"Rahn Solus? Sure, I know him," Karen Grahart said. "He's a fixer. My father used him all the time."

The RAmarl's words were casual, but that was the only thing about her that was. Her camouflage-patterned uniform, her rigid posture, the razor-sharp edge to her bobbed blonde hair all lent an impression of diligence, of firm dedication to her duty. Which, Ryland thought, suited the pale young woman well. The children of strong-charactered parents tended to either follow directly in their footsteps or take the opposite tack and violently rebel, never finding the middle ground. Karen had done the former, following the military path of the commander of 32nd WORKS, Leo Grahart.

Maybe that was why Ryland had arranged to meet her for dinner at the Four Pillars. The restaurant was elegant and upscale, the kind of place that one went for a special night on the town, unless they were among the city's highest elite. One didn't "eat" at the Four Pillars, rather, one "dined."

Even the décor reflected the atmosphere the place was trying to evoke. The dark paneling and heavy tables weren't real wood, but they were as close to it as replicas got. The cutlery probably was genuine silver and the glasses and plates actual crystal.

Karen may have abandoned her usual uniform in favor of a stylish blue dress—given who her father was, it wasn't surprising that she had access to a superior wardrobe—but her posture, her mannerisms, they were all barracks and battlefield. She stood out, a square peg.

It was said that married couples came to resemble each other over the years. Ryland wondered if that applied to partners as well. He certainly seemed to be channeling Lyon's sense of humor.

"He did?"

"Oh, yes. He was a useful go-between when it was important to maintain a veneer of deniability."

They were interrupted by the arrival of the black-jacketed waiter. No serverbots or teenaged part-timers for the Four Pillars! "May I take your order? Ma'am?"

"The shellfish in Vel Manan red sauce, garden salad, and another one of these." She tapped the half-empty glass of iced lager with a blunt fingernail.

"Very good, ma'am. And sir?"

Ryland pondered the question before settling on the roast duck and suppressing a wince at the price. The chef at the Four Pillars had magic hands in the kitchen, but triple-digit costs seemed high to the Force for something that likely had never been part of an actual duck, any more than Karen's shellfish had ever been in the water. Then again, considering the wide variance in quality among coffee available from various outlets on the ship, perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise that the same would hold true for neomeat preparations regardless of the actual ingredients.

The waiter withdrew on silent feet, leaving Ryland and Karen alone at the table. The gentle strains of music were soft; even the clink of cutlery and the buzz of conversation from other tables was muted. This was not an accident; the large support structures that gave the restaurant its name helped to break up the room, together with paneled partitions with ornate designs where the false wood was "carved" so thin it let light shine through in a deep umber shade. Those who paid the Four Pillars' prices did not want their privacy disturbed by the noise of others.

"Is that all you wanted to ask about, though? Solus?"

Ryland nodded.

"That, and wherever it ends up."

Karen frowned at him.

"Then why did you pick this place?" she asked with a wave of her hand. "Seriously, Ryland, I would have been happy to tell you all about him over the link."

"It's a little sensitive for that."

"Oh. One of those jobs." Karen certainly didn't lack understanding in that area after all she'd been through on her father's behalf. "Even so, we could have met anywhere, a park, a shopping arcade, on an omnibus…"

"I was hungry, and conversation goes well with food, anyway."

Karen glanced around herself.

"Well, as someone who also has an android partner, I can sympathize with the desire to select a restaurant based on the quality of the food instead of the ambience. But still, Ryland, Rahn Solus just isn't worth this."

"Maybe, but you know how it is."

She shrugged, then took another sip of her lager.

"Maybe I do."

They fell silent for a moment when the waiter arrived with their salads. Once he'd gone, Karen picked up her fork, speared a tomato, popped it into her mouth, and chewed.

"These are real fruits and vegetables, from the ship's hydroponic garden," she said. "Maybe this was worth the trip after all."

Ryland figured he got less opportunity to appreciate such things than she did, so he dug into his own salad. Karen consumed hers with, if not exactly gusto, at least a mechanical efficiency suited to a style of eating designed to take in nutrition while artillery fire made up the background music.

