Hard Hope

“I’m sorry, Ms Sagan, but we have no record of deposit. If you give me the information, I’ll check with the forwarding department.”

I lifted my head, blinked. No… record?

“Judiciary.” I whispered, then cleared my throat, and repeated it, louder. “Judiciary, Accounts.” I tried to think of the relevant information and babbled. “Rhianna Sagan versus Peero… um… bounties payable? Mission dispensation? Fuk!” My hands went to my hair and I tugged in frustration. Six million, three hundred and five thousand credits gone from my account. Stolen by that miserable, low life, cheating, psychopathic, greedy Rahman!

The woman gave me a bland look, her fingernails clicking on the board.

“Okay, okay.” I breathed organising my thoughts. “I’m a bounty hunter. My latest bounty, Peero, was adjudicated this morning.” She nodded, but continued to type.

Oh, I was so going to hunt Rahman Chezerain down. I was going to hurt him, make him suffer before I dropped him into a nice, fiery sun. How dare he steal from my private account? It was sacrosanct!

Sure, bounty hunters pulled stunts on one another, but nothing malicious, nothing dangerous and nothing illegal.

“Here we go.” She murmured and leaned in closer to the screen. I barely heard her. Rahman was a dead man. I cared not a jot for his threat against my life. I would get to him first. I would strip everything from him: his money – of which some was mine – his ship, his reputation, his everything.

I paced as I envisioned it all.

“Oh, I see.” The woman said into the com mic she wore hooked to her ear. “No, keep going.”

Rahman begging; Rahman realising I was going to kill him; Rahman with a look of rage on his face as I went after his assets; Rahman as I destroyed his reputation and he couldn’t get any work; Rahman as I…

“I’ll let the client know.”

… blew his beloved Star Mistress away. No, as I took legal control because he couldn’t afford to keep her. I felt a smile twist my lips. Ex-lover and partner, soon to be ex-tinct.

I realised the woman was talking to me.

“… so I guess that’s it then.”

“What? What? I’m sorry I was…”

“Plotting revenge?” She said with raised eyebrows.

I stared at her. “How did you… I didn’t know banks employed telepaths.”

She raised her eyebrows. “They don’t… or not that I know of. It’s the look on your face. The one of a spurned woman out for blood.”

I flushed at that. This was the second time someone had mentioned… co-incidence; had to be.

She cleared her throat. “I was saying that the Judiciary Imbursement Bureau had a glitch and that all transactions were suspended.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the JIB doesn’t know what happened, or when. They won’t until tomorrow. Their techs are working on the problem, but they have to backtrack all applications to transfer, deposit and withdraw. The financial security experts will be investigating. I’ve already issued an alert.”

“So JIB will find Rah… the evil bastard who stripped my account.”

“Absolutely.” She tilted her head. “I don’t know how the perpetrator did it, but the investigators are the best in the business. They’ll find the villain and the credits.”

“Thank you.” I said with heartfelt sincerity. “In the meantime, can I change the account?” She shook her head. “How about create a new one?”

“That we can do.”

* * *

Rahman. Named after some forebear, he’d told me once. Supposedly, it meant ‘merciful’. Me, I always thought it a sophomoric joke, like ‘rah, rah, man!’ That he’d fallen back on an old nickname rather than tell anyone his real name; including me, the woman he professed to love. At the time, I thought it cute; he was one of the good guys.

But I’d seen his official licence and it said Rahman Chezerain. Real or not, the best place to start was the top layer of identity and work down to the core of his existence.

This hunt, however, would have to wait until I secured financing. My plans for a major upgrade of the Blue Dragon’s systems… fuel and air bills, docking fees, supplies, my future, all hung on what I decided next.

Oh, I could easily imagine Chezerain laughing up a storm at my predicament. And I knew he’d think it hilarious to push me to do the one thing I’d vowed never to do: access my inheritance.

My father, Ryan Sagan, multi-billionaire, corporate icon, warmonger, psychopath, wife-killer and child abuser, left me… a lot of money.

Blood money. Hush money. Payment for being his child-whore - not because of any remorse.

I found a bar along the dockside, slid onto a seat and ordered.

“Benedict’s.” I growled and the autobot filled a shot glass, placed the viscous black liquid in front of me. I slapped a five credit on the sticky bar surface.

I lifted the glass. Before I changed my mind, I downed it all. It was like swallowing pure chilli sauce: fiery, thick and eye-watering. “Again.”

Three drinks later, I felt a little calmer. At least my hands stopped shaking enough for me to burn with resentful thoughts.

To access the inheritance, I had initiate contact with the account. That meant DNA, retinal and tissue match with the samples held at whatever bank. Because I didn’t know what institution, it also meant visiting my uncle, who now ran Sagan Enterprises, to find out.

My lip curled with distaste. Randall Sagan had the same proclivities as my father, though not to Ryan’s excess. And yes, he’d enjoyed my screams of terror and pain as much as his brother.

