Maze-Born Trouble Read online

  “She mention a name?”

  “No.” Wind paused again. The man was irritatingly laconic but Lake didn’t push him. He gave the other man time to think and to recollect. “But I think… Yes, she said something about him having been one of her mother’s lovers.”

  Lake noted the edge of sadness in Wind’s tone and wondered if the man still felt a little tenderness towards Holly’s mother. There was certainly history there in that wistful voice. Lake considered demanding more information but thought better and simply stood, waiting to hear what else Wind would volunteer on his own.

  “Eun Ryan was a very beautiful woman—not just in the Federalist sense but deep down in her spirit. And at the end of the war, Sisu Station was so full of ugliness and broken souls. She shared her warmth and joy with many of us. She helped us rediscover pleasure and leave behind some of the evil we’d embraced during the war.” Wind sounded almost reverent. Eun Ryan had obviously made quite an impression on him. Not so surprising, since he would have been barely eighteen when she fucked warmth and joy into his broken life.

  “You don’t happen to remember the names of any of her other lovers by chance?” Lake asked.

  “Some but…” Again Wind quieted and Lake had to resist the urge to prompt or push him. “There were so many of us that she…comforted.”

  “Anyone who stood out as jealous or dangerous?” Lake asked. “Anyone with the capacity to have your daughter killed?”

  “No… Well, perhaps…” Wind lowered his voice. “She met Forest Joki a few times, when they were negotiating the restructuring of the Maze governance.”

  A sour feeling churned in Lake’s stomach. Who in their right mind would willingly fuck a sadist like Forest? He’d been a spoiled shit when his father, Mountain, had led the Loviatars. The brutality of the war hadn’t likely moderated his vicious nature. Up in the Arc, Lake had met a few of the women who’d escaped Forest’s affections. Most of them were missing fingers and teeth. Lake couldn’t imagine any Federalist tolerating that treatment, much less courting it.

  “She didn’t judge people,” Wind went on quietly. “She accepted them for what they were and tried to see the beauty in them, no matter what.”

  “Sure,” Lake replied, though about all the beauty he could imagine finding in Forest Joki would be the man’s absence. And if Holly had crossed him—had actually been idiot enough to attempt to blackmail the man—it wouldn’t have been a surprise that she ended up dead, but more unexpected that she’d been allowed to live so long and then to die so painlessly. “Did Holly actually mention Forest Joki by name?”

  “No,” Wind admitted. “I can’t imagine how she would have even known anything about him…unless her mother told her something. But what would there be to tell?”

  Lake nodded. What indeed? It wasn’t as if Forest possessed a pristine reputation requiring protection. To a great extent Federalists ignored Forest Joki’s dealings down in the Maze, and in return Forest Joki kept the old mass generator running and supplies of rare metals pouring up into the Arc and Drift.

  And even if, somehow, Holly Ryan had found information that truly threatened Forest Joki, it wasn’t as if he’d actually pay her off and just hope she kept her mouth shut. No, paying her had been an amateur move—the act of a man who couldn’t face the consequences of being exposed but who hadn’t yet hardened himself to murder.

  For the first time Lake considered that.

  Why hadn’t Holly been killed immediately? Why had she been indulged when she made more demands for funds? Why had her killer waited? Because he’d struggled with the thought of taking her life? Or because he’d been biding his time for the right opportunity?

  “When Holly talked about making him pay,” Lake asked Wind. “Did it sound personal? Did she sound like this was just a chance thing she’d stumbled into or did she seem to know the man?”

  “I…” Wind lifted his right hand and ran his fingers over his left palm, as if tracing the tap and stroke of Holly’s late-night message to him. “If I had to guess, I’d have said that she knew him and hated him. I think she wanted me to keep something for her, but she said that she didn’t want me to see it and then I think she started crying. But the comm reception isn’t good down here and I couldn’t be sure. She was just so hard to understand.”

  Lake nodded. The time dilations created by the Maze’s ancient mass generator were on an order of milliseconds, but they fluctuated enough to garble and sometimes completely destroy pulse communications. Though Wind’s slouched stance spoke of a disconnection far beyond mere technical difficulties. Lake could almost feel the weight of guilt closing in on Wind. Holly had reached out to him for some kind of help. He hadn’t done anything and now she was dead. But what could he have done for her?

