A Line Drawn in Quicksilver: The Quicksilver Adventures, #2

ONE

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You don't make art out of good intentions. Gustave Flaubert

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Silver Tation was breaking fast with his assistant in the dining room of the Lunar Lights hotel when the name Amanda Lavender caught his attention. It had taken two years for her to come to trial and a guilty verdict to be rendered, but that was almost a month ago. Are they still talking about that? He glanced up at the ubiquitous billboards.

You can thank Val Lee for the publicity. He's been keen to distance himself from her, and showcasing her depravity shows he's not partial. Grace Reyes drizzled sweet golden syrup on the last of her strawberries with exquisite precision.

I'll add him to my list of people to 'thank', but it’s not inconvenient enough to make the top of the list.

Val Lee’s choice to broadcast snippets of the trial was only an inconvenience because Ingle Addison, attorney for the defense, had insisted on smearing Sil’s name.

As for Ser Addison, Sil had already set in motion his revenge. The attorney lived right here in Terrebonne, Luna, and although ze'd thrown Silver Tation's name out as the true perpetrator of the murder Amanda Lavender had committed, ze’d never met Sil. Which worked out very well for Sil, very well indeed.

Speaking of priorities, how much longer until you finishing fleecing the good Ser Addison? Grace asked before lifting a strawberry to her mouth with slender metal fingers.

Not so very long, my dear. Two weeks at the most, they call it a long con for reason. He looked at the empty plate before him. Didn't I have some scrambled egg left..?

Mmm, she said, as much of an admission of egg theft as he was likely to get. What I mean to say, boss—we were in the pretty until you needed that outrageous sum for the convincer and I thought ze’d be convinced by now. She gestured at the nearly empty plates spread across the table. I love living this way, but we'll be on government love, soon.

Everything will be fine, he said with a careless wave of his hand. He didn’t normally let his accounts get so thin, but Addison had proved difficult without a convincer; a hefty return on his initial investment had turned the trick.

Sil had tagged a couple of trusted confidencers he’d worked with in Imbrium to help him out set up the game on Addison. He'd adopted the persona of one of his aliases, Sealfor Argent. Ser Argent was a serious, but friendly businessperson with a ready smile and a unique investment opportunity.

Terraforming research was big business on the Moon, primarily Imbrium. Sil's fake company had discovered, he informed Addison in the utmost of confidence, the secret to rapidly creating atmosphere. It was so revolutionary, Silberbesteck Terraforming needed their own facility to prove they weren't basing it on the work of other companies. Silberbestek was without doubt the future of the Moon and Mars. Addison had been more than eager to invest.

I applaud your optimism, but ‘two weeks at the most’ is a good week beyond our budget, said Grace.

I've not been spending money on flowers, he offered. Playing with the lovely Vincent is saving me all manner of money. You worry too much.

That's what you pay me for, at least for a few more days, she grumbled before lifting another strawberry to her mouth. If you were paying flowers, we'd have had this talk weeks ago. Your romance with Vincent Montrose was supposed to result in work. For pay, she added, pointing a sticky finger at him.

Have you seen the adverts for the Milky Way Arts Festival at Phobos Station?

She gave him a long, deliberate stare as she carefully wiped her fingers clean. Who hasn't? But what does an arts festival have to do with anything? She pushed aside her plate and crossed her arms on the table.

Colonial Insurance is sending dear Vincent along to keep an eye on things. Or to reassure people. Something like that.

And?

And he's taking us with him, Sil said smugly. As consultants, or somesuch. Really, just to be there in case any valuable art goes missing. Ideally, something will. Then Sil could find it as a freelance insurance recovery agent.

Grace pressed the cart call button and started stacking their dishes. We're not going to be responsible for any art going missing? My contacts deal strictly in gems.

No, no, entirely not my intent. But it would take care of our living expenses for a couple of weeks until this investment scheme I’ve lured Addison into happens to fail spectacularly. And there will be plenty of people there with more money than they rightly know what to do with. We might manage some amusements for pocket credits.

I'd have thought you wouldn't find a warm welcome on Phobos Station. Grace loaded the hotel service cart, and gave him an expectant look as it rolled away.

The Lavender family might own a goodly portion of the station, but they don’t know my face. Besides, the festival will be held in the conference hall. Completely self-contained, entirely risk free. The bays once used to construct and transport various pieces of Martian architecture had been converted to rental space, complete with cafeterias and dorm style rooms in addition to the usual conference facilities. It even had its own docking bay, so as not to trouble the station's permanent residents.

I suppose three weeks of paid accommodation and meals would cover us until you can deliver the coup de grace to Ser Addison, she admitted, not looking particularly happy. 

***

Sil and Grace disembarked into the chaos that was the Phobos Conference docking bay. What ought to have been well-organized was a noisy crowd as several ships disgorged their passengers at once. Personnel in bright green, raglan-sleeved blouses seemed to be trying their best to sort it out. Grace held tight to Sil's elbow as he deftly navigated through the sea of people to another green-garbed person, armed with a stack of flimsies. A festival guide, she hoped.

Pardon me, Sil said. Where might I find room assignments?

As consultants for Colonial Insurance, they were booked for the full three weeks of the festival. Most visitors, as Grace understood, purchased tickets in three day blocks, which would ensure a steady stream of new faces to amuse Sil, should Vincent Montrose prove an insufficient distraction.

The person Sil queried gave him a harried smile. What name, please, Ser?

Silver Tation, and my assistant, Grace Reyes.

Ze gave Grace a double-take, staring at the metal plate covering the lenses that replaced her left eye. With a slight flush, ze blinked, eyes tracking from side to side as ze accessed a database via the unnaturally green contacts. I don't have either name listed. Ze gave Grace a disapproving glance from eye plate to her metal fingers on Sil’s sleeve, as if she was the reason ze couldn't find their names.

Grace had grown used to the greater acceptance of her mechanical parts in the inner colonies, but as indentures were ripped up on Titan under the new regs, more and more cyborgs were making their way sunward. They came with other Titanese, newly freed from the debt bondage system, with all their anti-cyborg prejudices intact, and finding new ground for them. She didn't like it, but she could live with it.

She could see by the slight tightening of Sil's mouth he was not amused. Perhaps we are under Colonial Insurance, Sil suggested, his voice still affable.

Zir eyes tracked again on unseen data and ze offered another smile. Sorry, Ser. Is there any other name you might be listed under?

Try Vincent Montrose, Grace suggested, ignoring Sil's astonished look.

Ah. Montrose, Vincent, yes, Ser Tation, Ser Montrose is expecting you. Room 220, wing four, level two. Ser Reyes, your room is 221, also wing four, level two. Do you need a map? Ze brandished one of the printed flimsies.

Thank you, Ser. Sil took the map and they eased through the crowd to join those waiting for the lifts.

Ser Montrose is expecting you, Sil, she mocked.

I wonder if he's waiting to ambush me in my room, he said, turning the flimsy in his hands to determine