10,000 Bones

by Joe Ollinger

  This is a stall tactic, and I know it. I keep backing up the ramp, toward the open entrance in the side of the shuttle.

  “Stop right there or we will fire!” shouts an Oasis PD officer, aiming from a kneeling stance.

  The SPS Captain pulls the mic away from his mouth and approaches the city cop. He quietly puts the guy in his place, and I keep stalking backward.

  A shot rings out. A sharp pain shoots through my calf, but I’m able to remain standing, only clipped by a low-caliber pistol round.

  “Dammit,” the SPS Captain orders into his microphone, flustered. “Stand down! Stand down! Do! Not! Fire! She could damage the platform and the ship.”

  “That’s right!” I call out. “Back off. I’m going to board the shuttle, but I mean no harm to anyone, and in fifteen minutes I will surrender.” Threatening, I add, “But if you attack me, I’ll have no choice but to pull the trigger, and that’ll be on you.”

  More police are arriving, including SCAPE private security and a deployment truck with Collections Agency heavies. I quicken my pace, holding the fuel canister over my chest and neck, keeping it between me and the police. The ramp is long and steep, and I feel the warm blood trickling down my shin, soaking through the shabby leggings I borrowed from Ali Silva’s mother, but in a few seconds, I’m out over the deep shaft in the ground, staring down into the deep circular wall reinforced and heavily lined with ablative plating, in which the spacecraft sits. Two more steps and I’m at the entrance of the shuttle, looking through the door. Time seems to slow.

  The SCAPE Short Range Planetary Transit Vehicle is a long, thin craft, which uses a controlled fusion burn as propellant. It has a maximum range of nearly five billion kilometers, but in this system, they never go farther out than the Orbital. The model has been in service for over three solar decades, and this particular craft looks nearly that old, its hull brighter in some places where the lining was recently replaced, darker in others from the char of atmospheric reentry. I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these, and there’s something surreal about stepping on board.

  The floor is only about a meter square, a mesh landing port for service crews to step on. The chambers of the ship are wide open, all the way to the bottom, about ten meters down. A pair of crew in spaceport jumpsuits is securing cargo on the lower level. They look up at me in alarm, putting their hands up as I aim my pistol at them.

  17

  A few minutes later I emerge from the spacecraft and step back out onto the loading ramp. The crowd of authorities has grown, and a perimeter has been established with cones and pylons and police tape. I can’t see any snipers, but I know they’ll be set up by now, so I keep the fuel canister high, trying to deny them a clear shot. Next to the SPS Captain, two cops hold Brady Kearns by the arms, his hands cuffed behind his back. He’s disheveled and bleeding from the forehead but apparently otherwise unharmed. At the SPS man’s other side is my boss, Captain Knowles, a pissed off grin on his face, a sloppily tied tie around his collar.

  The SPS Captain holds a hand up. “Hold your fire!”

  I take a deep breath, clutching close the fuel canister and the package I took from the ship. The slim, airtight item is my last chance, and barely better than a wild guess.

  “I am offering to surrender,” I announce, “on one condition.”

  The SPS Captain holds the microphone to his mouth. “What is that condition?”

  Moving slowly, I drop to one knee and place the fuel canister in front of me, keeping the revolver aimed at it. I reach up under my cap with my free left hand, and I can sense dozens of trigger fingers tensing as the cops below bristle, tightening their aim.

  I hold up the item I’ve pulled out, showing it to them. My test kit.

  I fling it to the pavement below, and many of the cops brace themselves, expecting it to explode, a few of them murmuring amongst themselves when it doesn’t. I toss down the package I took from the shuttle’s cargo hold, and it lands near the test kit. My life rests on the contents of that package, and I chose it on little more than a vague hunch. It sits there for a lonesome moment on the pavement, a single-serving container of SCAPE Long Haul Food, packaged in compostable black with a colorful image of the meal emblazoned on the front.

  “Test it,” I say. “That’s my demand.”