  “She did seem tough to read when I met her,” Lake told him. “Hard to talk to. Probably harder to help.”

  “Yes. She was so different from how I’d imagined she’d be. Nothing like her mother.”

  Lake frowned. How fair was it to compare a rebellious girl of eighteen to a powerful woman now in her fifties? Or worse to the cherished memory of a long-lost lover?

  “Who knows, a few years on and maybe she would’ve calmed down. People change. Kids grow, learn things. They can end up all right. If they get the chance.” Lake turned his attention briefly back to the hard-bodied roaches standing guard outside the cathedral. They’d been weak, hapless creatures once. “I wasn’t a prize at her age myself. I did some real harm, probably much worse than she could have even imagined.”

  “Yes.” Wind nodded and there it was again, the silent acknowledgment of who Lake was—what he’d done. Then Wind shrugged—in the same tired manner as his surviving daughter. “At her age I wasn’t all that kind of a soul either.”

  “You fought for the Loviatars?” Lake asked. Wind would have been the right age, but Aguilar had said he’d been a translator.

  “No. I wasn’t that brave. I sided with whoever was in the room at the time,” Wind murmured, and that wistful tone returned to his voice. “If I hadn’t met Holly’s mother when I did, I might have gone down a bad path myself. She gave so much love to those us who were Maze-born. Eun could have satisfied herself among her fellow Federalists, but instead she picked us Maze-born boys to comfort… It seems like so long ago now. It’s hard to remember what it’s like to be so young, isn’t it?”

  Lake nodded, but he wasn’t thinking of Holly’s youth or his own now.

  “All of Eun Ryan’s lovers were Maze-born?”

  “Yes. But I can’t imagine how Holly could have known any of them,” Wind replied.

  “No, it’s not likely,” Lake agreed, but his thoughts raced around the fact that Holly had been murdered up in the Drift. Murder wasn’t easy to pull off in a foreign environment. If he’d learned anything from working homicide with Aguilar, it was that people killed on their home ground. If Holly’s death had been the will of Forest Joki or any one of Eun Ryan’s Maze-born lovers, then Holly would have been lured down here and breathed her last in the dark.

  But she’d died up in the light of the Drift… Only it hadn’t been light, had it?

  “You truly are trying to find justice for my daughter?” Wind asked suddenly and something very close to respect sounded in his tone.

  “I am.” It didn’t matter if Holly Ryan had been spoiled or even a troublemaker. Her life was just as precious to her as anyone’s, and her murder was just as much of a crime.

  Wind straightened and turned his head, scanning the masses surrounding them almost nervously.

  “You should leave here,” Wind whispered. “Forest Joki knew you would come down. Someone in the Arc informed him. An assistant of his contacted us all before the funeral. He told Leaf’s fosters that you’d killed their boy, and he offered us all rewards if we inform him if you approached any of us.”

  Lake didn’t bother to ask why Wind had taken so long to warn him. Wind’s conscience had obviously only gotten to him after they’d talked
—after he’d remembered Eun Ryan and the ideals she’d aroused in him once long ago. Before then he’d probably meant to delay Lake for Forest and his thugs.

  And he hadn’t done a bad job of that, Lake realized.

  The solid mass signatures of eight big-boned figures filled the tunnels ahead of Lake and another three waited in the side corridor behind him.

  “Get yourself clear of here,” Lake told Wind. The other man didn’t hesitate but fled into the nearest corridor. Forest Joki’s thugs had the decency to let him pass.

  Lake dropped back to the entrance of the cathedral. He reached for the cold automatic in his shoulder holster then stopped. He wouldn’t start a shoot-out this near the queen. If guns were going to be drawn, he’d leave that to Forest Joki’s young toughs. He’d seen what happened to soldiers who opened fire near the cathedral back in the war. Thousands of guard roaches had poured out in a relentless flood of sharp, iron jaws. They’d ripped through the joints of military armor and torn shrieking soldiers into bloody hunks.

