Caelum Lex Chapter 16: The Rusted Anchor

The narrow, dirty streets of Genesi were just as miserable as Cyrus remembered. They were supposed to meet Grice in the eastern district, which meant a long walk through the slums first. Children on front porches stared avidly as they passed -- and a group of men smoking on the streetcorner whistled and called to Corra and Leta  -- but the walk was mostly uneventful.

Still, Cyrus could not help but feel tense. He'd never done this without his brother.

“So,” said Corra, breaking the uneasy silence. “We have a plan here or...are we just winging it?” She caught his eye and added hastily, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that...”

Cyrus let out a heavy sigh. If he wasn’t already bound to embarrass himself before, now he also was bound to embarrass himself with Corra and Leta as an audience. He probably should have lied, or channeled some of his brother’s dramatic flair and pirate swagger. Unfortunately, his first instinct was honesty.

“The extent of my plan is to meet with the guy and ask for the trade and it’s sunshine and rainbows,” he admitted. “I already laid out the med supplies we need when I contacted him before. And what we have to offer.” Five cases, Ridellian made, virgin heat, he repeated in his head for the hundredth time, determined not to forget the names of what they were supplying. Or were they Rowenian made? Shit. “Ideally we can just look at the stuff. I mean...” He glanced apologetically at Leta, who was watching him wordlessly. Gods, she must have hated him for bringing her along. If something bad happened again... “You can look at the med stuff. Make sure it’s right. Then take him back to the ship to make the deal?”

The skepticism in his voice must have been obvious, because Corra said a little too brightly, “Sounds like a good plan to me. Where are we meeting him?”

“Uh...”

He’d forgotten the name of the place. He could remember the piston configurations of ships he hadn’t seen in ten years, but he couldn’t remember the name he’d been staring at all morning in his notes? There was no way this would end well. “It’s a bar,” he replied instead. “On the corner of 93rd and Collier. Not far. I don’t think.”

Finally, Cyrus recognized the pale neon lights of the shady dive bar (The Rusted Anchor -- that was the name. Right). Inside, the room was dark, dingy, and completely empty, except for the bartender who stood behind the counter, wiping a glass with a dirty rag. He stopped when they entered.

"You here for Grice?" he grunted. Then he pointed toward the next room. "Back bar. Past the pool tables."

Bavette Grice was one of the leaders of the Sons of Saints streetgang. Cyrus had met him only once before, years ago, when Fiearius hadn’t had much of a choice in back-up.

Broad-shouldered and twice the size of a normal man, Grice seemed to take up three bar stools himself. He had black mangled hair and a long beard, partially hiding his ruddy, tattooed face. He sat on one side of the L-shaped bar, poking at a plate of food. Behind him, three men stood silent and ready against the wall, each with long rifles in their hands.

Cyrus felt their eyes on him as stepped from the shadows and approached the bar, Leta and Corra with him, hoping he was displaying confidence he didn’t have. That’s what Fiearius always seemed to do. Actually, Fiearius probably would have swaggered over, swiped the man's plate for himself and laughed in his face or something equally insane.

But what Cyrus said was, “Hi.”

Well, that was a start. Ignoring the pit of nausea in his stomach, he continued in a more pressing tone, “I’m here about the supplies.” Grice looked up from his plate and stared over at him vacantly, his eyes empty of surprise or any emotion in particular. Suddenly fearing that he wouldn’t remember their discussion, Cyrus clarified hurriedly, “I sent you a message about them yesterday.” Which, of course, he realized, sounded pathetic, so he quickly added sternly, “I trust you brought what I need.”

It was not exactly the typical Solivere swagger. But nonetheless, Grice dropped his fork with a clank. "Hang on. I thought ya --- where's your brother?" He frowned. "He dead?”

“Dead?” Cyrus repeated, unable to help his surprise. Oh gods, did he think he’d been talking to the other Soliveré? Great. Just great.

“He’s not dead,” he continued. “He’s...” On vacation, he thought bitterly. “Busy.” And just to reassert the dominance he was completely lacking, “This deal’s with me anyway, not him.”

Grice’s expression registered no recognition at all. Cyrus suddenly had the sense that this man had taken one too many punches to the head in his life. Finally, he nodded slowly, his small beady eyes traveling to Leta and Corra. "And just who're you two?"

Beside him, he felt Corra tense, ready to snap at Grice with the poise of someone who’d been in hundreds of these meetings and the perfect cutting response to such a rude question. For some reason, Cyrus thought it would be a better idea for him to cut her off with a hasty, “They’re my associates. That’s all you need to know.”

Was that too much? Over the top? To his relief, Grice moved his eyes back to his face and, after a tense pause, said, "Fine. Sit, then.”

He slid into a bar stool beside Leta. Corra remained standing behind them, threateningly grasping her own rifle. Grice wiped his beard with a dirty napkin, then threw it back to the surface of the bar, one of his hands waving over the bartender.

“Drinks,” he grumbled, and seconds later, the bartender crossed the room, four mugs in hand.

