I’m really not cut-out for this savior shit, and honestly, someone should have been watching this mouse. I see them though, trudging through the snow, trooping out after their dog who’s constantly whiffing for winter berries on frozen branches.
Renting them the house was a good idea and here’s why: when I moved out here for good I didn’t look for work. I didn’t make my source of income known to anyone, and that’s the way I like it. But I almost forgot that small town people are nosy. They love to gossip, and someone in the area who cannot be identified as working there is definitely an outsider. The subject of gossip and speculation.
I wanted to blend in, so I bought the house next door, rented to a nice family, and sent the money to the bank regularly. I kept my other finances separate from the local financial institution.
The truth is I don’t have to work. Not now. Not ever if I live as I have been--modestly and well within my means. But from my personal history, work is all I have. It’s all I know. It’s actually who I am.
I know what it means to look back centuries on the legions of soldiers that marched into battle and said the ominous words from the Hindu scripture Bhagavad Gita: “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” Even as late as this war with the Serenians, the phrase is written on the backs of tactical helmets and body armor of grunts in the field...and so the tattoo of death remains unchanged to present day.
I am become drunk. That is what I know today. I am become vodka. Perhaps that’s a better way to put it. There’s a mil-spec assault shotgun in the bathroom and one by the door. I keep a Raven automatic pistol stashed in the couch cushions in the living room where I sit and watch the endless parade of interstellar news on a split-screen telecom. I keep a 24 hour clock on the wall so I know if it’s night or day. I’m often confused about if I need a drink or if I’ve just had one.
The groceries are delivered twice a week by a faded yellow and silver hovering automaton from the local chain so I don’t have to drive to town and interact with human beings. My list never changes from white bread, liquor, hamburger and eggs, some milk for my morning cocktail, and some lemonade for the afternoons if my stomach can take it.
Mostly though, the mystery of why my useless life is guarded with such energy is in fact a mystery to me as well. I have not produced anything of value in this life. I am a sociopath. I killed small animals as a boy and I’ve gone on to kill humans with frightening efficiency in the service of the military. To my understanding, my extraction from combat years ago was fast and covert.
I don’t remember much, the Alliance found my body crushed and half dead. It took a year, and the surgeons thought my recovery a miracle. So here I am, reconstructed and released as Fenmore Scott.
If by elimination a man can contribute to the sum of things, then show me the math. Here’s the real rub: now, with drink and sloth, I have drifted aimlessly into alcoholism. I stagger around in my fart smelling sweats, a hairless ape with some education and two biomechanical legs and a left bio-mech arm that can punch a hole through a concrete wall.
All this hardware cognitively integrated and sheeted with layers of synthetic tissue and epidermal membrane. They look and feel so real, and sometimes I forget that I’m a host to interlocking cybernetic neuro-transmitters and silicone micro-implants. I am become bionic.
Picture the scene of the neighbor’s child trapped beneath a hundred plus pounds of snow and ice. Her rescuer, drunk with a beard crusted stiffly with dried drool, stinking of a month without a bath; stumbling, and wheezing; unsteadily opens the door to discover tiny feet sticking out of a snowbank; yanking unceremoniously on the limbs he extracts the terrified child, who in red-faced fear leaps from him into the arms of her mother.
This is the beast I have become. Once sinew and the cat paw of death, now the soiled and malodorous sloth of number 1650, Route #28 in the little hamlet of North River. Were it not for my cat Damn it, who refuses to acknowledge me anyways, no one needs me, remembers me, or sends an awful fruitcake at Christmas.
The one thing that I have done besides remove my tumorous self from the body of society, the one thing I can say I’ve accomplished in my forty-six years on the planet, is pull an eleven year old from the snow.
My money, my position and rank in the military, and my love for Mozart and appreciation of Degas in the overall scheme of things will mean nothing. When death comes to call, I’ll end and that’s it. I’ll become protein; eaten like a shark eats a walrus. No soundtrack. No chorus of angels, last rites, or ceremony. Gone.
“Here lies Fenton Scott--goddamn he was a drunk.” Perhaps there’s some dignity in it that way. How bad can it be to almost instantly be transformed into food? Enter the ecosystem in the fast lane.
I staggered by a room upstairs that I like to call my library. Inside on a desk, the computer light of the monitor blinks and the cruel process of apathy and neglect take over in my mind.
A question forms: “Do I bother answering the call?” It’s by computer that I receive and accept my contracts. Long years have gone since I’ve accepted a contract to kill anyone. Long years since I was in any shape to do so.
Since no one has seen me in ages, and since I don’t go out or attend anything like a social function, no one knows I’m an enormous turd. So the calls come, usually months apart, but they are something I get with regularity.
Anyway, they come without a ribbon or bow, they come without warning through a scrambled network disguised as a news site called “The Daily”, but they always come with money. Lots of money.
