Crescent

by Phil Rossi

  “Why do we need two fully-fitted space stations within one jump of each other? Seems like Core Sec would be spreading its resources thin,” Marisa said, and then paused and shook her head.

  “You are correct.” Swaren rocked forward; he placed his hands on the conference table. “There is no need for two space stations. That is why Crescent is to be decommissioned.” Gerald nodded. In truth, he was surprised that Nigel had not yet told Marisa the news.

  “Did you know about this, Gerry?” Marisa asked, and Gerald didn’t answer. He clucked his tongue and looked at the glowing hologram that floated above the table, and then back at the flyer at his feet.

  “There’s more,” Nigel said. “The Habeos jump gate, which is getting on in years, is to be decommissioned as well. This should eliminate most, if not all, of our current raider problems.”

  “If the Habeos jump gate is closed off, Habeos will be cut off from the seventeen systems. There’s people on Habeos. Families,” Marisa said.

  “Habeos is militant and better armed with each passing month. That colony belongs more to Darros Stronghold than it does to Core Sec. Let him take care of them,” Swaren stated matter-of-factly. “We close off the gates to Habeos and we’re shutting the door in Stronghold’s face. The loss is negligible to Core Sec and the colonization efforts. Now, let me show you something else.” Swaren called up a new image—this one showed a sector map of the Tireca system. Asteroid fields were shaded in pulsing green. Brilliant azure, gold, and pink blobs of light floated amoeba-like in the green field. “The blue, gold, and pink areas are highly rich in the specific ore types used for fabricating Galatea’s primary components. These asteroid fields are dense and debris-thick. High risk for any mining and hauling efforts. We’ve lost more than a few ships out there. But in the past three months, we’ve lost more ships than we have in the past year.” Swaren waved his hand over the holo-projector’s terminal and several red circles appeared throughout the ore rich sections of the asteroid field. “These are the last known contact points of several ships that have been lost in the last month. Lost without a trace. Core Sec figured they were obliterated by accidental collisions.” Purple squares appeared beside the red circles. “These squares represent salvage runs that you were sent on, Gerald. What did you retrieve on these salvage runs?”

  “Mining ships. Haulers. Drillers,” Gerald replied.

  Nigel smirked.

  “Yes. I’m sure it will come to you as no surprise that these mining locations were secret,” Nigel said to Marisa. “We—Core Sec—didn’t want Stronghold’s raiders getting wind of the mining locations and attacking our ships. It would have slowed down progress. And we didn’t have the resources to pour into increased patrols. Not enough manpower out here. Now, about Galatea itself—it’s far harder to mask the station’s location. But there are sentry guns there that are programmed to destroy anything armed, and anything that gets too close without a pre-designated transponder signal.”

  “And Kendall knew all of this. He sent me out there to get blown away so I couldn’t spill the beans to you,” Gerald said.

  “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Nigel said.

  “So, then, what’s next? It’s apparent Kendall has it out for all three of us, one way or another,” Marisa said.

  “The grand scheme is to remove Kendall from office before he can cause more damage. How we go about doing that is a different story. We’ve obtained enough legal proof that I can swing it. The Galatea project transcends almost all politics, so there is no problem going after Kendall directly. And on top of what Gerald has just provided, I have also uncovered substantial proof that weapons were being fabricated on Crescent as recently as last month. No number of connections will get Kendall’s head off the chopping block now,” Nigel said and laughed. “What we need to do now is determine where the loyalty of the officers on this station lies.” Swaren turned his eyes to Marisa. “That is where you come in. Do you think you can determine your comrades’ willingness to take part in a coup?”

  “I’ll check it out, sure, but,” Marisa hesitated and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead, “I think Captain Benedict will be on our side. I know him. He is a good man. And all the officers on the station look up to him.”

  “Well. Captain Benedict may be all we need. Find out where his heart lies,” Swaren said.

  “And what about me?” Gerald asked.

  “I’d recommend you lay low for a while, Gerald. At least until we get the Kendall situation all wrapped up. You’ve done enough.”

