Excerpt: The Valois Contingency

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Tasha Marie Valois Ocasek sat in silence, with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in a position of demure obedience. She couldn’t remember having a worse evening, but after going over the events again, she concluded—again—that there really wasn’t any way her father could blame this on her.

The groundcar lurched as it exited the ben Khalid security perimeter, allowing her to sneak a look at him without being noticed. Her father’s expression was like a bad infection. Black and red, swollen with irritation, and filled with metaphorical pus. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy, but not to what degree, and that was worrying.

Tasha looked out the nearest window at the passing scenery, mostly security walls and gated entrances. Marie Valois had received her test scores that morning, with an accompanying text congratulating her on achieving medical technologist certification. In two weeks, maybe three, she could lance the pustule and drain the Ocasek infection from her life. Then Tasha Ocasek, Ice Princess of the bloid media, would cease to exist and a medtech who never wore makeup or high heels and never even considered showing cleavage—let alone portions of her crotch—in public would come into being. If there was a god. She took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as possible, careful not to show her hope.

“Ripping aristocrats. Think their blood is purer than everybody else’s just because their credits are older,” wafted across the passenger compartment with the acidic scent of nervous sweat. She was fairly sure her father was not aware he had muttered it out loud. He often muttered politically incorrect statements when he was upset, and she often wondered if she should point out that it hurt business when he did it.

But if she did point anything out, her father’s weakness would be her fault.

Her father’s comm went off and she nearly jumped out of her skin, then looked for the source of the offensive noise. He’d left it turned on during a dinner party hosted by the ben Khalid of ben Khalid Industries? Was he insane?

He pulled it out of his jacket and frowned at the display, then answered with his characteristic barked, “Ocasek.”

Tasha tried to stop listening, but whoever was on the other end didn’t say whatever he wanted to hear, because the frown creased further, into a scowl.

“Who is this, and how did you get this ident?” His voice hadn’t gotten any louder, which could be good or bad. Several seconds of silence passed. “And how did you know about that?” Her father’s voice had relaxed back to the oily conversational tone he used when trying to ingratiate himself. He must be talking to someone important, perhaps someone like Raphael ben Khalid.

Tasha bowed her head and bit her lip to control the sudden burst of apprehension. The man couldn’t have changed his mind after the argument, after her father storming out in a snit. Could he? One thing she had learned in the last two years was that cartel people were different. They could overlook almost any kind of insult if the profit margin was high enough.

“What, only shipping outside the Republic? Do you know how much administrative crap that entails? Of course not. What about Ocasek carrying a minimum percentage of all your product?”

The ben Khalid cartel didn’t need anyone to ship their product; they built ships—military ships, pleasure yachts, freighters. If a transport carried people or goods from ground to vacuum or back, ben Khalid had a hand in it and a credit from its sale. The caller couldn’t be ben Khalid. She felt almost dizzy because it meant she still had a chance at freedom.

“All right, I think we have a deal.”

She looked up to find her father smiling at her. Hiron Ocasek didn’t look good when he smiled, and he looked worse when it was the condescending and sarcastic form. In fact, he looked more than a little like a Terran toad. Her stomach cramped. Things always got worse when he smiled, much worse. “I’ll send the transport just as soon as the contracts hit my In Docs queue. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

He ended the call and pursed his lips, which made him look even more like a toad.

Tasha’s chest tightened until it was difficult to breathe without gasping. Something was wrong. Her father was happy, he had just made a deal by comm and was getting contracts in the morning. So why had he smiled at her that way? Something was very, very wrong.

“Tasha, when we get home, pack your…things.” He waved vaguely at her torso. “You’re moving in the morning.”

She blinked at him, not quite able to comprehend what he meant. He couldn’t have sold her for a cartel contract—human trafficking was a felony. “I beg your pardon?”

The question earned her a glare. “I said pack. As of tomorrow, you’re Ari Blaine’s problem. He’s sending somebody to pick up your shite at oh-nine-hundred.”

Ari Blaine. Tasha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the hysterical giggle from getting out. She nodded a response and turned to look out the window, the picture of placid acceptance. Ari Blaine was not entirely sane; he liked to wear nail extensions that sliced people’s wrists when he shook hands with them. He always had at least two women on his arms at any social function, but everyone knew they were drugged to the roots of their hair. She had personally seen him inject one of his companions in the carotid after she had correctly pronounced a three-syllable word.

In short, Ari Blaine was her worst nightmare, worse than What’s-his-name ben Khalid, the spoiled and over-privileged engineering genius who couldn’t be bothered show up.

Tasha Marie Valois Ocasek sat in silence, with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in a position of demure obedience. She couldn’t remember having a worse evening, but after going over the events again, she concluded—again—that there really wasn’t any way her father could blame this on her.

The groundcar lurched as it exited the ben Khalid security perimeter, allowing her to sneak a look at him without being noticed. Her father’s expression was like a bad infection. Black and red, swollen with irritation, and filled with metaphorical pus. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy, but not to what degree, and that was worrying.

Tasha looked out the nearest window at the passing scenery, mostly security walls and gated entrances. Marie Valois had received her test scores that morning, with an accompanying text congratulating her on achieving medical technologist certification. In two weeks, maybe three, she could lance the pustule and drain the Ocasek infection from her life. Then Tasha Ocasek, Ice Princess of the bloid media, would cease to exist and a medtech who never wore makeup or high heels and never even considered showing cleavage—let alone portions of her crotch—in public would come into being. If there was a god. She took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as possible, careful not to show her hope.