  The SPS Captain and Knowles stare at it for a second, puzzled, then confer with several policemen. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but a couple of the officers look like they’re making emphatic points, probably urging caution, arguing that there’s no reason not to wait for a bomb robot to arrive. But after a long, tense moment, the SPS Captain steps away, ducks under the police tape, and goes to the package himself. As the dozens of gathered officers look on, he kneels down, and, with great caution, opens my test kit and removes a chem strip. He hesitates slightly when he opens the long haul food, as though expecting an explosion or burst of poison as he peels back the wrapping.

  But none comes. Inside the package is nothing more than a mundane little meal, supposedly curried beans and rice, formulated for an efficient diet over an interstellar journey of a year or more, though from where I’m standing it just looks like a spot of white next to a spot of gray brown.

  I dare not blink as I watch the SPS Captain gently swab the test strip across it.

  It’s too far away for me to make out the color. I hold my breath while the Captain stays kneeling beside the package, his face concealed from view as he stares down at the result.

  He rises to his feet still holding the test strip as he raises the amplifier microphone to his mouth. “All officers stand down,” he says. “Agent Dare is to be taken in peacefully.”

  The confused police lower their weapons, and the Captain calls up to me, “Agent Dare, you can come down.”

  Suspecting that this might be some kind of ruse, I pick up the fuel canister and hold it up in front of me as I walk down the ramp. As I approach the SPS Captain, Knowles ducks under the police tape to meet us, a couple of Collections heavies trudging after him in their armor.

  “Captain Knowles,” the SPS Captain says, “I will be releasing this person into your custody, as it appears that this has become a Collections Agency matter.”

  He holds up the test strip, offering it to Knowles to take. One side is brown, smeared with residue from curried beans. The other side is pink.

  18

  Twenty-five minutes have passed, according to the clock ticking on the monitor, and Brady and I have not said a word to each other, even though we’ve made eye contact a few times over the false-wood conference room table. Maybe we’ve come too far together, maybe neither of us knows where to begin, maybe we’re both too exhausted for words. The blood has dried on his forehead, caked into some of the hair on his temple, and his blue suit is torn and dirty. I probably look even worse, still wearing the tattered dress and leggings I borrowed from Ali Silva’s mom. Medical foam is sealed dry over the two bullet wounds I took.

  At minute twenty-six, the door opens and Knowles walks through it holding a tablet. “All right, easy part first,” he says, turning toward Brady. “Brady Kearns, the Collections Agency is honoring you with a special medal of service for your contributions. In the eyes of the government of this planet, you are a hero.”

  “Hey, a medal,” the auditor replies, a wry but tired smirk on his face. “Super.”

  The Captain faces me with a dour frown, sitting down and folding his gnarled hands together on the table. “As for you, Dare,” he says, his demeanor not noticeably more gruff or hostile than it normally is. “As for you and the reprehensible, unsanctioned, absurdly destructive escapade you’ve engaged in over the past weeks . . . ” He pauses, watching me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “In light of details that have come up regarding the man you shot at the SCAPE Bank, it appears that your actions were at least partially justified.”

  “The courier in the red hat had ties to Aaron Greenman?” It makes sense,
but I’m surprised they’ve uncovered it already. Maybe the old man got sloppy at the end, figuring I’d be too dead to follow up.

  “Essentially, yes,” Knowles answers, “We traced a payment he received back to a SCAPE slush fund. My guess is that the guy demanded to be paid in a hurry, so they had to do an electronic transfer rather than cash.” Getting himself back on track, he admonishes, “That said . . . I recommended that the prosecutor file charges against you for resisting arrest, obstruction of justice, trespassing, terrorism, and destruction of property. All of those are supported by sufficient evidence, and they’ve all been filed against you. You’re going to slide on manslaughter and murder on self-defense and necessity. You’re on unpaid administrative leave . . . not that the pay matters much at this point . . . and your sidearm and ride are being held by IA.” He pauses again, probing for a reaction, and again I don’t give him one. “However,” he says, “you’re to be released without bail, and I’ve been told the case is likely to be dropped in its entirety.”

