Rain splashed on the window and crawled its way down, blurring and distorting the city lights into a vague haze of colour. An abstract impression of Jakarta at night. Muffled by the glass and concrete of Reine’s apartment, a helicopter passed about metre above, beginning a lazy turn to the right, where its shape dissipated into the rain, leaving only the red and green navigation lights visible. The sight put Zeta at ease. She touched the glass for a moment, to see if she could feel even a slight vibration from the helicopter or the rain, and noticed Reine’s reflection in the glass. She heard Reine set the tea down on the table, and turned to face her. She spoke gently.
“I’m not an officer yet. Why did you invite me here?”
Reine poured the tea, and gestured for her to sit. Zeta obliged.
“Why not make you an officer?” Reine replied, and pushed Zeta’s teacup to her. “After all, your performance on previous assignments has been consistently positive, save for the occasional collateral damage claim. And really, who doesn’t put a claim through for a trashed car every now and then?”
Reine took a sip of her tea and made a small, private smile that Zeta would have missed if not for her training. Reine continued. “Truth be told, I give everyone a hard time for it because it’s my job, but I’d rather open the agency’s purse for a wrecked car or a trashed room than for somebody’s funeral costs.”
“That’s admirable, Ma’am,” Zeta said, taking a sip of her tea, “but I still don’t quite understand what you want me here for.”
Reine sat back, and made a subtle hand gesture. “Because I like you, Zeta. More than that, I trust you, which is more than I can say for many of my officers.”
Reine put down her tea, and fixed Zeta with a hard stare. The kind that bores into a person’s skull. Reine’s tone dropped.
“It’s that trust I’m counting on, because while I can’t refuse a request from the powers that be, I am in a position to send somebody with a conscience in when I don’t like what I’ve been given. You don’t have to take the job, but the whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I’d rather give this to you than anyone else.”
It was pretty hard to miss what Reine was implying, and Zeta wondered for a second or two what would happen if she were to just leave. She could just go. Theoretically, she could even overpower Reine in a fight if the worst should come of it, but then what would she do? Somebody would take the job at some point, and prove Reine’s fears right or wrong either way, so really, what would her refusal even matter, beyond a stern reprimand? Zeta took a long, deep drink from her tea, and swished the remains around in the dainty little china cup. Watched the city twinkle for a breath or two. Then, quietly, she spoke.
“Tell me everything.“
A look of relief crossed Reine’s face, and she reached into a pocket on her elaborate dress - resplendent in its green and blue shades - to produce a single enlarged photograph of a young woman. Slender build, lively smile, hair dyed red, pretty dress. The kind of face Zeta could pick out in a crowd at a hundred metres.
“This is Olivia. This photograph was taken two years ago,” Reine began, pushing the photograph over to Zeta to keep for herself. “It’s also the most recent photograph we have of her. Seems she’s some kind of medical wonder; the kind that gets poked and prodded by scientists for days on end. Only, it seems she went missing about five months ago. Normally somebody as unique as I’m told she is would be easy to track, but the trail’s been cold all the way up until two days ago, when somebody matching her description was seen being forcibly bundled onto a ship in the States. Ordinarily, she’d just be made a person of interest, and given that about a dozen national intelligence agencies want a piece of her, I’d be inclined to keep our noses out of it. Problem is, she’s an Indonesian national, which bumps her up from somebody else’s problem to distinctly our problem.”
Zeta winced. Stealing artefacts, snooping on enemies, even the occasional assassination was one thing, but extracting persons of interest was entirely another. Priceless keys didn’t need feeding or telling where to go. People did. She also had a horrible feeling that Reine hadn’t got to the worst part yet. Reine pushed another picture to her.
“This is the Alexandria. It’s a paddle steamer from the turn of the century. For most of its life it’s just been used for ferrying tourists up and down the Mississippi, but for the last decade, it’s been operated as an illegal casino, and nobody knows who’s bankrolling it.”
Zeta studied the picture, and pocketed it with the picture of Olivia. Of course it was a floating crime den. It was never that easy. Zeta narrowed her eyes a little as she spoke.
“So you want me to infiltrate a heavily guarded ship to rescue somebody I don’t know, on the assumption that when she gets back here, our government is going to treat her with love and respect?”
Reine nodded.
