Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,42
civilian garb. I trail in his wake as he weaves through the pedestrians, staring down at his datapad and tapping furiously. He listed the Beamer the second we connected to the city’s network, and received a solid offer before we’d even landed on a lot.
“Up ahead, to the right,” Gal says with a jerk of his head, eyes still fixed on the screen. “Should be marked by a green sash,” he adds, holding up the pad so I can see the photo. Leaning a little closer than necessary too.
The light’s different today, draping the storefront in indistinct shadows, but it’s the same place for sure. The green sash he mentioned winds around a pole out front, faded by age and torn by wind. Gal pockets his datapad, a hungry grin breaking over his face. “The offer’s not much, but…”
“You can talk it up, I know.” I step up and haul open the door, holding out a hand to block him from charging in as I scope out the place.
The shop’s interior is dark, the surfaces dusted, the chairs stacked on tables. Suspicion prickles inside me, and I turn to check the door for a broken bolt.
When I turn back, a flint strikes in the shadows. “You must be the sellers,” a voice says as a cigar glows to life. Her accent is strange—Corinthian, but not entirely—and she speaks with a slow, easy cadence. “Beamer, model N-67. Military outfit, manufactured in the Otosan Belt of the Archon territories.”
“It’s not mil—”
“You stupid little shits expect me to believe that?” The shadows take form, a woman stepping out of them with a wildcat’s grace. She’s short and built with lean muscle, somewhere in her thirties, her dark, uneven hair hanging in her face. The cigar dangles dangerously from her lips. “God of Cret, you’re children. Where the rut did you get a Beamer?”
“That’s not important.” Gal steps around me, drawing himself up to his full height as if he’s trying to lord the inch he has on her. “What’s important is your offer’s too low. We don’t go under 9K.”
She lets out another short laugh around a mouthful of smoke. “Seven K’s my offer, and you won’t get another.”
“You underestimate our persistence.”
“No, kiddo. You underestimate how much fear I can instill in the hearts of others. I buy your ship for 7K, or you never sell it. And judging by the eagerness that brought you to my door, I don’t think you’re in a position to turn me down.”
“Nine K,” Gal replies coolly. “If you want it so bad. Which I suspect you do, given the speed of your offer.”
The woman doesn’t reply. She reaches up and plucks the cigar from her lips, letting out another smoky breath as she twirls it between fingers made of metal. My gaze drops to the point where flesh meets cybernetics halfway down her forearm. Assistive tech like this is rare in the Umber Empire, where metal is prioritized for more brutal uses. This woman’s business must be thriving for her to afford a piece like this. She catches me staring and bares her yellowed teeth. “You should have seen the other guy.” Taking her cigar up in her other hand, she sticks out the metal one to shake. “Adela Esperza.”
“Ettian,” I say, stepping around Gal to take it first. “This is Gal.” Gal’s lips go taut, and too late I remember that we probably shouldn’t be using the names Berr sys-Tosa will be looking for.
“Pleasure,” Adela says with a grin, her grip going tight around mine. Her fingers are warm and full of sharp edges. “Now, if you really want to negotiate, how about you take me to the ship?”
* * *
—
Adela Esperza looks at the Beamer like she wants to eat it. Gal and I stand to the side of the vacant lot, leaning back against a chain-link fence as we watch her circle the Ruttin’ Hell, running her hands over every part of the ship she can reach. More than once, she traces her mechanical fingers over the lines left by our hasty paint removal, smirking like she knows exactly what we’ve done and what