PodPooch (Cladespace Book 4)

by Corey Ostman

  Grace left the duffel on the passenger seat and raised her hands again, slowly turning to gather a full tactical view. She imagined the buggy and the duffel at the center of a clock. At six was the shouting officer, a young man who looked more panicked than aggressive. At two and three were the pair of officers from the checkpoint. Twelve was blocking the way out.

  “My duffel contains a nuclear pack. It’s safe,” said Grace. “My ptenda would have gone off if there were any leak.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” two o’clock said. He was an older man, with a mop of gray hair and a ruddy, leathery face. “Chin! Move in and inspect the duffel.”

  The latter command was directed to six o’clock, whose eyes grew wide. Grace tensed. If by inspect, the older officer meant that Chin could open her duffel, the answer was hell no. But Chin detached a sensor from his belt. Grace relaxed. A sensor sweep would prove what her ptenda already knew: the nuclear pack deep inside of Tim Trouncer was safe for transport.

  “Reading zero point nine microsieverts per hour,” Chin said. “Zero point nine two, now.”

  “Above normal,” the older officer grunted. He was close enough now for Grace to read his nametag: STACEY. “Open that bag and let’s have a look at the nuclear pack’s inspection sticker.”

  Grace stiffened. “You cannot search my duffel. Under Article Seven of the Cloister Compact, no protector nor their personal property shall be subject to—” Her recitation was interrupted by the hum of a charging lempstick. Twelve o’clock.

  Grace’s right hand dropped to Marty on her hip.

  “Now hold on, protector,” Stacey grumbled. “We don’t want any trouble here. Compstate has lowered legal tolerances for radiation because mechflesh enhancements are getting outta hand.”

  “As you can see,” Grace said, aiming Marty toward the ceiling, “I’m cloisterfolk, not mechflesh.”

  “We can see that,” twelve o’clock said. “But we’re compstate through and through, and we gotta check that duffel.”

  “No,” Grace said. “I’m done here. If you have any complaints, you know the dance: petition Cloister 11 for a hearing.”

  Stacey opened his mouth, then closed it. Stepped back. He pointed in turn to each member of his security squad and they backed away. He waved Grace forward.

  “Thank you,” she said, pushing on the buggy’s yoke until the vehicle resumed a safe speed—not too fast, not too slow. She didn’t want to appear to be fleeing the scene of a crime.

  Ten meters ahead, a wide door opened onto Avenue Main Mall. She turned the buggy toward the exit. She could smell downtown Port Casper, hear its throng, its movers. But she had to slow down as another compstate security officer stepped in her path.

  “What is it now?” Grace muttered, loud enough to hear. “I’m cloisterfolk, Protector Grace Donner, 0016-Alpha—”

  “No problem,” the officer interrupted. “I just wanted you to park the spaceport buggy outside on the left.”

  “Oh. Ok,” Grace said, driving past the officer and outside. The car park was to her left. She turned the vehicle into the closest space.

  Suddenly chatter erupted in her dermal dot. She paused, her duffel over her shoulder, trying to make out the words. Two made it through: blind bang.

  Immediately, security forces surrounded her. A protector dropped from a window some five meters above. Grace registered the phasewave in his hand just as the world rippled around her. Sparks erupted from the metallic body of the buggy, and one of the security personnel yelped in pain. Grace took the full brunt of the phasewave blast.

  Chapter 4

  Avonaco Reynolds leaned against the glass side of the building. Mechflesh workers hurried past, anxious to avoid compstate personnel. A few other onlookers lingered, curious about the blond woman sprawled on the concrete. She’d taken a phasewave blast to the chest. Security officers circled her like vultures, scanning her with their lempsticks. Laying at her side, unexamined but out of his reach, was her duffel.

  Tim Trouncer was disassembled inside.

  Avonaco was annoyed. He had walked here from the Freer Diner, avoiding public transit, scrubbing the blurp network when it tried to access him. His plan had been to meet Donner here and walk her back under the protection of his access cloak. Just a few more meters and it might have worked.

