Codename: Night Witch by Cary Caffrey Page B

Industries. And for a most impressive fee." The elderly solicitor held the contract close to her face, squinting. "Goodness, dear, you are worth a fortune!"
    "Thanks." Sigrid snatched the printout from her wrinkled fingers, folding it back into her coat. "I trust you'll keep this confidential?"
    "My dear, discretion is our specialty!" She raised her right hand as if making the most solemn of vows. Sigrid did her best not to roll her eyes. "Attorney-client privilege and all that. We have several confidentiality packages designed to suit any budget. Exactly how, er, discreet would you like us to be?"
    Sigrid frowned; she knew when she was being extorted. "How much will it cost to get you to forget I ever came in here?"
    "Ah! The deluxe package! I'll have my clerk add it to your bill."
    Sigrid paid the solicitor's fee on her way out. More than two thousand in adjusted Federated dollars. Completely outrageous. But at least she had the information she needed, even if it wasn't what she wanted.
    Standing on the steps, she did her best to make some sense of everything, but she couldn't. Her mistress, Lady Hitomi, had sold her. And to Coran Industries—and Randall Gillings, of all people. Why? There had to be some reason. And wasn't Gillings dead? He was the chairman of the Council, wasn't he? Weren't they all dead?
    No, Sigrid doubted that very much. Gillings had proven his resourcefulness on Bellatrix. If anyone could survive a coup, it was Randall Gillings, and the contract seemed proof of that. But it still didn't answer the question: why?
    The news, the lingering questions, made for a bleak ride back through the Crossroads.
     
    ~ - ~
     
    The sun had already set when she parked the longspur outside the Starlight Lounge. It was a large shack set amongst stacks of shanties. Smoke drifted from a tall chimney. The smells of cooking wafted towards her. She could swear she caught the scent of freshly baked bread.
    Sigrid pushed the half-length double doors aside as she entered. While rough around the edges, the lounge proved to be clean and homey enough. And crowded too. An old electronic piano sat in one of the corners. Its keys were yellowed and chipped in places, and while it looked like it had been the source of much music and merriment in its day, it sat unused and silent.
    A group of rough-looking men and women looked up from their steaming bowls and bubbling pints as she entered, though they turned away quickly when she drew her riding coat aside to expose the shining recoilless strapped to her hip. She wanted no trouble tonight—for their sake, if not for hers.
    Jaffer was nowhere to be seen. Sigrid found a vacant booth and slid in. A hand-printed menu offered everything from empanadas to torta negras. Putting the menu aside, she flipped on the viddi-monitor embedded in the tabletop. The news machine wasn't free, and her eyebrows were raised high as she was asked to feed more and more wrinkled bills into the hungry slot. It took more than a hundred adjusted Federated dollars before the monitor blinked on, granting Sigrid access to the networks.
    News from off-world was nonexistent—more probably, it was banned outright. A host of local newsfeeds provided at least some information. Most of the stories were focused on the war between the CTF and the Independents. The Council forces had been all but routed in the South, but there was a new push coming from the North, and the acting council was making grandiose proclamations of reclaiming the Earth.
    It wasn't difficult to read between the lines. The CTF was losing. Even now, the Independents stood on the edge of Buenos Aires. If the Federation's capital were to fall, Sigrid knew it would be all over for the CTF. Not just on Earth, but everywhere.
    And while war and rebellion raged around them, the Consortium, indeed, the Crossroads, stood on its own, squeezed between the two factions. The sooner Sigrid was gone from this place, the better.
    There were other articles. Mostly