Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Military? Name, wristband and serial number? They sure as hell drank enough.

Some of them, though, looked like something else entirely.

“Who’s up then? Go on, you know you want to.” Commanding the tables was a small, tightly sprung woman, rattling a leather cup in one slim hand. She was the first exotic Ecko’d seen: skin, hair and eyes all different shades of bright yellow-gold. She almost glowed in the sunset. His heatseeker showed skin-warmth, a fierce energy that burned from her like she was radioactive. In each of her cheekbones was embedded a pale stone like an opal, cooler than her skin, but shimmering in the dying of the light.

She wasn’t beautiful, but the force of her presence was undeniable. Her deft fingers cleverly flicked the angles of the cup.

Almost in spite of himself, he grinned, a slash of darkness buried deep under the cowl. Looks like we got us a card sharp. He spun his telescopics and watched.

“C’mon, then!” She was daring them. “Doesn’t Larred Jade compensate you? You can’t all be cleaned out.”

“CityWarden doesn’t compensate us!” Ribald challenge and friendly abuse answered her, the gaggle of onlookers called for drinks, bets.

At the bar, an older bloke nudged his mate and called, “Go on, Triqueta, take ’em all on!” There was laughter.

Still flicking readouts, Ecko watched.

Across the scarred tabletop, one man unwrapped a red, metal bracelet – copper? – and chucked it into the pile, another had a chip of stone, striated with colour.

The woman, Triqueta, chuckled and rattled the pot again. The slanting sunset edged her in bright neon – she was a holo-projection, a fantasy. She had the room and she knew it. Grinning, she threw her hair over her shoulder – but the move was a distraction. Ecko’s targeters caught it: her other hand was twisting the cup with a long-practised gesture.

You cheeky fucking bitch...!

She was cute, all right, smart, fast and intruig–

Oh for chrissakes.

In his head, brakes screeched. Long wheals of rubber scarred his thoughts as they careened to a dead stop.

You hafta be kidding me.

The blatancy of the gameplay floored him completely. For an endless, timeless moment, Ecko’s breath was a ball of disbelief tight in his throat.

Basic instincts... no way...

In front of him, the woman called, “Any more?” She mock recoiled, laughing, as they cussed her.

On the bar top, Ecko watched, now captivated for a completely different reason. He could see what Eliza was trying to do, see the moves that she was making...

Oh no you fucking don’t. This is one damned psych test I can’t take.

A leering patron whispered something in the woman’s ear.

She laughed, but her elbow in his chest sent him crashing to the floor, his ale – splosh – in his face. Around him, guffaws and slow handclaps celebrated his fall.

The blow wasn’t malicious – but was hard enough to make the point.

Sera shifted, a gentle ripple of warning. Ecko stayed exactly where he was, barely daring to breathe in case she looked up and that cleverly orchestrated gold chain snapped shut its last shackle...

C’mon Eliza, don’t do this one...

The woman rattled the dice one last time, then threw them across the table. They clattered to a stop. A circle of groans echoed round her. A couple of gamblers scraped back stools and headed for the bar.

“Wish I knew how she did that.” The older man at the bar shook his head and his companion chuckled.

“If you did, mate, we’d all be living like lords in a Padeshian brothel.”

They turned back to their ale jugs, chuckling.

Unmoving, his cowl down over his face, Ecko watched motionless, as though he could see the very fractal ripples spreading from this single, poised moment...

So. I go one way, the pattern does one thing, I go the other, it does something else? Which way’s right, for chrissakes? Which way gets this damn thing done?

Beside Triqueta, her admirer was picking himself up. He was clearly absolutely rat-assed: stumbling, muttering, his movements erratic. As the woman dropped the dice – one, two – back into the pot, he plonked himself by her side and reached for the jug.

His movements were slow, blurred by booze, but deliberate.

Watching the tableau unfold, Ecko was utterly silent, caught on a realisation – on the apex of a sudden, adrenaline rush of understanding.

It wasn’t just this decision – it was all of them. His every choice, tiny as it may seem, would affect everything else that he did, everything else that happened around him and to him and so on...

Jesus. Trying to wrap his head round the sheer size of this was gonna drive him batshit.

“’Nother round then!” Triqueta rattled a cheerful, rhythmic tattoo with the dice pot, caught the sightline of one of the vets at the bar and winked.

The bets started again – and a round of jeers as several of the soldier types shook their heads and pulled out.

Beside her, the leerer had descended into glowering. He refused to bet, just sat there, hands round his mug. She gave the pot a final shake and threw the dice again.

The groans redoubled. A pile of treasure was pushed over the tabletop.

The drunk muttered, “I saw that.” He came to his feet, swaying slightly, then sat back down with an unsteady thump. He was shit-faced, anger rose from him like whisky fumes.

Sera was already moving, swift and quiet. Ecko’s targeters hit there , there and there. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve kicked the fucker into the middle of next week, rescued the damsel and made his decision, made the pattern ripple and change round him...

But he had a better idea.

No, Eliza, I hadda give up girls. My mom told me.

Grinning, he slunk from the bar top like a sliding shadow, a soundless, scentless patch of darkness that flowed across the floor.

“I said I saw that!” The drunk was up and reeling. “You damned cheating bitch.” Turning to glare at her, he made a clumsy grab for the pot. “Damned Banned – you’re all fil–”

Sera didn’t get close. A sharp back blow of the woman’s fist broke the drunk’s nose. He spluttered and fell back, a hot rush of blood exploding down his already-soaked shirt.

“I warned you once, sunshine.” She dropped the pot, stepped back from the impact, hands wide, but her sharp, yellow eyes looking for the next threat. “You saw that, right?”

“Oi!” Another of the grunts was on his feet, stool going over “You’re out of line, bitch!”

“Don’t sweat it, mate,” a third one answered him. “He had that coming.”

“Chearlshit. If she’s not damned cheating...!”

“I’m not cheating , you sonofamare.” Triq wiped her bloody knuckles on her breeches and grinned. “I’m just lucky .”

They were all moving now, stools crashing backwards, raised voices, accusation and drunken indignation. The two older guys at the bar rolled their eyes and set down their mugs.

Ecko was close, so close, he was almost under the table.

Brawl kicking off in t-minus...

“Enough!” The doorman’s bark reverberated from the walls. He had the bloody-nosed drunk by collar and belt – a moment later the guy was sailing out of the door and into the dust.

Triqueta backed up, hands still wide.

“Hey, you know he had that coming.”

Sera nodded brief assent, rounded on the nearest and loudest. He closed a fist in the front of the shirt thing the bloke had on, and propelled him smack back into the wall, snarling. Karine reached for a bottle.

For a moment, Ecko thought she was going to smack the nearest patron over the head with it and he grinned. Any second now...