Grice reached for his tankard. Feeling it would be impolite to do otherwise, Cyrus did the same.

"Admit I’m surprised,” Grice grunted, pulling his mug from his mouth and sloshing beer down his front. “Thought your brother was done doin’ business with the Saints eh.”
He swiped his mouth with his sleeve and continued, “But ya need med supplies. And what is it you've got for us?"

Cyrus nearly took a drink of his own, but halted in unpleasant surprise. Fiearius wasn’t doing business with the Saints any longer? But Fiearius had told Cyrus to meet with this guy. Or -- hadn’t he?

Suddenly, his stomach dropped. No, Fiearius hadn’t said that explicitly, but Cyrus had thought for sure Grice was who he had meant. He was the only gang leader Cyrus had ever had any contact with. Why would he say ‘you know which one’ if he hadn’t meant the only one Cyrus knew? But if they weren’t on business terms anymore...

Well it was too late now. They were here and no one had started waving their guns about just yet. Perhaps he was overthinking this. Everything seemed fine. There was no reason he couldn’t just go on with this deal and everything would remain fine.

Nonetheless, he felt the need to once again clarify, “Like I said. I’m not my brother.” He was not a lying, scheming, dirty space pirate terrible at clear communication, he thought angrily. He, Cyrus, was a goddamned cluster-reknowned ship-building genius. So why the hell was he here talking to some Archetian lowlife on behalf of his elder sibling’s stupid infection?

“Five cases, Ridellian heat, virgin made,” Cyrus repeated diligently. Oh wait, that wasn’t right. “I mean...Ridellian made. Virgin heat.” Whatever that meant.

He clutched his mug of beer and felt Leta glance at him. What, had she been reading up on guns too or something? Fortunately, Grice was not quite as quick and didn't seem to notice any slips. He was cupping his chin thoughtfully, glancing at the ceiling, apparently considering the deal.

"Huh. You must really need med stock eh. Well take a look."

He gestured, and one of his men came forward, bringing with him a long, rectangular wooden crate and setting it atop the bar before them. Words and numbers were scrawled across the top of the box -- one of them might have said ‘disaster relief,’ but Cyrus couldn’t have been sure. Judging by the unrecognizable language, this med kit had traveled far.

"Got everything ya would need," Grice growled, grinning proudly, showing yellow teeth. Cyrus did not return the smile, but glanced sideways at Leta. She was the only one that could discern if the med kit was what she needed to fix his stupid reckless brother. Or if they were about to be ripped off in this deal.

Horribly, judging by the look on her face, it was the latter category. She stared at the crate, then looked up at Grice, anger and shock arriving in her face.

"Where'd you get this kit?" she said sharply.

Grice, whose attention had wandered back to his tankard, looked up. "'Cuse?"

"Where,” she repeated, her voice cold, “did you get this?"

Possibly Grice had never been addressed like this in his life, because he looked between Leta and Cyrus, his jaw hung open in an ugly display of shock. Focusing on Cyrus in particular, he demanded, "Now what the fuck does it matter?"

His gunhands were beginning to pul away from the wall. Before Cyrus could stammer a panicked reply (why did it matter? what the hell was she doing?), Leta seized his wrist and muttered, "We need a minute."

Forcing his expression into a look of calm, as if this interruption was totally planned, Cyrus slid off the stool and joined Leta and Corra in the corner of the room.

“We can’t do it,” said Leta at once, her voice sharp and quiet. “We can’t do the deal.”

“What?” Cyrus whispered harshly. “What do you mean we can’t do it?”

"We can't accept that med kit," she went on, short of breath. "I recognize that kit, I've packed them myself -- all those supplies? They're meant for a children’s ward. It's aid, donated from affluent planets, meant for children in need on Archeti. Grice’s people probably raided a volunteer’s ship on its way to a hospital or something. We can't take it.”

“Can’t--” Cyrus began incredulously. “I don’t--Look, it may have been meant for the sick at some point, sure, but...” He threw his hand towards the crate. “It’s not ever going to get to who it belongs to. It never does.” He eyed her desperately, but she was shaking her head. “This is just how it works.”

"How it works? How it -- ?" Leta repeated, sputtering in her anger. Then she grit her teeth, "I don't care ‘how it works,’ we're not taking supplies that belong to dying kids."

Cyrus stared, riddled with shock. On one hand, he found himself inclined to agree that the morality behind this was rather questionable. On the other hand, those men had guns. “It’s already been taken,” he pleaded with her under his breath, trying to remember Fiearius’ excuse for it. “We’re just taking it from them. If we don’t, someone else will.”

Looking weary, Corra spoke up. “I dunno, Cy-cy,” she muttered, her eyes locked suspiciously on Grice and his gunmen. “Even if it will never get there, aren’t we just supporting the original theft? Perpetuating it?” She looked up at him sadly. “If we trade for it, aren’t we just giving them more reason to keep stealing it to begin with?”