  Lake smacked his wristband and felt the comm link sputter to life. Aguilar would be in the middle of work. Lake went straight to message.

  “All right, Aguilar, you told me so. And you were right. I’m just getting that out of the way. Anyway. In case I don’t get another chance to tell you this, I spoke to Wind. Holly Ryan was blackmailing one of her mother’s lovers—and it sounds like there was no shortage of those, at least among young men—but I don’t think the one who killed Holly came from the Maze. No one Maze-born would have even thought about putting out the lights, much less had the connections to arrange that. So, you’re looking for someone up top who has a history with Holly’s mother. Also, it sounds like the blackmail was real and that Holly may have attempted to send a copy to Wind, but the Maze comms—”

  Three solid bodies strode in from the corridor to Lake’s left and another eight fanned out to block the wider tunnel five meters ahead of him. All of them wore flex-armor, and while most sported the chunky masses of cold automatics in holsters beneath their jackets, they also carried long knives. Clearly Forest Joki intended his death to be slow and bloody.

  This near the queen’s garden, even a little blood spilled could attract the queen’s attendants. So the men wouldn’t have to stick Lake that hard or deep to ensure he died. Lake didn’t flatter himself to think he could hold the attendants off if they set on him and dragged him down into the pit to add his bones to the queen’s pap.

  Joki’s toughs moved steadily and slowly. Their presence closed around Lake like ripples washing up against an immobile shore. The band around Lake’s wrist buzzed a reminder that his comm remained open.

  “If I don’t get the chance to see you again…” Lake said quietly—imagining Aguilar a few hours from now, listening with a stern expression. “I just want you to know that it means a lot to me—everything—to know you and to be your…friend.” Lake wanted to say more, wanted there to be more than just his own long, lonely yearning to express, but there wasn’t and a goodbye wasn’t the place to try to start something. “Water my cactus, will you? Thanks.”

  Lake tapped the message closed. Who knew how much of it would even get through to Aguilar, hopefully enough to help him close Holly Ryan’s case.

  “Lake Harmaa!” A stocky man bulging with dense layers of muscle strode from between the eight toughs ahead of Lake. Surgical plates bonded sections of the man’s skull and laced his arms. He gripped a cold automatic in one hand and flipped Lake an obscene gesture with his other. For a moment Lake soaked in the man’s mass signature, feeling almost disbelieving.

  “Well, hello, Forest!” Lake called with mock-sweetness.

  Forest should have known better than to come in person—Nam Yune would have laughed at the man. Assassination all too easily turned sloppy and stupid when rage overruled reason. And when it came to Lake, Forest Joki was nothing but gaping wound festering with avenging fury. Lake had been a mere child who’d betrayed the entire sect and made Forest’s intelligence officers look like fools. He was the snot-nosed little shit who’d burned Forest’s father alive in a chemical pool and then used the old man’s pistol to shoot off half of Forest’s face.

  Of course Forest wanted to kill Lake personally.

  Lake’s heartbeat picked up. If he could play Forest just right he might have a chance.

  “It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Lake kept his tone light and amused. “How’s your crazy daddy doing? Oh wait! He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “You have no place in that cathedral! Come out here, you piece of shit!” Forest’s voice hit the walls and echoed with ire. In the alcoves around Lake, guards snapped their mandibles in agitation. The rising scents of twelve aggressive men didn’t please them. But that suited Lake just fine.

  “You know how to ask nicer than that, Forest,” Lake taunted. “As I recall, your daddy taught you full well how to say please. Beg for it. Pyydä nätisti!”

  “I’m going to fucking kill you!” Forest started ahead several steps, fury crackling through his voice like an incendiary. “I’m going to strangle you with your own guts!”

  More guards edged up from the depths of the cathedral. Lake felt antennae flutter at the back of his head and brush his hands. He took in a deep breath, trying to suppress the odor of agitation pumping up from his skin. He needed to distinguish himself from Forest and his toughs. Sharp claws tapped against his open palm.

  Kasvatta Crèche? The guard’s touch felt searching and uncertain.

