Chapter Text
It’ll be fine, she’d said.
It’s a Sub Rosa station, unaffiliated with any major Arcadian faction, she’d said. No reason to expect trouble.
“I’m beginning to reach the tail end of my patience. You will tell me the location of the Broker.”
Downtime was important, especially with one crewmate working through his feelings on having rekindled an estranged friendship and the other recovering from experimental life-saving surgery. She could go it solo.
“Lad, you ain’t got much of a concept of a ‘deal’, do you? You ain’t got nothing to offer, and a threat is offering less than nothing.”
She was the one Sub Rosa had a positive impression of, not her companions. Strictly speaking, there was probably no safer place in Arcadia for her to go wandering off unprotected.
“You- you realize any other Arbiter would have crushed you where you stand for obstruction of justice long before now? That I am flowing with magnanimity?”
As it turned out, there was an Arbiter on the other side of this door. She was alone, and a Protectorate Arbiter was standing inside the 2nd Choice Saloon on Free Market Station.
“Can’t say I know what that word means, but if you’re inclined to keep threatening me, only thing gonna be flowing is your blood out your body.”
She’d almost made up her mind to go find Niles and V.A.L.E.R.I.E. (probably wise to leave Inez out of it, just in case the Sovereign’s pet murderer decided the sight of Auntie’s Choice armour was enough to tip his scales in favour of violence) when somebody made the decision for her.
The door slid open, letting a pale-faced man in a faded suit stagger out. She was lucky she was still quick on her prosthetics despite the long freeze- any slower and he might’ve vomited on her feet.
It stank so badly she knew without asking that the drunk had been imbibing something not meant for human consumption. Calibration fluid or ship wax, maybe. She didn’t have to look to have a vivid idea of the way it must be running down the ramp behind her, clearing the grease and dust off the metal in stinking rivulets.
That sort of thing was mundane. She’d seen it all before- every colour and viscosity.
The scene in front of her was something new.
It could’ve been a shot in an arthouse crime thriller video serial; the kind of overly-ambitious woolycow manure that got cancelled after three episodes for going over budget.
Behind the bar, bathed in red light, was a bartender whose disarmingly urbane styling was not nearly enough to convince her he wasn’t a nightmare in a fight. The scrupulously pomaded hair, the crisp white shirt and tidy high-waisted pants- none of that mattered.
It was the way he moved his hands. He mixed drinks with the tactical precision of someone who specialized in taking human lives as coldly and efficiently as possible.
And there, on the other side of the bar, bathed in green light, was the Arbiter.
Yeah, he was a big man in imposing armour. That wasn’t what put her teeth on edge. It was his posture- the perfect, military stillness with which he stood, hands folded behind his back, staring down the bartender.
“And would you look at that,” the bartender said, locking eyes with her. “A new customer! Hesitating by the door because of how you’re making a nuisance of yourself.” He set a clean cup down in front of a bar stool in a way she intuitively recognized as an invitation. “Maybe if you’d actually purchase something, I’d help you find your quarry,” he sniped, and then paused. “Well, might. Actually, might’s a strong word.”
The expressionless surface of that helmet turned slightly. For a moment, there was silence. She got the strange impression she was being studied.
“The Sovereign’s Arbiters do not negotiate. Tell me where the Broker is.”
Well, if they’d both already seen her, there wasn’t really any point in making a retreat and returning with reinforcements; if anything, that’d make it look like she was intending for there to be a fight.
She slunk across the floor, reluctantly settling herself on the stool the bartender had put the cup in front of. It wouldn’t be wise to draw attention to herself by sitting sideways, but sitting with her knees flush to the bar would make it difficult to get her rifle in her hands quickly. She settled for leaning faux-casually on an elbow in a way that made it less obvious she was giving herself room to react.
“Yeah, I got actual customers to see to. Let me know how ‘not negotiating’ goes for you,” the bartender was saying. He turned to face her. “Sorry about our ‘friend’ here. No matter how slow I talk, the words ‘Free Market Station is independent and does not bow to the Protectorate’ don’t seem to be registering with him. What can I get ya?”
“A Zero Gee will do me just fine,” she muttered, keeping the Arbiter in the corner of her eye. “I’ll get the cap myself.”
“Twenty-five bits,” the bartender told her.
This, too, seemed to be an unimaginable crime.
“Don’t you understand that this- all of this- is wrong? You wouldn’t need to peddle to live if you still adhered to the Sovereign’s rule!” the man in the armour protested, gesturing to her in a way she couldn’t say she was flattered by.
“I wouldn’t live at all if the Protectorate was in power here, actually. Heard about your hanging your own people. Shameful, really,” the bartender replied, setting the bottle down in front of her without looking. “And before you get defensive: don’t bother. I ain’t interested in hearing about how it was justified just as I ain’t interested in bringing you to the Broker. Stop wasting my time.”
She slid her bits across the weathered wood towards him, uncomfortably aware that she was being watched. The cheerful music playing over the speakers by the stage felt both absurd and obscene under the circumstances.
No one in the bar was speaking.
She sighed, popping the cap off the Brew with the metal edge of her thumb and taking a long swig.
(Normally, that was a cute trick of hers; a harmless bit of showmanship she could rely on to make a bartender or fellow patron smile. Nobody in this bar was paying attention to any type of brew except the bad blood.)
“...Seems dangerous for a Protectorate soldier to throw his weight around here,” she commented, hoping the insight was mild enough to communicate that her primary concern was everyone present getting caught in the middle of a firefight, not a matter of her taking sides.
No such luck.
“Hardly,” the Protectorate soldier in question told her haughtily. “I could handle myself against the locals quite easily. If by some miracle they managed to fell me, High Command would cease to overlook this settlement’s existence.” He shifted his weight slightly- like a gambler worried his bluff might be called. That was curious. “But I have no desire for unnecessary violence at this time. The Sovereign shall retake this settlement eventually- and meanwhile, it is useful for my aims.”
Very curious. Nothing Niles had told her had suggested that Arbiters were much inclined to believe violence wasn’t the solution to every problem. A younger and more reckless version of herself might’ve pressed him on it.
“Keep dreaming, bootlicker,” the bartender spat. “You can preach honour all you like- it ain’t gonna make me trust you any more than I already don’t.”
“You know, I’m not sure I’ve been made familiar with any Arbiters,” she said, hoping to cut off the argument before it could escalate.
It worked, but not without costing her the right to excuse herself from the conversation.
“It is good that you have not.” There was a sympathetic softness to the voice filtering out of that helmet that made the hair on her good arm raise. She was grateful when his harsh tone reasserted itself. “Some of my brethren are not as patient as I, especially with outsiders. We are the Sovereign’s justiciars, tasked with upholding law as we see fit.”
“And executing anyone who deviates. Now matter how slightly they might do so,” the bartender added snidely.
“You- that is a gross misrepresentation! Everyone at this station has deviated more than ‘slightly,’ yet I certainly haven’t introduced them to my hammer!”
This was giving her a headache. If it weren’t so clear to her that both men were capable of incredible violence, she might have given in to the rude urge to ask them what their parents and guardians had been thinking in raising them to behave this way.
“I’ve had my share of run-ins with folk claiming to uphold the law. Yet to meet one I trust,” she commented, trying to keep the Arbiter’s attention on her.
(Law, but that wasn’t something she’d thought she’d end up doing when she walked in.)
He seemed to have missed the subtext- mainly, the part where she was trying to gently point out that threatening to ‘introduce’ her to his hammer was not doing much to change that opinion.