“They’re even willing to fork out for a private jet to get her back here,” Reine added. “That’s how important she is. Apparently.”
Zeta didn’t like the emphasis Reine put on that last word, but with no real choice left in the matter, she drank the last of her tea, handed it back, and stood up. She felt refreshed, as a good cup of tea does to any person, but a more visceral concern began to take hold somewhere deep in her guts. She took a deep breath, and spoke with a measured tone. “Against my better judgement, I accept the assignment, Your Majesty.”
Reine nodded, and gestured to the door.
“Then congratulations on your new position, Officer Zeta. Agent K will be assisting you on this mission. Head to the office tomorrow, and speak with her. She has your gun, and your flight ticket.”
Zeta nodded, and left.

Light footed though she was, Zeta’s footsteps still cast a lengthy echo in the vast hall of the agency’s technical division. Targets, computers, cars, weapons and workbenches were all arranged haphazard in the one starkly lit room, and in the middle of it all, was one desk with five monitors. Four of them were showing security footage, charts and schematics, and one monitor was displaying a videogame.
“Good morning, Kaela,” Zeta called, waving politely. Kaela didn’t turn around.
“Oh, it’s morning already? Dahlah.”
As ever, Kaela’s monotone was inscrutable. Over the years, Zeta had learned to simply assume that whatever Kaela was saying, her feelings about the subject were neutral to positive. It worked out well that way, most of the time. Zeta approached the desk, and sidled her way over to the right, before sitting on the desk, putting herself between Kaela and the screen displaying the videogame. She smiled at Kaela and swished her legs. Kaela moved the game to another monitor.
“How’s things down here in the bunker?” Zeta asked, reaching her right hand out just a little, expecting Kaela to give her her usual gun. Instead, Kaela, handed her a much larger case, and gave a noncommittal “not too bad,”.
Zeta raised her eyebrows at the case, then shrugged, and put “6969” into the combination lock. Instead of the standard compact pistol she was by now quite familiar with, what lurked in the case was an ugly, black monster of a handgun, with a barrel that seemed long enough to use as a walking crutch, and a thick suppressor only slightly longer than the barrel length.
“What happened to my usual gun?” Zeta asked, before taking it out of the case and scrutinising it. Empty, it was already much bulkier and heavier than her normal gun, and she reasoned that she could bludgeon somebody to death with the magazine alone. She checked the safety, yanked the slide open and inserted the magazine, then pointed it towards one of the targets in the room to feel the complete weight of it in her hand. It felt like holding a brick.
“You’re an officer now, Zeta,” Kaela said. “You get an officer’s gun. As it so happens, I’ve done some significant work on that.”
Zeta ejected the magazine, released the slide, and returned the gun to its case.
“I’m sure you have,” Zeta muttered in response, but if Kaela picked up on her displeasure, then she certainly didn’t seem to show it. Instead, Kaela proceeded to tell her about the work.
“Mark 23. Rechambered for ten millimetre, with two extra rounds in the magazine. Rail fitted to the bottom for accessories, slide stops buffered with rubber to dampen action noise, and a custom suppressor of my own design. In most environments the sound should be indistinguishable from a gas release, and over moderately loud music or an engine, it should be inaudible.”
Zeta took the magazine out and stared at it incredulously.
“Ten millimetre?” she asked, shocked that she should be expected to deal with such a gun with her stature, “that’s going to be way too much recoil.”
Kaela finally turned her attention away from the videogame, and took the magazine out of Zeta’s hand. Before Zeta could say anything, Kaela had picked up the gun, loaded it, racked the slide, and pointed it at a random target. She shot five times, then ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber.
The target now had five holes neatly arranged in a “V” shape on its chest.
“Skill issue.”
Kaela put the gun back in its case and closed it, then reached for a drawer to the left of her, and pulled out a strange headband. It featured grey plastic to match Zeta’s hair, atop which were two small cones that - she assumed - had been wrapped in fake grey hair to conceal their true nature. She took the headband, and studied it carefully.
“I look fabulous already,” Zeta quipped, which seemed to elicit a smile and a silent chuckle from Kaela.
“It’s not about the looks. Lift up your hair.”
