by Watson Davis
Contents
Dedication
Free At Last
My Handler -- Part I
Waste Management
My Handler -- Part II
Progress
Homecoming
Flipping Burgers
My Handler -- Part III
Illegal Alien
An Offer I Can't Refuse
About The Author
I’d like to thank my wife for everything, Bobby Rock for being a sounding board and beta-reader, Susan Buchanon for a great editing job, Holly Lisle for teaching me how to put a story together, and a bunch of other people who are probably going to give me all kinds of grief because I didn’t mention them specifically.
And they know who they are.
Free At Last
For me, the day was another day in a string of days, each one more or less the same, running together in an endless blur of boredom only occasionally interrupted by that abject terror you feel when you’re just hoping you don’t die. No one, not the judges or the guards, had bothered telling me how long my sentence was going to run. That was part of the punishment, I guess, and I’d lost count of the days and weeks and months a long time before.
I sat in my cell, cross-legged on the floor, my back against the toilet, eyes closed, my hands moving in the air, reassembling an imaginary LW73 sniper rifle like I was prepping for a field test with the parts scattered randomly around me. When I was growing up, the Sergeant Major told me to keep sharp and keep practicing because you never knew what you were going to need or when you were going to need it.
I liked to tell myself that practicing meaningless mental drills was better than going stark raving bonkers. I like to tell myself little white lies every so often.
The dim, soothing light in my cell kicked into overdrive, doubling its intensity, bathing me in a harsh fluorescence. My hands stopped. My eyes opened. Squinting, I stared at the door, wondering if this was one of those moments when the boredom would be interrupted by terror, hoping whatever-it-was wouldn’t turn out too bad. I slowed my heart before it got too fast to control.
“Prisoner Ff74b667: Dorothea Ohmie.” A weary voice called, the speakers adding a robotic crackle. “Stand and approach the door. Hands through the hole.”
I rose, my feet still asleep, tingling from the amount of time I’d been sitting there, reassembling random weapons, practicing wing-chun strikes against bigger and stronger imaginary opponents, eyes closed. The slot in the brushed metal door of my cell slid open, letting in the smells and sounds of the prison beyond, a siren wailing, angry female voices yelling. I liked it better when I was in shut down; I was almost always in shut down.
I stuck my hands through the slot and the handcuffs clamped down, fastening over my wrists, tight enough to make me wince, but not tight enough to break bones. The MP on the other side pushed my hands back and the door swung open.
Three guards waited for me, ominous in their black and blue body armor, the synthsteel plates scuffed, nicked, and scratched, their faces hidden behind mirrored masks, two of them with stunners drawn, the closest with hands outstretched, fingers motioning me to come forward, the name “Hoppa, Emilia” stenciled on her chest. “Step out. Slowly.”
A shrill voice yelled out, “They’re bringing the traitor out to play.” A silence fell over the block, no talking, no arguing, no laughing, silent except for the piercing wail of the siren.
I stepped out, swaggering a bit for show; arms lifted slightly, elbows out, waiting for the MP to grab me however she was going to grab me, not wanting to make it any harder for her than it needed to be. They get cranky when you make things hard for them and I hate getting hit when I can’t swing back. “What’s on the agenda today, Emilia? Time for my spa treatment already? How about manny/peddy this time?”
“Shut up.” Snatching my arm, she dragged me down the narrow aisle running in front of the second floor cells, one MP following behind us, the other walking backward in front of us, stunners trained on me.
Two of the turrets suspended from the ceiling turned and tracked me while the other turrets swiveled to track inmates who’d threatened to kill me. I suppose if I’d had any friends in this forsaken hellhole, a turret or two would have tracked them as well, but I didn’t, so they weren’t.
My foot touched the steps leading down to the ground floor, triggering the other inmates who erupted in jeering and the yelling of obscenities, jumping up and down, waving their fists in the air, spitting, threatening to do me damage if they ever got ahold of me, the usual stuff.
Emilia and her subordinates pushed, shoved, and shepherded me down the stairs, across the main floor, bits of trash and unnamable bodily fluids raining down on me, leading me through a hatch that was always closed, always locked. Emilia grabbed the back of my collar, pressing her armored fist against my neck, into my skull, pushing me forward, past banks of blasters, stunners, and slugthrowers locked in mesh cages, rows of empty black and blue light battle armor, the cheap kind that wouldn’t last a minute in a real firefight against standup troops but more than a match against unarmored inmates armed with zip-guns and shivs.
She navigated me through all this to a windowed counter, a round metal grill set into it, a metal slot beneath, the counter some sort of plastic, a metal rimmed window, the metal brushed, not shiny, dinged in places, gunk and dirt bunched up in the corners and in the places where the plastic met the metal. The grime covering the window in a blackish film obscured the MP on the other side.
Emilia grabbed my right wrist, jerking my hand up, slapping it onto the counter. A fatter, angrier version of my face appeared in a holo, turning, expanding to show my entire body wearing the clothes I’d worn when I turned myself in. Emilia said, “Dorothea Ohmie, discharge code DA-959-5312.”
Discharge code?
A voice sputtered through the grill, “DA-959-5312, check. Just a moment.”
