[2.1] Monster Woman Lives

The garage commsphere was many years older than Mattica, and thus thought itself above such banal functions as ringing or polite chiming. When there was a call - which seemed to engender in it some significant level of resentment - it rattled and clanked and seized as though foretelling the end of the world.

Mattica loved the old thing. Kindred spirits, they were. When it came exploding to crotchety life at nearly three in the morning, she hauled herself off her dusty futon and shuffled across the concrete.

The screen came on like a scratch ticket being uncovered: there was a jawline, an ear, a thumb pressed against the display to angle it upward. She knew who it was before face cleared up.

"Gods, does the idea of time zones just totally bounce off your head? What is wrong with you?"

His voice was clipped, distorted, and seemed to force its way out of the speakers. "What? You weren't even sleeping, anyway."

"How would you know?"

"Pfft. You never sleep before morning."

"Sure, when I was a kid I didn't have stuff to do like slave away for the scum of the earth."

"Yeah, about that."

"I'm done with you."

"Start packing."

"You're not using me to besmirch your family's name."

"It's not-"

"If Sterling money comes into this cesspool, should I describe again what will happen if anyone with a journalism degree hears about it? I coulda sworn the last earful I gave you was enough."

". . . Did you say 'besmirch'?"

She slumped her head over the comm's dashboard. "There's nothing to do out here but read really melodramatic intrigue scripts."

When she looked up again Conlan's face was more or less visible. And more or less disgustingly smug.

"Don't look at me like that unless you have a 1,500 word essay describing why it is OK."

"I'm going to buy your contract."

He had said that a thousand times, like a knight in shining armor just revving to go, except that shutting him down had become second nature to her. His family was easily one of the most influential in the free world. Conlan himself was technically in line for the Lotearan throne. And there she was, stuck in one of the most impossibly corrupt nations, with one foot in a jail cell. If it came out that Sterling money had bought an accused convict, the scandal would be astronomical.

She propped herself up on an elbow, hooking the leg of a stool on her foot and dragging it over to sit on. "That was six words. You fail."

"I don't see anything 'besmirching' about a fortress in the market for a new airship mechanic."

". . . No way. Efferis doesn't have the money."

"It does now."