Junkyard War, page 6
Once an OMW, always an OMW. Yeah. I knew the rules. I even lived by them. Mostly.
“Let’s start out on the right foot here, Asshole. I won that property in personal combat and battle with my team against the Mara Salvatrucha Angels. My gift to McQuestion was to hand it over to a friendly, to keep that territory from falling back into the hands of the MSA. If McQuestion is smarter than your comments indicate so far, and takes advantage of my opening moves, he can initiate negotiations between Marconi and the national prez of the Hells Angels to stop the MSA for good. Or use the info to drive a wedge between the two. His choice. I gave him that opportunity with a small gift of my property, in the hopes that together we could stop the MSA from taking more territory and eventually moving on the OMW.”
A hard expression claimed my face. “Only an idiot would think the MSA isn’t going to go after the other clubs, the Boozefighters and the Black Sabbath too. McQuestion isn’t—usually—an idiot. And the OMW received info from me. Intel about the MSA and the local HA chapter, and info that some of the OMW members were working behind his back with the Gov. and the military. Speaking of which, has he rooted them out yet?”
Jagger’s expression said he hadn’t.
I snorted in derision. “I did that for the OMW. The proper response from McQuestion is, ‘Thank you, Little Girl. Well done.’ Not whatever the bloody damn hell this shakedown is.”
Jagger frowned, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Marconi leveraged the fortress into a position of power. Power imbalances always fall under the operational purview of McQuestion.”
I grunted and rubbed my lower face, whispering to Cupcake, “He’s right. I didn’t think about that. I hate politics.” Dropping my hand, I said, “Marconi is smart enough. Proved that by not going to war against his own prez. You trying to tell me McQuestion thinks the Old Man is smarter than him?”
Jagger’s grin went wider, exposing a crooked tooth on the bottom row. I had insulted McQuestion, then hinted at another insult, and then insulted some more. It wasn’t quite a challenge to his position, but I was getting awfully close.
Jagger said, “OMW wants something of equal value to the fortress, in return for agreeing to attend the negotiations. He has suggestions.”
“I’ll bet he does. Tell him to talk to Cupcake, and if what she offers doesn’t make him happy, he can”—I hesitated, mentally apologizing to Pops for not being political enough, and to Cupcake for probably making her job harder—“he can bloody well piss off.”
Jagger laughed. “Spoken like the daughter of Bill Smith.”
I just stared. I was offering nothing that might tip the balance of power toward Marconi, Whip, or McQuestion. Not until the parley when I could gauge the reactions of the men.
“McQuestion, Whip, and Marconi are in communication,” he said, “and have agreed to the upcoming negotiations, which might actually come to something positive, as each has had the other’s kid as diplomatic hostages for the last few weeks—Marconi’s son, McQuestion’s daughter—and nobody’s died. Yet. Whip finds the hostage exchange amusing in a mediaeval structure sort of way.”
I nodded. I had sorta facilitated that arrangement, but few knew that. “I’m still listening, Asshole.”
“McQuestion wants Little Girl back in his organization.”
Expecting that demand didn’t stop my heart from falling.
If I complied, I’d eventually become the de facto leader, the McQuestion of the OMW, because I’d almost certainly make a mistake and infect the leaders of the OMW with my nanobots. I’d then have to live and breathe politics and war. Ain’t no way. No emotion in my tone, I said, “After we cement all the negotiations and deal with the additional problems I’m bringing to the table, I’ll discuss this with McQuestion. Not before.”
“He wants the Simba.”
“Everybody wants the Simba. They can try to take it. I’ll feed their protein to the cats.”
Spy let out a vicious sound I had heard before, a soft growl that meant hunt and kill. It was followed by a chorus of “Kkkkk.”
Jagger’s lips twitched, and then his eyes made a shift through emotions too fast to see and too fast for the nanobot connection between us to follow. He actually hesitated, as if he didn’t want to say the next bit, and at the same time wanted to desperately. “He says to sweeten the deal you can have any available made-man you want in the organization.”