  Avonaco considered the guards. He was strong and fast enough to incapacitate the four compstate security officers. Their lempsticks might arc against his metarm endoskeleton, but they would do no harm. The phasewaves held by the two protectors, on the other hand, were dangerous if they were on a high enough setting.

  “Kid! Is the port open?” A man in strobing heels and a silver suit motioned to the security checkpoint.

  Avonaco shrugged. The man swept by with an exasperated noise, only to be blocked by a security guard. More guards were arriving on the scene, directing the gawkers to disperse. Avonaco began backing away with the crowd, keeping an eye on Donner’s duffel—

  “Where are your parents?”

  He stopped at the loud voice from behind, then looked over his shoulder. Rustbolts! A compstate officer.

  “I said, where are your parents?” The man said. He didn’t look angry, but his eyes were darting to other lingering citizens. Was he too busy to really care, or was he searching for Avonaco’s nonexistent parents?

  “They’re, um—”

  “You’ll have to leave. No unescorted children.”

  Avonaco looked back at Donner. They were loading her into a mover. And with her, the duffel!

  “I—I think they wanted me to wait here.”

  The officer scoffed at his lie. “You can listen to a fact agent somewhere else!” He placed a hand on Avonaco’s shoulder and pushed.

  Avonaco let himself be moved, acting like the weak, eight-year-old human the older man expected him to be. The mover closed its hatches, Donner and her precious cargo inside. It hummed as it turned, going parallel with nearby traffic. Avonaco darted forward, the sun at his back. He had to keep pace with the mover.

  He dodged people on the sidewalk, his mind racing ahead of him. He might be able to keep up, and with all the mechflesh in town it wouldn’t be that odd, but his access cloak wasn’t going to work as well. And he wasn’t sure where they were taking her, or what he could do once he got there. He split his gaze, his left eye focusing on running while his right eye received data from his ptenda, trying to anticipate their destination.

  Thirty blocks ahead rose the gold dome of Compstate House. Once there, the mover picked up speed. Foot traffic increased as well. Avonaco nearly collided with a man and woman dressed in elaborate silks, gene addicts both. The woman snarled at him, either well into her blue paranoia or disdainful of his apparent mechflesh.

  Ten blocks ahead, he sidestepped crowds as they streamed in and out of soaring apartment buildings, most carried by movers from below that merged with the rest of public traffic on the avenue. A hazardous place for a pedestrian.

  “The Frawley II!” chimed the second building from his ptenda. “Missed out on the Frawley? The newest tower offers refined housing, shopping, entertainment, and even more green space. Perfect for a growing family. Tell your folks!”

  His access cloak had failed. He stared forward, still in visual contact with the mover. Block by block fell away as he sliced through the swelling crowd. Were they taking her out of the city? He wouldn’t be able to follow, not like he was here.

  Suddenly the mover turned left on Sigmund Boulevard. Avonaco felt relief as probabilities narrowed. Italitech-Bransen was the most likely option. Donner’s last corporation of record. Indeed, the mover was slowing as it angled toward a basement entrance near the curb. It turned in and disappeared.

  Avonaco paused as traffic raced by, then darted across the street. He stood at the edge of the vast granite courtyard that surrounded ITB. The building at street level was a wall of glass stretching skyward. No ornate edifice nor hint of curve, just an imposing monolith.

  No
going in through the front door, Avonaco thought.

  Chapter 5

  Grace opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep on the floor. It was cold. She groaned, head pounding in sync with a throbbing sternum. She reached to rub her chest, the muscles in her arm tight and sore. A low-setting phasewave blast at close range was less comfortable than she’d thought it would be. She experimentally flexed her arm, wondering if higher gravity had caused the stiffness, or her ill-considered attempt at fighting.

  She got up from the floor and walked to the striated, silvery curtain that hung over the entrance to her cell. Vague outlines teased in the dark. The suggestion of high windows farther down the hall were tinted with the deep blue of night. Damn. She’d lost at least a day.

  There just had to be a blind bang.

