Jackpot Kingdom: Karnish River Navigations, #5

By Sean Monaghan

The city of Turneith. Right at the edge of the ancient canal lands. Beautiful. Teeming. Dangerous.

Survival goes to those with the sharpest wits.

When an illegal gambling operation turns deadly, investigators Flis and Grae find themselves caught in a whirlwind of intrigue.

A Karnish River Navigations novel from the author of Athena Setting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Triple V Publishing
• Release date: Jun 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201367428

Sean Monaghan

Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music. Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music.

Book preview

Chapter One

Flis Kupe stared at the crack in the glass in the tiny, underground restaurant. The glass had to be a good three centimeters thick. As if designed to be underwater rather than underground. As if meant for a spaceship.

A crack couldn't be good.

The glass had the faintest amber tint to it. It wouldn't be a surprise to find an insect trapped in it. Whether for real, or as a kind of a joke. Fifty million year old tree sap that had rolled over some hapless mosquito or ant, preserving it through the eons.

The window looked out into a narrow kind of courtyard just a few meters across. There were a couple of tables out there, one occupied by a young couple having a near-silent argument over the menu. Female-male. He had a cheap prosthetic arm. Obvious in the jerky motions of the fingers. She was wearing a black skullcap that ran just above her eyebrows, around halfway over her ears and around the back of her head. Two wires hanging down there, like shortened rat tails, one sky blue and one blood red. Almost lost in her tangle of dark curly hair.

They were eating the bread from the basket, sipping from the water.

Beyond their table the restaurant's access stairway led to street level. Railings allowed the passersby to see down. A hovering sign displayed prices and menu items, and sometimes an animation of the chef preparing the food. It looked kind of kooky from Flis's angle.

The place was called Gombolli's Fry and Pasta. Ordinary place, really.

Flis's table was made from genuine wood. Teak, perhaps, or more likely walnut. Two antique-style seats, one either side, made from the same wood.

There were huge farm groves of the stuff out to the west, beyond the lake country. The table top was circular, less than a meter across. Chips and gouges in the edges where people had slipped with their knives or banged their buckles or bag straps.

In the middle was a tiny automatic slot where her chosen condiments, and napkins and cutlery would arrive when she'd ordered. A tiny projection of the menu scrolled across the table's glowing surface.

The salmon looked good. But so did the venison. Seared the menu said with dill and rosemary, over an open flame. Succulent.

Around her the restaurant hummed.

There were more than a dozen tables, most bigger than her own. About half were occupied and there was only one other person on their own. A man in his nineties, wearing spectacles and with his gray hair in a bun. Unlike Flis, he didn't appear to be waiting for anyone. He was tucking into a bowl of pasta.

The lighting was dim and the decor was dark. One wall had a vast, floor to ceiling painting of the ocean depths. A giant tentacled creature wrapped around a struggling submersible. It wasn't exactly relaxing, but it did bring a certain feeling to the restaurant's ambience.

Opposite the painting, the back quarter of the restaurant was occupied by a long bar counter. Six stools, all unoccupied. Racks of fermented beverages behind. Some in glass bottles, some in steel and some in wooden flasks. A couple that were ground gray-white stone, with odd pictograms etched into the face.

Expensive stuff.

From the corner of her eye, Flis glimpsed someone starting down the stairs from street level. A man. Long coat, broad-brimmed hat. The woman looked his way and waved.

He waved back. Joined the pair at the outdoor table.

Not the person Flis was waiting for.

A cherry-red light flared on Flis's table.

Time to order. Like a few restaurants in Turneith, Gombolli's tolerated patrons delaying their orders. But like all, only for so long. Even with empty tables, they still encouraged you to at least order something.

She tapped at the projected menu and ordered a bread basket with dips.

Should hold them off for a little while.

Besides, she was a little hungry. Early afternoon and she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Someone else started down the stairs. Woman, maybe early twenties. Blonde hair up in liberty spikes, and a tight swirl of a dress changing colors in slow motion. She stopped just a few steps down. Touched the side of her head and stared out into space.