Assuming Kaela would hurt her if she didn’t comply, Zeta lifted her hair up, only for Kaela to take most of it and put it back down again, before fitting the headband onto her skull tightly, and giving the all clear to release her hair. Kaela then firmly motioned for her to stay where she was, and walked away, picking up a radio on the way. Zeta watched as Kaela lifted the radio and spoke into it, and as if she were speaking directly into her brain, Zeta heard kaela’s voice clearly, telling her to “get some help.”
Kaela walked back, wearing the kind of smug expression that you could bottle and sell as perfume. “Bone conduction headphones in the band and my own personal blend of wide band antennas and directional microphones to pick up sounds and radio transmissions within a three hundred metre range, all controllable by an app on your phone.” Kaela showed her a smartphone to demonstrate the rather neat and tidy app that controlled the headset, and set it down on the table.
“Wow, these are incredible,” Zeta remarked, and Kaela made a mocking bow. “Oh, it’s just a little bit of engineering, it’s fine. You look great, by the way.”
As usual, Kaela’s refusal to accept any kind of praise was as infuriating as it was endearing.
“Oh, and one last thing before I give you our tickets,” Kaela said, once more fishing in the drawer, and producing a box of sanitary towels.
Zeta didn’t have anything smart to say about that.
“Be careful with those,” Kaela said, before handing her what was ostensibly a wrapped sanitary pad, to demonstrate what was inside the box. Upon holding it, it became clear that what she had been given was not, in fact, a feminine hygiene product. For starters, sanitary towels tended to flex when you tried to bend them. Zeta unwrapped it carefully, to find a glass capsule in the rough shape of a sanitary towel, filled with a fine white powder.
“Throw it at that target,” Kaela said, gesturing lazily towards the target she’d shot before. Having never had to throw a potentially lethal sanitary product in her life, Zeta opted to throw it frisbee style, and she watched it fly in a gentle arc towards the target, before hitting it, shattering, and immediately bursting into a wall of white smoke.
“Ooohh, I like that,” Zeta said, watching the smoke billow from the broken glass.
“I like it, too,” Kaela replied, with genuine warmth in her voice. “Reacts on contact with air, burns hot to blind thermal optics, and contains a blend of strong capsaicin and a short lived hallucinogen. All wrapped in a package nobody is going to check at the door.”
She had to admit it, as embarrassing as the disguise for them was, the logic was sound.
“Thankyou, Kaela,” Zeta said, sincerely grateful for what she’d been given. She took what she’d been given and put it in a small handbag, save for the gun, which she just picked up in its case. As she put her new gadgets away, Zeta noticed that three flight tickets had materialised in her handbag. She examined them, then raised an eyebrow at Kaela.
“Three tickets?”
Kaela nodded, “Economy class, Jakarta to New Orleans, every expense spared. Oh, and Kobo wanted to join.”
Zeta closed her eyes and sighed, then thanked Kaela for her time and left to pack her bags.

The flight had been long and arduous, the drive after landing dull, and the motel they’d booked into dirty and cheap. All things considered, the journey had been miserable, but with the midday sun shining down onto dusty, grassy fields around her, and the old man river winding lazy ahead, Zeta felt her spirits lift. With the window wound down all the way, the mid-autumn air - hot enough to bake in and humid enough to swim in - whipped her hair around, and reminded her just a little of home. In the back of the car, Kobo had fallen asleep, and lay with her head pressed against the tinted back window and her mouth open. Kaela slowed the car down, and took a gentle right turn onto a small dirt road, that led towards the river. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres and a fine plume of dust made its way up the side of the car, settling on Zeta’s skin. The road slithered around the riverbank, gradually getting closer to the river, and the bayou that surrounded it. Sensing that they were about to reach the end of the path, Zeta took her gun out and loaded it, before setting the safety on, and putting it in her shoulder holster. She placed the suppressor in a concealed compartment in her handbag. The act itself focused her mind, and as Kaela turned the last corner to the edge of the riverbank, Zeta was unable to think of anything but the mission ahead of her. She checked her headband was working and connected to her phone, and checked her makeup in the passenger vanity mirror.
Zeta opened the door, and Kaela wished her luck.
This close to the river, the fine stones and pebbles didn’t grind under her feet like they did just a few metres back, and instead pushed their way into the softer dirt that lay just below a fine film of dust. Though it lay out of sight behind dense trees, she could hear muffled chatter and music from the Alexandria, and she could smell the river; a musky blend of decaying plants and swamp creatures that had unfortunately perished around the area. A subtle hint of hot oil and coal smoke completed the heady mix.