Waking up in my chair downstairs is not an occurrence that is rare or in the least bit foreign to me, and I know by the pinch in my bladder that I’ve been here a while. Getting up to take a leak, I stumble, reel, and I put my socked foot into a bowl of wet cat food.
“Damn it! Fugg...grrr...damn it!”
The cat flattens herself with gleaming eyes, then blasts-off the couch and bolts upstairs to hide. She knows it’s not her, and I never mess with her, but the noise has set her into rocketship mode.
After pissing, I navigate the stairs to look for my pet and see the blinking light of the computer set to a constant green. That’s funny, I don’t remember answering it. But I’ve answered it though, or it wouldn’t be solid green. Had I ignored the message, it would either go on blinking red or disappear after a while. A short while. But it’s not. It’s green. Solid. Staring at me with one cycloptic eye, it draws me into the library.
Oh boy. No really...oh boy! I think I’m in some trouble. You just don’t answer a call like that and not follow through, and following through is not my specialty lately. For a year and a half I’ve been in the woods; I invited and allowed the fates to take a great big dump on me...a billowy, blustering, steaming pile of poo on my life. Now I’ve done something to alter being a bystander. What the hell do I do now?
Okay, okay, okay. First thing’s first. Check the message. Remain calm and read it. I sat down at the desk and slowly hit the Enter key on the board and a blue dossier screen popped up with instructions after I typed in my password.
The profile was a bald, heavy-set man that resided on a planet called Nexus. Robert Charon, age 54. Suspected of heading a slavery and prostitution ring, he was also mixed up with the manufacturing and distribution of crunch dust. Planet of origin, Earth.
This guy was always one step ahead of the law and a real piece of work: busted for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon at age 14, authorities believe Charon’s indoctrination into the life involved cleaning-out the register of a local holograph and music store at gunpoint.
He shot a customer that tried to run out of the building. A lady in her third trimester. She lost her baby from the trauma. Charon fled on foot with a bag full of money and credits but was picked up by the cops four days later when an anonymous source dimed his whereabouts for a reward.
Charon was out in under two years because he was a minor. But while in stir, it was believed that he shanked two kids, but it could n
ever be proven. The story is that Charon stabbed the other two inmates while they tried to rape another young man that was just brought into the facility the night before.
Turns out that the kid he saved was the only son of a known syndicate boss named Jonathan Ness. A major player in the underground and deemed untouchable by the Alliance Council. So Charon had achieved status from the other juveniles on the inside for his actions, and inadvertently paved the way for his future by saving Ness’s son.
They became friends, and that friendship blossomed when they were released. Ness’s kid, Fredric, introduced Charon to his old man as a gesture.
Years later, at the tender age of 24, the police nailed Charon for carjacking, but he beat the rap and never served time thanks to a high priced lawyer provided by his new fairy godfather Jonathan Ness. Ness became his benefactor, and two years later, when his own son overdosed on a harquinol and crunch dust cocktail called a speed demon, he took Charon under his wing like a son.
At age 32, Charon was suspected of kidnapping an 18 year old girl along with multiple homicides that occurred across three cities over a period of four years...all believed to have been done on behalf of his newly adopted family. He had graduated to hitman. But the authorities couldn’t pin any of the murders on him, and the girl was never found.
He turned up later on Nexus as the “Manager” of the largest casino on Colony-9 (also known as Fluture). Nothing slipperier than a criminal that migrates across planets and colonies.
For Charon, money would never be a problem. When his mentor Ness died, Charon was rooted deep in the family business. A made man. He had expensive tastes and apparently enjoyed indulging in the finer things in life. Well-manicured, well-dressed, and heavily guarded by a group of scumbags wearing pricey suits, it just goes to show you that no matter how many times you polish a turd, it’s still a turd.
The profile indicated that Charon was behind the kidnapping of young women, getting them addicted to crunch, and turning them into high dollar call girls for the big spenders in his casino. Politicians, corporate shakers, celebrities, and inter-planetary delegates...a nice long roster of wealthy clients. All hush-hush and stealth for the reputations on the make.
I may not have amounted to much in the eyes of many in this life, but at least I’ve never preyed on the innocent. Charon was a predator of women and children. A reptile. And now my employers want him dead, and I’m the one that gets to end him for a twelve million credit contract. I am become death.
The instructions: get to New Detroit within the next two weeks and find a man named Charles “Kurlie” Montrell, a mid-level crime boss. He would provide me with a means to get to Nexus undetected. An expense account has been set up for my mission. But the first move--get sober...
Chapter 2
Kurlie
This outsider walks into my bar a few weeks ago. Overdressed for my place, and that’s what made him stand out a little. Looked more like one of those stuck-up uptown residents. His face, voice, and name weren’t familiar, so my man at the door, Gus, stops and leans on him for information before allowing him inside. What a mess that turned out to be for Gus.
I didn’t see it happen, but from what some of my customers told me, this guy basically turned Gus’ face inside-out; people screaming over the music and running out of the saloon in a panic…like I said, what a mess. Bad for business too.
