A single tech behind a small reception desk looked up as they entered the clinic. “How can I help you?” she asked. When her eyes found Kwazi, she released her breath.
“I’m Dr. Milani Stuart, and this is my friend Kwazi Jabari.”
“Yes,” said the woman, a kind of lusty reverence drawing out the S. “I know Mr. Jabari.” She stuck out her hand. “My name is Krystin Drake. Sir, can I just say how much I appreciate all you’ve done and … all you’ve suffered. You’re a true inspiration to us here on Valhalla Station. I mean, truly, when you speak—”
“Thank you,” Kwazi said, doing his best to mean it. The handshake was sweaty, so he quickly detached.
“Yes, well, my friend here and I need an exam room for just a moment,” Milani said. “I know it’s a bit irregular.”
Kwazi smiled. “I can pay whatever fee might—”
“Don’t be absurd,” the tech said. “Haven’t had much activity after last week’s flood. Take Exam Room One.” What she’d just done seemed to settle on her. “Um, if I may ask—you know, in case it comes up…”
“Ah, yeah,” Milani said. “Mr. Jabari’s implant has been acting up. Some residual disruption after his release from Wallace Med—that’s the Martian orbital hospital.”
“Right,” the tech said, “of course.”
“We’ll be just a minute.”
“Take your time.” She stared after them. Or, more precisely, after Kwazi.
“See?” Milani said as she closed the door to the room. “Your celebrity can come in handy.”
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Now—please.”
“Okay, Kwazi, but listen to me.” Milani stood close as he climbed onto the exam table. “You can’t dive right into Dreamscape. We have to get safe first, okay?”
“Yeah, of course. My subscription’s expired anyway. The sooner we find Braxton, the better.”
Milani nodded. From her small medical kit she withdrew a device and held it over his right temple. “Ready?”
“Yesterday.”
With a nervous smile, she reactivated his medical implant. A virtual world opened like a flower in Kwazi’s consciousness. A second level of awareness was made up of CorpNet headlines, s-mail notifications, and a persistent readout of his own physical condition. And one small, grayed-back capital-letter D.
“Thanks, Milani,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, turning to replace the device in her medkit. “But like we agreed—”
Her words cut off with her air. Kwazi’s left arm cradled her neck in the crook of his elbow, his right applied forearm pressure to the back of her neck. Milani’s hands came up instinctively, clawing at the pressure choking her.
“It’s best this way,” he whispered into her ear. Her body began to sag. “This will protect your parents for sure. And you.” He kindly, carefully lowered her, unconscious, to the floor. “I’m sorry, Milani. Thank you for everything.”
After he cried out for help and the staff rushed in, Kwazi slowly faded into the background, then out of the infirmary and into the narrow, sparsely crowded streets of Valhalla Station.
• • •
The Entertainment District flashed its bright lights at him advertising all manner of debauched diversion. He was looking for Loki’s Longhouse—bar downstairs, brothel up. Abrams had told him to ask for a “trickster’s feast,” and the bartender nodded and retreated to the back office. A short man, older and a former miner by his build, approached from the same door.
“I hear you’re looking for something special,” the bulky man said.
“I am.”
“Hey—you’re that guy. That guy from the vids. That guy from Mars who—”
“I am.”
“Well, hell and well met, friend.”
“I think that’s ‘hail and well met,’” Kwazi said, taking the stout man’s hand.
“Who gives a shit?”
“Not me.”
“All right, then.”
Kwazi looked over his shoulder once. “I take it you’re Braxton. Abrams from the Pax Corporatum sent me.”
“Did he now?” The man leaned over the bar. When he whispered, Kwazi smelled the bitterness of poor dental hygiene. “I don’t know anyone named Abrams.”
Kwazi stayed calm. This man was his best shot at seeing Amy again, and always.
“He knew you. Told me you could hook me up.”
The man leaned back and jerked his head at the bartender, who approached from the other side of the bar. The bartender’s hand slipped behind his back.
“If you want a hookup, that’s upstairs. Nice meeting you, Hero of Mars.”