  I finally react, letting out an audible breath of relief, almost unable to believe it. Knowles is right. I broke a lot of laws, and they have to at least charge me. But somehow I doubt a conviction will come down. “That’s . . . that’s great news,” I mumble.

  Knowles gives a dismissive wave. “Some stupid thing about public outrage.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. Leaning closer, he looks at me, dropping his perfectionist attitude of disapproval for the first time I’ve ever seen. “You can have your job back if you want it, Dare, but I don’t know how long we’ll be in business around here. I guess we’ll see.”

  I can sense some sadness in him, some uncertainty. He’s built his life on this work, and now there may not be a need for it. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He gives a slight nod toward Brady. “I’ve heard the recording the auditor made in the hangar. I know what you sacrificed. I’m the one that’s sorry.” He reaches a thick, gnarled hand across the desk, and I shake it. “Thank you for your service, Dare. I wish you the best.”

  “You too, Captain.”

  Knowles stands up to leave but pauses at the door. “Oh, Dare?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is not goodbye. I need you back here at thirteen hundred hours tomorrow to go through your guncam footage.”

  He leaves, and Brady and I are alone. “So,” he says, “the world comes crumbling down.”

  “I was tired of holding it up anyway.” I stand, stretching my sore back muscles. “I’m out of here.”

  Brady follows me out into the hallway. “You know,” he says, somehow without a hint of anger, “I went way out on a fucking limb for you, Taryn.”

  “That kind of language is not befitting of a hero, Brady.”

  He smirks. “So it’s Brady again. I guess that’s good.” As we step into the elevator, he asks, “Are you going to explain how we got here or what?”

  I can’t help but mock him with a grin. “You mean you need an explanation? The Commerce Board’s new Junior Auditor hasn’t figured it out on his own?”

  “Deputy Auditor. Seriously, how did you know it was the long haul food?”

  “Lucky guess?”

  “Fine, Taryn,” he snaps, stiff and dignified. “Fine.”

  “I’m messing with you, Brady.”

  The elevator opens at Dispatch, and we both get out. It’s the middle of the night, usually a quiet period, but right now it’s busy. The few Dispatchers on duty are struggling to deal with agents lined up with their safeboxes trying to cash in their takes, and a whole squad of fully armored heavies is arguing with their CO in the far corner. Some of the monitors at empty Dispatch desks are playing news feeds, headlines flashing about economic panic and market crashes and currency supply. The story must have leaked somehow.

  Figuring I may as well give Brady his explanation now, I take him aside, leaning against the wall. “Here it is. Dr. Chan hired Troy Sales shortly after treating a SCAPE pilot, Frank Soto.” My logic seems to solidify for the first time as I voice it aloud. “Strangely, Chan didn’t have any records of what ailment Soto was suffering from. Chan got weevil cultures somehow, and the theory that made the most sense was that Chan discovered some illegal plot, and that he used his discovery of that plot to blackmail someone involved into giving him the eggs. Looking back at the timeline, I saw that the first time Chan saw Soto was just weeks before the three thousand unit payment to Troy Sales, and treating a weevil shuttle pilot for some unnamed medical problem seemed to be as likely a moment of discovery as any.” I take a breath. Looking back on it, I can barely believe I connected all these dots. “So when I started to suspect that what Chan discovered was a plot by the Commerce Board and SCAPE to remove calcium from circulation to keep the currency value up, that made me think Frank Soto’s unnamed illness may have been related to calcium intake. He would’ve been getting too much, rather than too little.” Almost as an afterthought, I add, “Must have been a kidney stone.”

  Brady is speechless for a moment, astonished. “He was a long haul spacer before he was reassigned. Did SCAPE put him on the weevil shuttle to set him up as a patsy?”

  A good point. I shrug. “SCAPE or the Commerce Board.”

