Cold Front (Pindone Files #1)

One Brief Encounter

Dek

In summer, Vizinken is one of the most beautiful cities on the planet. So I hear, anyway. Every Minismonth, the rollos heave with eager, pudgy tourists making their way cross-country to enjoy the delights of the Pindoni capital. The inns charge three hundred percent premiums to house their grain-fed butts, and national viewskims broadcast concerts, displays of ethnic culture and floral contests to entice the rest of the country to squeeze into the mountains and take the air. Everyone wants to go to Vizinken in summer.

No one in their right mind goes near the place in winter.

Which is why they hold senior officer block training in the coldest months of the year, when the travel’s cheap and the inns are desperate for customers, and snow and ice whips down the mountain passes and through the stone laid streets of this old city like the fury of old Marra himself.

Everything closes down in Vizinken in deep winter. Government and business takes place behind hermetically sealed doors in heated buildings, but if you’re not a politician or a trader, there’s precious little to do. The crime rate goes way down in winter too—another reason for holding the training now. The local Force doesn’t have much to keep itself busy here this time of year, unless someone takes it into their head to try and assassinate the President. It’s different in Tsikeni. Port cities never close, and the sea doesn’t freeze over in our part of the world. Crime rate’s a little lower but not so you’d notice, out on the streets.

But the bars and the smoke joints never shut anywhere in Pindone, no matter what the season, though their customers don’t spill out onto the street now like they do in the warmer weather. You get fewer fights, fewer knife injuries in the winter—people are more inclined to sit hunched over a hot mug of spiked khevai, enjoying the warmth inside and out, than to get drunk out of their skulls on sweet, cold jada and reach for illegal shivs to avenge imaginary offences. Winter’s the only time of year I can ever really relax in a bar. The rest of the time, I’m always on duty, even if only in my head, watching for trouble. Doesn’t stop me going to them, though.

Most of the Defence officers on the course prefer to socialise with our own, and there’s something to be said for making friends with the capital’s squads, and getting to know people from the regions. But it’s a long course, and I’ve never been one for glad-handing for the hell of it. I take the time I need to grease the social wheels and do my bit for interregional relations, and the rest of it, I spend on my own, going back to the haunts I’ve discovered in previous visits up here.

Last time I found a bar tucked away in the rougher end of the city, squeezed between a money broker on the left, and a brothel on the right. The Children of Marra don’t seem to spend a lot of time trying to reform society down here, but that’s no surprise. Most of them are just middle-class aspirationalists, wanting a nice, respectable existence in the light of their God now, and a cosy, pious afterlife in his Presence later on. The Land of Marra doesn’t have room for prostitutes or moneylenders, but then it doesn’t have a lot of room for anyone. The Children live by a narrow set of rules to fit into a narrow vision of the life hereafter. The fact they wouldn’t come to this part of town for anything less than a gold-plated ticket to the Land, only adds to its appeal.

I call my boys, speak to my brother, tell him the gossip that’s fit to pass on to Janil, and then head out. It’s shitting cold, too cold and dry for snow, and dangerous with all the ice. No veecles for hire around the hotel—I guess they figure all the sensible folk are going to stay in, and they don’t want to carry the other kind. I walk a block, and find one lonely operator who’s willing to take me. When we get there, I give him a healthy tip, and wonder how I’ll get back. I ended up walking it last time—it’s not the kind of area a veecle will come on a booking. I decide to worry about that later. Right now, I want a nice quiet drink in a nice quiet bar.

Downmarket and sleazy the area might be, but Parolkiz insists on a wrist scan as a proper establishment should before I can walk in. That was one of the things I liked about it from the start—despite the surroundings, it doesn’t give off any air of underlying criminality, and inside, it’s just a respectable, local boozer. The fug is thick but not unpleasant, and warm, welcoming, after the bitterness of the wind outside. I get a few odd looks, being a stranger, but no one says anything, and the bartender’s as pleasant and friendly as I remember him.

You were here a while back, he says.

I’m amazed he remembers. Yeah, last year. Don’t get many newcomers?

Don’t get many defs in at all. Not as customers, he adds dryly.

I’m not wearing visible ID, and I’m not in uniform, so either he checked the log as I scanned in, or my haircut’s being obvious again. Janil was teasing me about it before I left Tsikeni, and it’s not softened much in a month.