“Please, Braxton,” Kwazi said, reaching out to stop the man’s retreat. The man’s arm was hairy and thick. “Please, I can pay.”
“Keep your voice down. And take your goddamned hand off me.”
The bartender was close, looming like a second shadow.
“I can pay,” Kwazi whispered, picking up his drink. “Whatever you want.”
Braxton jerked his head. “Come with me. Nicky, watch the front.” He led Kwazi to the office behind the bar.
“These are dangerous times, Mr. Jabari,” Braxton said, closing the door behind them. “You of all people ought to appreciate that.”
“I do.”
“Where’s Helena Telemachus? Why’d she let you off the leash?”
“I wouldn’t say she let me off.”
“What?” Braxton suddenly seemed ready to lay Kwazi out. “You’re out without permission? She’ll track your SCI. Bring the marshals and Rabh’s security down on me. What the fuck?”
Kwazi held up placating hands. “I’ll get out of here. I just need you to resubscribe me. Please. I can pay whatever you want.”
“Resub… Dreamscape? You’re a hackhead?”
“Yes.”
Braxton burst out laughing. “Well, if that don’t beat all! The hero of Mars! A goddamned dreamer!”
Kwazi held up his right wrist. “Take what you want. Just make my subscription permanent.”
With a skeptic’s eye, Braxton passed his own syncer over Kwazi’s. His eyes showed how bad he must be at playing poker.
“Holy shit on a swizzle stick,” Braxton breathed.
“Will you do it?”
The dealer regarded him a moment, then opened the wooden drawer of his old-fashioned desk. Out of it he took a device not unlike the one Milani Stuart had used to reactivate Kwazi’s SCI.
“Okay, so I’m gonna charge you—”
“Just do it. Take what you want.”
Swallowing hard, Braxton held the device next to Kwazi’s temple, as Milani had. The grayed-back capital-letter D turned red. It was all Kwazi could do not to activate it, right then and there.
“Done,” the dealer said.
“Thank you.”
“Now get the fuck out of here, Hero of Mars. And forget my name and forget this place. Understood?”
Kwazi nodded. A tattoo on the underside of Braxton’s forearm caught his eye as the dealer replaced the device in his desk.
“What’s that?”
“What?”
“That tattoo.”
Braxton blanched. Rubbing his forearm self-consciously, he said, “It’s nothing.”
“It looks like a serpent and its mirror image, looking opposite directions.”
“I said—”
“You’re one of them,” Kwazi said. “You’re with the SSR.”
Braxton’s face set hard. He advanced across the office. Taking hold of Kwazi’s shirt, he raised a massive fist. “That’s it. Hero or no, you just outlived your own lifespan, son. Sorry it has to be this way—”
“You’re taking down SynCorp,” Kwazi said, as if conversing over a beer. “You’re killing the Company.”
Braxton hesitated, fist flexing. “What do you know about the Soldiers?”
&nbs
p; The need to retreat into Dreamscape pulled Kwazi like a magnified g-force of emotion. But a breaker had just tripped in the back-channel of his mind. An opportunity presenting itself.
Maybe we could try Polynesian?
That sounds wonderful.
Don’t leave her, motherfucker! Aika Furukawa’s voice heaved with loss. It echoed off the Martian tunnels in Kwazi’s head with a shrill, hopeless desperation. Don’t leave her alone in there!
“I asked you a question, Hero of Mars,” Braxton said. “What do you know of the Soldiers?”
Kwazi stared, unblinking under the threat of the man’s massive fist.
“Next to nothing,” he said. “Tell me more.”
Chapter 30
Stacks Fischer • Rabh Regency Station
The station was alive like I’d never seen it before. Revolution has a way of shaking people out of their stupors.
I slipped between the Rabh rats zipping this way and that, making my way to the slip where the Hearse was docked. My first priority was to open up that message from Tony. I didn’t think it was a last will and testament, but I knew it wasn’t birthday wishes.