Who the hell was this guy to come to my tavern and start breaking arms? I smelled a set-up, undercover cops were slick, but this guy reeked Federation as he walked across the dance floor and made his way to my table. My guys stepped in front of him but I signaled them to step aside and let him through. I was curious about this insect and I wanted a closer look.
“Mr. Montrell?” The stranger asked evenly as he side-eyed my men.
“Who wants to know, Billy badass?” I inquired as I lit a cigar and exhaled.
“May I have a few minutes of your time? I promise to make it worth your while.”
I nodded and the man pulled out a chair across from me and sat down. He adjusted the lapels on his suit and folded his hands on the table as he cleared his voice. He had one of those carpethead flattop haircuts that Feds always had. Nice suit, bad haircut.
“Mr. Montrell, I can’t begin to express my gratitude for allowing me to have this audience with you.”
“Gratitude? You left my man at the door face down and scared the hell out of all my clients. You’re costing me a lot of money and now I need a new doorman.”
“You’re right Mr. Montrell. Please accept my sincerest apologies for stirring-up such an unsavory scene.” The stranger gestured calmly. “But your man tried to raze me when I tried to get into your establishment. I had no choice but to defend myself.”
This guy was a smooth talker. Calm. He made me nervous and his vocabulary made him sound like he had a stick up his ass. “What do you want Mr....”
“Scott. Fenmore Scott. I’ve been told that you’re a man that can make things happen.”
“Perhaps. But I’ll tell you what I can make happen, Mr. Scott. You can stand up and walk out of here under your own power, or my employees can help you out of here under mine. I don’t think you’ll like the second option. That’s something that I can make happen.”
Four of my men had positioned themselves behind the stranger to flank him. I sat with my hands flat on the table facing Scott, wondering how he was able to take down Gus at the door so quickly.
“Well before anybody does anything they’ll regret,” the stranger stated grimly, “I need for something to happen. I need a favor, Mr. Montrell.” Scott smiled. “I need your help.”
“Help doing what?”
“I need to get to Nexus for a few days. Business. Then I want to come back home. I understand that you may be able to make this happen.”
I started laughing. This guy was funny. My men began laughing with me. This man was a fool. A dead fool.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about Mr. Scott. Take a look around you. I’m a business man not a travel agent. All I am is the proprietor of this gentleman’s bar. Besides, you’re talking about an making an illegal flight outside the solar system. I don’t like trouble, and you’re trouble. So if you’ll excuse me, my coworkers will now escort you out of my establishment--under my power.” I nodded and smiled, and two of my men stepped forward and grabbed this Fenmore Scott by the arms.
It happened so fast. I barely had time to blink when he sprung out of his seat, and the next thing I know, both of my men were on the floor and their teeth were embedded in the tabletop with splashes of blood. Scott had disarmed my third bodyguard when he snapped his arm, struck him across the neck, and left him gurgling under a table in a crumpled ball gasping for air.
My last gunman tried to shoot him, but Scott was fast enough to close the distance between them and threw a left jab to my man’s jaw that connected with a devastating smack that instantly shattered his face and rendered him unconscious before he hit the ground. This all happened in a span of less than five seconds.
Scott sighed as he picked up one of my guy’s pistols and set it on my table. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
I sat calmly shaking my head. “Very impressive. You know, Mr. Scott, those were some of my best men.”
“If you say so.”
“Heh-heh-heh! Who the hell are you?” I demanded as I glanced at the bloody teeth stuck on the edge of the table.
“I’m the one that can change your life forever, Mr. Montrell.” Scott glared as he reached into his jacket and threw down several stacks of money on the table. “There’s one million. Get me to Nexus within two weeks with no questions asked, and you get another million when I get back. It’s easy money and the people that I work for will appreciate your cooperation.”
“And who do you work for?”
“Do this and opportunity will knock on your door again. No questions. Do we have a deal?” Scott asked coldly.
“Do I have a choice?”
; “Everyone’s got choices, Mr. Montrell. I hope you make the right one.”
“Well then, I guess we have a deal, Mr. Scott. How will I get a hold of you when I arrange for your transport?”
“I’ll contact you.”
“When?”
Scott didn’t answer. He smiled callously, turned around, and walked out of my bar. I motioned for my bartender to come to my table.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Get a tail on him. Find out where he’s staying and keep an eye on him until I figure out the next move, and have Tommy the geek do a check. I want to know everything we can find out about this guy. I want to know where he came from and what he wants with Nexus. I want to know who I’m doing business with.”
“Yes boss.”
“No one pays two million to go to Nexus. Also, get Nikki Wells on the line.”
“Yes boss.”
Fenmore
I staked-out the tavern every night; sitting at different tables observing the regulars and memorizing the lay-out of the establishment. This was definitely a working man’s slab, lots of leather and faded denim--faded like the weathered statues that wore them; men who’s faces were carved in stone like their fates.
The Last Horizon Page 2
