by Bruns, David
Her face twisted. Put him in a freezer? Shove him into space? Her grandfather never ceased to establish a new line of decorum—usually a step and a half past the old line.
“You really just have to remember one thing,” Simon said, reaching out to take her hand. “We’re put here to do good, Bekkalleh. That’s really what loving God boils down to. Anything else is just Man placing himself at the center of the universe.”
Bekah nodded.
“I’ll do my best to be a good Jew for you, Opa,” she said because she had to say something. Then, with a wicked look because she felt wicked in that moment: “Just this once.”
“Well, Bekkalleh,” Simon said, settling back into his stack of pillows, a smile of contentment creasing his lined face, “that, as they say, is a good start.”
Chapter 7
Ruben Qinlao • Darkside, the Moon
Ruben smelled the Fleshway before he stepped onto it.
The double-wide corridor reminded him of an image of an Earth river teeming with spawning fish—frenzied and frantic to keep moving. Body odor rode atop the smell of reconstituted food stuffs simmering in the open-air bazaar lining both sides of the corridor, which was dotted by dark, grayish puddles. Lit up with every man-made light source, from solar-celled to neon, signs flashed easy access to cheap diversions. Exotic names like Persephone’s Underworld and the Arms of Artemis. Ruben got why they called it the Fleshway, and it wasn’t just that sex peddlers dominated the landscape of businesses. The constant press of moving, mingling bodies made any other name simply inaccurate.
A man stumbled nearby, cursing, then turned and kicked what had tripped him: a second man sleeping in the muck along the wall. Something yellow and dried stained the ground beside the unconscious man’s head.
Ruben tried breathing through his mouth, but that didn’t help. It only gave him the impression he was tasting the reek. Knowing he’d simply have to get used to it, he clamped his teeth shut and stepped onto the boulevard, avoiding elbows where he could.
“Watch it, buddy,” a man nearly Strunk’s size warned.
“Sorry,” Ruben replied.
The lights flashed, bright and quick. Persistent, over-the-top advertising? No, that was there too, but this was different. The wall lights on both sides of the Fleshway went dark in a rolling wave. A low murmur of irritation came from the crowd.
Emergency lighting engaged, casting the entire corridor in dull crimson.
Appropriate for a red-light district , Ruben mused.
Another man bumped into him hard and nearly lost his balance. Ruben reached out to steady him.
“Thanks.” The man was thin, unshaven. He might have been in his mid-twenties but looked twice that age. “Fucking brownouts. If Cassandra can fix the power grid, I’ll vote for her for fucking queen.”
The main lights reengaged. The crowd shared a communal, unsatisfied sound of complaint.
“These brownouts, they happen a lot?” Ruben asked.
“Yeah, all the time.” The man looked at him funny. Looked at him closely. “You’re not from here, huh? But you look familiar. We met before?”
Ruben’s eyes darted away. “Don’t think so.”
“Yeah, but you look familiar.”
“In this place, how can you tell?” Ruben said, attempting a joke. “Everyone looks the same.”
Unamused, the man grunted. “Yeah. Fucking SynCorp. Can’t even keep the power grid stable. Wait till the gravity falls to lunar norm for a few seconds and you lose your lunch, newbie. That takes some getting used to. If that Cassandra bitch can fix all that, she’s got my vote.”
Ruben nodded, feigning a keen interest in a distant shop. “Best place to find a friend here?” he asked to change the subject.
“Arms of Artemis,” the man answered. “Minerva Sett’s place. Warm, wet, and modestly priced. I’m not talking about the drinks!” Cackling, he walked away. Then, over his shoulder: “Price is the only thing modest in that place!”
The man was soon lost in the crowd. Had the guy recognized him? The possibility that he had was enough. Ruben spied a narrow alley next to a restaurant advertising dishes made not from reconstituted protein paste, but with real chickens imported from Earth.