  Brady regards me for a moment. “Bravo,” he says, sincerely. “Bravo, Taryn.”

  I hold back an involuntary smile, admittedly pleased with myself. “You’re supposed to say brava to a woman.”

  “Pretty sophisticated,” he says, “for a farm girl.”

  Before I can respond, a female voice calls out my name, “Taryn! Hey!”

  I tense for a second, still on edge after nearly a full week of being hunted down by killers. But the voice is Myra’s, and she’s in civilian clothes coming through the doors. She walks up to us quickly, and I throw my arms around her in a hug. “Hi, Myra.”

  She releases me, emotional. “You made it.”

  “I did.” I can barely believe it myself. “Did you pick up a night shift?”

  She shakes her head. “I was called in. They need extra help. For some reason a lot of agents are trying to cash out early.”

  “You should cash out too, Myra,” I blurt out. “These people know something you don’t.”

  “What?”

  I nod toward the monitors playing the Brink Planetary News Service’s live feed. We step closer to one to get a better view. The tickers scroll financial data for the two major Brink markets and several off-world exchanges, and the video cuts among various live footage. “. . . crash is expected to become even more severe when markets open officially in the morning,” the anchor is saying in a serious but not particularly assured tone, the way they do when the news is breaking and the writing team hasn’t had time to give the show any structure. “Off hours trades are already tracking for a nearly eighty percent drop across the board. On the consumer side, meanwhile, some of Brink’s largest retailers are holding emergency meetings regarding pricing. Shoppers may expect to see higher prices on nearly every purchase item as soon as the opening of business tomorrow morning . . . ”

  “Holy fuck,” Myra whispers, “what is happening?”

  “The short story is that there’s more calcium than we thought,” Brady answers.

  “I wouldn’t worry about your shift,” I tell her. “This place might have to do some downsizing pretty soon.” Sensing her shock and confusion, I hold her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Myra. And I’m sorry I haven’t been a better friend lately. I owe you so much.”

  She looks around, at the agents arguing with Dispatchers over cashing in their takes, at the video feeds on the monitors, at this room where she’s worked for years. She’s tough, but I can sense her vulnerability. “Is this goodbye, then?”

  “Only if we let it be. I’d probably be dead if not for you. I owe you at least another drink.”

  She smiles. “I won’t turn it down.”

  “I can go out in public now, and I feel like taking advantage of it. And, you
know, society as we know it is ending. Why don’t you come out tonight, have some fun?”

  She seems tempted, but then shakes her head. “I’m not going AWOL in a crisis. Not my style.”

  “Of course not.” I put my arms around her in a hug, something I’ve somehow never done before. “You were there for me when I needed you, Myra. Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  She plants a quick, impulsive kiss on my cheek. “Get outta here,” she jokes. “I got no work for you.”

  That gets a smile out of me, which seems to amuse her. She sits back down at her post, and I turn and walk away. Brady follows me out of Dispatch, and as we enter the hallway and the big metal doors to Dispatch close behind us, I wonder out loud, “I don’t guess your car is working.”

  “Totally wrecked, and impounded anyhow,” he says. “I saw them tow it away from the spaceport.”

  “No point going through the lot, then.” We go through the lobby and out the front exit onto Oasis Avenue. It’s dark this time of night, with most businesses closed and the street lights casting little dim pools of illumination every thirty meters or so. Only a few intermittent vehicles pass by. The air is cool, and somehow the city is peaceful, at least in this part of town. Strangely, for the first time I can remember, it feels like home. “You gonna be okay, Brady?”

  “I expect so,” he says. “There will be a lot of financial turmoil and flux over the next couple of years. Economists will be in demand.” We go down the steps, to the sidewalk, and continue on aimlessly, neither of us bothering to address where we’re headed. “What about you?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer, a bit surprised that I’m not more worried about it. “I guess we’ll see.”

  “You know,” he muses, “I didn’t expect Aaron Greenman to try to bribe you with a ticket off-world. For a minute, I thought you were going to take it.”