“If that is so, then justiciars not native to Arcadia must be truly odious,” he said, drawing himself up into a posture she thought was probably meant to be righteous and heroic.
“So would you execute the people here if you didn’t need something from them?” she probed. It was a bit unsubtle, but subtle didn’t seem to be working.
Unsubtle also didn’t seem to be working.
“Of course not!” he said indignantly, and she almost made the mistake of laughing. “Some would go to Mental Refreshment. Most deviant thought can be corrected with the gentle reinforcement of Protectorate laws and a few select chemicals.”
“Ah,” she said.
“I came to meet with the Information Broker for... ah, Protectorate business. Protectorate reasons. However, I find myself foiled at near every turn,” he continued unprompted, waving a hand in agitation. “None within the Protectorate would defy an Arbiter and expect to live. Regrettably, I cannot make the locals ‘see reason’ without rendering myself unable to learn what I seek.”
“Even polite entreaties don’t see most getting an invite to the Broker, and you’ve been anything but,” the bartender shot back.
As the Arbiter looked over at her and shook his head in what she could only assume was exasperation, she came to a terrible realization: this guy was starting to latch on to her. She wasn’t just a stranger caught up in his conversation- for some reason, he was starting to treat her like a sympathetic ear.
It was a position she found herself in more often than she preferred (something or other about her having an approachable demeanour, according to Niles) but she’d never had it happen with a member of authoritarian law enforcement.
She was going to have to put a stop to this- be a little colder. She couldn’t afford to have this Protectorate attack canid following her around Free Market like a lost pup just because she had a gentle face. “I’ll be honest with you, foreman: what I heard didn’t sound too diplomatic. Not sure you’re going about this the best way.”
He reared back as though she’d somehow slapped him through his helmet. “I- are you daft?!” he protested, voice almost cracking. “Do you understand how diplomatic I am being simply by staying my hand?! Any other Arbiter would have executed you all where you stand!”
That got a snort out of the bartender before she had a chance to respond. “You’re just so merciful it makes me blush. I’m sure your ‘staying your hand’ has nothing to do with the armed guards watching your every move,” he sneered, and then looked at her. “No matter what this fella says, he’s not going to convince me to trust him. He’s a walking security risk.”
She hadn’t been trying to convince him otherwise, she wanted to say. She had no idea where he’d gotten that impression. The fact that him saying that might reinforce this man’s idea that the two of them were comrades was not something she especially appreciated.
She pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. The metal was cold and familiar against her skin. “So put him to work washing dishes. He doesn’t break any after a week, he can see the Broker.”
“Hilarious.”
She did not think he had found it especially hilarious.
The bartender, on the other hand, seemed find it hysterical. “That’s funny, that’s real funny. Takes a lot to set me smiling- have another drink, on the house,” he told her, chuckling as he set a second Zero Gee down on the bar top next to the first. She wasn’t sure she liked his sudden look of sprat-like cunning. “I just had a thought. Might be something that needs looking into. Maybe something that would allow me to make an exception as to who visits the Broker.”
She wanted to ask him why he’d decided this needed to be her problem. Was it her ‘approachable demeanour’? Did she just have a face that said she was here to help? It couldn’t be her uniform- she hadn’t met anybody in Arcadia so far who’d recognized her as an Earth Directorate agent.
“...Is that right?”
“Within the Golden Ridge locale on Dorado, there’s a refugee camp. It’s unassuming, quiet like- most of the folks there just want to be left alone,” he said, leaning in like they were suddenly co-conspirators. “They see to the few needs they have by working with the Broker. But we ain’t heard from them in a fortnight and change- serves to reason something untoward may have transpired there. You see your way to looking into that, maybe we’ll talk.”
Her response had been noncommittal. Nothing about how she was acting should have sent the message that she was interested in buying what he was selling. This trap had just been set on a hair trigger.
She had to ask. “Kinda sounding like you want me to go as well. Mind if I ask why?”
She hoped her meaning was obvious.
“I don’t fancy the idea of letting an Arbiter loose on our allies without supervision. Might not know you, but anything’s better than giving him complete freedom.”
Meaning he understood her, but was going ahead with his little scheme anyway. Her own fault for expecting a little solidarity from Sub Rosa types.
“Ah,” she said again, disappointed.
Well, she certainly had been boxed in very efficiently.
“I do not take your speaking of me as some kind of feral canid lightly,” the Arbiter growled, earning a sneer from the bartender.
If she said no, there was going to be a fight. The bastard behind the bar had offered a solution to a deeply-frustrated man in need of one, and his access to that solution hinged on her agreeing to be a part of it.
She’d been generously gifted the problem of an Arbiter, and chances were good that trying to foist him off on someone else would end in bloodshed.
Niles was going to hate this.
“Okay,” she said, staring the bartender dead in his eyes. He didn’t look the slightest bit sorry. “Sure. Sounds like a plan, I guess.”
“Great! Take the lap-canid with you. I’ve had enough of his excitability, and so have my customers,” he told her cheerfully.
She considered asking him for a refund of that first Zero Gee. She considered pressing him for a reward.
She considered shooting him dead.
She was not given the chance to consider any of those options deeply.
“I don’t claim to be pleased with the circumstances surrounding this co-investigation, but perhaps we may surprise one another.” As expected, the Arbiter had made her his sole focus. He was a simple animal, she was realizing; unconcerned by problems that were no longer the problem directly in front of him. “I’m Arbiter Tristan Rao.”
She eyed the articulated rig on his right arm. Not a prosthetic: assistive power armour. Whatever hammer he’d been promising to introduce them all to (she assumed Sub Rosa’s guards had drawn the line at allowing him to walk around the station armed), it was something even a man as big as this couldn’t swing unassisted. Something industrial.
She was fascinated to see it, but not especially excited to be putting herself in a position where she was going to have to see it firsthand.
She downed the rest of her Brew, tucking the second bottle in her pack for later. Niles was going to need a peace offering.
“Aspen Wilkes,” she said, deciding against going in for a handshake. “You ever... work with a partner before, Arbiter Tristan Rao?”
“When I was an apprentice, yes, but not since. And certainly never with an outsider.” He didn’t seem to have noticed her apprehension, but then, nothing about this interaction had given her the impression social niceties had been a big part of his education. “I shall meet you at the camp. Let us hope we both arrive there intact.”
“Yep,” she said. “Sounds good.”
Oh, yeah.
Niles was really going to hate this.
###
“You want to run that by me again, Commander?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Because I’m sure I must’ve misheard you.”
He’d spent enough time with Commander Wilkes to recognize the expression she was wearing; whenever she got herself put in a position she didn’t like but couldn’t see a way out of, the knotted scars by her mouth would tighten involuntarily, pulling the corner of her lip up into a sort of apologetic sneer.
“It’s not going to be a permanent arrangement,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose with prosthetic fingers. “We just need to show up.”
“See, that wasn’t what the part I was concerned about,” he told her, eyeing the bottle of Zero Gee Brew on the table between them. “I don’t see why we’re obliged to do anything of the sort.”
The sneer tightened a bit more. Never a good sign.
“If we don’t go, we’re leaving those people alone with an Arbiter. They might already be down a communications system- no way to call for help.”
The fridge was rattling. He’d have to replace the compression coil again.
Niles ran a hand over his face. “How’d this happen? You didn’t even go in there looking to jaw at this... what’d you say he was called?”