Unlike the broad expanse of the main docking ring around SCHQ with its bars and fetish diversions, Adriana’s VIP facility was much more upscale. The slips were large, meant to cater to overfed corporate types and their bigger-than-need-be stellar yachts. Adriana’s own Staff of Isis was in the premier slip, of course, closest to the main deck.
I entered the bay with its full-service mechanic stations and air recyclers. There were four slips, and my little sweetie pie was clamped snug as a bug in the third one along. Her blackhull design was spare and necessary for the work she had to do. But in that well-to-do dockyard, she looked like she’d crossed into the wrong neighborhood by mistake.
Two marshals burning daylight near Slip Three woke up when they saw me. They flashed the stars on their belts. Adriana’s insurance, I guessed. One looked too tall for his uniform, like he was a teenager still growing and mama overlooked his last growth spurt. The other fella was thicker and wider, the muscle. They looked like a comedy team.
“Boys,” I called.
“Stacks Fischer?” the tall one queried across the bay.
He had a tone that made me slow my roll. Maybe I’m paranoid or maybe it’s just my gut reaction to badgers. But something put me on my guard. Maybe it was how the mechanics and Rabh staff suddenly scattered into hidey-holes.
“Nope. Sawyer Finn,” I said. “Arbiter to Adriana Rabh’s Labor Council.”
“Uh-huh.”
Between them, Too-Tall looked like he did most of the thinking. His stocky partner put some space between them. I noted the crates of supplies to my right. Probably caviar and alcoholic aphrodisiacs to restock the VIP ships that docked here.
Too-Tall motioned to me like we were old drinking buddies. “Adriana sent us along to make sure you got off okay.”
“That Adriana, so considerate,” I said. “But you’re not my type. Wrong equipment.”
“I get it.” Too-Tall flashed a smile as Stock Boy continued working around to the side. “You’re funny.”
I didn’t have time for bullshit. I pulled my stunner, and up went his hands. They waggled, which was disheartening as hell. It’s hard to threaten someone when the threatenee waggles his hands.
“Whoa now, partner,” he said. “We’re just here to—”
Stocky pulled his piece and fired. I was already moving, diving behind the crates of fish eggs and spirits. Too-Tall was cursing. Sounded like Stocky had jumped the gun. Pun intended.
“You boys should’ve practiced this dance!” I called from cover. I could hear them moving, finding their own.
“Hey now,” Too-Tall said. “Francis here was just a little edgy. It’s an edgy time.”
Francis?
Now, now, Eugene. Never judge a book by its title.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I’ve got to be somewhere. My boss doesn’t like it when I’m late. So, you boys sheathe your johnsons there and walk away, and we’ll forget this little two-step ever happened.”
Someone chuckled. Stocky.
“Tony Two-point-oh’s dead,” Stocky said. “Time to clean up what’s left.”
“If this is how you want it, this is how we’ll do it,” Too-Tall said, sloughing off the fiction of friendlies. “Mano a mano.”
Seemed more like mano a two-oh to me, but whatever.
I could hear one of them moving. Stocky was repositioning. This was a standoff, a recipe for a shit sandwich, with Fischer as the shit. The longer they delayed me, the more likely they’d get backup. Most marshals will do anything for anyone that pays. I wondered who was paying these two.
On the other hand, if I charged from cover, I was likely to get grabbed up by the loving arms of Mother Universe. I prostrated to floor level and peeked around one of the crates. I could just see Stocky’s knee behind a mechanic’s station. Too-Tall was a better hider.
Punk! Punk-punk!
I jerked back around behind the crate. Classic stupid, Fischer. Stocky was the bait, Too-Tall the marksman. They were triangulating. Marshal’s manual, Chapter Fuck-You.
I could retreat into the station. A glance at the door reminded me my legs were too old to cover the distance alive. My longcoat would protect me from the stunner’s effect, but Marshal Too-Tall could get lucky. Hit an ankle, or the space between my hat and coat collar. Not likely, but still. As a rule, marshals don’t wear MESH uniforms because the general population doesn’t have access to stunner tech. I doubted I was that lucky here.
So here we were again: standoff.