  Kasvatta Crèche. Lake tapped back with all the calm assurance he could manage.

  The claws lifted away and the big guard crept forward to Lake’s side. Tension played through its body, but for the moment it and the others accepted Lake in their midst.

  “Come out here and fight like a damn man, Lake Harmaa!” Forest shouted.

  “Or what?” Lake called back through the echoes of Forest’s shrill voice. “Are you going to tell your Daddy Melt-face on me?”

  “I will bring down the entire cathedral if I have to!” Forest screamed.

  The threat of that shot alarm through Lake. And he had to take a moment to slow his breathing. All around him guard roaches fluttered their wings, fanning acid-scented alarm pheromone into the air. More guards filed up from the deep chambers of the cathedral and climbed down from the walls.

  It wouldn’t be much longer.

  “Now, Forest, we both know you aren’t that good of a shot,” Lake taunted. “As I remember, you were better at catching bullets with your skull than firing them. You remember when I shot you in the face, don’t you—”

  With a roar of inarticulate fury, Forest charged Lake and opened fire. Lake felt two ice-cold shots slam into him like iron fists. He staggered back as the roach guards launched themselves at Forest.

  Forest fired wildly, but his shots ricocheted off their armored bodies. Then a big guard had him. It clasped Forest’s leg in its jaws and ripped through Forest’s knee. He fell screaming, and the rest of the guards swarmed over him, shredding his body. His shrieks stopped in seconds, but the air had already filled with the tang of alarm pheromones and Maze-born blood. More guards charged from the cathedral and surged after Forest’s toughs. The men fled. Lake heard at least two of them shriek in agony and then fall silent.

  Lake shoved himself back into the niche of an alcove and held out his left hand, allowing the passing guards to catch the scent where of one their own had marked him. His right arm, he couldn’t lift. Blood seeped up through the holes in his flex-armor, soaking through the chest and shoulder of his jacket. The wounds didn’t hurt yet—he was still too shocked—but that respite wouldn’t last long. And he could feel the smaller, more agile bodies of attendant roaches already scampering out after the guards.

  They might not find him a threat, but that wouldn’t stop them from deeming him badly injured and ready for the pit. The queen was always hungry.

  Lake pushed himself out of the alcove and shuffled between lines of guards. Thei
r hard bodies jostled him but also kept him from collapsing. When he missed his footing, he found himself leaning on two of the guards like a drunk staggering between two sober buddies. Though the barbs of their armor ripped shreds from his jacket and trousers.

  Steadily Lake pushed between the guards—avoiding their clacking mandibles—until he reached a narrow corridor that turned east, towards the speed lifts. His foot caught on something, and he realized that he’d nearly tripped over a human arm. That old, slightly sickened sensation wriggled through his belly as he felt the mineral-dense bone slumped from the grip of the now-slack muscle. A soft chitter sounded from the wall just above him, and Lake staggered quickly ahead as four quick attendants skittered down the walls. One took up the amputated arm. The other three tasted the blood-spattered ground and then prowled after Lake.

  He didn’t know if he could run, but he wasn’t going to die because he didn’t bother to try. He managed to trot like a three-legged milk spider, half running, half falling. Pain jolted through his shoulder and chest as he pushed himself faster. Behind him the attendants clicked and hummed in excitement.

  Up ahead, the passage split into northern and southern corridors. North led to the corridor that linked to Dr. Gim’s clinic. The southern branch swung past the automated speed lifts used to blast mineral freight up to the Arc. For just an instant Lake struggled against the temptation to race for the respite of the clinic. But the last place he wanted to lead excited attendant roaches would be an enclosed chamber filled with sick and injured people—many of them children.

  “Fuck me and vittu tätä paskaa,” Lake swore at his pain, at the stench of his blood, at the wretchedness of the whole damn situation, but mostly at himself for acting like a sentimental chump. He charged down the narrow south corridor.

  The wet heat of his blood saturated his shirt like a thick reeking sweat and began to soak down through the heavy material of his trousers. His skin beaded with perspiration but still felt cold. His feet seemed like blocks of ice that he dragged across the rough corridor floor.