  “I’d just as soon leave Crescent,” Gerald said.

  “We all would,” Marisa said with conviction.

  “Gerald, I suggest you keep yourself hidden until I can get you off the station safely,” Nigel said and then stood up. “That’s it. Marisa you know what to do.”

  Marisa and Gerald got to their feet and exchanged glances across the table.

  (•••)

  Main Street was nearly deserted, save for a few stray cult members placing flyers on the darkened windows of closed business. Sun globes oozed a low, azure light. The air was chilly. Heathen’s lay up head of them, the neon sign flickering through a haze. A collector robot ambled down the boulevard, collecting trash as it went.

  “What do you make of them?” Gerald asked, turning his head to watch a flyer flutter to the ground.

  Marisa shrugged and sighed. “These freaks have been on Crescent for years. They call themselves the Aphotic. Some kind of church. Cult shit, if you ask me. But they haven’t caused too many problems other than irritating people. They’re brought into HQ every once in a while on solicitation charges. That’s about it.” She thought on it for another moment. “I’ve seen more of them lately.” Marisa took Gerald’s hand so suddenly that it startled him. She looked down the street to Heathen’s.

  “One more before you go into hiding?” she asked.

  “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea,” he said reluctantly. A cold beer sounded like heaven.

  “Okay,” she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. She stood on her toes and brushed her lips across his. Gerald inhaled. She smelled good. Clean. Shampoo and soap. Her lips were cool and soft; soft as ever. He wrapped his arms around her waist. They kissed again, and this time the kiss was substantially deeper. Marisa grabbed him through his jeans and bit his earlobe. He let out a small gasp and worked his lips over her neck.

  “My place… or yours,” she said, her voice a breath.

  “Yours, mine… ” Gerald began to say, but was cut off.

  “Yours is closer,” Marisa whispered.

  (•••)

  They made love like feral cats—sensual and animalistic. Gerald explored her body, seeking out familiar sensitive spots with eager fingertips and lips. Her soft moans—and, later, full-throated cries—let him know that he hadn’t forgotten a thing. She was wet and welcoming when he entered her. Climax came seconds later, for both of them. Afterwards, they lay in a tangle of limbs and sweat-soaked sheets, struggling for breath. Her head rested on the rise and fall of his chest; her green eyes blinked up at him.

  The door buzzer cut through the post-sex haze like a hot and rusty razor. Gerald sat up and she grabbed his arm.

  “We’re not here,” Marisa said.

  The buzzer rang again.

  “We’re not here,” he said. He lay back down and tried not to breathe. The buzzer didn’t ring for several minutes and he heaved a long sigh. He looked to Marisa. “Maybe this isn’t the best place for me to… ”

  The door whined open, and in came Albin Catlier and Jacob Raney. Gerald sat up with a jerk. Marisa scooted back and pulled the sheets up over her naked body.

  “Looks like we picked a good time to stop in,” Catlier said. Raney roared with jabbering, spittle-spraying laughter. He plucked the wad of tobacco out of his cheek and dropped it on the gray carpet, where it landed with a wet smack.

  “We had no idea your tits were so nice, Gr
iffin,” Raney said with a wet, crooked-toothed grin. Gerald wanted to knock those teeth right out of his head.

  “What the hell do you want?” Gerald asked.

  “We’re placing you under arrest, Mr. Evans,” Catlier said in a calm voice. He struck a match on his boot heel and lit a cigarette.

  “By what authority?” Marisa said. “You’re not Core Sec. You’re not shit.”

  Raney pulled a heavy pipe out from underneath his jacket and twirled it once. At the end of the pipe was a massive, octagonal joint, caked with blood. Some of it still looked wet. And was that hair sticking out of it? Gerald wasn’t the first stop on their list. Had they already gone after Swaren? Gerald’s stomach dropped.

  “Mr. Evans, it’d be wise for you to get dressed and come with us. I’d be lying if I said we didn’t want to hurt anyone. My associate here really enjoys hurting people. I can’t say I blame him—when you’re as good at it as he is,” Catlier said. “So, what’s it going to be? Come with us willing, or we bash in your pretty little girlfriend’s head and take you with us.”