"So. Solus," she said, putting down her salad fork. "Like I said, he's a fixer, a go-between. He doesn't actually do or sell anything himself, but acts as a middleman to put his clients in touch with other people who can do or provide what the clients need. For a fee, of course."

"Of course. And that would include, for example, hiring a team of hunters from the Guild," Ryland said in between bites.

"Of course," Karen agreed. "Most of the time it isn't an issue, but if there's a job where WORKS didn't want the hunters to know who was hiring them, or if it might compromise what Father was doing to be observed talking with the Guild, then someone like Solus would be used to conceal what was happening."

"Like that business with the Gran Squall a couple of years ago, where the military used a travel agency as the front for finding their crashed ship."

Karen winced at the reference. The Gran Squall's passenger, Rupika, had been central to Leo Grahart's last, desperate plan, one that he'd barely gotten away from with his life, but with his power base shattered. Possibly, Ryland decided, it had not been the best choice of examples to pick.

"Yes," she said. "Exactly like that."

It was his turn to wince, at the terse tone in her voice. He considered apologizing, but there wasn't much point to it now. She knew that he knew he'd screwed up, and it wouldn't fix anything for Karen if he repeated it out loud.

"Did Solus have any preferred clients?" he took his only course and turned the subject back to safe ground.

"Not really; he had a variety of employers. A man like him loses his value if he comes to be just a front for a single entity."

"No point in hiding your identity, then. Though it would still offer plausible deniability from a legal standpoint."

"That could be important, but it isn't likely to be vital. When it comes time to pay the piper, things tend not to be settled by any kind of official action. Proof and evidence are important only in how they can sway neutral parties to your side in these back-room conflicts."

"Even so, there's some value in it."

"True."

"But despite that, you figure that Solus is a truly free agent?"

She didn't answer him at once, but pondered the question seriously. He took the chance to take another forkful of his salad.

"I wouldn't go that far," she said. "I've never heard of him working for any of the corporate interests—Weinstine, P2E, Vise Corp., none of them. And his dealings with criminal syndicates tend to be on the back end."

"You mean, he'd put a client in touch with thugs, weapons dealers, e-men, or whatever, but he wouldn't actually have one of the syndicates as a client?"

"Right. Solus stuck with more official interests to back his paycheck. Which isn't stupid; Pioneer 2's a closed circle. Here on the ship it's the officials who have the power, even though it's divided up among the three factions."

"And within them. But yes, if he wants money and influence, they're who's going to get it for him if anyone is."

Unfortunately, that did very little to narrow down the question of who was in back of Solus. There seemed to only be one way to follow that trail.

"How would I get in touch with him? I assume it's not just a matter of looking him up in the directory and making a link call, though that would be kind of refreshing."

Karen nodded.

"Yeah, he tries to keep a low profile, as much as you can on this ship. I actually think that he runs multiple identities, so he can disappear into one without revealing himself, and without having to live Downtown among the people he doesn't want to associate with."

"So is there any chance you can help me?"

"I'm guessing that you're not hiring him?"

"He actually hired us, and I'm getting very interested as to why."

"Hm. In which case, I strongly suspect that he will not want to speak with you. His clients' business is his currency, and their trust is why he continues to get work. Don't get me wrong, but I don't want to be associated with setting him up for you, either. It's the kind of thing that would affect my own credibility for hiring contacts like him in the future."

"Is that a no, then?"

She shook her head.

"It's an 'I'll have to be careful how I handle this.' If I can work out a way, I'll help."

"Using a cut-out to get to a cut-out," Ryland said, setting his fork down on the now-empty plate. "This business just gets more twisted by the minute."

Karen saluted him with her glass and drained off the last of her drink.

"Congratulations, Ryland. Welcome to business as usual on board Pioneer 2."

As if he'd been waiting for Ryland to finish his salad, and perhaps he had, the waiter appeared like a silent ghost, bearing their entrees and Karen's fresh drink. The space caused by the enforced silence made Ryland think. "Business as usual" summed the situation up nicely. He'd seen this kind of thing before, of course, plots and spying and go-betweens, and it was never simple. Getting Solus to talk wouldn't be easy, and figuring out what he was caught in the middle of even less so.