Perhaps she was chipped.

No. She had a very slim curved wire across her ears and nose. Looking into a retinal projection.

A moment went by and she turned and headed away up the stairs. Lost in the maelstrom of the Turneith foot traffic.

The slot in Flis's table's center opened and a canister wound up and tipped over with a quiet clatter. The end opened, revealing the little package of napkin, cutlery and tiny condiment packs.

The restaurant's sole waiter strode from the corner, carrying a tray. He had to be under twenty, with a tawny fuzz around his cheeks and chin and upper lip. He regarded her with dark eyes as he placed the basket of bread next to the cylinder.

Thanks, Flis said.

You're welcome, he said, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

After a couple of seconds, she said, Was there something else? Perhaps he thought he recognized her from somewhere.

There, he said, turning his head to look into the restaurant's back corner.

Flis followed his gaze. Right against the screws on the unfortunate submersible another woman sat at a table.

Flis hadn't noticed her before.

Odd.

Shortly, the waiter said, I will bring you a Nzaxta coffee. That customer has paid for it and asked me to deliver it.

And tell me?

Yes. This is part of my instructions. She's tipping very well, but I think she also knows the restaurant's owner.

Gombelli?

Frans Gombelli is long dead. Coda Enthast is the current owner.

Flis tucked away that piece of information. You never knew when something might prove useful.

The significance of the coffee? Flis said.

Nzaxta coffee was a rare delicacy. Ancient beans now grown in highlands in a few remote locations. As far as she knew, there were no locations here on Paulding. Everything was imported from off world.

It had to be ten years since she'd drunk a cup. Depending on supply, a single espresso could cost as much a meals for a whole family. Including dessert.

It will have a nanite. A probe that will interact with your arlchip and transmit all the data, connection and information required to convey the reason you were asked here.

Flis licked her lips.

My arlchip is non-functional, she said.

A half-truth.

Ex-military, with years of off-world fighting, she'd had the arlchip--an analysis capacity enhancing brain implant--partially removed before she'd returned home to Paulding.

With the job done off-books in a back alley, the success had been limited. The arlchip still communicated with her, but it was sporadic and unreliable.

If she was honest, she probably preferred it that way to not having it at all.

The condition of your arlchip is beyond the scope of the information I was asked to convey, the waiter said. He seemed a little nervous.

You just mean that she didn't mention that. You're just delivering a message.

He nodded.

Well, Flis said. I look forward to receiving this coffee. Especially since I'm not the one paying.

Chapter Two

From above the restaurant, up on the street, came a squeal and the blare of a klaxon. Some glitch in the traffic management systems and someone had cut someone off. The traffic in Turneith could get dreadful. The city was sitting at around ten million population, but had a design for over twenty million.

Tall looming structures that from a distance made the central area look like a clump of boda grass. Vast networks underground, and a remarkable, complex canal system.

Sitting near the ocean at the edge of the rich Karnth plains, with the river running alongside, Turneith was one of the biggest cities on Paulding. At one time the planet had been home to almost a billion, but that was down closer to a hundred or two hundred million, depending on who you spoke with.

The diaspora following the wars, where hundreds of new planets opened up, had been rapid and surprising.

Flis picked up one of the bread slivers from the basket on her table. A triangle cut from flatbread. There were two dips, a white togdash and a creamy-tan hummus with inclusions. Were those miniature peppercorns?

It didn't matter. She dipped and took and bite and it was delicious.

She tried not to glance again into the restaurant's back corner. At the woman sitting there by the unnerving painting of the vessel and denizen of the deep.

Flis smiled to herself. The painting was doing its job. Keeping her amused and keeping her in the restaurant. It was unnerving in a good way, really.

The waiter approached again, carrying a wide saucer with a large curved cup. Not quite a bowl, but close to it.

If an espresso was worth five meals, with dessert, how much was this lake worth?

Compliments of our other guest, the waiter said. Would you like something else? The trout today is very good. Or if you'd like a sweet, there's a fresh batch of tiramisu and I would love to serve some, since otherwise I'm going to end up eating too much of it myself.