Something low in my belly turned over. I went hot and liquid in all the right places. For all intents and purposes, McQuestion had just offered me Jagger. For my own. Just like women had been offered to made-men in the past. My nanobots began turning cartwheels. Bloody sodding damn.
“Clearly you are going deaf,” I said. “After the negotiations, and what might come after that, in a time of peace and security, McQuestion and I can sit down and chat. Not until then. And I do not accept slaves. But as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll tell you this for McQuestion: Whip and Marconi don’t know it, but the Sabbath and Booze presidents are interested in attending the negotiations. I’ve extended an invitation to them too. Now go away.”
Jagger’s face fell as he computed the presence of other motorcycle-club presidents at a parley—the likelihood of ambush, fighting, death, and all-out war. To give him credit, his face eased into a smile and he laughed. Touched his bike on with a biomarker starter and did a tight U-turn. He puttered away.
I thought about that laugh—carefree, without rancor or sarcasm, truly amused. Thought about McQuestion’s offer of a man to my taste, just as he offered a woman to a man. I grinned, wondering what would have happened if I’d wanted a woman of my own? Homosexuality was forbidden in the club, unless it was girl-on-girl stuff for an all-male audience. What if I’d gone against that proscription and flaunted it? Or, what if I’d just agreed and taken Jagger on the spot?
The heat in my belly rose another notch as the bike’s muters faded into the distance. The cats turned and sauntered away.
“Assholes. Both of them.” I swiveled around to see Cupcake and Amos standing in the shade of the office overhang.
There was nothing funny, but the two laughed.
Into my earbud, Cupcake said, “This negotiation is going to be. So. Much. Fun.”
* * *
My clothes reeking like someone had died in them, I came in late from the junkyard and stifled a groan. The office had been transformed.
By her beaming, nervous expression, I knew that Cupcake had done all the . . . stuff. She had gone all-out on decorating, with sterling-silver utensils, fancy delicate china, and glasses with stems. A bottle of red wine, with a real cork, was sitting on the table. I hadn’t known we had a bottle of wine and wondered if there were more stashed somewhere in the junkyard.
There were also cloth linens, a long narrow table she had probably found somewhere in the junkyard and placed along the command center, and serving trays filled with food. The command chair was missing. I had no idea where it had gone. I hadn’t known it could be moved. Cupcake and I needed to have a chat.
After dinner. Which smelled fabulous.
In the fancy serving trays and some kind of big silver dish with a flame underneath to keep food warm, was a feast. A huge salad from the expanded greenhouse was in a crystal bowl. A mixture of roasted herbed baby potatoes, beets, and fennel root was in one side of the flame-hot dish. Beside the pile of crispy roots was a roasted chicken. Someone—I was guessing Amos—had killed, cleaned, and plucked the bird. I hoped it was the crowing rooster that annoyed me to near death.
“Quick. Get cleaned up,” Cupcake commanded. “And wash the grime from under your fingernails. What are you, some kind of heathen? I put a dress in the toilette compartment.” She shooed me with her hands as if I was a flighty dog or something nasty. “Go on. We have company tonight.”
I found myself in the personal toilette compartment, the door shut firmly behind me. I yelled through the door, “Did you manage Red this way?”
I made out a tinny voice yelling, “I managed everyone this way. Red woulda been prez if Warhammer hadn’t come along.”
“That’s what scares me,” I muttered. “That you’ll figure out what I could do and be, that you’ll take over and make it happen.” And she’d do it in my name. Whether I wanted to be part of her plans or not. Yet, the fact that she was acting of her own free will was some small comfort and something I had wanted all along. It made her a . . . a free thrall.
Free thralls . . . Bloody damn. The idea that free thralls might want their queen elevated in status was scary. What if they thought the best way to serve me was to take over the world and they went about that without my input? Bloody damn.
Following the orders of my not-quite-a-thrall, I cleaned up and pulled on the dress Cupcake had hung on the door hook. It was a sort of an orange-gold shimmery thing and looked great on me. It also itched, but what the heck. The shoes were little strappy sandals. Pretty. God knew where she had found the outfit. She had also laid out makeup. I shoved it out of the way and gooped up my hair into spikes, wondering why I was doing this. And knowing it was to see Cupcake happy. That thought itched as bad as the stupid dress.