“The Broker,” she answered, “and no, I didn’t.” She shrugged, putting her elbows on the table. “Wrong place, right time? Guess the bartender just assumed.”
“I don’t think he assumed anything other than that you looked like somebody he could make responsible for cleaning up his mess,” he muttered, scowling.
The commander laughed, the delicate skin around her dark eyes crinkling. “I think you’re probably right about that, Niles,” she agreed, “but there’s not much we can do about it now.” She leaned her cheek against her palm. “It’ll be you, me, and VAL. No need to mention this to Inez- with any luck, we’ll be done with this problem without her ever having to lay eyes on him.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, but nodded. “Understood, Captain Wilkes.”
She smiled. “Commander Wilkes, Niles,” she corrected gently. “Don’t let VAL hear you make that mistake again.”
“...Understood, Commander.”
Things went quiet between them, but it was a comfortable silence, one filled with familiar sounds: the rattling fridge; the dripping of water from some poorly-sealed connection point in an overhead pipe; steam escaping one of the atmospheric regulator lines in the main room; the rattles and creaks of an old ship he had been able to keep functional, not efficient.
Commander Wilkes smiled and popped the cap off the Zero Gee. “So... do you want the Brew or don’t you? Because if you’re not gonna take it-”
He snatched it out of her hand when she raised it jokingly to her lips. “Hey! The least you could do is let me have the damn drink-”
###
The woman who had introduced herself to him as ‘Aspen Wilkes’ had been wearing a uniform strikingly similar to those depicted in Science Adventures Quarterly.
(It had become a recent fascination of his; whenever the establishment of that wretched libationist would close for the evening, he’d been forced to find ways to occupy himself.)
She had been dressed like an Earth Directorate agent. Was she a particular devotee of Commander Zane and Buddy, perhaps? Or was it true, as the serial claimed, that the events depicted within were not wholly a fiction?
The woman who crested the hill overlooking the settlement, her dark hair set ablaze by the golden light of the oncoming evening, was not alone; she was accompanied not just by another individual in an Earth Directorate uniform, but by the very model of drone he’d become accustomed to seeing drawn in the pages of that periodical.
He was...
Astonished? Elated? Transfixed?
He could not describe it except to say that he felt he was being made witness to a marvel.
The three of them were far less clean and tidy than Commander Zane and her companions, but he found the image they cut far more striking: a rather pleasant-looking dark-haired woman with three mismatched and very antiquated prosthetic limbs, carrying a long-barrelled rifle in her hands; behind her, a slim, dark-skinned man with a badly-scarred face and makeshift prosthetics, holding a heavily-modified revolver; both followed closely behind by a weathered drone that simultaneously looked as though it had been meticulously cared for and repeatedly stripped for parts.
Somehow, the agents he’d come to know in the periodical suddenly felt very shallow and insincere. There was no history to be gleaned from the innocent eyes of Buddy or the polished chassis of his drone. Commander Zane’s losses were ephemeral, and could be undone with a few strokes of ink.
This trio bore their marks of sorrow quite plainly.
(He was somewhat glad not to be facing them as foes. While he was confident he could have bested them, there was a tragedy in the prospect of having to do so- like the felling of a great and majestic animal.)
“Commander,” he heard the dark-skinned man murmur as they approached, “you sure about this?”
Ah, so she was Commander Wilkes. Commander Aspen Wilkes of the Earth Directorate.
Why had she not introduced herself by her title, as he had? For what reason had she foregone the respect he might have afforded her, had she made clear to him her station?
To prevent such information being repeated by one of Sub Rosa’s many lurking sprats, no doubt. He understood.
He did his best to feign disinterest.
“So you did come. Good. I’m not partial to working with those given to second thoughts,” he told her, gesturing expansively to the tragedy before him. “It seems we arrive on a desolate scene. I don’t know what transpired, but whatever it was killed the refugees to a person.” Looking at the pallor of her skin, he had an unfortunate thought. “...As an Arbiter, I bear a strong stomach, but if you’ve any reservations about witnessing destruction visited upon the innocent, you’d best steel yourself,” he warned.
(His first encounter with an Earth Directorate agent had been marked by the unfortunate spectacle of vomit; he hoped the second would not follow suit.)
The scarred corner of her mouth was pulled up in what he thought was likely meant to be a smile, albeit a crooked one. “This place already makes me feel sick,” she said. “By all means, let’s add the smell of dead bodies baking in the sun to that equation.”
A jest, perhaps? He was uncertain.
“Buck up, compatriot,” he said, mostly for lack of any idea what else to say. “The only way to discover what happened here is by fording a river of corpses.”
Those dark eyes of hers bore into him. “Mm. First things first: did you do this? Decide to judge these people since no one was watching?”
He felt as though he’d been struck. “I- how dare you! An Arbiter does not visit wanton destruction upon civilians,” he protested indignantly. “And had I judged these civilians I would have told the bartender plainly!” He fought to calm himself. She was not local to Arcadia. The place from whence she came was an amoral cesspit devoid of those willing to uphold its laws in true service to those they were meant to safeguard- she’d made that quite clear during their last meeting. This was not a personal slight against him. “I’ve some theories on the refugees’ killers, but I remain... unsatisfied,” he continued. “Although I am not required to do so as an Arbiter, I would care to acquire proof.”
An eyebrow quirked under the fringe of hair covering her forehead. “Arbiters don’t require evidence?” she asked, trading a glance with her companion. “You must not be too concerned with justice.”
She was not a native of Arcadia. This was not a personal slight against him, he reminded himself.
“We operate under the Sovereign’s indefatigable will- thus, we do not need proof,” he explained patiently. “But my training was somewhat unique in that it emphasized the value of thorough investigation.” He turned away from those probing eyes. “Let us comb the remnants of this... charnel house.”
“Alright. Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, striding past him. “VAL, I’m going to be relying on your medical expertise here.”
“Understood, Commander. This unit’s skills are at your disposal,” the drone chirped. (It somehow sounded just how he had imagined it might.)
Truth be told, he already had a strong theory as to what had happened; the moment he had spied the transmitter and noted the precarity of its cant, this investigation had become less a matter of investigating to reveal the underlying truth of the tragedy and more a matter of securing the requisite evidence to either prove (or disprove, were fate only so kind) what he already knew to be true.
He realized a little belatedly that he could not been seen to be observing his peculiar companions too closely, lest it appear he was not pulling his weight.
“Shame about all this blood. I just polished these boots,” he said absentmindedly, crouching next to a large pool of the stuff by the entrance to the encampment. It was fresh- still wet. Though the bartender had said the last transmission had been received more than a fortnight ago, the event itself must have occurred recently. He suspected he knew why.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the commander duck into the building to his right. He knew at a glance that it had to be the automechanical control hub. A promising start.
Nearby to him, next to a small brazier and an overturned chair, was a badly mutilated body. He spied something white buried in the mud and fished it out to inspect it. “Is that...?” he muttered, and then placed it back down gingerly. “Yes, that’s an incisor, alright.”
The Earth Directorate drone hovered overhead for a moment, seeming to take in the bloody scene, and then whirred back to its compatriots.
As it rejoined them, Commander Wilkes appeared to listen, then frowned. He watched surreptitiously as she gestured to the transmitter before walking briskly towards it.
He followed behind the trio as casually as he could manage.
“These people could have been saved, if they simply hadn’t deviated from the Paradigm...” he commented, searching for any sign of recognition in their responses.
The commander’s companion gave him a peculiarly hostile grimace, but the commander herself merely tucked her thumbs in her belt, lips tightening.
