Ustari Cycle 00,5 - Fixer Read Online Free
Author: Jeff Somers
put this on me out of charity. If all it took was sitting in a fucking office, he didn’t need Tricksters to do it.
“Up,” I said, “or I’ll have my friend here treat you like a chew toy.”
Charlie twisted his lips to the side and glanced at Mags, weighing the possibility that he wasn’t nearly as mean as I’d trained him to look. Then he sighed and stood up, plucking a huge ring of keys from his desk. “Fine. You want to get soaking wet, ain’t gonna argue.” He stepped around the desk to the door, where a blue parka, still damp from the rain, hung. He slipped into it and opened the door. “Come on.”
“I’m already soaking,” Mags whispered unhappily, and I had to swallow a smile of pure love.
We followed him into the gloom and the damp, back into the maze of man-made canyons and the stinging rain. I wondered what was in each of these containers, where it was headed, how much of it had been brought in by mages like Heller—or more powerful than Heller—using a Cantrip here and a Ward there to slip something past everyone. I was slowly coming to understand there were more ustari in the world than I’d ever realized. I’d spent years searching them out. When I’d found Hiram, when I’d stumbled on him stealing pastries and other small things with a pinprick of blood and some whispers, I thought I’d found something rare. But they were everywhere, now that I knew how to look. Like rats, but in disguise.
We emerged into the wide, flat dock area, where a dirty-looking ship roughly the size of Texas and boiling over with the multicolored containers waited. Big cranes swung what looked like complex bridges over to the boat, where they were lowered in slow, graceful increments until they settled on top of a container and clamps snapped into place along the edges. Then they swung gently up and away, lugging it like a brick into the air. A weird-looking truck with dozens of wheels that made it look like an insect sat parallel to the ship, and one of the containers was being lowered precisely onto its back.
Charlie produced a handheld device with a cloudy screen and worked the buttons. “Your Mr. Heller’s container is third in line after this. It’s gonna be a few minutes, like I said.”
I nodded. My hair was soaked and my feet felt damp. But I just stood there and nodded, because I was Lem Vonnegan, tough guy. Who liked to get into poker games with other Tricksters without realizing it; who thought he was the only bright boy in the world who’d ever imagined using simple, dumb tricks to fleece people out of money.
I’d been spending too much time with Mags. I was getting his stupid all over me.
Charlie looked back at me, expecting us to head back to shelter, but I ignored him until he gave up and settled in for the wait.
Watching the containers be unloaded was hypnotic. It was like some huge, real-life video game—the containers monumental blocks, a giant claw trying to snare them from the pile. One, two, more of the big metal boxes were clamped onto by the big crane and gently lowered onto the waiting tractor and motored off. The industry on display, old-fashioned and honest and accomplished without a single cut or drop of blood, was exhausting. I imagined working this hard and didn’t like it. Three saganustari , one cut above Hiram in skill and willingness to bleed people to death, could have unloaded the boat in minutes. And they would have needed nothing more than a few people to bleed dry in order to do it.
I’d once asked Hiram how he found volunteers for the bleeds. He just laughed, so I should have known right then. Four weeks later, I was out of his house.
“Here she comes.”
It looked like every other container. It was yellow with orange edges, as a guide for the crane operator, with black lettering peppered all over it.
“Lem,” Mags whispered.
I glanced at him without moving my head. I was getting to know Mags’s body language a little. He was like the Eskimos in that
“Up,” I said, “or I’ll have my friend here treat you like a chew toy.”
Charlie twisted his lips to the side and glanced at Mags, weighing the possibility that he wasn’t nearly as mean as I’d trained him to look. Then he sighed and stood up, plucking a huge ring of keys from his desk. “Fine. You want to get soaking wet, ain’t gonna argue.” He stepped around the desk to the door, where a blue parka, still damp from the rain, hung. He slipped into it and opened the door. “Come on.”
“I’m already soaking,” Mags whispered unhappily, and I had to swallow a smile of pure love.
We followed him into the gloom and the damp, back into the maze of man-made canyons and the stinging rain. I wondered what was in each of these containers, where it was headed, how much of it had been brought in by mages like Heller—or more powerful than Heller—using a Cantrip here and a Ward there to slip something past everyone. I was slowly coming to understand there were more ustari in the world than I’d ever realized. I’d spent years searching them out. When I’d found Hiram, when I’d stumbled on him stealing pastries and other small things with a pinprick of blood and some whispers, I thought I’d found something rare. But they were everywhere, now that I knew how to look. Like rats, but in disguise.
We emerged into the wide, flat dock area, where a dirty-looking ship roughly the size of Texas and boiling over with the multicolored containers waited. Big cranes swung what looked like complex bridges over to the boat, where they were lowered in slow, graceful increments until they settled on top of a container and clamps snapped into place along the edges. Then they swung gently up and away, lugging it like a brick into the air. A weird-looking truck with dozens of wheels that made it look like an insect sat parallel to the ship, and one of the containers was being lowered precisely onto its back.
Charlie produced a handheld device with a cloudy screen and worked the buttons. “Your Mr. Heller’s container is third in line after this. It’s gonna be a few minutes, like I said.”
I nodded. My hair was soaked and my feet felt damp. But I just stood there and nodded, because I was Lem Vonnegan, tough guy. Who liked to get into poker games with other Tricksters without realizing it; who thought he was the only bright boy in the world who’d ever imagined using simple, dumb tricks to fleece people out of money.
I’d been spending too much time with Mags. I was getting his stupid all over me.
Charlie looked back at me, expecting us to head back to shelter, but I ignored him until he gave up and settled in for the wait.
Watching the containers be unloaded was hypnotic. It was like some huge, real-life video game—the containers monumental blocks, a giant claw trying to snare them from the pile. One, two, more of the big metal boxes were clamped onto by the big crane and gently lowered onto the waiting tractor and motored off. The industry on display, old-fashioned and honest and accomplished without a single cut or drop of blood, was exhausting. I imagined working this hard and didn’t like it. Three saganustari , one cut above Hiram in skill and willingness to bleed people to death, could have unloaded the boat in minutes. And they would have needed nothing more than a few people to bleed dry in order to do it.
I’d once asked Hiram how he found volunteers for the bleeds. He just laughed, so I should have known right then. Four weeks later, I was out of his house.
“Here she comes.”
It looked like every other container. It was yellow with orange edges, as a guide for the crane operator, with black lettering peppered all over it.
“Lem,” Mags whispered.
I glanced at him without moving my head. I was getting to know Mags’s body language a little. He was like the Eskimos in that
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