  She’d succeeded and succeeded and it all went to hell. What was the point of calling out so many protectors? Was it specifically for her? She considered, then decided against it. That many protectors in one place tended to round everybody up and sort it through later. Her captors had followed compstate convention, taking a prisoner to their last corporation of record. She supposed she was fortunate she was alone. The ITB detention blocks were seldom this empty.

  At least the lump of her duffel was still there in the next cell. Judging from its shape, it still held Tim Trouncer. But the longer she stayed here, the higher the chance she’d lose him. She needed to get out, now.

  Grace sat again, drawing her knees against her aching chest. She contemplated the curtain. Behind it were metarm bars, five centimeters apart. Barely enough space to slide in a hand and wrist. Between slats in the curtain, she saw a long hall with one empty cell after another. Two equipment carts sat in the hallway just below the windows.

  “Hello!” she shouted. “I’m awake now. And hungry!”

  A metallic clink echoed from somewhere nearby as a latch shifted and a door opened. She involuntarily closed her eyes as the area flooded in white light, then opened them to slits. Two figures approached from far down the hall. Their outlines through the sheeting were strange, bulky. Pressure suits?

  “Please move to the rear of the cell for decontamination.” A woman’s voice, distorted by a pressure suit’s external speakers.

  “What do you mean by decontamination?” Grace asked.

  “I was going to tell her that, Elli,” the other muttered, then turned to Grace. “You came to us with a high level of radiation.”

  “That’s bull! The nuclear pack I carried wasn’t leaking. Give me my duffel and I’ll show you!”

  The suited ITB technicians pulled back the sheeting covering her cell.

  “First, we make sure you’re safe,” Elli said. “Then we’ll address your luggage.”

  “I was about to mention her bag,” the other hissed.

  “Like hell,” Grace began, but stopped as the second technician produced a radiation wand, its winking red light confirming an active source of ionizing radiation.

  “I said move to the back!” Elli barked.

  Grace blinked at the wand, then shifted to the rear wall. A section of the bars in front of her raised and the two technicians entered.

  Elli produced a lempstick from her utility belt. She held it like a tool, not like a part of herself. These were not protectors. She was in less trouble than it seemed.

  “We’re going to scrub you down,” Elli said.

  “So behave yourself,” said the other.

  They didn’t get along, and Grace could use that. But not yet. If she really was radioactive, she needed to decontaminate first.

  “This is taking too long,” Elli said. “Slice her clothes off, and let’s get on—”

  “Your suit looks expensive,” the other interrupted, looking at Grace. “Let’s have you slide out of it. It can be washed, and re—”

  “That’ll be too slow, Janet,” said Elli.

  “You’re what’s making this slow,” Janet said. “It’ll take her ten seconds. She’s a skin. She doesn’t have spikes and nozzles like you.”

  Grace raised an eyebrow. So Elli was mechflesh. Probably Janet too, judging from her use of skin.

  She unzipped her jumper, wriggling out of the armor-padded torso and slipping it past her hips. She stepped out of the suit and dropped it in a pile, standing in her underwear before the two technicians.

  “Um, everything?” Grace asked.

  “No, we can soak you down in your underwear,” Janet said, pointing at Grace’s discarded jumper. “Bag it.”

  Grace bent to comply, but Janet shook her head.

  “No, not you. Elli.”

  Grace straightened up, swallowing a smile as Elli tried to keep the lempstick aimed at her while fumbling with a pair of tongs for her jumpsuit. She managed to hoist it from the floor and into a large red bag marked with radiation trefoils. Grace frowned. Just how much radiation had she been exposed to? Had it happened on Ceres? Taisia’s ship? Or was it a plant by ITB, to justify their holding of her? But if ITB were involved on that level, it didn’t make sense to send just the techs.

  “I am going to use the wand and mark areas of contamination,” Janet said. “Hold still.”

  Grace stood at attention while Janet moved the wand across her body, from front to back. As the tip of the wand flickered and brightened, she used the pen to make little yellow dots on Grace’s underwear and skin. She tried to figure out the pattern, expecting it to be where she’d hugged Tim the most. But the dots were apparently random.

  Grace wanted answers. But the pair had fallen silent, Janet working the wand and Elli leaning against the bars.

