Chapters (47)
- Cover
- ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
“That is, I had it done.” He lifted his chin to regard me over the wide bridge of his nose. “Standard practice with newbies. You didn’t notice before because you were always clean.” He saw me roiling in disbelief. “Now, before you talk yourself into being the victim here, sit up and listen.”
He’d read me clear. Right off, I let his betrayal loom way larger than my own. He was supposed to be the righteous one. I shifted in the chair, the merest sullen concession.
“You made a wrong choice, an ignorant choice, but out of loyalty to a friend. I have to respect that.” He caught the pile between his palms and evened it up like a deck of cards, then lifted the blister packs off the top. “So here’s the deal. The backpack’s a valid claim. It’s yours. The rest is forfeit, no credits earned. But we’ll keep your . . . misstep between us for now.” He patted the bagged pill packs. “These go to the folks who know how to use them.” He slid the clothing across the desk. “This goes back to the swap shelf ASAP, the moment you leave here.”
The deal was fair, even generous, though it made him feel better than it did me. But even driven by my need to whine and fuss and show how much he’d hurt me, I blessed whatever gods there were that I wouldn’t be thrown out of the den.
“Thanks,” I grumbled.
“You’re welcome.” Seeing no show of gratitude, he was done indulging me. “And by the way, it wouldn’t hurt to claim a decent pair of jeans next time you find one.”
A low blow. So I did have a bit of vanity squirreled away someplace. “What d’you care what I look like?”
“I care what any of us look like, when there’s a choice.” A stock response. His mind was already moving on to more pressing matters. More pressing than one misbehaving newbie, but it was like worrying a sore tooth—I couldn’t let it go just yet.
“What about the bracelet?”
“Glim, Glim. A childish pout is not a useful negotiating tool.” Rousseau wagged his head wearily. “Okay. The usual cut is twenty percent. You’ll get ten this time, as a reminder. It’ll still be a tidy stack of credits.”
“Will it buy drugs for Rubio?”
His eyes narrowed. “We don’t buy or sell our medical care at Unca Joe, or hadn’t you noticed? Did I ask for your insurance card when I dragged you half-dead out of the rubbish?”