And there was something else, too, something that was bothering him. It wasn't anything specific, just a nagging sensation at the back of his mind that somewhere, some way he was forgetting something.

He hated that feeling. The kind of things it went along with always seemed to be the kind that came back to bite him later on.

~X X X~

There was no sound of a shot, just the slap of Rahn Solus's shoes on the floor, the harsh wheeze of the thickset man's breath as his chest heaved with every stride—and the grinding sound of a chunk being taken out of the corner wall even as he rounded it.

Suppressed Gun, he thought even as panic filled him. Probably it was the brain defending itself against the fear of his situation by latching onto a fine detail. Solus didn't use weapons in his regular life, he wasn't a soldier or a hunter, but he knew the business well enough that he knew how the weapon worked. Otherwise looking like a normal handgun, it featured a barrel extension that both rechanneled some of the Photon energy leakage back into the shot, increasing its power, and reducing the sound of the weapon's firing. He'd made many deals arranging for such guns to get into the hands of clients. They were especially popular for firing single shots into a crowded area, so the noise didn't draw the attention of witnesses to the shooter.

Some people might take the position that it was only rough (and possibly inevitable) justice that Solus found himself on the receiving end after years working for people who would care about what it took to best shoot someone in a crowd. He didn't share that belief, especially since his clients' own experiences tended to negate any idea of divine punishment for sins committed. Besides which, the circumstances didn't even match up. Shots in a crowd? Solus would have been extremely happy to see a crowd right about then, be it for witnesses to get his pursuer to back off, for someone to help him, or if all else failed just to provide some obstacles he could use to put between himself and the line of fire. Getting to someplace where there was a crowd was a major goal of his at that point.

He was afraid, though, that the hope was futile.

Solus clutched at his side, at the stitch that was building up from his under-exercised body forced to go at full speed for too long. His breaths were long and ragged and his heart pounded in his chest like a triphammer. The bitter thought struck him that if this kept up his enemies wouldn't need to hunt him down and shoot him; the heart attack would do the job for them. Part of him even wondered if that was the plan, as another shot struck at his heels, to course him to death like a wounded game animal.

But why? That was the worst of it. Certainly, he'd been involved in any number of transactions in which there would be an irate victim bent on revenge, but he was just the middleman. They wouldn't know about him. They wouldn't even be aware he was involved—certainly, never to believe that he was the prime mover. There was no one who would point dramatically and say, "Rahn Solus, I will have my vengeance on you!"

And yet, here he was, racing through empty corridors of an abandoned building with a killer on his trail.

Now he wished he hadn't come here. Had there been anything he should have seen? Anything suspicious in the communication that would have given it away if he'd just looked more closely?

"Gah!"

He gave a yelp of pain as his knee collided with another corner as he rounded it. Solus was winded, staggering, the stitch in his side growing to an agonizing, wrenching pain matching the fresh pain in his knee. From behind him came the steady, measured footfalls of his pursuer, someone who obviously was in better condition. He grabbed the edge of the next corner with his hand and used the leverage to fling himself around it just as another shot whipped past, shattering a darkened display terminal.

He found himself at the top of a staircase. Yes! His flight had been basically a pell-mell rush, but hurtling in the direction of one of the doors, perhaps even subconsciously. If he recalled correctly, there was a street-level entrance three levels down, if he could only reach it…

Solus's pursuer seemed to recognize the urgency as well. The twisting flights of the stairwell would impede line-of-sight, provide cover, and the following footsteps soon grew faster, more desperate. More shots came, multiples this time, in three-round bursts, smashing into walls, railing, steps.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be!" a male voice rang out.

That was the first piece of good news Solus had encountered since he'd arrived. Though he wasn't in the business himself, he'd associated with enough thugs, hunters, and soldiers over his career to know that their type didn't start barking like that when things were going well. Rather, it was a sign that they weren't, and that they wanted to shortcut the process by intimidating their quarry into giving up.