I pulled my .38 and stood up. Too-Tall would expect me to stay low, present a smaller target nearer the deck. I decided to be stupid on purpose. That’s a one-step process for me.
Stocky was on the move again. I extended an arm.
Punk!
Too-Tall fired once. I felt the stunner blast bounce off my arm, absorbed by my MESH longcoat. Before Too-Tall could see I was fine and fire a second round, I fired my .38 twice. One shot connected, the other sparked off the deck.
Stocky went down, holding his upper thigh, his stunner sliding away. He was cursing and screaming. Lead hurts when it violates the human body.
“Jesus!” he yelled. “He shot me, Ben!”
I told you his partner was the smart badger, right?
Stocky writhed on the floor, trying to crawl back into cover. I took careful aim at his unshielded head with my stunner.
Punk!
Stocky stopped moving. The next time his body moved, Rabh security would be loading him into a long bag.
“Now it’s mano a mano,” I said, taunting Too-Tall.
“You sonofabitch!” the badger yelled. “That was my partner!”
I repositioned behind my boxes again. Absinthe of the Garden Green, the side read. Adriana’s favorite liqueur for entertaining guests. On a barren rock like Callisto, it helped to remind folks of Earth’s greenery. She’d always had good taste.
“Welcome to being single!” I called back. “You’ll love watching whatever vids you want, whenever you want. Eating meals for one—”
“Motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you!”
“Not so far…”
He wanted to charge me, I could feel it. It was a smell in the air, fear spiced with hatred. I was doing my best to taunt him into it, but Too-Tall wasn’t stupid. Not as stupid as his partner, anyway.
“Francis!” he called, hoping to get an answer. Stocky’s answering days were over.
“Doesn’t have to be both of you,” I said. “Walk away and you can walk away.”
“Fuck you, Fischer!”
I sighed. This is what I got for being considerate. I shucked the casings I’d spent on the partner and loaded back full. Then I sprung my knife and worked a latch on the crate storing Adriana’s next hangover. It opened, and cool air leaked out. Inside, rows of bottled absinthe made me wish I had better taste. I grabbed a bottle, hunched in
to a crouch, and lobbed it toward Too-Tall like a grenade. It crashed to the deck, glass and green liqueur splattering every which way.
“What the hell?” Too-Tall said.
Bottle number two, over the river and to the floor.
“Fischer, what the hell are you doing?”
Keep talking, asshole. I’ve got my own triangulation method. His voice told me he was still beyond the reach of my absinthe grenades. I stood up still in cover, grabbed another bottle, wound it around and around, then let it fly.
“Goddamn it, are you crazy?”
Too-Tall had the tone of a man wiping liqueur off his trousers. Two more of those, then. By the time I was through, my shoulder hurt. I’d have to drink with the other hand for at least a week.
“Last chance, Marshal,” I said. “Or join your partner in the arms of Mother Universe.”
“Fucking crazy mother—”
I lined up down the .38’s barrel through a gap in the crates. The five splattered bottles of Absinthe of the Green Garden littered the deck.
I fired once. The deck sparked but that was all. Too-Tall answered with rapid fire from his stunner.
Punk-punk-punk!
He wasn’t good enough to thread the gap between the crates.
I fired again. Another spark. Another dud.
“Fischer, you crazy sonofabitch—”
I fired again. Third time’s the charm. The floor sparked, the absinthe caught, and for a second all the air in the bay seemed sucked into the space between me and Too-Tall.
Whoosh!
Ever seen a flambé in a fancy restaurant? Well, this was a flame-bay. Marshal Too-Tall was yelling, cursing, trying to get away from the green fire. He forgot all about needing cover. When he looked up, I was standing in the open, artillery in both hands.
He tried to raise his stunner, but my .38 was faster. I was on the move before his back hit the deck. The quick-fire from the absinthe was already burning away. The floor was wet and sticky.
Too-Tall was already dead. He just didn’t know it. He thought he’d get in a last lick, but I kicked his stunner away. I kneeled next to him. My knees popped.
I used to be younger.
“Now, who the hell do I have to thank for this little reception?”
Valhalla Station Page 24