Above the restaurant and the other shops were tenements where Fleshway business owners likely lived. Close to their wares, a natural deterrent to thieves. And practical, if what the man said about Darkside’s gravity generators was true. No one likes a commute where the artificial gravity randomly fails. Clothes hung on a line between the two narrow alley walls, drying in the fetid air.
The alley was barely lit and appeared deserted. The lemmings on the Fleshway behind him were minding their own business.
A good way to stay alive.
Ruben slid into the space between the buildings. There was a brown, hooded cloak hanging on the line. He pulled it down and put it on. It smelled of must and moondust. Covering his head with the hood, Ruben stepped quickly to the mouth of the alley again, then reentered the river of people navigating the boulevard.
Fischer’s directions to Brackin’s back-alley practice had been both specific and murky. Beyond the Fleshway, Ruben found what Fischer had called the barrio—a multistoried, open rotunda of shacks and rundown tenement housing with causeways arcing across a great open area piled with refuse. Ruben recognized the open area as Challenger Park. In his teen years, the green space had been bright with sunlight reflected through the solar collectors built into LUNa City’s massive dome. He remembered residents laughing there, pretending they were still on Earth, surrounded by its green grass and leafy trees but without worry for the weather. The park had once been a place for picnics, and Ruben had relaxed there with friends. Looking at it closely now, he could see movement beneath the refuse. Rats, maybe. The residents in the surrounding shanty levels seemed to discard trash by tossing it down into the park. Like people centuries before had once emptied chamber pots into the public street below their windows.
Challenger Park, where he’d shared picnics with friends, now stank of rotten food and worse.
Worse than the Fleshway, if that’s even possible.
Darkside had been known as “a SynCorp shithole” for years. The place where those who were too sick or unwilling to work called home, collected and housed there by the Company. Before today, Darkside’s reputation as a literal dumping ground for SynCorp’s castoffs had been abstract, a theoretical construct in Ruben’s mind. The old-young man’s endorsement of Cassandra was making more sense. Ruben wondered how many other sympathetic souls her Soldiers would find among Darkside’s dilapidated tenements and shanty towns.
He ascended one of the arching causeways and strode over Challenger Park below, fighting the temptation to look down. Ruben exited the barrio along a corridor much narrower than the Fleshway, and it led him to a slightly more upscale neighborhood of homes and businesses.
A woman leaned against a narrow storefront with a sign reading Eros Erotics overhead. Smoke rose from a cigarette perched between two fingers. She was dressed in what passed for provocative in Darkside—a man’s shirt tied up to draw attention to her breasts and fishnet stockings full of holes.
Noticing Ruben, she stood up and dropped the cig. “You look the mysterious one,” she said, licking her lips and grinding out the butt with her stiletto. “I like mystery. Name’s Ionia.”
There was no one else in the corridor. Definitely a quieter quarter of Darkside. Brackin’s practice should be around here somewhere, if Fischer’s directions were right.
“I hope you can help me, Ionia,” Ruben said from beneath his hood.
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I hope I can too.”
“I’m looking for a doctor.”
She removed her hand. “Are you, now?”
“Name of Brackin,” Ruben said.
The woman clasped her palms together as if trying to restrain her hands. It was an odd pose for a member of the oldest profession. In different clothing, she
might have been a nun.
“He’s about half a block north,” Ionia said, jerking her head. “He’s got one of those swirly snake staff thingees next to his door.”
“A caduceus?”
“Yeah, the med symbol that sounds like a sneeze.” She leaned back against the shop wall again, reached inside an invisible pocket, and withdrew another cigarette. “Only it’s upside down outside his door.”
“Okay, thanks,” Ruben said, striking off in that direction.
“Hey, Robin Hood,” she said, her free hand extended. “Information ain’t free. Nothing here is. How about some consideration for a working girl?”
Ruben paused. Best to pay her and avoid a scene.
“Of course. I should’ve thought.” He brought his wrist up, and she did the same, ready to transfer SynCorp dollars between their two syncers.
“Hey, what is this?” she asked. “What are you trying to pull?”
He stared at his bare wrist. His syncer was gone.