“Exactly,” Leta snapped, throwing a furious and grateful look toward Corra. “Look, Cyrus, we’ll get supplies for your brother’s arm some other way -- I rationed what supplies we have on the ship -- but I am not trading with someone who steals from volunteers and sick kids --”

Cyrus, with a feeling of apprehension, recognized that burning look in Leta’s gaze. It reminded him exactly of his brother when he was fired up. Which usually meant something bad was about to happen.

And their logic was sound. Too sound. If he felt hopeless before, now he was utterly trapped. They were right, both of them. This whole thing was wrong. The place, the man, the goods, all of it was just one mistake after another. And with both Corra and Leta looking at him like they were looking at him right now? There was no way he could go through with this. Gods, why was he even here? How could he have ever agreed to do this?

“Okay,” he sighed at last. “Okay. You’re right. We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t encourage this stuff...”

“Well,” Corra began hesitantly, “I don’t know that we have much of a choice now...” She eyed the gang leader and his posse carefully. “Doubt he’ll be that happy if you change your mind all of a sudden.”

Cyrus glanced toward the glinting rifles in their hands. Could nothing ever be easy? How the hell anyone put up with all these ridiculous criminals and their trigger-happy tendencies, he would never know. What happened to the days when he was able to settle disputes with a few harsh words and then a pointed avoidance around the office for the next few weeks?

“Any ideas?” he mumbled hopefully.

After a strained, heavy pause, Leta suddenly looked up from the floor. "Actually, yes. I'll do the talking," she said, which was a phrase Cyrus had never once found comforting.

She turned and walked back to the bar. One of Grice's men was leaning over to speak in his ear, clearly discussing the situation. They both looked unpleasantly over to Leta.

Leta, however, had focused her attention back on the crate. She opened its lid and looked over the neat rows of vials, bottles and bandages it held curiously.

"Dropbox donation, right?" she asked calmly, to which Grice and his men laughed.

"’Course it is. Docs love to send their charity ‘round here."

Finally, after another moment of studying the supplies, Leta shut the crate with a snap and looked up. "This isn't it. This isn’t the medicine we need."

At once, confusion and anger flashed in Grice’s eyes, and he slammed down his mug. "What do you fucking mean 'this isn't -- "

Catching on, Cyrus hurried forward. “You heard her,” he told the man harshly. “It’s not what we need. Are you trying to pull one over on me?” At Grice’s curled lip and furrowed brow, Cyrus instantly regretted the accusation. Quickly, he back-pedaled, “Or was I unclear in my message? Whatever the reason.” He lifted his chin and stood tall as he declared, “This won’t work. The deal’s off.”

"Off? Off?" he repeated gruffly. "You set up the meeting, you wasted our fuckin' time -- "

"Well we won't waste any more of it," said Leta. In the corner of his eye, Cyrus saw her wrist trembling ever so slightly at her side, but her voice was quite steady.

Which was only a small comfort. This was it, he thought, brushing his hand back toward his hip where his gun was holstered. Any second now Grice was going to gesture for his men to slaughter them all and riddle the bar with bullets. Any second he was --

But to Cyrus' shock, Grice did nothing of the sort. In fact, after regarding Leta for another tense moment, the gang leader looked away, downed the rest of his beer, pushed himself to his feet and spat, "You're goddamn lucky I'm in a good mood."

He glared furiously, and, taking care to shove Cyrus' shoulder on his way out, strode to the door. His gunhands followed after, leaving the three of them -- and the silent, watching bartender -- alone in the room.

For several seconds, no one spoke. No one moved.

Finally, Corra muttered bitterly, “That was disappointing.” She loosened the grip on her gun, crestfallen. “I was rather looking forward to shooting somebody...”

Cyrus, lacking Corra’s current craving for blood, was less disappointed and far more perplexed. Grice had seemed angry, but there was no retribution? That wasn’t usually how these things worked. ‘A little pissed off’ usually ended up with someone dead. So why was he still standing there, fully intact?

“I don’t understand...” he muttered. Feeling wrong-footed, he slumped back onto the barstool. Leta joined him, lowering to her seat and looking just as perplexed.

"That was -- quite terrible," she muttered, "but at least ... "

“At least we’re not dead?” Cyrus suggested, grimacing. “I dunno, might as well be for how much I’m gonna get slammed when we get back to the ship. Coming back with nothing at all. No better off than we were before.” With that in mind, he reached for the tankard sitting in front of him.

“But you stood up for something,” Corra pointed out. “The cap’n would never do that.”

“Exactly,” Cyrus muttered. “And to hell if he’ll understand why I did...”  If only to give himself something to do, he took a drink from the glass in his hands, rather defeatedly.

The next moment, Cyrus felt it: a burning in his mouth, then a choking fire in his throat and lungs. The tankard thudded out of his hand, spilling a river of liquid across the bar and Leta’s lap.

The last thing he saw was Leta’s look of horror, her voice growing distant in his ears as she yelled, "Cyrus! Your drink -- don't -- !" before he slid from the stool and his vision went black.