbow in a face, felt a nose break. A rainbow of scarlet arced through the air; a roar filled his mind. But he kicked another in the belly, sent him skidding back into the chairs.

The last scavenger turned to run, and Simon was awed at how time ceased moving, the man suspended in the moment of flight. He'd looked over his shoulder; a madman was reflected in his eyes.

And the madman reached out with a bloody hand and plucked him out of the air. Slammed him down on the floor. Would have struck to kill, but the step of the circle's platform had done the job for him.

When the life went out of the scavenger's eyes, sound and color rushed Simon and shook him like lightning. He went down on his knees with a crack. And then fell forward in a pool of red, reaching for Mica.

Chapter Eight

Far-off chanting told Mica that she was dying. Her body tingled all over and there was a pressure in her chest, an ache with every inhalation. She was cold too, but didn't have the strength to move or shiver. She knew she lay face up, like those at the edge of death, because she had a knot of pain in the small of her back.

Nearby, a harsh whisper rose above the rhythm of the chants. "…Can it be theft, Father, when I gave him the override codes?"

Pia. And she was lying for her. Mica took a deeper breath.

"You didn't give him any codes," their father answered back, also carefully low so as not to disturb. "He stole them from Mica, just as he stole the solyite from the plaza."

Mica flashed hot to deny the accusation. She'd given him the codes. And Simon couldn't steal what was already his. Her blood quickened; the tightness seemed to give a little.

"No.
I
gave the codes to him," Pia said, "and I'll swear to it on every comm and before the shareholders. You can cancel the transfer of my dowry funds, if necessary. Hakan says he'll have me, no matter what."

Even whispered, the last bit was uttered proudly. Mica decided to like Hakan. He did have a nice face, and life on the transit hub would suit Pia.

"Hakan Frust is drugged with painkillers," their father returned. "He will say anything you want him to."

A short silence from Pia. Mica felt the pain of their father's dig too, and wanted to remind her sister that their father, like anyone, said stupid things sometimes. That he'd been too fixed on Simon to hear how much Hakan's declaration had meant to her.

Pia seemed to recover on her own, saying firmly, "Take my dower allotment to cover the worth of the solyite."

Simple. Straightforward. A warm rush of pride went through Mica for her sister. She'd grown up while Mica was away. It made the chanting a little easier to bear; if Mica was going to die, at least Pia was going to be all right, and through her, Simon.

"Your loyalty to your sister is honorable," their father said. "But Simon Miner is not."

"I'm paying our family's debts. You took what he and his men earned."

Mica's heart beat faster. The chill on her skin cracked like the spring thaw.

"People died for that solyite!" Their father's voice was rising. "Lives were destroyed."

"Then shouldn't it at least belong to them?"

Of course, Pia was ruining Mica's plan to entrap Simon—the solyite in the plaza was supposed to have come from
her
dower portion—but after Pia's stalwart defense, Mica couldn't very well say, "No, it's
my
dowry." Not that the tactic would work very well, anyway, if she were dead. She'd better let Pia do her thing.

"You're as impossible as your sister," their father said.

Pia gave an exasperated
hrmph
. "That's a compliment. You were there, father, when he came for her. Every comm in the sector has been replaying it for the past twenty-four hours. Maybe you need to watch it again."

Mica remembered. Simon had come for her. She'd seen him framed in the broken window of the dome, night and stars at his back. Heard him shout. What had happened after? What had he done?

"The Peace had arrived as well," their father pointed out, exasperated. "There was no need for his heroics."

"Are you sure?" Pia returned. "Do you really think they could have gotten to us in time? They'd already shot Mica and Hakan. How long would it have taken for the scavengers to turn their slicers on you and me?"

Mica felt so angry, she opened her eyes. Stirred.

"Mia?" Fast, sharp footsteps. Pia was the only one in the universe who could manage speed on high blades. Pia gripped her hand and Mia squeezed back. "Mia. How do you feel?"

Father's warm hand brushed Mica's forehead. His face came into view sideways above her. His eyes were tired. "Hello, brave one." There was pride in his voice, so she had to have done something right in spite of the Simon trouble. "Protecting your sister like that."

Mica drew enough air to speak, but had to settle for a rasp. "She's the only one I've got."

Pia made the wet sound of a muffled sob, and Mica squeezed her hand again. Pia and Mia, always.

The chanting went on, unbroken.

Right. If Mica was going to die, she had better say her piece. "Father, Simon doesn't belong in prison. Let him go. Consider it my last request." It was a little dramatic, but should do the trick.