“Hey. See if you can find a way up onto that roof over there,” she said, inclining her head towards the jumble of scrap the radio tower had been affixed to.
“You got it, Cap- Commander,” the agent said. “Just... keep VAL with you, will you?”
“Of course.”
The slim man shot him one last look with those odd-coloured eyes before stalking off around the back of the building.
Tristan stood side-by-side with the little woman, setting his hammer down so he might fold his hands behind his back and put on a convincing display of inspecting the transmitter.
Dorado, once so familiar to him, had been made unfamiliar since the onset of the war: where once the air had sung with the music of the wind filtering through the moon’s many outcroppings of crystals, it was now heavy with distant artillery and the calls of escaped corporatist animals gone rogue.
Commander Wilkes’ gaze was heavy. “You got something you want to say to me, foreman?”
This was the second time she had called him that.
He was uncertain what the meaning of such a moniker was, but it did not sound derogatory, so he refrained from questioning it, lest he appear ignorant.
“What sort of life was this, without the Sovereign’s guidance?” he mused instead. “Without his protection? I cannot help but feel a pang for these people, cut down without a hope of defense.” He straightened up even further, feeling somewhat like a character from a serial. The circumstances were highly dramatic, after all. “We must uncover what transpired here.”
“We will,” she said, and then walked off, thumbs still tucked into the leather of her waist-belt, her rifle hanging across her back, its weight straining against the strap of its corded sling.
He hadn’t consciously realized he’d been watching her go until he caught sight of her companion peering at him whilst scaling the rear wall of the building. He forced himself to turn away.
He was having a rather... complicated revelation.
He simultaneously found himself hoping to be impressed by these strangers (most particularly their commander; few things were worse than being disappointed by one whose bearing promised great competence) while also wishing to be impressive to them. It was a conflict he had not experienced since his youthful days of tutelage under the Supreme Arbiter.
Most in the Protectorate were familiar with him by name, and his stature was the subject of enough renown to ensure he required no introduction. He rarely had to make an attempt to impress anyone, these days.
He rarely felt the need.
But there, coming into his line of sight as he rounded the front of the building, was that very recent exception: this commander from a distant galaxy, tightly-clad in blue and red and grey, inspecting the charred and bullet-marked wall behind a destroyed automechanical.
The flood lamp beside her cast long striking shadows across the metal as she reached out to touch it with her prosthetic hand. Her face in profile was gentle- cast in a mould that said she ought to have been destined for a kinder life than the one allotted her by the Architect.
“Hey. You watching, or you investigating?” her companion asked, looking down at him from a bit of scaffolding atop the building.
He shook himself out of his reverie, a bit abashed. “I was... simply lost in thought,” he said defensively, starting to feel rather vexed. “Did you have something you wished to discuss?”
Those scowling lips parted, but before he could receive an answer, the commander’s voice was calling out.
“Niles, you find anything out about that wireless tower?”
The agent turned away. “Nothing conclusive, Commander- give me a second to get down and we’ll debrief.”
It should not have stung him the way it did to be so obviously excluded. They were not allies. He was not a member of the Earth Directorate, and they were not his Protectorate brethren.
Still, they were meant to be collaborators in this investigation. Had he realized the dynamic might skew towards the competitive, he would not have prompted them towards the truth as he had.
As if she had sensed his displeasure, Commander Wilkes approached him. He was curious to notice that her companions did not follow, instead electing to watch from afar.
“We found some things we think might be relevant,” she said, wiping char off her metallic fingertips with a small cloth.
“You’ve been busy,” he answered coolly. “What did you find?”
Her gaze lingered a moment on his hammer. He shifted it on his shoulder, suddenly very aware of its weight.
“Well, we found a high-power transmitter. Looks pretty heavily damaged, as you saw.”
“Seems this base has seen its share of destruction,” he agreed. “I maintain that it feels deliberate, judging by the still-standing buildings.” An itch was rising. “Was there anything remarkable about it?”
Those eyes narrowed. “Protectorate craftsmanship. I’d assume the refugees stole it somehow.”
He felt a surge of pride at how recognizable his people’s craftsmanship must be for even this stranger to have seen it. “Good observation,” he complimented. “Suffice it to say the Protectorate would not take kindly to such a theft. Did you have anything else?”
For a moment, she looked slightly puzzled, her head cocking to the side. “I found a terminal entry cataloguing the base’s automechanical defenses. Make of that what you will,” she said quietly, tucking her thumbs into her belt as she had earlier.
“Perhaps it might allow us to ascertain the final moments of the camp’s machines,” he prompted. “See if any final commands were sent before the camp’s destruction.”
“The defenses seemed pretty solid... at least in theory,” she said, looking off towards the front of the encampment. She was quiet a moment, her jaw working slightly. “But you’re right: automechs are easily manipulated, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “The distinct lack of automechanical corpses around us would support that hypothesis. It seems the defenders did not defend.”
“Not a complete lack. There’s one,” she contested, gesturing to the ruined mechanical behind her.
He caught himself smiling. “Myriad dead refugees, killed in a particular way... but only a single destroyed automech. I’m beginning to make a connection,” he told her, doing his best to imitate the serious aspect of an adventure serial protagonist. “Did you notice anything interesting about it?”
Her expression did something odd and inscrutable. “...The barrel was nearly melted off. Looked like it had been fired many, many times.”
“Hm,” he hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Meaning its combat protocols were active for quite some time before it was destroyed.”
She looked, he thought, slightly amused.
“VAL noticed that one of the corpses had some... pronounced wounds,” she offered, unprompted. “Though I guess you saw that.”
“Yes, someone visited much carnage on this place while leaving few signs of their presence,” he agreed. “Did your drone learn anything by examining the body?”
Her head turned slightly, looking over her shoulder towards the machine hovering beside her subordinate. “VAL’s medical specialty is health management, not crime scene investigation, I’m afraid,” she said. “I think she said something about excessive trauma, organ failure and massive exsanguination.”
He felt he understood her amusement. “Death by shotgun, as the wounds appear to me, is often painful, drawn-out,” he offered helpfully. “It is understandable that your drone would struggle to determine whether the cause of death was blood loss or the failure of a broken body.”
She turned those dark eyes back to him again. “...I’ll be sure to let her know you’ve given her a pass,” she said.
Her tone was so dry even he could not mistake it. He suddenly felt slightly foolish.
“Was there anything else?” he asked, shifting the weight of his hammer again. Her eyes darted to it.
“Niles- uh, Agent Abara took a look at the camp’s wireless communication tower. Might have something to do with this.”
Ah. So he was Agent Abara. He’d been wondering.
Agent Niles Abara. He certainly cut a fine figure, but his manners were somewhat lacking.
Tristan tried not to let his disgruntlement at having been so recently embarrassed show. “Oh? I wouldn’t expect a localized transmitter to harbour anything of note.” He gestured expansively. “Prove me wrong.”
Her eyebrows rose. “According to my colleague,” she said, putting an unmistakable emphasis on their comradeship, “it seems there was some tampering, but we don’t know the significance.”
The night was stifling. His armour felt too warm, and the air smelled of blood and sand and gunfire.
“Still, a sign that something unusual happened there may fit snugly into our other observations. We shall wait and see,” he said, hoping it sounded neutral and objective despite his personal feelings.
She eyed him for a moment, thumbs still hooked in her belt. “Mhm. Well, that’s it. We’re done with our investigation.”