  “I get the point.” Gerald climbed out of the bed. Marisa grabbed his wrist, almost savagely. “It’s cool, baby. I’ll be fine,” he said. He wouldn’t be fine for long—he knew that much. Gerald hoped she’d go to Swaren, if Swaren still lived, and rescue his salvage-hauling ass. He started mentally counting up his friends on the station, and wished suddenly that he’d made a lot more. How much force would it take to liberate him? Swaren, Marisa? Maerl? Cortez and Ina? Gerald pulled on his pants and shirt. He slipped into a pair of boots and stepped away from the bed. Raney leaned his pipe against the bed in a calm, deliberate movement. In the next second, he was slamming Gerald against the wall and slapping handcuffs around his wrists. Please don’t try anything, Mari, Gerald thought. Marisa didn’t throw herself at his captors as he was led out of the room; he was glad.

  (•••)

  Jacob Raney grabbed Gerald by the elbow and yanked him through the doorway. The salvage pilot tripped on the threshold and slammed against the opposite wall. The metal did not give, but Gerald’s lip did—split right down the middle with a nice rush of blood. Raney found this all too amusing. He turned back to gauge the bitch’s reaction, and froze. Griffin’s head was surrounded by a corona of black—he had seen an octopus in a Gemar’s Body Cream commercial, and he was suddenly reminded of the way it had thrown a cloud of ink. He blinked and the cloud was gone. She looked perfectly normal and perfectly pissed.

  No.

  She didn’t look normal. Her eyes still looked like the ink.

  “Come on, Jacob, quit gawking. Maybe Kendall will let you have her later. For now, his orders were specific,” Albin said.

  “What?” Jacob shook his head. “Yeah, okay. Right.” He pushed Gerald down the corridor. “Start walking, Salvage Man.”

  It wasn’t quite dawn as they led Gerald through the slumbering bazaar. All the storefronts were closed and pale violet light trickled down from the sun globes. The sulfur glow of the street lamps cast long fun-house shadows in their path. Jacob turned to look behind him and he saw movement in the shadows.

  “Albin,” he said, “I think we’re being trailed.”

  “No, we’re not,” Albin said. His voice was sure and Jacob believed him right away. It was late, he was tired. That was all. It was like at the bar, when he saw that weird shit the night those gun-runner mercs were killed. Only, that night it had been worse, because not only was he tired, he had been drunk and on more than a few recreational drugs.

  The feeling came back a few seconds later, though. Jacob was sure it was in his head, but that made it feel no less real. With every few steps he looked over his shoulder. Gerald took advantage of one such moment and bolted down an alley.

  “Crap!” Jacob shouted as Gerald disappeared into the shadows. Albin, who was a good six meters ahead by now, turned and frowned.

  “Go get him, Jacob. I’ll wait here.” Albin sounded pissed. Jacob felt himself getting upset. He hated disappointing Albin.

  Jacob darted off after Gerald. The salvage man would pay for his bad behavior. If Jacob knew anything, he knew that much. The sneaky bastard couldn’t have picked a darker, more narrow alley to flee down. Jacob’s shoulders practically touched the walls as he ran in pursuit. Salvage Man couldn’t have gotten far, though. As if in response to the thought, the sound of a garbage bin getting knocked over rang out from just ahead.

  “Gotcha, fucker,” Jacob said and quickened his pace. He came to a loading area behind a restaurant. The air was thick with spices and the smell of something that had recently gone bad in the trash. Jacob crept into the open space, metal pipe poised above his head. “Come on out and play, Salvage Man,” Jacob called in a teasing voice. A cat screamed and Jacob turned. Blackness spread out in front of his face—it was like a sable blanket had been thrown at him, but it wasn’t a blanket. It was shadow, pure and thick. For an instant, the darkness had a glittering maw filled with long, needle-like teeth. The darkness cried out, and its voice was hungry. Jacob staggered back as the Black wrapped around him, and then a burst of pleasure seized him. He fell over with a gasp. Jacob blinked, but the world remained without light.

