by Phil Rossi
“Fractum,” Albin supplied.
“Yes. Fractum. I want him to be crazy when he comes out of it. We will report him missing to Core Sec the following day. They’ll think their man went AWOL. Meantime, we’ll clean up his reports as necessary.”
“How do we get to his reports?” Albin asked. He hoped Kendall wasn’t planning on having him mess with the paperwork. Albin was also not a secretary, that was for goddamned sure.
“Not to worry, Albin. You just leave that to me.” Kendall slid back into the consuming chair and seemed to be lost in thought. “Also, bring Gerald Evans to me tomorrow morning—first thing,” he said. “I’d like to speak with him one last time.”
(•••)
It had been a long time since Kendall had walked through Crescent’s corridors unescorted. It had been even longer since he had used the secret by-ways. Few knew of their existence—most of those who had were dead and gone. The solitude was a strange feeling. It made him feel like a ghost. He passed silent maintenance robots docked into their small charge ports. Lights flashed on their domed hulls as they took in life from the station. Most of these critters had been on the station since she was built. There was no saying how long their batteries would hold a charge. For the moment, Kendall and the robots alone shared the spaces behind the walls.
The corridor ended at a small, octagonal room bisected by another passage that disappeared into darkness on either side. Above him, a circulation fan whoomped and squeaked. A lift lay directly ahead of him. He pulled back the metal gate, collapsing it like an accordion, then stepped in and selected the appropriate level. His angular features were a mask of determination. The lift began to descend slowly at first, but then it picked up speed. Cool, stale air rushed up past his face, lifting the thin hair from his forehead. He wondered if the lift would continue to accelerate and smash him to pieces when it hit the end of the line.
It began to slow, and finally it stopped.
He pulled back the gate and stepped into another round chamber, identical to the one he had left many levels above. The large duct fan set into the low ceiling was long dead. The air was cold, very still, and smelled of dust and mildew. He could hear water dripping somewhere not far off. He was below L Deck by several wide station levels, but some runoff from the recent floods was still trapped between decks.
Kendall made his way down a lightless corridor. The very walls seemed to drain away the beam from the flashlight he held in front of him with a rigid arm. The light’s meager radiance was no talisman—it wouldn’t protect him from whatever lived deep in the station—but he held it poised ahead of him with a conviction as if he thought it just might. After wandering in the darkness, he finally spotted a sliver of light ahead. Approaching it, the mayor slipped his fingers into the crack. He pulled, and a panel came away, falling to the floor with a clatter. Silence amplified the sound, and the mayor cringed. He stepped through the hole he had made, out of the darkness and into jaundiced illumination.
Kendall knew he should have been thankful for the light, but something about the quality of the glow made him feel sick. The temperature in the passageway was cold. The air hung around naked halo-globes in a hazy aura, thick with moisture. It had been years since he’d been down here, and the place hadn’t changed at all. Each step brought him a little closer to hell’s doorstep.
The air felt electrified, like it could catch fire at any second and burn him alive. You’re just being dramatic, Kendall told himself. This is a superstitious trek and nothing more. But it felt the same as it had felt fifteen years ago.
Not the same. The air felt heavier now than it had fifteen years ago—fifteen years ago, when those brats had started something unnatural and Kendall had been forced to fix it.
He walked on, into the depths of the unnerving silence.
Cables bound to the corridor walls looked like slumbering obsidian snakes. If he were to stumble, would they hear him and wake? As if in response, there was a rustle from deep in the shadows, like a dry whisper. Kendall stopped, turning in the direction of the sound. He squinted into the shadows, but could see nothing.
A hard shove hit Kendall from behind, sending him falling face first onto the dirty floor. He rolled onto his back and scuttled back several paces, swallowing hard and willing his gut to slow its nervous churning. The unmistakable sound of a young boy’s laughter reverberated in the shadows. Maybe two boys.
“Come on, Brian…” a distant voice called. Kendall squeezed his eyes shut and the silence returned.