He was smiling. Quite the charmer, and salesman.

Flis looked into the coffee. The surface was a foamy mix of white and soft brown. There were sprinkles of cinnamon across the top. It looked quite delicious.

Did you have simple bos steak? she said.

Vat-grown, not once live. We can do rare or medium, but chef's fussy about well-done.

She was just putting off drinking the coffee.

A nanite within.

Why was she worried?

Seasonal vegetables? she said.

Or off-season. The strip broccoli is every good. Sautéed with dill and rosemary.

Flis smiled at him. Wasn't that one of the things the claimed to be very good at?

All right, she said. A vat-grown bos steak, medium-rare, with unseasonal vegetables.

Coming up, he said. I'd ease up on the bread, though, this steak can be filling, and you'll want to eat the vegies. Chef does them to perfection.

Sounds fabulous.

The waiter departed and Flis picked up the cup. Put it to her lips.

Decorum.

She needed to at least appear unconcerned.

Trouble was, what exactly was the nanite? How small? People tended to bandy the term around, meaning any machine from microscopic right up to the size of the thumbnail on a pinky finger.

She didn't have anything that could properly examine the coffee to determine what the nanite's make up was. If her arlchip was fully functional, it might be able to make an analysis through her optic nerve.

If she'd brought along a rippletalk, she could have dipped the corner in and gotten a full analysis right away.

Flis was wearing dark blue leggings with a pair of blended walking boots. Both extremely comfortable. Really good for striding around the streets of Turneith. Above, a simple white shirt, with a smart jacket over the top. The thing could lengthen and exude a hood in case it rained. A good thing, given the frequency of rain in Turneith.

In one pocket, she had a simple flattalk. Like a rippletalk's little brother. Very little brother. A square, slim card that was pretty dumb on its own, but could connect, through the jacket, to the system back at the investigative office she shared with Grae Sinder.

Kupe-Sinder Investigations. Pretty straightforward really.

She slipped the card out and leaned it against the coffee cup.

You don't need to do that, a voice said.

Flis looked around.

The woman from the back of the restaurant. She was standing just a couple of feet away.

Not looking at Flis. Rather, she was staring at the painting.

Quite evocative, don't you think? the woman said.

Why am I here? Flis said. Why don't I need to check what it is you want me to swallow?

I think the artist has fabulously captured the drama of the situation without getting too depressing, yet neither becoming too cartoonish.

We can just talk, Flis said. You don't need to implant something in me. Infect me with something.

Oh, the woman said. But you're already infected.

Chapter Three

Flis sat staring at the coffee on the circular walnut table. The basket of breads was still there. Triangular and long and circular. Some flat, some well leavened. The idea was to sample different things.

The waiter had suggested that she go easy on the breads. That the steak and vegetables would be enough.

She would want to eat all the vegetables, apparently.

She looked up at the woman again.

When you picked up the cup, the woman said. The nanite was on the exterior, keyed to your DNA.

So that it attacked her, but not the waiter.

You've tricked me, Flis said. She needed to get back to the office and get a medical diagnosis. They had sufficient systems in place for that.

Grae could run it.

She needed to call him.

Outside, the woman with the skull cap was arguing with the two men. The tendrils of wires at the back of her cap twisted and shifted like angry snakes.

Would you have agreed to the job otherwise? the woman at Flis's table said.

Flis gave the smallest shake of her head. Most likely, yes.

You're my last shot here. I think you would have walked away.

So, you resort to manipulation and blackmail as your strategy?

The woman shrugged. Excuse me, but the circles I move in, that's de rigueur. Eat or get eaten.

Then I feel sorry for you.

The woman laughed.

Over at the restaurant's counter, the waiter was standing watching. Impassive.

We want to engage your services, the woman said. Things are time sensitive. If you succeed, then I can have the nanite destroy your malfunctioning arlchip.

Flis felt a response right there. Angry. Defiant.

Grae would tell her it was a good idea. That she'd grown attached to the malfunctioning arlchip.

He would be right.

What do you think of that? Flis asked silently.