Had he lost it in the crash? If so, he’d also lost access to the millions of dollars in the Qinlao cash reserves. Or maybe it had been the big guy on the Fleshway, the one with the attitude. Or the old-young man he’d asked for directions. Maybe one of them had stolen it. Or any one of a hundred others he’d brushed against to get here.
“Oh boy,” Ionia said. “I’ve seen that look before. You’re new here, huh?”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Well, honey, you just go on down to the doc’s, then. But don’t expect much. He don’t work for free neither.”
She turned away, her eyes searching for another john, and stowed the cig again without lighting it.
Ruben restrained his step as he walked to Brackin’s door. The double-snaked caduceus, the symbol of medicine, hung next to the door—upside down, as Ionia had said. Ruben knew nothing about Brackin, but if he were practicing among the beggars and thieves of Darkside, he wasn’t sure he could trust the man. That Brackin came on Fischer’s recommendation did little to improve that opinion. But, Ruben realized, he was a beggar himself. Not many choices here. He knocked.
A small window slid open at eye level.
“Yeah?”
Ruben cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Isaac Brackin.”
“Okay,” the man said. “He ain’t here. I’m his assistant. No new business today.” The small panel began to close.
“I can make it worth his while.”
The man made a sound in the back of his throat. “Everyone says that. No one pays that.”
“Hey, Doc!” came a voice from inside. “I already paid that—so switch it on!”
The man in the tiny window grimaced.
“Dr. Brackin, I presume,” Ruben said. “Fischer sent me.”
Brackin regarded him a moment. “Should’ve led with that.” Multiple locking mechanisms disengaged from the other side of the door. Brackin swung it open. “Hurry up, get inside!”
Ruben entered the small room. It was both a receiving area and a living room. A screen hung on the wall with a constant feed from The Real Story .
“Doc…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brackin said, returning to his first customer. He passed a device next to the man’s forehead. “Better? That should hold you another week.”
A smile spread across the young man’s face. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah…”
“Hold it, don’t go into fantasyland in my place. I don’t want to have to drag you out of here and dump you in the alley.”
“Okay, yeah. Okay.” The man shuffled out on his own. Brackin secured the door behind him.
“You’re a Dreamscape dealer,” Ruben said.
“Who isn’t? Cash is cash.”
“I can see why you hang that symbol upside down outside your door.”
“If you’re from the Morality Police, you should have a badge or something,” Brackin said. “Now, what do you want?”
“I need you to come with me,” Ruben said. “I have a friend who’s hurt. Requires a doctor.”
Brackin scoffed. “Bring him here. I’m not going anywhere.”
A katara knife appeared in Ruben’s hand. He turned it to catch the light.
“Now, hold on—” Brackin began, focused on the knife. Then his eyes flattened, and Ruben was sure he was focusing on his sceye’s display.
“Don’t call for help, or you’re dead for sure,” Ruben said, advancing. “The alternative is more wealth than you’ve ever seen before.”
Brackin’s gaze refocused on Ruben. “What do you want?” he asked again.
“I told you. I need you to come with me.”
“I’m no idiot,” Brackin said. “I go with you, I’m as good as dead.”
“Fischer said to remind you of Jack Hade. Said that memory should overcome any reluctance you might have to help. Said to tell you this would clear that score.”
Brackin swallowed. Hard. “Come where?”
“Pack your medical bag.”
• • •
The return journey to Point Bravo was close, intimate. A compromise in two men quick-stepping among crowds and walking slowly in sparser areas to avoid unwanted attention and security cameras. Brackin wasn’t in a talking mood. It took a couple of long, silent hours to reach the abandoned sounding station.
They came up from the mouth of the tunnel and entered the small room where Tony Taulke lay. His color had become more ashen since Ruben had left. Beads of sweat dimpled his forehead. His mouth hung open, slack in sleep.
“Where the hell are we?” Brackin asked.
Waking from a doze, Strunk rose to his feet. “This the doc?”