I opened the door and nearly tripped over my jaw. Mateo—out of his warbot suit—was sitting at the dinette. Except it wasn’t really him. This Mateo had arms and legs and all of his head. He was also younger, had hair, and was wearing the dress blues of the CO of a starship. He wavered a bit, as if reality stuttered.
Mateo was an illusion. Or a laser representation. Or something else scientific I hadn’t known Jolene could do.
“Mateo,” I said carefully. “Cupcake. Amos.”
“Forgive me if I don’t stand,” Mateo said, his mouth not moving and his voice coming through the speakers. “You look lovely, as always, Shining.”
What the bloody hell?
“Yeah. Uh. You too. Well not lovely.” I broke out into a sweat the instant the words left my mouth. “I mean, Cupcake looks lovely. Is it okay to tell a man he looks lovely?” In the super macho world of the OMW it would have gotten me backhanded and if conditions were wrong, could have gotten me killed.
“I’m not offended.” I was fairly certain that there was laughter in Mateo’s voice.
Cupcake was wearing black slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt and a white apron. Amos was wearing a freaking suit. And in through the door came Wanda and her shadow—what was their name? Alex? Yeah, Alex. And a dozen cats who rushed in, tails high. I glanced at the med-bay to find it empty. Someone had released the neutered cats.
Wanda had cleaned up and dressed up, wearing a sheath dress and heels. I could associate this vision with my memory of her—clean, neat. Her demeanor was currently tentative but did nothing to hide the naturally capable and tough personality of the woman who had drawn a weapon on me the last day I saw her. She did however look a lot younger now that she was hydrated and fed. My nanobots had changed her.
When she saw me, her shoulders went back and her face took on a mulish expression.
Her kid stuck his—her—their?—head out from behind Wanda. Alex was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. I still had no idea of the kid’s gender as the clothing and hair could have been either, but I figured I could get by without using pronouns for a while longer.
“Hey, Wanda,” I said. “Hey, kid. Glad y’all could make it.” That pretty much drained my party talk. “Um. Cupcake did all the work.” Helplessly, I looked at Cupcake, who appeared oddly proud of me.
She gestured to one side of the dinette, across from not-Mateo. “We are so happy to have company and new nest mates. Please be seated.” To me she added, “You sit there.” She pointed next to Mateo’s image, which chose that moment to waver in and out of focus.
“Damn it,” Jolene said. “Hang on, Cap’n.”
Nudged by Cupcake, I sat and hoped Mateo didn’t reappear partially on top of me. I smothered nervous laughter and drank some clear stuff that turned out to be water. Mateo flickered into existence and smiled a wooden smile around at us. I glanced at his plate and shook my head. I knew in the depths of my mind that this was a dress rehearsal for Cupcake’s vision of the future. Me as queen entertaining my nest.
Ghastly.
The rest of the evening was as unpleasant and nerve-wracking as the welcome. We made awkward small talk. We drank the bottle of really good wine and ate the excellent food. Cupcake had taken all sorts of Berger-chip lessons, and it was a fabulous meal. The cats sat and watched and accepted bits of chicken as their due, though I figured they were thinking that raw human would have been a better choice. They were on their best behavior, but they all had that predator look in their eyes.
When the plates were cleaned and everyone left, including most of the cats, I stripped and climbed into my bed. Tuffs and Spy joined me. I lay in the bed and stared at the ceiling for far too long, wondering what in the name of anything that might be holy was happening to my thralls.
* * *
I woke an hour before dawn, my thoughts moving, as always, to Harlan, who had been my best friend, the source of much of my intel in the junk business, and my only connection to the OMW. He’d been like a father to me until he was tortured and killed by Warhammer. Vengeance wasn’t a god or a religion, but until I killed Harlan’s murderer, the destruction of Warhammer and her nest would be the center vision of my life. Like every other morning when I first woke, I pledged to kill her for him. If that made killing her my God, then I was surely going to hell.