It meant that there was hope.

Throat burning, chest heaving, Solus found the energy to push on faster, hurtling down the stairs at such an out-of-control pace that any more speed and he'd be unable to maintain his balance, unable to keep getting his feet underneath his body fast enough to actually keep moving. He seized the rail at the end of each half-flight, using it and his arm to swing himself around so that he didn't cannon into the wall; it actually felt like he'd wrenched his shoulder the second time but at that point one more ache was nothing. All that mattered was that he did not stop, for he knew that if he did he'd never be able to get himself moving again, and the sounds of pieces being chewed out of walls and steps behind him whenever his pursuer got a glimpse were sharp reminders of the cost of that.

There!

He crashed through the street-level door out of the stairwell, thankfully marked as he'd already lost count of the flights. It swung open beneath his weight, the automatic control apparently off since these levels of the building were not in use but the door left unlocked for manual access. Fire-safety codes, no doubt, making sure that an emergency escape was still a viable possibility.

Focus! Run! Solus told himself desperately as he raced into the corridor. The stairs opened into the side of a hall and he hurtled across its width without being able to hold up, barely turning his body so his shoulder crashed into the wall opposite rather than hitting face-first. Pushing himself, he got going in the direction he was facing before he lost all his momentum, hoping that he was going the right way.

Behind him, he heard the door slam open, obviously with his pursuer bursting out after him, and suddenly fear clamped around Solus's heart. The corridor was long and straight. There weren't obstacles or barriers, no twists and turns to put a wall between himself and the shooter.

He was nothing but a sitting duck, a target in a shooting gallery.

"Aaagh!"

How right he was, was proven in the next moment as a stab of white-hot pain tore through his left side, the Photon round ripping through skin and muscle. Blood gushed, hot and wet, from the fist-sized hole, but Solus didn't even slow up. If anything, the pain seemed to energize him with a shot of adrenaline, pushing him faster, harder. Shock and blood loss could be treated at a medical center, after all—but only if he escaped to reach emergency care.

The pain melded into that which he already felt, the burning in his lungs and throat, the way his heart hammered as if it wanted to batter itself out of his chest, the searing ache of muscles pushed well beyond their normal limits. What the injury really fed was the fear, the first-hand, immediate horror of death. Solus had sent many hunters into the teeth of that fear, but never tasted it himself, not until now.

There!

The corridor opened up suddenly, and he burst out into the building's street-level lobby. He could see the glass doors ahead, and pushed on towards them, a lurching run. They'd either open for him or he'd smash straight through, but either way he wasn't going to stop, not here!

The shadow that slid into his path did so coolly, smoothly, from next to the reception desk. His arm whipped out in a backhand arc, the barrel of the man's pistol crashing into the side of Solus's head and raking down the fixer's cheek.

The blow was a heavy one, and though it was just a crude bludgeoning hit, Solus wasn't wearing a Photon frame that could absorb any of the impact. It staggered him, stars seemed to burst nova in his vision, and as he reeled, the sudden loss of momentum finished him. Stopped, he was a spent force; he didn't have the energy to overcome his own inertia. The pain swelled in his chest, seeming to explode within him, and he collapsed, going over onto his back.

The one who'd been chasing Solus came running up, feet pattering on the floor. The two of them wore the same uniform, and the curious thought drifted through Solus's mind of wishing he knew why these people wanted him dead. It was a vague, colorless thing, though, without any real emotion. The black numbness was swallowing him up.

"I can't believe you let him get this far."

"Yeah, well, it didn't do him any good, did it? Looks like he burnt himself out just making it here."

"Let's just make sure nobody gets cute. They go and Reverser his ass and it's ours on the firing line instead."

He leveled the barrel of the gun at Solus's forehead. By inflicting enough damage to the brain, he could prevent emergency resuscitation methods from bringing the dead man back to life. Photon technology could do what previous generations would have deemed a miracle.

Three nearly soundless trigger pulls made certain Rahn Solus wouldn't be getting one.