“Not you,” Kylee told him. “They’d kill you. And I’d have to kill them. Means Tip would have to kill what’s left of them after they killed me for killing them. See how complicated things would get if you came along?”

Chapter 12

  12  

Falise was in her quarters, reclining in the pathetic excuse that spacers on Turalon called a bed. These had been her quarters for the last nineteen months: a featureless sialon cubicle little bigger than a Hong Kong prison cell. Her staff resided in stacked berths in the adjoining cabin. The room was furnished with a fold-out desk and chair—meant to maximize space—a closet, and a small bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet. She had added her wardrobe, several duraplast crates containing essentials, and a holovid that covered one wall. The rest of her belongings were locked away in a container down in the cargo hold.

Falise shifted on the hard mattress, made a face. She scanned the reports on the projected holo where it hung in the air barely an arm’s length before her. She wore a comfortable shift made of luminous soffiber, a fabric that caressed her skin. She had her hair fixed in shimmering golden-streaked coils that contrasted to her brown skin. The scrolling information she was reading might have been the stuff of lunacy, all of it forwarded by the woman named Yvette Dushane. Dushane was listed in the Turalon records as one of the leaders, or “triumvirate” of Port Authority. She signed her messages only as “Yvette.” No title was attached, no formal term of address or office.

Falise froze the display, glanced at where Clarice sat cross-legged in the chair beside the rudimentary foldout desk. The woman’s blue-black African skin had a sheen from the saffron oil that she’d rubbed on her body. Clarice’s facial features had been sculpted to exactly match those of the ancient Egyptian queen Nefertiti. A living reproduction of the famous bust. Her true value, however, was in her implants, training, and information-processing skills. Clarice had been raised from birth to serve at Falise’s side.

Her menial servants, Fig and Phredo, huddled by one of the duraplast crates in the corner, trying to be small as they added light-thread adornment to the side panels in her transparent shoes. The ones she wore on formal occasions.

Falise indicated the holo. “According to this, we are to land at Port Authority. We will be given an orientation and provided with quarters.” She paused. “You have files on Yvette?”