She had been very thorough. “You’re certain? You’ve combed the place to your liking?” he asked anyway.
(Some part of him was loathe to have this exciting adventure be done with; once they parted here, they might never meet again.
Or worse, meet as foes somewhere.)
“Yes, we have,” she confirmed.
He squared his shoulders, keeping his head high. “Then let us debrief and see if we can’t deduce what transpired here. Have you any theories as to what killed these people, Commander Wilkes?”
Her eyebrows twitched slightly at that, as though she hadn’t expected to be addressed in such a manner. One second stretched into another, and then another.
Her scrutiny made him feel strangely like a captive insect being examined; like some curious specimen of mantiwasp.
Finally, she spoke. “How do you think they died?”
This wasn’t what he’d wanted. “I have a... strong theory, but there are gaps,” he said evasively. “I’d like to hear your own analysis, and we may compare where our ideas converge.”
She tucked her chin, looking up at him through short, dark eyelashes. “I know their deaths were brutal, but not much more than that.”
He was not convinced that was true. She did not seem to be attempting to convince him that was true. Despite her gentle demeanour, everything about her posture seemed to suggest that she thought he was being intentionally vexatious.
“Although I’m no ballistics expert, the death-wounds on the corpses appear to match those inflicted by an automech,” he offered. “I’m sure you would agree. Have any theories about the automechs that did this?”
She moved her jaw as though she were chewing a particularly tough bit of boarst. “I do. I think the camp’s automechanicals were reprogrammed to target the refugees.”
He beamed, pleased that she had not become entirely unwilling to engage in this game of deduction with him. “My thoughts exactly. How do you believe they were compromised?”
Those dark eyes closed. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Why do I feel like you already know the answer and are testing me, Arbiter Rao?” she asked.
He had been caught out. His face was hot. He could not own this embarrassment- if he did, he felt certain it would haunt him for years to come.
“I may have a... strong theory, but I do not have a definitive answer,” he denied vehemently, resisting the urge to shift restlessly from one foot to another. “Indulge me. How do you think the mechanicals were corrupted?”
Her arms were crossed. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
He could feel his resolve wilting. For all the effort he had expended in attempting to cajole her into demonstrating her insight and competence (so he might also demonstrate his own in turn), it would seem he had primarily succeeded in convincing this impressive woman that he was a time-wasting nuisance.
“I submit that the refugees predominantly used the local shortwave tower to control their automechs. The saboteur commandeered it and sent out an override,” he relinquished, suddenly all too happy to have this bespoiled encounter come to an end. “The only remaining puzzle piece is why. Why go through all this trouble to eliminate a handful of isolated refugees? It is my belief-”
She interrupted him. “The original owners of that transmitter came to collect. Violently,” she said, inclining her head towards the structure in question.
He was not a child. He knew better than to allow his mood to be buoyed by the slightest hint of attention and approbation. Such a thing spoke to a damning weakness of character.
(Nonetheless, her words did buoy him.)
“Agreed. That relay is of Protectorate make, as you said, and the refugees most certainly didn’t build it themselves. They were likely Protectorate as well,” he confirmed. “I hypothesize that they used it to listen in on Protectorate communications, then sold what they learned to Sub Rosa.”
She was smiling- only a very little, and slightly crooked, but smiling. “And the Protectorate wouldn’t take kindly to that.”
“No. Not now, most especially,” he concurred, eager to demonstrate his insight into the matter. “After the Vox Relay’s recent destruction, High Command would have ordered a security sweep of all communications systems. This outpost’s relay would have returned a signal,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Upon learning of this camp’s existence, they’d have dispatched a Sentinel to cross off any would-be traitors. Hence the destruction we bear witness to.”
She was most definitely smiling. She was shaking her head, which did seem less positive, but she was smiling.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “All of which you already knew.” She waved her companions towards her, and they began to approach.
He caught himself shifting unconsciously and forced his body into stillness.
“Theorized,” he demurred. “I knew this was an ex-Protectorate encampment, but wasn’t sure it was a Sentinel’s doing until this moment. They operate in... clandestine ways.” While he was not pleased to have it done with, he was relieved the bloody affair seemed to be ending on a more-or-less genial note. If he had only had a little more time, perhaps he might have found some way to arrange circumstances more favourably for the future. “Ahem. Now that our business here is concluded, we-”
It was not a thing that was heard or felt- it was some combination of both. The air was vibrating.
As a son of the Protectorate, he was all too familiar with the sensation.
“Hold,” he barked, raising a hand. “Something- some things- are approaching. Be ready. I suspect someone has disapproved of our inquiry.”
When the first of the befouled wasps came darting in through the entrance to the encampment, he ceased to think. His hammer was in his hands.
“Seems the machines return, bent on eliminating on stragglers! To arms!” he called, surging forward to engage the wretched machine.
Behind him, he heard the clear, calm voice of the commander call out, “Niles, draw fire. VAL, cover him.”
One drone collapsed beneath the head of his hammer, another to Agent Abara’s revolver. His blood sang.
The air was singing, as well.
He knew that sound; a dragoon. A fine ally and a very vexing foe.
He’d scarcely had time to identify that it was about to come down on top of him and brace himself before a powerful shot rang out- not the quick, sharp pops of the agent’s revolver, but the ringing rapport of a rifle- striking the dragoon between the heavy plates of its armour, squarely in the center of its glowing eye.
The thing careened off-course, plunging to the ground beside him. He dispatched it with a savage blow, raising his hammer from its shattered carcass just in time to be sent staggering by a second dragoon thundering to the earth nearby.
Despite how visible he’d made himself, and how effectively Agent Abara had been drawing the ire of the wasps, this mechanical did not appear to be targeting either of them.
It had fixed its sights on Commander Wilkes, who was crouched behind a barrier to the right of the entrance, rifle in hand.
(It had observed her marksmanship and identified her as the most immediate threat, he thought. While dragoons were not capable of overly complex battlefield analysis, their programming was sophisticated enough to prevent them falling prey to tactical distractions after having observed the presence of a hidden malefactor with a long-range weapon such as a rifle.)
She fired a shot, then another. As before, her aim was exceptional- but this dragoon was not mid-flight, and thus could not be toppled so effectively. It would reach her before she would be able to fell it, and the barrier between them would be no help when it was pointing its weapon down at her from overtop it.
He leapt forward, his body already calculating what needed to be done. To knock the automech back from rather than into the commander required him to swing from his left side, which would necessarily put more of the hammer's weight into his left arm than was ideal- but it could be done. He was capable of swinging the Supreme Arbiter’s Hammer without his gauntlet.
The exertion just became... costly, were it attempted more than once or twice.
Thus, he would simply have to swing once to great effect.
He felt the armoured plate of the dragoon cave under the might of his force. The resplendent joy of seeing it not just topple, but sail backwards, almost excused the howl of his muscles at the unexpected transfer of weight.
He shifted the hammer back into its proper position, trying to ignore the grinding sensation in his shoulder, and dispatched it as he had the first one.
A lone wasp buzzed towards him, then fell to a few quick shots from the agent’s revolver.
Except for the sparking infrastructure of the camp and the distant howls of beasts, all was now quiet.
He was intoxicated. He always felt he was at his best in circumstances such as these; he was a far better showman in a fight than he was when bandying words. “That was a hearty engagement! You held your own admirably,” he complimented, turning to look at the commander. “These automechs will never be used to perpetrate such heinous acts again.”
(He could not bring himself to compliment her companion. As capable as the man clearly was, he was still rather vexed about having been called a do-nothing for daring to tarry a moment in contemplation of the agent’s very fine and admirable commander.)
