Free Woken Furies by Richard K. Morgan

“He’ll be here. He always is.”
    We joined the back of the nearest queue. The little knot of deComs ahead of us glanced around briefly, spent a couple of measured looks on Sylvie’s hair, then went back to their bickering. She wasn’t unusual among this crowd. A tall black sleeve a couple of groups down had a dreadlocked mane of similar proportions, and there were others less imposing here and there.
    Jadwiga stood quiet beside me.
    “This thing with Las is pathological,” Kiyoka told me, looking anywhere but at Jad. “He’s always fucking late.”
    “It’s wired into him,” said Sylvie absently. “You don’t get to be a career wincefish without a tendency toward brinkmanship.”
    “Hey,
I’m
a wincefish, and I turn up on time.”
    “You’re not a lead wincefish,” said Orr.
    “Oh
right.
Listen we’re all—” She glanced at Jadwiga and bit her lip. “Lead’s just a player position. Las is wired no different from me or—”
    Looking at Jad, you’d never have guessed she was dead. We’d cleaned her up in the apartment—beam weapons cauterize, there’s not often much in the way of blood—rigged her in a tight marine-surplus combat vest and jacket that covered the wounds, fitted heavy black EV lenses over her shocked open eyes. Then Sylvie got in through the team net and fired up her motor systems. I’d guess it took a little concentration, but nothing to the focus she’d have to have online when she deployed the team against the mimints on New Hok. She got Jad walking at her left shoulder, and we formed a phalanx around them. Simple commands to facial muscles clamped the dead deCom’s mouth shut, and the gray pallor—well, with the EV lenses on and a long gray sealwrap bag slung over one shoulder, Jad looked no worse than she should have done on a shiver comedown with added endorphin crash. I don’t suppose the rest of us looked too hot, either.
    “Authorization, please.”
    Sylvie handed over the sheaf of hardcopy, and the steward set about passing it through the reader one sheet at a time. She must have sent a tiny jolt through the net to the muscles in Jadwiga’s neck at the same time, because the dead woman tilted her head, a little stiffly, as if scanning the ’loader’s armored flank. Nice touch, very natural.
    “Sylvie Oshima. Crew of five,” said the steward, looking up to count. “Hardware already stowed.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Cabin allocation.” He squinted at the reader’s screen. “Sorted. P-nineteen to -twenty-two, lower deck.”
    There was a commotion back up near the top of the ramp. We all looked back, apart from Jadwiga. I spotted ocher robes and beards, angry gesticulating, and voices raised.
    “What’s going on?” asked Sylvie casually.
    “Oh—Beards.” The steward shuffled the scanned documentation back together. “They’ve been prowling up and down the waterfront all morning. Apparently they had a run-in last night with a couple of deComs someplace way east of here. You know how they are about that stuff.”
    “Yeah. Fucking throwbacks.” Sylvie took the paperwork and stowed it in her jacket. “They got descriptions, or will any two deComs do?”
    The steward smirked. “No vid, they say. Place was using up all its capacity on holoporn. But they got a witness description. A woman. And a man. Oh, yeah, and the woman had hair.”
    “Christ, that could be
me,
” laughed Sylvie.
    Orr gave her a strange look. Behind us, the clamor intensified. The steward shrugged.
    “Yeah, could be any of a couple of dozen command heads I passed through here this morning. Hey, what I want to know is, what are a bunch of priests doing in a place runs holoporn anyway?”
    “Jerking off?” suggested Orr.
    “Religion,” said Sylvie, with a sudden click in her throat as if she were going to vomit. At my side, Jadwiga swayed unsteadily and twisted her head more abruptly than people generally do. “Has it occurred to anybody that—”
    She grunted, gut deep. I