I rolled over, dislodging Spy, who was draped over my head on my pillow. The command chair was back in place.
I needed to have a long chat with my . . . whatever Cupcake was to me.
My feet hit the floor; my fist hit the coffee maker on. I let the two cats out, cracked their outdoor water bowls free of ice, and started my day. Same as always. But today wasn’t the same as always. Today was the negotiation with the biker clubs, and I had no idea who might show up to talk—or who might show up to kill.
Mateo said into the office speaker system, “Heading out, Shining. Full camo, and all defensive measures active. The Simba and I will be in place when you arrive, if intervention or exfil is needed.”
If he wasn’t needed, no one would ever see him. If he was needed, the shit would likely have hit the fan and blood would have already been spilled.
“Be careful,” I said to him. He didn’t reply.
* * *
The negotiations were to be held at Marconi’s fortress, the one I gave to him in McQuestion’s name—which, in hindsight, hadn’t necessarily been smart. It wouldn’t be an easy drive, not with the bandits, gangs, and poor road conditions, but we could manage.
As Cupcake and I swung into the old truck, which Mateo and Cupcake had loaded and argued over, I figured we had about a twenty percent chance of getting away alive and about a two percent chance of getting away without spilled blood. I also figured we had about a one percent chance we would get there and back without someone trying to make off with Cupcake’s negotiation goodies.
Spy’s clowder jumped inside too, this time with Tuffs and Notch in charge, sitting on the dash. Spy landed in my lap instead of on the dash with her queen. The presence of Tuffs and Notch bothered me on some level, but nothing was clear about why I should be worried, so I let it slide.
In the back of the flatbed, Amos positioned himself in his recliner, which he had rescued on our last jaunt, weapons across his lap. Wanda and Alex were beside him, curled up on a daybed they had found somewhere. I didn’t want to leave them in the junkyard unsupervised, and they had a day or so before they transitioned to my new nanobots, so they could travel. And for this trip there was a nice sunshade over the passengers in the flatbed, a retractable awning taken from the RV where my dinette set and small fridge had come from. The rigging had all the earmarks of a shade-tree mechanic, meaning it was ugly but it worked.
I caught a glimpse of other cats leaping high into the back of the truck.
“Tuffs? Why so many cats?” I asked.
She turned her greener-than-green eyes to me and blinked before turning back to peer out the windshield.
I had not planned on the cats. With the odds of making this work so low—getting the leaders to agree on anything at all, rescuing Evelyn, killing Warhammer, and living through it without infecting everyone I came into contact with—I should have been worried at this last-minute addition. But fighting the cats sounded like a war I couldn’t win. When Cupcake turned the key and the ancient truck began to rumble, my worries began to lift.
“I’m puttin’ on that singer I like,” Jolene said over the speakers. Her favorite song began to play, and it was like a blessing. Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeen. Unfortunately, Cupcake joined in, and while my nanobots had given her youth and excellent health, they had not given her a voice at all. She still sounded like cats screaming. Tuffs’s ear tabs folded in, and she turned a regal head to stare at Cupcake in disdain. Spy buried her head in my armpit. I laughed, the sound unexpected and carefree. If I was feeling even the slightest bit positive, it was because of the presence of my nest. I needed them as much as they needed me.
I tapped my tiny earbud and said, “Jolene, the helm is yours. Take care of the place while we’re gone.”
“Shining Sugah, I got it.” As Cupcake pulled us down the drive, Jolene added, “Full alert. Shields active, RVACs in flight, all weapons are a go. Automatic defensive systems active. Hey Gomez, you ever heard of phone sex?”
I tapped my mic and shut my earbuds off. Jolene’s relationship with Gomez—the Bug ship’s AI—was not something I wanted to know about. I checked the truck’s weapons systems, sensors, and integrated screens, which had been seriously upgraded using the military equipment I had confiscated from Morrison’s. I had set fire to the place, leaving his body to burn.
Killing Morrison had been step one in getting revenge for Harlan’s death.
Uniting the motorcycle clubs was step two.