She was slowly rising from her crouch. Her already sickly pallor had gotten markedly worse.
“You okay, Commander?” Agent Abara asked, reaching to help her up.
“Uh, yeah,” she said, sounding almost a bit perplexed. She looked at him. “You’re... very quick with that hammer.”
He beamed. “If I were not, I would not deserve to wield it!” he boasted proudly. “You are most proficient with that rifle, Commander Wilkes. I believe I would have been in a very unpleasant position if not for your fine shooting!”
Her expression and posture spoke to a certain degree of bewilderment. “...You’re welcome.”
He knew enough to recognize that now, following on the heels of having saved the lady’s life, was a splendid time to excuse himself. He could think of no better to way to leave a good impression.
“I believe we’re at the end of our investigation. The prospect of sharing our findings with the Broker isn’t terribly appealing, but we’ve little choice,” he told her. “I will locate my wretched Sub Rosa transport and return to Free Market Station. Pleasure fighting beside you.”
As she nodded slowly, a thought was occurring.
He found himself speaking before he could second-guess himself.
“Be sure you return to Free Market Station to debrief with me,” he said impulsively. “Despite our work here, I somehow doubt the Broker would grant an audience to me alone.”
With that, he turned and began striding away. He did not check to see how she was responding to his demand- he felt somehow very sure that observing anything but the most zealous enthusiasm would leave him in a lower state than any he had endured in the whole of the process.
###
The Arbiter had long since vanished from sight, but the commander was still staring after his shadow, mouth agape. He waited patiently.
“Niles,” she said finally. “What the fuck just happened?”
She was sitting on the barrier she’d been hiding behind during the firefight, looking like she’d just been caught up in a whirlwind.
“Which part?” he asked. “The part where he divulged information about the inner workings of Protectorate High Command without you asking for it? The part where he sent a dragoon flying like it was a stuffed training dummy? Or the part where he effectively said he means to wait around until you show up, so you better show up? You’re gonna need to be more specific.” He snorted. “Tell me I didn’t sound like that when I was a junior agent. Good fuckin’ Law.”
She gave him a strange look. “What do you mean?”
He blinked. “Would do you mean, ‘what do I mean’? Captain, I ain’t seen somebody so eager to-”
V.A.L.E.R.I.E. buzzed in protest. “Agent Abara is not to misrefer to Commander Wilkes using prior and/or currently-inapplicable titles, especially those which may relate to active or inactive criminal cases.”
“Sorry, VAL,” he muttered.
She was looking out the entrance to the encampment again; staring into that empty dark. “Are... are Arbiters usually-”
“No,” he answered quickly, sitting down beside her. “Well, I ain’t ever had one trying to impress me before, so I guess I can’t say that for sure.”
Her eyebrows were furrowing. “Is that how you read that?”
He squinted at her. “Is that not how you read it?” he asked, and then thought about it. “...I figured the reason you knew he’d already put it all together was on account of how he spent less time investigating than he did staring at you whenever you weren’t looking.”
Judging by the face she made at that, this was new information. “What? No, that wasn’t-” She broke off, running a hand through her hair and then wincing as a few strands caught in the knuckles of her prosthetic. “Remember when he made that comment about the refugees having ‘deviated from the Paradigm’?”
“While we were standing in front of what was obviously a Protectorate-made relay? Yeah, hard to forget.”
“That was what tipped me off. That’s not how you talk if you don’t know anything- that’s how you talk if you want other people to know that you know more than they do.”
He shook his head, smiling. “Or, y’know, if you’re trying to impress somebody. Think he knows who you are?”
A shower of sparks raining down from a nearby structure lit her face in flashes of dim blue light. “No. If he did, he’d have killed me the first chance he got,” she said, looking so incredulous that he couldn’t help but chuckle. “I think you’re the only one in Arcadia who does.”
He considered that, feeling a bit melancholy about it. On one hand, the anonymity was likely the best option for her; on the other, he felt it was important more folks knew she was a hero.
The Doradoan night was cool and quiet. It seemed to be helping. She rarely complained except to joke about complaining, but he’d been able to tell that the heat hadn’t been treating her well.
“...Think he’s familiar with Zane and Buddy?” he offered wryly.
She laughed. “Oh, Law fucking forbid-”
###
They way they kept hopping back and forth between Dorado and Free Market Station was clearly starting to make Inez suspicious, but suspicious was fine. She’d explain the whole thing later, once nobody was in a position to decide her shiny new graft meant she might want to pick a fight with an Arbiter.
An Arbiter who might’ve been able to send a full-grown raptidon matriarch stumbling, at that.
She couldn’t get over how he’d sent that dragoon flying with a left-handed swing. Niles didn’t seem to have noticed, but she had.
Her TTD had been active at the time.
She had watched him make that split-second decision; had watched, in slow motion, as he transferred the weight of a hammer almost as long as she was tall from one hand to the other like a tossball hacker about to splatter some unfortunate winger across the Thursday zone.
He didn’t need that rig to swing his weapon. She was pretty sure it was just there to stop him from ruining his joints. The man was frighteningly strong.
(It had occurred to her that all his blustering about being able to take everyone on Free Market Station might have been slightly less of an empty threat than the bartender had thought it was.)
She could not afford to have anybody on her crew picking a fight with him. As irritating as she found Inez’s refusal to accept that she had been abused and abandoned by her money-grubbing capitalistic society, Aspen did think she deserved better than to be reduced to a grafted smear on the shattered hull of the ACS Free Market.
The sooner this was over, the better.
All she had to do was meet him at the 2nd Choice, tell the bartender they’d done what they’d been asked to do, and then the two of them could meet this Broker character and go their separate ways, never to meet again.
No more babysitting members of the Protectorate death machine for Sub Rosa. No more nearly throwing up in the Doradoan heat. No more tolerating weird mind games from a guy who clearly wanted to prove he was smarter than her.
(Didn’t matter how many times Niles insisted on the contrary: she was not going to be convinced that had been the behaviour of somebody trying to get in her good graces. Even if it hadn’t been incredibly obnoxious, she was a nobody here. There was no use in impressing a nobody.)
Free Market Station was not her favourite place. She hated stepping out onto the landing pad and immediately being hit with a loop of “Boarst Wurst, O Boarst Wurst! (Why don’t you) grab a can today? (Bhap!)”
She didn’t enjoy looking out over a dust-shrouded community lit almost entirely by the holographic advertisements of an imperialistic corporation; there was something extremely grim and ironic about having to search among the glowing signs for Meaty Roll Ups (100% of your daily fiber needs! Fully cooked) and All Purpose Spray (Clean! Sanitize! Nourish!) and Auntie’s Choice Chaw (Recommended by 10 out of 10 medical professionals!) and BASIC (The first antiacid with the power of UPPERCASE LETTERS) just to find the words,
LEAVE YOUR LOYALTIES AT THE DOOR!
written in pale green text on the side of the Sub Rosa welcome building.
Not the front, no- that was reserved for an advertisement for Spectrum Vodka (now available in brown!).
She didn’t like walking through the passage to the main thoroughfare and hearing “When you eat Sprat Crisps, you’re eating real sprat meat!” in one ear and “Purpleberry Krunch! It’s parasite free!” in the other.
She didn’t want to ‘put a rocket in her pocket and launch her lunch today’. She didn’t want to be recommended Zero Gee Whiskey instead of Zero Gee Brew. She didn’t want to try Bubblegum Slims, and she didn’t care about their chewable filters.