He takes my order. Temlido—strong and clean, made in the area, a Pindone speciality. My usual indulgence, though it’s not a cheap tipple. Something to sit on while I think about life and wind down from the work we’d done today. It’d been lectures, desk-bound stuff, the kind of thing that gives me a headache. I’d popped a painkiller earlier, but I still hadn’t reclaimed my headspace properly. That’s what I’d come here for.

I like the way the bar’s laid out, in booths. A lot of the bars back home are all tables, people brushing up against you the whole time moving back and forth for drinks, and they’re noisy. The booths here are padded, acoustically dampening, and the music’s kept low. There’s a kami board, but no one’s throwing, and there aren’t any electronic games machines at all, which is pretty unusual these days. It’s quiet, even though there must be twenty people in the room. No raised voices. Nothing to listen over the top of. From a def’s point of view, it’s as easy to monitor and dismiss as a grain field.

But habit’s a hard rogan to kill, so I sit with my back to the bar, leaning against it and nursing my drink, as I casually check out who’s here. It’s a mostly male clientele—another thing that appeals to me. The two women I can see look like lovers, and not looking for company. A few crusty old men, sitting over hot drinks and nodding at each other—probably been drinking here most of their lives. I can only see one man who’s close to my age, and he’s with someone who has to be his Da, the resemblance is that strong. And....

I sit up. Now he wasn’t here last year. Definitely would have remembered him. I look around—he’s on his own, sitting at a booth right at the back of the room, only the one glass on the table, and he doesn’t have the expectant air of a man about to leave or meet someone here.

No one would ever accuse me of being impulsive. I’ve got a near perfect disciplinary record, and while the job brings plenty of danger, I don’t go looking for it. Got family, got responsibilities, too much to risk being stupid over. So I’m slightly surprised to find myself on my feet, heading over to the booth. A sensible person would stop and turn around, go back, order another drink, and forget about this idea.

Sometimes I get damn sick of being sensible.

He looks up as I loom over his table. Close to, he’s even more extraordinary—hair the colour of polished copper, the green, slanted eyes of a karkon, and he’s huge, like one of those monumental figures they’ve got in the antiquities museum in Darsino. Even sitting, he looks near as tall as me.

Are you waiting for someone? I blurt out.

He gives me a lazy smile, lifts his glass in salute. Not any more. Take a seat.

I do so, then hold out my hand. Dekan. Dek.

He offers his—broad, long fingered. Finely made for all his size. Ren. He shakes my hand with the assured, firm grip I expect, but then sees my glance at the tattoo. Yeah, I’m a spook. Is that a problem?

He’s watching me, assessing my reaction with more than those astonishing eyes. My brother’s a PK, so no. Force?

Forensics. You’re street?

Yeah. Don’t want to give more information than that, not to a stranger even if he’s Force too. You local?

Mostly. You’re not.

No. I’m here on block training. Boring as hell.

He grins and shakes his head, and his collar-length hair shifts and shines in the low light. Never seen hair like it, not that colour, for sure. I miss out on that mostly. I’m the one doing the training when it happens. Which means he must be a lot more senior or qualified than his youthful looks indicate—or he’s some kind of prodigy. He’s not Collared, so he probably isn’t in the Elite, but I can’t assume he’s not. What would you have done if I’d said I was waiting for someone?

Offered them money to go away?

He laughs, a genuinely happy sound, relaxed, confident. I feel the tension I’ve been carrying most of the day, just slip away from me. Some EPs do that for people, I know—side effect of their talent—but it’s more than that with this guy. There’s no...competitiveness here. No fear of the unknown male, no instinctive raising of the testosterone hackles—like he knows who he is, what he is, and nothing anyone else can do would ever threaten him. With the size of him, I don’t think many would try—not and get away with it.

Want another beer?

He nods, and I signal at the bartender, who brings over fresh drinks for both of us. I authorise the spend, and make sure Ren can see the screen. When the bartender leaves, Ren smiles wryly. Didn’t think I’d believe you were what you said you were?

Just...proving my bona fides. And why the hell had I bothered? This isn’t one of the Tsikeni clubs. Habit, again.

No need, he says, tapping his temple.

Ah. Of course. I look at his hand again. That’s an unusual mark. Custom?

Yeah. They don’t get many spooks with two talents. Had to come up with something special for me. He grimaces as if it’s brought back unhappy memories. I’m a TK too.

I do a double take. Isn’t that supposed to be impossible?

No. Just rare. Incredibly rare. He lifts his glass again. I’m one of a kind, he says over the rim, then takes a sip.