Kaela reversed the car, turned around, and drove off, leaving Zeta alone on the bank.
As Kaela left, Zeta noticed that a few other sets of tyretracks had been left in the dirt fairly recently, and from where it seemed that the majority of visitors had parked, she saw faint footprints that led away into the trees. She followed them. Just beyond the first row of trees, she came across a dirty old wooden jetty. It was covered in moss and lichen, and in some parts, the wood had given way, revealing the state of the rot in the wood, and the thick, gloopy mud below, where insects crowded around stagnant water. The canopies of the trees blotted out most of the sun, leaving patches of sunlight along her path that pierced the gloom and lit the haze like lasers. She followed the jetty, avoiding the weathered boards in much the same way she would landmines, remarking at all the small flying insects that flew around, until the end came into sight, and she saw a single, large man, arms crossed by his waist, guarding the gangplank. He wore a white suit, with white sunglasses and a white hat. The kind of old fashioned mob muscle that tries to keep it all professional out of some romantic notion of honour among thieves. In truth, if it ever existed, that sort of mob chivalry died a long time ago, Zeta thought, but he never got the memo. It was testament to the imposing figure the man cut, that it took her so much as a second to fully give her attention to the boat. Like the man’s outfit, the Alexandria was decked out in lily white, which looked dazzling in the sunlight, with black and red trim along the railings, towering funnels and intricate pillars. The main cabin rose a whole three storeys above the deck, and the balconies around it were dotted with people of all shapes and sizes, dressed in their finest suits and dresses. Compared to some of them, Zeta felt positively underdressed in her cheap grey dinner jacket.
“Tickets, Ma’am.”
Zeta nodded at the man, and made a mental note to call him Mr White as she reached into her bag, and produced a gaudy yellow and blue ticket. Holographic detailing across the whole face of the ticket sparkled in the light. She handed it to him, and he seemed satisfied with it. It was just as well that he was satisfied with it too, seeing as the man she’d got it from was now in police custody.
Mr White turned his attention from the ticket to her, and Zeta worried for a moment that her shoulder holster would be visible through the partition in her jacket, but he just gave her a nod of acknowledgement. Of course a boat full of lowlifes wouldn’t bat an eye at that.
“Bag check, Ma’am.”
Zeta offered her bag, and he gave it an unexpectedly thorough inspection. He rifled through the deliberately innocuous contents, shuffling pens, notepads, cheap headphones and cosmetics around, even poking around in the tiny compartments meant to hold spare change and earrings. For a brief moment, he touched the box of sanitary towels, but he moved his hand out moments after, and Zeta tried to release the breath she’d held, as discreetly as possible.
“All clear. Apologies for the fuss, miss; you wouldn’t believe how many people try to bring bugs and trackers aboard.”
“I know, right?” Zeta chuckled, feigning understanding to his plight. Mr White gave her another nod, and stepped aside, motioning her to get onboard, and she did, gladly.