And she especially didn’t like walking into the 2nd Choice Saloon and having the bartender look at her like she was showing up late just because the Arbiter with whom they were both acquainted had decided to loom in front of the bar until she arrived.
He straightened up at her approach. “Salutations once more.”
She tried to smile. “Hey.”
The bartender, by contrast, was giving her the stink-eye. “Hope that little day excursion you and I jawed about went well? Else I don’t understand why I’m seeing the two of you back here.”
He’d been hoping they’d get themselves killed. How charming.
“We’ve been to the camp you wanted us to look at,” she told him flatly.
“The encampment had been razed- I’m sorry to say there were no survivors,” the Arbiter offered. The way the bartender looked at him like he’d grown a second head was not alleviating her embarrassing suspicion that he had literally refused to answer anyone’s questions until she got there. “But I believe we were able to uncover what transpired.”
She was already so tired. “Hard to take much solace in that, with so many dead,” she tried to say, but her co-investigator seemed to have moved on entirely from the human tragedy they were discussing.
“I should add- your observations during the investigation were unexpectedly keen,” he was telling her. Working beside you was a pleasure.”
She stared at him, taken aback.
(Niles was not allowed to be right. She couldn’t accept that this man was simultaneously one of the most impressively dangerous people she’d ever met and that he sincerely thought trying to bully her into feeling stupid was the right way to impress her.)
The bartender was eyeing them both like he meant to start spreading rumours the moment they were out of earshot. “I’m surprised. Didn’t know if you had it in you, especially with an Arbiter in tow. But you got what was needed. Not bad at all,” he said, looking her up and down. “I’d be happy to direct you to the Broker. First, though, we’ve got a small issue.” He slid a thoroughly unexceptional grey and bronze keycard across the bar to her. “There’s a malfunctioning lamp in the basement I need someone to take a look at. Here’s a keycard to get you down there. You mind?”
She took it. “Y’know, normally I charge for tasks like this.”
It was meant to be a joke. He clearly did not get the joke.
“Just trust me and go give it a look,” he told her through a clenched-tooth smile, like he thought she was stupid.
She looked at Arbiter Rao, feeling a headache coming on. “Shall we?”
“...Go to the basement?” he asked, sounding a bit lost.
She made herself smile. “Yeah. Come on,” she said, beckoning for him to follow.
There were a pair of Sub Rosa thugs guarding the door- one leaning against the bar, wearing a grey and gold helmet with tubes attached to the front in a way that seemed intended to imitate a moustache, and another by the wall, casually tossing a knife in the air and watching her from behind a doll-like white mask.
The Arbiter’s boots were so loud on the metal floor that she half-expected the guards to attack them for that alone.
The keycard slid smoothly into the slot in the door, and the light shifted from orange to blue before the door slid open, revealing... a sparking light, cleaning supplies on a tarp, and a stairwell leading down.
She went down, noting the vent in the wall as she turned onto the stairs to descend.
(She had a suspicion she might’ve found the other end of it somewhere if she’d been given the opportunity to relax like she’d wanted to- not that she thought she might’ve had any particular reason to go crawling through vents here.)
There was a wooden stool and a mop bucket on the first landing. She kept going.
The second landing brought her into the basement, where she came face-to-face with such thrilling items as a standing lamp with a green shade, a wall lamp with no shade, a handful of barrels, an unattended terminal, and a Sub Rosa goon hunched over a desk, pretending to sleep.
“I believe a joke has been had at our expense,” Arbiter Rao muttered mutinously.
She looked at him, exasperated, and pulled the wall lamp to the right.
The smooth metal surface of the wall beside it sunk in and slid open with a pneumatic whir, opening into a massive hidden chamber.
“...Oh,” he said.
She thought the sumptuous wallpaper, globe lamps, and visible piano were probably intended to make the space feel high-class, but nothing could undo the fact that she heard water rushing through the pipes overhead as someone flushed a toilet upstairs.
There was another stairwell to her right. Below, she heard people talking.
“Yeah? How about this?” somebody said. “I recruited a Protectorate subject direct-like from Bastion. Middle of a Protectorate holding.”
A second voice joined the first. “Think I’ll congratulate you for risking your hide to recruit one subject? Forgive me for withholding my applause.”
“You’re jealous of my charms.”
“Yeah, real jealous. So are the half-dozen AC ad execs I recruited last week,” the second voice said, audibly sneering. “We’re all just vomitous with envy.”
She glanced back at the Arbiter. He either hadn’t overheard their conversation, or hadn’t cared. Either way, she was glad.
Somehow, she suspected the man watching her with open hostility through the windowed wall of the room at the end of this hall was who she was looking for, not the idiots downstairs having a pissing contest over who could recruit more defectors.
She approached the door to his office, tensing involuntarily every time the footsteps behind her got a little too close.
An older man in a patterned suit and yellow waistcoat looked over his glasses at her before turning his eyes on her companion.
“Anyone had asked me, I’d have put the odds of a live Arbiter finding his way into my chambers at one in a few trillion,” he commented. “Good that you didn’t come here for blood, Arbiter Rao. Barney would have sniffed it out and broken you in twain. And I do disdain mopping up Protectorate corpses.”
She had really been hoping the pointless hostility was an unfortunate trait of the bartender that was tolerated rather than encouraged; she was starting to suspect it was why he’d been hired.
She cut in before the Arbiter could rise to his provocation. “You already know who you’re dealing with, I see.”
He scoffed. “Names are nothing. I could tell you the titles of the periodicals he has stashed beneath his bunk,” he said, eyeing her in a way she didn’t quite understand. “But I won’t... unless he tries my patience.”
“If you know who I am, you must know why I’m here,” Rao cut in. “My mentor died under vague circumstances, and I desire any information pertaining to the specifics of her death.”
Whatever the Broker had been about to say seemed to fall to the wayside. “Interesting. That question appears to be at odds with High Command’s public statement on the matter. Losing faith in your masters?” he probed.
She noted the large carafes of wine on the sideboard, curious if he meant to drink it alone or was expecting other visitors.
“I... No. But I cannot shake the sensation that something was awry with her passing. If you know something, tell me.” The vulnerability in the voice filtering out from inside that imposing helmet made the hair on her neck stand on end. “...Please.”
“I could get used to this kind of groveling,” the Broker crowed, setting his hands on his hips. “Your instincts are right, Arbiter. Though we don’t know the specifics, I received information that your mentor’s body bore signs of a fight, and a nasty one. Someone killed her.”
Something very dramatic was happening, and she did not appreciate being the only one with no apparent idea what.
“...Someone want to fill me in on what’s going on?”
“I shall in time- when fewer prying ears abound,” Rao told her, which might have been reassuring if not for the fact that she knew him saying that meant he fully expected to speak to her again after this meeting. Privately, at that.
The Broker waved a dismissive hand. “If that’s all, I think you’d best get along. I prefer not to sully my quarters with Protectorate lackeys. Live ones, anyhow.”
“Wait,” she tried to say, too dumbfounded to put together a sentence about how she was supposed to be in good standing with Sub Rosa, and how he hadn’t even bothered to ask her if there was anything she would like to know, before she was interrupted.
“And I prefer to limit my time with scheming blackguards,” Arbiter Rao snarled, and then turned to her. “Let us take our leave from present... ‘company’,” he said. She was starting to think she was the only person present who didn’t consider the two of them comrades. “Speak to me outside, if you would. There’s something I’d care to ask you.”