“Ripping aristocrats. Think their blood is purer than everybody else’s just because their credits are older,” wafted across the passenger compartment with the acidic scent of nervous sweat. She was fairly sure her father was not aware he had muttered it out loud. He often muttered politically incorrect statements when he was upset, and she often wondered if she should point out that it hurt business when he did it.

But if she did point anything out, her father’s weakness would be her fault.

Her father’s comm went off and she nearly jumped out of her skin, then looked for the source of the offensive noise. He’d left it turned on during a dinner party hosted by the ben Khalid of ben Khalid Industries? Was he insane?

He pulled it out of his jacket and frowned at the display, then answered with his characteristic barked, “Ocasek.”

Tasha tried to stop listening, but whoever was on the other end didn’t say whatever he wanted to hear, because the frown creased further, into a scowl.

“Who is this, and how did you get this ident?” His voice hadn’t gotten any louder, which could be good or bad. Several seconds of silence passed. “And how did you know about that?” Her father’s voice had relaxed back to the oily conversational tone he used when trying to ingratiate himself. He must be talking to someone important, perhaps someone like Raphael ben Khalid.

Tasha bowed her head and bit her lip to control the sudden burst of apprehension. The man couldn’t have changed his mind after the argument, after her father storming out in a snit. Could he? One thing she had learned in the last two years was that cartel people were different. They could overlook almost any kind of insult if the profit margin was high enough.

“What, only shipping outside the Republic? Do you know how much administrative crap that entails? Of course not. What about Ocasek carrying a minimum percentage of all your product?”

The ben Khalid cartel didn’t need anyone to ship their product; they built ships—military ships, pleasure yachts, freighters. If a transport carried people or goods from ground to vacuum or back, ben Khalid had a hand in it and a credit from its sale. The caller couldn’t be ben Khalid. She felt almost dizzy because it meant she still had a chance at freedom.

“All right, I think we have a deal.”

She looked up to find her father smiling at her. Hiron Ocasek didn’t look good when he smiled, and he looked worse when it was the condescending and sarcastic form. In fact, he looked more than a little like a Terran toad. Her stomach cramped. Things always got worse when he smiled, much worse. “I’ll send the transport just as soon as the contracts hit my In Docs queue. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

He ended the call and pursed his lips, which made him look even more like a toad.

Tasha’s chest tightened until it was difficult to breathe without gasping. Something was wrong. Her father was happy, he had just made a deal by comm and was getting contracts in the morning. So why had he smiled at her that way? Something was very, very wrong.

“Tasha, when we get home, pack your…things.” He waved vaguely at her torso. “You’re moving in the morning.”

She blinked at him, not quite able to comprehend what he meant. He couldn’t have sold her for a cartel contract—human trafficking was a felony. “I beg your pardon?”

The question earned her a glare. “I said pack. As of tomorrow, you’re Ari Blaine’s problem. He’s sending somebody to pick up your shite at oh-nine-hundred.”

“I see.” Some kind of anthropological miracle kept the horror out of her voice. “And what, exactly, comprises my ‘shite?’”

The glare took on a confused cast. “You know, clothes, makeup…shite.”

“Books?” she asked, careful not to bring up jewelry. If it was worth anything, she knew the answer already, but her father had never cared about the printed word unless it was in contracts.

He snorted. “You don’t have any books.”

Actually she did, but he didn’t know about the reader she kept hidden under her menstrual supplies. She would need to take that. She would need to get out of these ridiculous clothes. She needed new identity coding on her passport implant. And she needed to make a plan.

While she was thinking, she kept one ear on her father, just in case he said something worthwhile.

“You didn’t go cheap, if that makes you feel better. Ocasek will be contracted for fifteen percent of Blaine pharmaceuticals both in and outside the Republic as soon as you take up residence in Ari’s bed. He didn’t even try to jex me around with a marriage contract.”

Ari Blaine. Tasha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the hysterical giggle from getting out. She nodded a response and turned to look out the window, the picture of placid acceptance. Ari Blaine was not entirely sane; he liked to wear nail extensions that sliced people’s wrists when he shook hands with them. He always had at least two women on his arms at any social function, but everyone knew they were drugged to the roots of their hair. She had personally seen him inject one of his companions in the carotid after she had correctly pronounced a three-syllable word.

In short, Ari Blaine was her worst nightmare, worse than What’s-his-name ben Khalid, spoiled and over-privileged engineering genius.

She would go to her room, wash off the makeup, change and pack a few things and then sneak out through the service entrance. From there, she’d have to walk to the nearest pubtrans stop, because public cars didn’t cruise high-credit neighborhoods at night—anyone who needed a groundcar had one.

Okay, from the pubtrans stop she needed to find someplace to hack her wrist chip. She frowned at the window glass. An official identity change could take a couple of months, but she had to be off of Dorrigan before 0900 in the morning. Before dawn would be better. That meant an illegal hack, and that meant she wasn’t getting off-world in a legal berth, complete with ticket and exit visa. Her available credits simply wouldn’t cover both.

She could sell her earrings. Almost unconsciously, she fingered the fiery indigo stud in her left ear. They weren’t worth much, but her mother had given them to her and she didn’t want to part with even one of them unless she absolutely had to.

Neither of she nor her father said another word until they got back home.

“Tasha,” her father called as she started toward her room.

She paused and turned obediently.

“Don’t even think about trying to run away. This deal is worth a lot of credits. It could make us part of a cartel, which would set this family for generations.” He glared at her. “I will take steps to ensure that tomorrow goes as planned.”

She smiled the geisha smile that she and her mother had worked so hard to perfect all those years ago, and she bowed to the man who had snatched her away from that mother for the purpose of using her to make life better for his real children, those born of a political marriage.