The arlchip didn't respond. That was more usual these days. Her own doing. She almost felt guilty.

The arlchip wasn't alive, but sometimes seemed that way. It had its own personality and quirks. Almost like a vague companion. Someone who sat across from you on the train, reading some book the whole time, and only occasionally putting it aside to make conversation.

Or some snide comment.

Destroy my arlchip, Flis said. My question is, how is it that you know about the arlchip? Actually, two questions. Why would you think that it's malfunctioning?

The woman smiled again.

We've not been properly introduced, she said. Perhaps I should sit down.

With that, she pulled out the other seat and sat.

You can call me Meredith, she said, leaning her elbows on the table. Meredith Boulden.

Chapter Four

Meredith Boulden seemed to be somewhere in her fifties. Skin in good shape, but with a softness to it, and a slight coarseness that showed the years. She might well have had work done. DNA therapies. Nanites in her blood, even.

Clearly she knew about nanites.

She was wearing a lightly furred coat, as if expecting the day to cool later. Underneath she had a crisp, dark blue shirt and black trousers. On the shirt's lapel, a brooch flickered with iridescent colors, blues and golds, as if reflecting her mood.

Back in the restaurant's kitchen, something sizzled loudly. Someone yelped.

I do so like these quaint little places, Meredith said. Where someone actually cooks your steak by hand and barely a robot or automated system in sight.

What do you need from me? Flis said.

Internally, she said, Arlchip, please give me an evaluation of nannites in my system. Probably bloodstream.

No response.

As kind of expected.

I have a competitor, Meredith said. He is as evil as the night is dark. And not the kind of dark in Turneith, I'm talking about the dark out in the canal lands. About the dark between stars.

I understand, Flis said. Competing at what?

Business, Meredith said with a smile.

What kind of business?

Meredith leaned back in her seat. She touched her left ear, just tugging at the lobe. It could just be a nervous habit, or it could easily be a control system activation--something internal like Flis's arlchip--or it could be a signal to someone.

Flis started as the waiter appeared. That thought of Meredith's touch on her ear being a signal.

But he just had Flis's meal. The bos steak with vegetables, on a square plate. A drizzle of black sauce on one corner and a sprig of parsley opposite.

Bon Appetit, he said.

Thank you. Flis took the fork from the canister.

The waiter looked at Meredith and she waved him off.

As he departed, she said, Money business.

Flis didn't respond. She took the knife and, holding the steak with the fork, began cutting. The meat was soft and red. Tiny rosemary leaves clung to it and the smell was delightful.

She popped a piece in her mouth and it was good.

What I need from you, Meredith said, is for you and--

What I need from you, Flis said, still chewing. Her mother would tell it was rude.

Meredith's eyebrows rose.

Yes? she said. What you need from me?

Is to have the nannite removed.

Really?

Right now.

I don't have the facility for that at all.

Yet you had the facility to have it bond to me. Keyed to my DNA.

Meredith glanced toward the waiter. He stood his ground. Held her gaze.

Good for him.

Outside the woman in the skull cap stood and stormed up the stairway. The two men sat, perplexed and baffled.

Then the answer, Flis said, is no. We don't do business that way. We have standard contracts. With a base range, a per diem, an expenses clause and a results bonus. All right in there. Plain language. Easy to understand, even for someone like you.

Meredith laughed.

Flis took another piece of steak, partnering it with a broccoli floret. It was all very delicious.

We do get results, Flis said. We find missing pets and surveil errant spouses. We locate stolen and hidden money. Time to time we even lead the cops to make good arrests.

Meredith nodded.

Flis took some more food. Talked around it.

What we don't do is blackmail. Manipulation. Whatever you might call it. If you want to do business with us, sign a contract and, when the job is complete, you pay us. It's a very simple transaction.

You're very naive, you know that?

"No. I like to think the best of people. Despite what you've done, I still believe you can make good on it. You have the code to disable to nanite, however that works. Otherwise, I'm no use to you. You're looking for my skills to get the job done. Whatever the job is. You think that I won't take it,