He got to his feet and brushed himself off. It doesn’t welcome my visit this time. It doesn’t need me, Kendall thought. Just turn around and run. Get out of here. Get off the station. It’s over.
“It’s not over,” he growled to himself. “Not at all.”
He arrived at the Vault several minutes later. The overhead light panels were nearly burned out there. They guttered amber. The Vault bulkhead was bigger than Kendall recalled, and its red X—a mark Kendall remembered more clearly, and dreamed about more often, than he would ever admit—was gone. The door was black as pitch and it shimmered occasionally with points of weak light, as if tiny flecks of glitter were set in the surface.
“I know you know that I’m here,” Kendall said. He didn’t expect a response, so he wasn’t disappointed when none came. “I don’t know what you want this time. I will find you another woman with child. I can do that. The child in-utero will be just as young and fresh as last time. But you have to stop this nonsense.”
A low sound came from behind the door, a woomp woomp that Kendall felt in the cavity of his chest, more than he actually heard it with his ears. The pulsing sound persisted, growing louder with each trembling breath he took. His mouth went dry. The light globes that ran down the corridor even pulsed in time with it. God, Kendall thought, it’s a heartbeat. The Beast was fully awake now.
(•••)
Nigel’s instructions had been specific. Griffin could hear the auditor’s voice in her head: Wait for the signal, Marisa—no cowboy shit. She didn’t have to be told twice. The plan was risky. Hell, the risk was incalculable. Marisa didn’t care. She just wanted to get on with it.
A sleek, three-leveled passenger liner glided into the hangar—the Odessa.
“It’s a big one,” Walter Vegan said past her to Albin Catlier.
“What are you doin’ here, Griffin?” Albin said to Marisa, ignoring Vegan.
“My job. What are you doing here, Albin?”
“The same, Miss,” Albin said, and lit a cigarette. Marisa hated the smell of the self-rolled things. The tobacco didn’t smell right to her, like it was always on the verge of going bad. She looked between Catlier and Vegan, and thought the men couldn’t be more different from one another. Vegan was slow; Albin was lethal. Watching him, Marisa knew that laying off the carthine had been the best thing she’d ever done.
Hissing geysers of steam pumped out of ports on the Odessa’s side as the large ship matched pressures with Crescent. The pounding in Marisa’s chest rose in tempo. She had never been as aware of its beating as she was now. Even before the steam had dissipated, a gleaming docking ramp folded out from the ship’s starboard side to rest upon the deck with a loud clank. The sound of metal scraping against metal floated down to them as an oculus hatch swished open. A group of four people descended the ramp: two men and two women. One man was tall as a rod, and just about as thin. He had close-cropped black hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. Beside him was a short, stocky woman with red hair piled atop her head. She had a pretty, if not slightly plump, face. Behind her walked a lithe, dark-skinned woman, with almond-shaped eyes and sleek black hair that was braided and fell well past her waist. Next to her walked a man of average height and build with gold-rimmed glasses. With the exception of the dark-skinned girl, Marisa didn’t think any of them looked capable of staging a coup. Her palms began to sweat.
She glanced back around at their own Crescent greeting party. There was horse-face
and Albin, plus five security guards who had been assigned to the detail, a last minute decision handed down from the mayor’s office. No doubt, Kendall was beginning to feel concerned. Marisa didn’t blame him. He had every right to be paranoid. She could almost sympathize.
The group from the colony ship halted at the foot of the ramp. The stocky woman smiled, revealing perfect teeth.
“Hello! It’s lovely to be here!” she beamed. The signal.