  “Some blind bang, huh?” Grace ventured.

  “Mmmm,” said Janet. She switched off the wand.

  “Finally,” said Elli. She unsnapped a canister from her utility belt and walked up, lempstick still waving at Grace. She peeked at the weapon’s dial: set to 1, the lowest intensity. It would barely stun a cat. Grace smirked.

  Janet snatched the canister from Elli and shook it. “Close your eyes,” she said, “it can sting.”

  Grace obeyed. “So, you two are mechflesh?”

  “Duh,” Janet said.

  The canister hissed and cool blobs landed on her skin. The foam had a strong, lemony scent. Grace wriggled her nose to quash a sneeze.

  “Here, wear these,” Elli said, shoving goggles into Grace’s right hand.

  Grace pulled the goggles over her head, then opened her eyes and looked down at her body. Both legs and much of her torso were covered in orange foam. Most of her underwear was spared, except for an area on her left hip.

  “Is all this compstate security because of mechflesh or just an excuse to crack down on AI?” Grace asked.

  “Both,” Elli grunted. “Compstate’s so AI paranoid that they distrust anything prosthetic. Sentient or not.”

  “Don’t squirm. You’ll need to stand still for five minutes. Then we can rinse you off,” Janet said.

  “Janet means that she can rinse you off,” Elli added.

  “And then can I get my duffel back?” Grace asked.

  Zweeeep! Zweeeep! Zweeeep!

  An ITB medical alarm? Grace frowned.

  “Attention, please. Doctors Fizert-E and Fizert-J, please report to Infirmary Fourteen. Fizert-E and Fizert-J to Infirmary Fourteen, please.”

  Her two guests jumped. Doctors, eh? Odd that they’d been sent to deal with her. ITB prejudice against mechflesh? Or was the radiation that concerning? And they were related to each other. Married, perhaps. Or siblings. Grace had been subjected to enough of the Chanho brothers’ bickering to recognize irritable sibling syndrome.

  “Stay right where you are,” Elli said to Grace. She and Janet backed out of the cell, closing the curtain wall and the metarm bars.

  “We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “To rinse you off,” Janet added.

  They ran out of earshot, an armored door at the end of the hall slamming shut behind them.

  Ten minutes. And she was radiation-free. T
ime to start moving. She grabbed the curtain wall. Planting her feet at the base of the cell bars, she leaned back. Way back. The top of the curtain wall began to tear.

  A sudden clang in the hall. Grace froze, trying to identify the sound. Another clang. It wasn’t the door. She slowly peered around the curtain.

  One of the carts had shifted. The front hatch was open, and a young boy, no older than eight, was in the process of crawling out. He had short, straight black hair and earth-brown skin. A green t-shirt, no mechflesh visible. Grace had to blink to be sure she was seeing him. He was utterly out of place in the ITB prison hall, a little kid in faded blue jeans.

  The boy walked over to the cell opposite her and tapped a little ptenda on his arm. To her surprise, the metarm bars raised. He reached in and grabbed the strap of her duffel bag.

  “Don’t touch!” Grace yelled. “It’s contaminated.”

  The child paused, then turned to look at her.

  “It is not contaminated,” the boy said. “Neither were you.”

  The voice was the same as the voice that had summoned the two doctors. Oddly adult.

  “Who are you?”

  The kid hoisted her duffel. Her phasewave fell out of an open side zipper. He looked at it dismissively, then back up at her.

  “My name is Avonaco. I am saving Tim Trouncer.”

  He started to turn away. Was he going to leave her? Leave with Tim?

  Grace rushed the bars.

  “Get away from my duffel. Drop it!” The high timbre of her voice shocked her, sounding like somebody else.

  The boy stopped. He blinked at her.

  “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “Look at me!” she shouted, banging the bars. “How can I get out of here? How can Tim? They said we were radioactive.”

  “I said the radiation was false. It was their excuse to arrest you,” he said, voice evenly measured for someone who had just broken into a high security area. “But I convinced their sensors that you actually were contaminated so they would keep Tim here.”