“Yeah.” Ruben removed the heavy cloak and hood. Though the tunnels weren’t on Darkside’s gravity grid and only exerted the pull of lunar nominal, his feet were killing him.
Brackin stared at Strunk, who’d stood up. He seemed fascinated by the barrel-chested assassin, like he’d discovered a new species. Or maybe a missing link.
“I’m not the patient,” Strunk said.
“Okay.”
Ruben tugged on Brackin’s elbow, pointing him to Tony’s unconscious form.
The doctor tossed his bag on the ground beside Tony. “His color looks bad. That’s a nasty knife wound.” He looked at Ruben. “You do that?”
“Not me.”
Brackin stared more closely at his patient, trying to see past the cloudy skin and grizzled face. “He looks familiar. Where do I know him from?” His gaze found Ruben again. “You look familiar too, without the hood.”
“Let’s play catchup later,” Strunk said, hovering over Brackin.
But the doctor’s eyes had gone wide. He jerked his gaze back to Ruben, then back down.
“That’s Tony Taulke! Holy shit!” Brackin started to rise, but the weight of Strunk’s hand kept him kneeling. “You want me to help Tony Taulke?”
Ruben put a hand on Strunk’s arm.
“And you’re Qinlao! You’re both all over the newsfeeds. You’re wanted men!”
“It’s nice to be wanted,” Strunk snarked.
Ruben ignored him. “Treat Tony, and you’ll go free. With more cash than you’ve ever seen.”
Brackin was shaking his head. “Even if there weren’t bounties on your head, I wouldn’t treat this sonofabitch.” Strunk hissed, shaking off Ruben’s restraint. Brackin continued, “SynCorp’s who took my license away, stuck me in the bowels of Darkside to—”
A stunner touched Brackin’s temple.
“It’s time to forgive and forget,” Strunk said.
Ruben gave Brackin a moment to think through his options. Then, “We can all get what we want here. But first things first.”
The doctor seemed paralyzed. “If they know I’m helping you, they’ll kill me.”
“They aren’t here,” Strunk said. “But we are. Fix Tony or die trying. Or refuse and just die.”
Brackin opened his bag.
Chapter 8
Kwazi Jabari • Valhalla Station, Cal
listo
Kwazi walked into the training arena and was surprised to find it filled with chairs. After Carl Braxton summoned him, Kwazi had half-expected an unscheduled VG simulation, another attempt to literally keep him on his toes. Or, at least, off his ass. Their last session without the pads hadn’t gone well, and Kwazi had the still-forming bruises to prove it.
But this was no variable gravity exercise. Standing inside the doorway, Kwazi took it all in. The long gauntlet he’d run so many times had been converted to a long, narrow briefing room. That made a certain kind of sense. The training arena was the biggest underground space beneath Braxton’s bar, so if you wanted to conduct a major briefing to the troops, this was the space for it. A mobile display stood at the far end, its screen frozen with the mirrored-serpent image of the Soldiers of the Solar Revolution. Twenty or so members of the SSR milled about in quiet conversations. Kwazi recognized some of them, but the majority were strangers to him. Braxton stood near the front, talking with a man and woman. The tech who’d managed Kwazi’s simulations, what’s-his-name, was laughing about something with another Soldier.
“Hey, Kwazi.”
He turned to find the familiar face of a man he hadn’t seen since escaping the Pax Corporatum .
“Abrams?”
“Yeah, man. You remember Faelin, right?”
Kwazi shook the woman’s hand automatically. “Yeah, of course,” he said. Abrams had introduced him to Dreamscape. He’d made it possible to reconnect with Amy, to resurrect her, to have a relationship with her at all. He owed Abrams. The woman, Faelin, had been there too that night, deep in the bowels of Tony Taulke’s flagship, high on Dreamscape.
“Good to finally meet you,” she said. It was strange, Kwazi thought, meeting her for the first time after they’d almost died together, lost in their separate Dreamscape fantasies. “This is going to be an amazing day.”