Marisa’s hand disappeared into her Core Sec jacket and came out with the gauss pistol that she had taken from the dock’s confiscated weapons area. She leveled it at Albin. Beside Albin, Vegan’s eyes went wide in both misunderstanding and abrupt fear. He opened his mouth as if to speak. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Vegan reaching for something. She turned the gun on him and pulled the trigger, putting a lead slug right between his eyes. He made a mewing sound, a stream of blood trickled out of the smoldering hole in his head, and then Vegan toppled face down onto the deck. Before Albin could draw his own weapon, the new arrivals had their guns trained on him. The group from the colony ship was packing heat, as promised. A second group descended the ramp. The approaching five men and women wore shiny black body-armor over their Core Sec uniforms, and they were heavily armed. The Crescent security team had their weapons drawn and leveled at Albin as well. The thug shook his head and thrust his hands skyward. The cigarette still dangled from a smirking set of lips.
Marisa led the strike force through a maze of maintenance corridors with practiced ease. She knew the passages well—she had spent the previous eight hours rehearsing the route so that every step she took would be quick and unthinking. There could be no hesitation now. The group came to a ladder at the end of the hallway; the worn metal rungs reflected the red glare of maintenance globes set amongst thick cables on the walls. She holstered her gun and ascended. When she finally reached C Deck, her arms trembled from the strain. If Kendall wasn’t in his private quarters as Nigel had promised he would be, the plan was done.
The team’s boots clanked on the narrow service walkway as they headed down another tight passage. The corridor widened where it terminated. A false panel leaked light at the end of the channel. Marisa kicked the thin, metal square in. It was a foolish and impulsive move, and she regretted it the instant bullets and needles rained into the passageway. The projectiles sang as they glanced off the walls and floor. Someone cried out behind her, and everyone hit the deck.
“Fuck,” Marisa gasped. Another member of the team cried out, hit. The hallway had become a shooting gallery—there was no cover. One, two, three, goodbye to you and goodbye to me, Marisa thought, and an object whistled past her head from behind. She closed her eyes. A second later a flash grenade went off with an enormous bang. There was a cry from the other side of the open panel. The Odessa strike force pushed past her and into the other room. A couple fleeting bursts of gunfire sounded, and then there was blessed silence. Marisa’s ears rang painfully. She pressed the heels of her hands to them as she got back to her feet.
She found three Crescent security officers handcuffed and sitting against a far wall when she stepped out of the tunnel. Their heads were hung low, like they had just lost a soccer game. A Crescent security officer lay in the middle of the room in a spreading pool of blood. The Odessa’s medic tended to the fallen woman, whose chest rose in quick, labored breaths. Marisa looked back out into the hallway. One of the Odessa’s officers was bandaging up his own leg.
(•••)
Kendall sat grim-faced in his bed chamber, his body wrapped in a thick terry robe. A nude woman occupied his bed. The sheets were pulled up to her chin with one hand and she had a needle gun leveled at Kendall with the other.
As the security team put handcuffs around his bony wrists, Kendall looked at the girl in his bed in a way that turned Marisa’s blood to ice. It was a look that said, If I get out of this situation, you’ll be worse than dead. When Kendall turned the same look to Marisa, she gave him her best shit-eating grin. She expected a speech out of the typically gregarious man, but he remained silent as he was led out of the room in his robe and slippers. For once, Ezra Kendall had nothing to say. He had fallen into their trap, hook, line, and sinker. Had the hooker been Nigel’s plan? Well played, indeed.
“Good work,” the stocky redhead said to Marisa and extended a hand. “I’m Captain Judy Rosenthal.”
Marisa took the hand; it was warm, the skin soft. The grip, however, was anything but weak.
“Lieutenant Marisa Griffin,” Marisa said with an easy smile. “But you knew that.”
“Yes. You did extremely well here, Marisa.”
“I didn’t know Kendall would have a compliment of officers in his personal chambers. I’m sorry.” Marisa paused and then added, “Is your boy okay?”
“Mitchie? Yeah. He’ll be fine. Bullet went right through his calf. It missed the bone and any major blood vessels as far as he can tell. A quick patch-up and he’ll be playing basketball in no time. As for Geiden, she’s on her way to the Odessa’s sick bay. We’ll do everything we can for her.”
“What’s next?” Marisa asked.