The effort to hide her chuckles was almost too much to bear, but once she stepped aboard the Alexandria, the absurdity of the inspection passed, and the reality of her situation came into stark focus. The moment Zeta felt the gentle, almost imperceptible sway of the boat beneath her feet, she became acutely aware that she was surrounded by wealthy criminals; many of them international, and who might have reason to kill her if they knew who she was. Now she was on the boat, there was no way she could get out once it got underway, save for diving into the river and leaving her fate up to the murky waters. And the alligators. Figuring that the best thing she could do now would be to just disappear into the crowd , Zeta decided to make her way to the aft. From there, she could see the river better, and perhaps gauge just how good her odds were if she had to leap overboard. She kept a brisk pace as she walked, weaving her way around the other patrons on her way, as to draw as little attention as possible. As she went, Zeta reached out and touched the railings gently, sliding her hand along it until she reached the aft, and finally saw the enormous padlewheel that drove the boat. It towered some three metres above her , with thick weeds and algae dangling off the paddles, some of which had already dried in the heat. In truth, besides the impressive engineering of the ship itself, the view from the back of the boat was disappointing. The Alexandria sat low in the water, and without going inside, the view from the back really wasn’t any better than she’d got from the road on the way in. She saw more insects flying, and the path of the river, but beyond that, the only thing she really noticed was the front of an airboat, poking out of the leaning trees. She thought she saw something moving around it, but as she squinted to see it better, a waiter in an immaculate suit offered her a glass of champagne from a tray. Zeta took one, and thanked him, but when she turned back to see the airboat, the sliver of it she thought she’d seen was gone. Not that she’d have been able to look for it very long anyway. As she took the first sip of her champagne, the boat’s horn gave a cheerful toot, and the gangplank was raised. A few seconds later, she felt the entire vessel shake, and rumble, and her right ear was overcome with a mechanical squalling sound and the rushing din of water being churned up. She watched as the massive paddlewheel began rolling, saw the dirty water as it washed off the wheel in gallons, and smelled the filth that it dredged up as it went along. The boat lurched forward, and Zeta felt herself sway as it moved, until after a few seconds, it reached a steady speed. She took another sip of her champagne, and passed it to her right hand as she decided to make her way into the cabin. As she filtered through the crowd to get to the doors, Zeta made a point to listen in to what snippets of conversations she could pick up, but despite her best efforts, she heard nothing particularly useful. It wasn’t much of a problem: there was still plenty of time and plenty of opportunities ahead of her. Zeta took one last look at the bayou as it glided by, and reached for the cabin door, but as she did so, she paused for a moment. Without noticing it, she’d left a black stain on her glass. She checked her left hand, and sure enough, a fine black powder had built up on the fingers she’d touched the handrail with.
“Coal dust,” she remarked to herself, and made a mental note. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her back, and opened the door.

Pretty though the Alexandria was on the outside, on the inside it was positively spectacular. A Wide stage stood elevated at the rear of the hall, over the tables and seats of the combined auditorium and gambling lounge. Shell-shaped footlights bathed the technicians on the stage in a warm white light, and an old style carbon microphone stood in the centre, light from the spotlights above gleaming from the polished metal hoop. From the carpets to the ceilings, every possible inch of the interior was adorned in turn-of-the-century American excess: gold trim, red velvet, flowers carved in walls, corners and across ceilings. Staff in immaculate black waistcoats and white shirts drifted through the tables and crowds, carrying trays of drinks and food in gloved hands. On both the left and right sides of the hall stood bars, around which patrons crowded to get fancy cocktails, and were served by bartenders who put as much flair and effort into serving drinks as any professional magician would put into their illusions. Above her, Zeta saw black metal gangways that made up the path to the individual passenger cabins. Each ran the entire way around the cabin, and went up for three whole floors, as she’d seen from outside. Suspended high above the patrons was a truly massive chandelier. Its mirror polished brass coiled and curved its way from one side of the hall to the other, and the lights it held cast dazzling displays of light through the glass beads that looked spectacular even from the ground. At the far end of the hall, towards the prow of the boat, was a staircase that led up to the cabins, and just in front of those stairs was an original birdcage style elevator, currently resting at the second floor. With a brief chek around to make sure nobody was watching her, Zeta opened the control app for her headband, and set it to radio mode, so that she could listen in to any radio chatter, and make contact with Kaela if she needed to. By the staircase, a small kiosk stood, with a board of keys behind it, and a small woman looking after them. Zeta made her way towards it. As she crossed the hall, Zeta’s headband picked up a couple of transmissions, but none of it seemed to be particularly useful. A nearby trucker talking on the line, a message from the staff to supply