She watched him stalk out of the room, stunned into silence, and then looked to the Broker. “Uh, I think there’s been a-”
He clicked his tongue at her, shooing her out. “Run along now. I’ve spent more than enough time entertaining wayward sprats,” he said, and then closed the door behind her.
She stared at it, feeling somehow more like she was losing control of her life now than she had while being ejected from an exploding Protectorate space station.
There was a part of her that seriously considered investigating the possibility of a back door. She wasn’t sure what kind of conversation was waiting for her outside the 2nd Choice, but she had sinking feeling it was going to be the sort of thing she found very difficult to refuse.
She was and always had been a comradely person. A strong sense of community spirit was one of the things that had gotten her in trouble in the first place, and her urge to help people was the primary reason the Earth Directorate hadn’t put her right back in her cell after she’d taken out Octavio for them.
That waver in his voice had her on high alert.
She wasn’t good at saying no to earnest entreaties. She needed this extremely dangerous man not to be about to make an earnest entreaty that was going to put her in a bad position, and she couldn’t think of a single thing he might want that wouldn’t.
There was no way out of the basement except the one she’d come in through.
Despite knowing he’d be waiting outside, she still mounted the stairs feeling like he might jump out at her at any moment. She tried the vent. It led to the bathroom. No luck.
She went upstairs. There were no exits except those that led back downstairs. No luck.
There was exactly one door to the 2nd Choice Saloon, and her problem was on the other side of it.
She opened it.
He was standing at the bottom of the ramp with his fists resting on his hips in a slightly awkward posture. He didn’t seem to be looking in her direction; if it weren’t for the fact that Niles had told her he had a habit of watching her, she might’ve tried to sneak along the side of the building and see if she couldn’t pass behind him undetected.
Knowing that, though, she had to assume he was watching her now- and however much she thought she wasn’t going to like whatever he wanted to discuss, she was sure she’d like what happened if he realized she was trying to give him the slip even less.
If he was that quick holding his hammer, she had to assume he moved like a fencer without it.
She walked down the ramp towards him, trying hard to keep her face neutral.
“You wanted to speak to me?” she asked. Might as well get the damn thing over with.
He cleared his throat. “The role of the Arbiter typically does not require the assistance of others. We are expected to act as wholly independent entities,” he told her. “But I fully realize that, had I not your aid today, my investigation’s progress would have stalled and withered.”
She wanted to find that comforting. If he’d just called her outside to thank her, that was fine.
The problem was that what he was saying wasn’t true. He hadn’t needed her help, just her presence.
Which meant he was buttering her up.
He didn’t even give her a moment to answer or argue. “During our investigation I gauged your trustworthiness and did not find it wanting,” he continued. “What say we travel together?”
In a way, it was almost admirable how casually he had dropped a bomb of that magnitude. He had asked like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to want and her to agree to.
There were a lot of extremely rude things she could have said in response.
Instead, she just said, “Wh... what? Why do you want to travel with me?”
He bowed his head slightly. “I think you have earned forthrightness. I came to Free Market Station to seek the true killer of my mentor, the Supreme Arbiter. Sub Rosa deals in information, and were thusly my best lead on her killer. They gave me less than I’d hoped, but it was, at least, a start,” he said. “Unfortunately, I cannot act truly alone. I have no ship, and no support.”
She was almost glad that he’d dropped that second bomb; knowing that she was talking not just to an Arbiter, but potentially the next Supreme Arbiter of the Protectorate, was doing a lot to help her ignore the part where she was clearly being entreated for help by someone who had none.
She set her jaw. “I’d think that a high-ranking Arbiter would have their own ship,” she pointed out. It felt good to point out. It made it easier to convince herself this might be some sort of trap, and therefore completely just to ignore.
“Utilizing one of our craft for independent purposes would have rendered me... conspicuous,” he answered without hesitation, and then made a silent gesture of what looked an awful lot like embarrassment. “I knew Sub Rosa would offer steady transport as long as I paid their exorbitant fees, just as I knew they would collect information on my every movement,” he added. “But I neither trust them nor have the funds to continue this relationship for much longer. You, on the other hand, have proven to be a capable partner.”
She wanted to kill him. She wanted to point out that he’d known her for less than day.
She wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to flatter her: compliments didn’t work nearly as well as just telling her he was broke. She had a lot of sympathy for broke. She’d spent a lot of her life extremely broke.
They’d all go broke together if she let this guy on her damn ship.
She jammed her thumbs into her belt to keep from fidgeting. “Has the Protectorate sanctioned this investigation of yours?”
“My colleagues have accepted that her death was a natural one. Questioning an explanation of that nature is foolish. Dangerous, even,” he said, voice a little soft. “Nonetheless, the circumstances of her death trouble me. I cannot allow myself to accept the explanation that’s been put forth without investigating to the fullest of my abilities.”
She wanted to reach out and shake him until he stopped acting so pathetic. He was a Protectorate Arbiter. She’d watched him put down two dragoons in quick succession and he hadn’t even sounded winded afterwards. She could barely climb a long set of stairs before the grit that had accumulated in her lungs made her have to stop and catch her breath.
This was a bad idea. She had to say no. It didn’t matter how soft and sad and lost he sounded. She had to say no.
“How can you expect me to trust you?” she asked, setting her jaw. “How do I know you’re not going to decide you want to pass judgment on me and my crew? Hm?”
He drew himself into that proud stance he so often seemed to fall into. “I hold my word in highest regard. Were I to pledge allegiance to you, the pact would be nigh unbreakable, barring some extreme action on your part.”
She wished she could convince herself that was a lie. It should have been a lie. It was a completely insane thing to promise a stranger. He knew nothing about her; not her goals, not her politics, and not her criminal record.
She believed him.
(And there was a logic to it. Keeping him close would keep her people on the right side of that hammer. No one currently on her crew had much of a talent for close quarters combat, and he obviously did. He would fill a valuable niche in their little ecosystem.
Also, he was being so pathetic.)
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Fine. You can come along- but you need to follow my rules.”
He seemed to expand somehow, his shoulders squaring, like having gotten his way had filled him with a buoyant gas. “I will keep to my convictions in any case, but I understand. What instructions would you have me follow?”
She felt a little nauseous.
“Don’t kill people just because?” she said. “Just... be nice?”
He was still and silent for long enough for her to become inescapably aware of how the Boarst Rockets jingle was playing on repeat behind him.
“Be... nice. Ah. This may prove to be a challenging duty,” he muttered, for all the universe like she’d asked him to learn to breathe on a gas giant. “I will listen to your words, and I shall follow your orders. I will not assail enemies of the Protectorate without your consent, though I will not like it.” His posture suddenly shifted, becoming unexpectedly hostile. “But if my sense of duty outpaces my willingness to comply with an order, or if you attack my brethren unprovoked... our relationship will come to an abrupt end.”
She wasn’t sure how to tell him that attacking strangers for no reason was not typically considered sane or normal behaviour, and the fact that he even had to bring it up seemed to directly contradict his earlier comments about finding her trustworthy and capable.
“Seems reasonable,” she answered instead.
“Excellent!” he said, his voice betraying an excitement that made her eyebrows raise. “I hope our... working relationship... is most fruitful. I’m sure we shall discover much together.” He folded his hands behind his back, raising his chin. “Let us be off, Commander.”
Inez was going to hate this.
Niles was going to hate this.
Law, even V.A.L.E.R.I.E. was going to hate this.