“Who can say? Certainly not me. Not my job. I perform the coup, I don’t follow up. There are administrators aboard the Odessa that will be taking over the operations here. Better them than me.” Captain Rosenthal winked a hazel eye and left the room.
“Are you okay?” Marisa asked the prostitute.
“I said I’d never let his shriveled old prick near me again. And he still had time to fuck me before you all showed up.” Her words were caustic as she turned her head up toward Marisa. One of her eyes was milky and blindly stared off to one side, the other eye was dark and swam with tears. Marisa didn’t know what to say.
“I’m… sorry.”
“Whatever,” the prostitute sighed. “We get to choose our clients most times. Most, but not all. Men like Ezra Kendall… they choose you.”
The prostitute slid off the bed and began to dress quickly. Once she was mostly clothed, she gathered her shoes and her bag and held them close to her chest, making for the door.
She paused only for an instant. “I’m done here, right?”
“As far as I know, you are,” Marisa said.
“Good.” The dark-haired girl left without another word.
Marisa sat at the edge of Kendall’s big sleigh bed. She was alone now. The coup was over, but the uneasy flitter of butterfly wings had yet to leave her stomach in peace.
(•••)
Marisa found Gerald asleep in his cell. She envied the near peaceful quality of his slack features—she almost didn’t want to wake him. The ridiculously old-fashioned lock on the cell door turned over with a clank. His features went rigid and he sat upright so abruptly that he came close to falling right off the sorry excuse for a bed. He rubbed at his neck and blinked up at her. She sat down beside him and placed a hand on his knee.
“It’s over, Gerry.”
“It’s… over?” He cocked his head; he didn’t understand.
“Kendall. We arrested him an hour ago,” she said.
“And it took you an hour to come over here and get me out? Shit.” But he smiled. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. “I have no speech prepared. I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”
(•••)
“We’ve got a ride away from here, you know,” Marisa said as Gerald punched in the access code for his apartment. He looked at her as the door chimed that it was unlocked.
“I’ve got a ride,” Gerald said, “named Bean, who I think would be extremely upset were I to leave him behind.” He stepped into the apartment and she followed. The door hissed shut behind them.
A woman stood in the center of Gerald’s apartment.
She screamed.
Three long, grievous wounds ran from her left shoulder to her right hip, as if she had been brutally raked with some crude weapon. The wounds oozed blood and were laced with what looked like black oil. Wide and blo
odshot eyes stared out from her dirty face. Her hair clung to her skull in bloody mattes. She screamed again. Gerald grabbed Marisa’s arm.
He was seeing it, too.
“No!” the girl cried. “You can’t let them take it from her! Unity! It will bring unity!” She bolted at them and both Marisa and Gerald took a step back, relinquishing their grip on one another. The girl disappeared through the closed door. Marisa looked at Gerald and he frowned.
“Marisa,” he said, “I don’t think anything is over yet.”
(Part XXI)
The Crescent security roster floated above the long, gray conference room table. A handful of names had been lined-through with glowing red—officers who were off duty on account of illness; or, worse, officers who had disappeared. The remainder of the list shimmered in green and showed an active Crescent security force far more robust that Nigel Swaren had hoped for. The text winked out and the lights came up.
“All are committed to this transition, Captain Swaren, unless otherwise indicated. You have a hard copy of the report, as requested,” Captain Benedict said.
“Thank you, Captain,” Nigel said, and smiled. His doubts about Benedict had been ill-founded.
“I would like to backtrack a moment here,” Belinda Michaels spoke up. She had arrived with the Odessa, and would be running the show on Crescent until the approaching decommission—an event that would remain unannounced until Crescent had sufficient time to recover from its more recent catastrophes. Nigel nodded for her to go on. The crow’s feet around her eyes deepened as she smiled. “I don’t think it is necessary to keep the colonists confined to the Odessa any longer. She’ll remain here for another day or two as final details of the transition are ironed out. Why not let them stretch their legs and see the sights? After all, this may be the last time they get a chance to see Crescent.”