wine to a room, and a nearby shortwave station transmitting some numbers. She wasn’t here for small fry numbers broadcasts. The woman on the desk greeted her politely, and Zeta slipped her the ticket. She watched the woman go to the board to pick out her key, and took the opportunity to quickly look at the elevator. Through the cage it was difficult to see much, but crucially, she couldn’t see any floor at the bottom of the shaft. Zeta turned her attention back to the desk just before the concierge turned around, and when she did, Zeta slipped her a warm “thankyou”, and headed for the elevator. It rattled and clattered on its way down, and Zeta’s headband picked up an obnoxious advertisement for second hand cars as she waited, but she dismissed it with her phone, adding it to the frequencies to exclude. As the elevator finally reached the bottom, Zeta was able to see that there was, in fact, a further shaft below her. And no button for it on the panel. Zeta pushed the button for the third floor, and checked her key, which specified cabin 336. That would put her on the right hand side, towards the back, which wasn’t ideal, but as a place to temporarily unpack her things, it was about as useful as anywhere else. After a quick check around her shoulders, Zeta opened her cabin door, and found a perfectly cosy little cabin. A tidy old single bed against the right side wall, a balcony behind a glass double door, wooden trim on all the walls that was likely original to the boat, a small built-in wardrobe and a nice, thick red carpet all came together to offer a wealth of old-world charm. The small, obligatory flatscreen TV jutted out of the left side wall like a wart, but its presence alone wasn’t enough to ruin the look of the room; certainly not when a very pretty old writing desk stood in the corner, just inviting her to dump her stuff on it. She placed her bag down gently, then stopped, and got down on her haunches to search the room for bugs. Ideally, she’d be off the boat before any surveillance could be used against her, but it was always worth a cursory check. The desk and drawers were clear, the bed checked out, and the light fixtures and wardrobe were clean, too. She also checked the bathroom, which she found to be a tight squeeze, but otherwise was immaculately clean and free of listening devices. Just to be sure though, she disconnected the tv and stuffed the remote under the mattress, with a pillow wrapped around it for good measure. Now confident she wasn’t going to be eavesdropped on, Zeta went out to the balcony to catch a little fresh air. Since they started moving, the steamer seemed to have covered a surprising distance, and Zeta now found herself in an entirely unfamiliar stretch of the river. The water frothed and roared as the massive paddles beat the river into submission, and the engines gave a steady cough. Below her, some of the patrons chatted and drank, watching the scenery go by. A couple of them pointed at a tree that had fallen over on the bank and now lay in the water. Zeta watched it, too, and saw that an alligator had crawled onto it to get warm in a patch of sunlight, and as the steamer went on, she tracked it all the way back, until she caught sight of the airboat she’d spotted earlier. Sure enough, it had been following them, and behind it, arranged in a triangle formation, were two more boats. Zeta took her phone out of her pocket and opened the camera. Conscious not to look suspicious, she turned to face her cabin, fluffed her hair a bit, and took a few selfies, then put her back to the boats. She zoomed in as far as the camera could go, and pretended to take another photo. It hadn’t been a long look, but even through the cheap front camera, she could tell that every single person on the boat was armed. Submachine guns, assault rifles, even what looked like a mounted grenade launcher on the rear left boat. Enough firepower to make any potential mutineer reconsider. Zeta mumbled some unkind sentiments, and turned to go into her room, but stopped after a single step. Amongst the background noise of birds and bugs, and the noise of the boat, a new sound had crept its way in, and it put her on edge. A rapid thumping sound and a mechanical whine. A helicopter. Her headband put a new stranger’s voice in her head as she leaned over the balcony to see a large helicopter flying fairly low, a kilometre or so away. “Horus-1 has target in sight, following with thermal, relaying coordinates now.” She’d heard enough. Zeta headed back into her cabin, went into the bathroom, and dialed Kaela.

“Zeta, how’s it going?” Kaela asked, sounding cheerful. In the background, Zeta could hear Kobo talking to somebody, and a hubub of voices around them. She assumed Kaela had stopped off at a diner somewhere.
“Not well,” Zeta grumbled, fiddling with the taps on the tiny sink with nerves. “I need you to ID a helicopter for me.”
There was a brief pause from the other end, and Zeta decided that perhaps her time might be better spent preparing herself for the job ahead than spinning taps. She left the bathroom, and opened the hidden compartment of her bag.
“Okay, I can do that for you, give me as much info as you have.”
Kaela sounded a lot less sure of herself now, which hardly helped Zeta’s confidence. She screwed on the large suppressor, and gave it a firm tug to make sure it was fitted correctly.
“Big, probably government, callsign Horus-1, close enough to shine a spotlight on me.”
Kaela gave a brief “hmm”, then told Kobo to get off the laptop. As she waited, Zeta took out the smoke bombs Kaela had given her - four in total - unwrapped them, and put one in her inside jacket pocket, two in her front pockets, and one in her back. From the other end of the line, she heard Kobo bickering with Kaela over the laptop, but eventually, Kaela came back over the line, her voice was ice cold.