  (•••)

  Gerald heard the trash can hit the deck. His pursuers were right on top of him. The next sound to roll down the alley was unexpected: a groan of pleasure bounced off the constrictive station walls, followed by maniacal giggling. Gerald skidded to a halt. His shoulders burned with his wrists bound so tight behind his back. More giggling and now a moan. Was that Jacob Raney? Gerald crept back the way he had come. He peered around the corner into the space behind the restaurant where he had first thought to hide. Jacob sat propped against one several refuse containers. His smallish member was clutched in one hand and he was working the thing as if he wanted to set it on fire. Raney picked up a shard of broken glass. It glittered in the dim alley light. Gerald hesitated only for a moment and then turned and ran hard. The sound of pleasure became a wail of terror that made Gerald pause. He looked back over his shoulder, but couldn’t see what was going on. He turned forward to start off again and was greeted by a fist flying into his face. He saw stars and went down, cold.

  (Part XVIII)

  By the time Albin found him, Jacob had already done as much damage as he could do to himself. The man sat leaning against a stinking garbage bin with his cock in his hand—the sex organ was no longer attached to Jacob’s body. He was screaming like a little girl—the pain was apparent on his red and scrunched face—yet he was making frantic masturbatory gestures all at same time. Blood pumped from the dark hole of his open fly. There was a piece of broken glass, the jagged edge bloodied, at Jacob’s side. Albin’s stomach did a somersault and his asshole clenched. He couldn’t fathom what he was seeing. Jacob’s spasmodic movements were as unreal as the sheer amount of blood pooling around him.

  Albin snapped to.

  “Jacob!” he shouted. Jacob’s shrieking ceased. He looked at Albin with a befuddled and slack-jawed expression; his features were ashen in the alley’s early morning light. Jacob’s gaze turned toward his severed cock. He stared at the penis for a fleeting moment; then he looked at the glass. The deepening creases in Jacob’s forehead made it apparent that his small brain was trying to make sense of it all and coming up empty. Finally, he looked up at Albin. Jacob opened his mouth to speak and promptly fell over.

  “Mother fucking son of a goddamned bitch,” Albin hissed through clenched teeth. He looked back at Gerald, who lay face down on the damp alley floor. He was beginning to stir. It seemed unlikely that the salvage pilot had chopped off Jacob’s pecker, especially with his hands bound behind his back—meaning Jacob had to have done the gruesome deed himself. That explanation was more ridiculous by far. Albin activated his cochlear implant and called the emergency room.

  “I need a med cart down here now,” Albin said as he retrieved his cigarettes from his leather coat’s inside pocket.

  The dispatcher informe
d him the medical cart would arrive in a few minutes. Albin closed the connection, lit a cigarette, and went to Jacob. He knelt beside the unconscious man. Albin watched as the wound continued to spew forth dark blood in rhythmic gushes. A few minutes would be pushing it. He averted his gaze. The sight was almost too much to handle, even for him.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob,” Albin said at last and then collected himself.

  He left Jacob’s side and went to the salvage pilot. It was time to get rolling. Jacob was well on his way to bleeding to death and there was nothing Albin could do about it. Either the medical cart would arrive on time or it wouldn’t. He nudged Gerald with the tip of his boot. The action yielded a moan. Albin kicked Gerald with as much venom as he could muster. The savage blow woke the man up, complete with a full-bore yell. Albin grabbed Gerald’s collar and yanked him to his feet.

  “Did you cut him, you sick fuck?” Albin growled; his face was only centimeters from Gerald’s.

  “What?” Gerald attempted to wrest free of Albin’s grip. It was apparent that the pilot had no idea what had just gone down. Albin let go of him with a shove and peered back into the alley. For an eye-blink, Albin saw a black shape, like a tendril of smoke, coiled around Jacob’s throat. Albin narrowed his eyes and the phantasmal snake disappeared into a floor grate.

  A warbling siren approached. Alternating blasts of red and white light filled the alley. Albin grabbed Gerald by the shoulder.