I pointed to my glass, my whole body shuddered with memories.

“Consumer warning.” The autobot intoned. “Excessive consumption of alcohol will impair judgement.”

“Like I give a shit.” I glared at ‘bot and pointed to the empty tumbler.

I sipped the concoction, grimaced as my tongue went numb. Benedict’s Black Fire should be downed in one swallow, not rationed like a rare wine. But the ‘bot’s warning eased my distress at facing Randall.

There had to be another way.

I had other accounts, under other names. Getting to them… that was the problem as none of them were held on Columbus. If Rahman knew of them, he’d strip them too.

Did I have enough fuel and supplies to reach the nearest on Wayfarer? I did some rough mental calculations. Only if I went without food, water and air for three days and then shut down the engines to cruise ballistic to the orbital station. I could sequester myself in the shuttle for a week…

I tossed back the drink. In space, minor errors could be deadly.

“I’ll have another, please.”

“Warning: Consumer will exceed recommended level of alcohol consumption.”

“Just give me the damned drink!”

“Warning: Aggressive behaviour will be reported to the nearest authorities.”

Lords of Space spare me from over conscientious autobots! But a night in lockup was one night I couldn’t afford. I couldn’t afford to be downing drinks, either. I rubbed my eyes and sighed.

“May I have some coffee, please?”

The autobot hummed as if agreeing caffeine was the best thing for me. It placed a steaming cup and saucer in front of me.

After a sip, a new thought occurred to me; one that didn’t involve a re-acquaintance with my sick and twisted uncle.

* * *

The black business suit changed my attitude as well as my look. Gone were the functional, multi-pocket trousers, the mud-green t-shirt and black combat boots. In their place, I wore a grey, Mandarin-collared shirt, tight waist-length, lapel-less black jacket, knee length skirt and high heels with anti-grav tech for that ‘walking on air’ feeling.

While I looked like the professional businesswoman, I also loaded up with weapons – ceramic based knives; no point in setting off the alarms. The small, square bag held all the documents I needed, and more ceramic weaponry.

Dockside, I made some calls and caught a tram downtown to the business sector.

The Sagan building rose four hundred stories into the cloudless blue sky. Not the tallest building in the city, but close to it. It covered four blocks and narrowed at every story to flat broad penthouse. Up there is where Randall sat, overseeing a vast empire of millions of employees galaxy-wide.

I walked into the glittering foyer. Glass, mirrors, and water, all reflected ambient light to sooth and calm workers and visitors as they went about their business. Ryan Sagan built his empire on the ashes of war, poverty, interstellar transport and government contracts.

I eschewed the receptionist counter and strode to the private, family-only elevator, pressed my thumb against the single button.

The elevator stopped on floor 327. Far enough from Randall, but still too close for my personal comfort. I stepped out onto dove grey carpet and turned left, away from the rabbit warren of workers. I checked the signs and followed one to the Under-Manager, Corporate Finance. I didn’t need to see Randall for the account, I could register with the Finance Department and they’d give me access.

The receptionist, all buffed blonde and immaculate tailoring, looked up at me from her terminal. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Ms Carpenter, please.” I said in my best professional voice.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But…”

“Then I’m afraid she won’t be able to see you now. Can I ask you name and a time for…” She checked her diary. “Next Tuesday?”

In lieu of an answer, I reached into my bag and pulled out my identification, handed it to her.

“Bounty Hunter?”

I cleared my throat. “Check the name on the licence.”

She looked again, her skin paled slightly. “I’ll see if she’s available, Ms Sagan.”

It didn’t take long for the woman to reach the doors of the inner sanctum and open them for me. “Could I offer you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you.” I smiled and turned away from her.

Sarah Carpenter oozed competence: intelligent, piercing grey eyes, short, easy-care sable brown hair, cool expression, wrinkle-free, expensive clothes and a firm handshake.

When I told her what I wanted, she happily obliged; filled out forms, checked my identity and handed over a copy of the portfolio. I thought it just one account, but she’d managed one account into a portfolio of term deposits, shares and investments. I liked her.

With a smile of thanks, I went back to the elevator, glowing with success. The money was mine, I didn’t have to see Randall, and I could get away from the teeming hordes and hunt Rahman down.

I pressed the down button and read the first page of the documents. Sarah’s acumen boosted the bottom line by over fifty percent in the last five years. Under-Manager? She should get a promotion!

The elevator doors opened and I immediately knew something was wrong. No foyer noise, no sound of people coming and going, just the quiet of a private floor.

I slowly lifted my eyes and felt my heart pound with fear.

Randall stood in front of me. He lifted a remote, waved it. “Shame you didn’t use the public elevator. I can’t over-ride that.”

I ignored his polite smile, stared into his eyes. What I saw chilled my blood.

“Surely you didn’t think to leave without saying hello to your favourite uncle?”

© Copyright Jaye Patrick 2008