“It’s an FBI helicopter. That would explain the amount of black sedans we’ve been seeing. No pressure or anything.”
Kaela’s idea of no pressure was enough to make submarines implode. It did not make her feel any better.
“Great. What are the feds doing here?” Zeta muttered, more to herself than anybody else, though Kaela answered anyway.
“No idea, lah. Is that all?”
Zeta nodded to nobody, “Yes. Keep the car charged for me and don’t let the feds out of your sight. I’m running out of options to get out of here quietly.”
“Understood,” Kaela replied, and the line went dead. Kaela was never one for goodbyes.
Zeta took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. It was possible that the feds were just there to make a show of force to the Alexandria, but even then, that would make getting out even more difficult. The more likely outcome, however, was that whatever welcome the Alexandria had with the feds had been well and truly worn out, and Zeta doubted that had nothing to do with the supposed human cargo she was there to extract.
Zeta opened her eyes again, and forced a smile. As far as anyone here was concerned, she was just a common criminal looking to have a good time. She might as well try to relax. She set her headband to acoustic mode, and headed out. From the walkway, she saw some technicians fussing over a mixing desk by the side of the stage, and tried to listen in. Sure enough, she heard them talking about levels and cables. It seemed something wasn’t quite right and needed a last minute fix. Zeta wondered exactly what kind of artist would perform in a place like this. Leaving the sound engineers to their work, Zeta made her way to the staircase, and as she did, she spotted an imposing looking man dressed in the boat’s uniform step into the elevator. The headband picked up a frequent clicking and rattling sound from him, that she recognised as the sound of a gun moving in its holster. She slowed down just a little as she walked his way, just in case he looked at her, and locked her eyes on the controls for the elevator. She couldn’t see what he pressed, but her headband only gave her the sound of a single button press. About two seconds later, there was a quiet bell chime, and she heard the button get released. The elevator descended. By the time she reached the staircase, it had completely vanished below the floor. Zeta kept a mental note of the process, and made her way down to one of the bars. A couple of other patrons were huddled around the bar, mostly drinking beer and bourbon, as was tradition round these parts. The glasses were spotless, with diamond cut patterns and perfectly shaped ice cubes. The young man behind the bar wore his waistcoat tight, and his hair was carefully combed. He wore a set of round glasses which reflected the fake yellow neon behind him and the shiny silver shaker in his hand, and he greeted her with a subtle nod.
“What’ll it be, madam?” He asked, his accent thick enough to cut with a knife. Zeta glanced round momentarily, to see if she could find a menu, but found nothing. Apparently this was the kind of place where patrons already knew what they wanted.
“One Hemingway daiquiri, please.”
The bartender nodded, and began the mesmerizing booze ballet he seemed to love so much. She watched him toss bottles, pour measures by instinct, squeeze fresh watermelon and subject the shaker to a violent frenzy of shaking, before tossing it high in the air, grabbing a glass for her, catching the shaker and finally smacking it on the bar to open it. For as passionate as he seemed to be about his job, Zeta felt sad that he would likely be hauled off the boat in handcuffs soon. Or a bag. She thanked him for the drink, and took a long, slow sip. It was perfectly sharp, cool and strong. She could drink twelve more if she had the time or inclination to. As she took another sip, Zeta noticed the lights begin to dim, and for as much as she would have preferred to look for more ways to get below decks, her intuition picked up on a detail that persuaded her to stay for the show. It was hardly a subtle detail: a lady in an immaculate tuxedo with salmon pink hair had taken the stage, and began addressing the audience with an accent that could not possibly be more out of place if it tried. Zeta took a seat at a table towards the middle of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce your floor show for this evening: please welcome to the stage a once in a generation voice, breaker of a thousand hearts, the wonderful Miss Nerrisa Ravencroft.”
The woman’s Japanese accent was thick enough to resist small arms fire, and Zeta made sure to remember her face, but as the curtain lifted, she found herself unable to focus on much other than the woman now standing in front of the microphone. She was tall, elegant, and wore a long, black dress that cut off higher on the right side. Sequins around the collar glinted and sparkled in the spotlight, and as soon as she opened her mouth, Zeta felt her mind go blank. The band looked like a strange group of misfits, but for the life of her, Zeta couldn’t identify a single detail of their faces