The guard behind the grill moved around, a shadowy figure through the grime on the window. Emilia, behind me, sighed, a frustrated huff, her booted toes tapping. Her breath reeked of onions and garlic and as nasty and putrid as that sounds, I was at the point where I would have killed my own mother for pretty much anything with some garlic and onions. Although honestly, I’d have been happy to at least maim her even without garlic and onions on the line.
The room stank of grease, like a motor pool repair room, without the undercurrent of old sweat or the stink of disinfectant like the rest of the prison. I closed my eyes, drinking in that smell as stinky as it was, just happy for the change. Any change at this point was a freaking blessing.
“Here you go.” The guard shoved a package through the slot.
Emilia poked her fist into the middle of my back.
I reached out and took the package, pulling it the rest of the way out, smudging some of that old black goo on it. I looked down at the package, wondering what I was looking at, my mind not making the connection.
“Hurry up and get dressed,” Emilia said, swiping a card along the edge of my handcuffs, removing them from my wrists.
I almost forgot to breathe. My clothes? I was free? This soon?
I never expected to be released, ever, not after the last inmate I’d killed and the last guard I’d hospitalized.
“That’s the address to your halfway house and that’s the contact information for your Mental Hygiene officer,“ Emilia said, her lips twisting at the sour taste those words left in her mouth, her eyes narrowing.
A flashing red dot in the corner of my vision indicated that not only was my onboard computer functional again but I had also received Emilia’s message, and lots and lots of other messages. I closed my eyes, mentally giving the commands to open, to find, and to read the information. I could have cried, having that connection
to civilization restored, but I just grinned like a fool, like a drooling drone, after realizing I was going to eat real food, good food. And drink a beer.
Emilia slapped a red button set into the wall. An alarm beeping, red lights flashing, hydraulics hissing, the door opened.
The setting sun’s rays burrowed its way through the thin Martian atmosphere, over the cliffs of the Hellas basin, through the dome and gaps between the buildings of Massif Township, to drive right into my eyes. I squinted, raising my hand to block those rays even as I reveled in them, in their warmth, a warmth I hadn’t felt for the years of my incarceration. Years? How many years? I checked the date on my onboard. Five years. Only five?
“You’re a free woman, Major,” Emilia said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Thank you, Sergeant Hoppa.” I turned to her, smiling, almost turning my hand, almost forming a salute, stopping myself. “I’m not a major, anymore.”
“You’ll be wishing you were safe and sound back here in a day. A lot of people think it’s a travesty, you getting out. Lots of bets on how long you last out there. Do me a favor and last a week before you die, OK?”
“Good luck to you, too.” I nodded, striding through the door, back straight, head held high, jaw set, expecting the worst, expecting a sea of reporters, fingertips to their temples, eyes flashing and blinking, saving pictures of me exiting the Calderone Prison, the thought of a juicy burger, salty fries, and an icy beer giving me strength.
I marched out into the parking lot next to the prison, doors sealing shut behind me, but no one waiting for me: no crush of reporters, no ambush of protesters, no friends, no family, nothing. Five autos and three scooters sat in the lot, their engines silent, lights off, no drivers or passengers. A dusty gray ferrocrete sidewalk encircled the lot, one lonely path leading down to a simple chain-link fence with a gate opening up onto a street with a steady traffic of beeping autos and scooters zooming past. Some civilians in long trench coats, each in their own world, trudged along on the sidewalks, beneath the hulking billboards showing a stream of adverts, the seven and eight story buildings in loose blocks with the bigger buildings of downtown brooding in the hazy distance, silhouettes in the fading sunlight.
The city looked the same as when I’d gone in: the sun glinting on grimy windows, the black and gray ferrocrete, the clouds of exhaust rising from the street, the burps of fumes from the bowels of the city rising up from the hatches to the underworld in the sidewalks smelled the stinky same, too.
Stomach growling, reminding me of my priorities, I hiked down to the gate, in my own world now with my right index finger tapping my temple, deleting ancient messages in batches, flipping through my contact list, trying to call my mother, trying to call the sergeant major, trying to call an old boyfriend I hoped might still be interested, but all their addresses had changed, or, at least, weren’t accepting messages from me anymore.
I stopped on the side of the street, leaning against a streetlight beside a bus stop, searching for my mother’s new address, not listed, searching for the sergeant major’s address, not listed. I pulled up the physical address of my new temporary home, Edward Craft’s Halfway House, searched for good places to eat in close proximity, found a good burger joint that sold beer, and called for a taxi to pick me up.
Before I’d finished the request, an auto pulled up to the curb before me, screeching to a stop in the bus lane, fishtailing slightly, burned rubber adding to the stink of the city. A new auto, a midnight blue with black tinted windows, shiny, sleek lines made for speed, the engine growling: I hoped for a moment that my mother had forgiven me, that “disowned” didn’t mean forever, but that hope died almost before it was born. This was not my mother’s car.
The gull-wing passenger door popped open, seals breaking with a whoosh of air and the scent of roses, the delicate strings of music decreasing in volume. A middle-aged offworld woman sat in the driver’s seat. She leaned over, smiling with bright teeth, her tan skin several shades lighter than my dark skin. “Major Ohmie?”
I stepped toward the car, bending over, but not getting in, not getting too close. “I’m not in the military anymore.”
“Yes.” She gestured, pointing at the prison behind me. “You’re not in prison anymore either, it would seem. The governor’s office only just leaked news of your release. Luckily, my office is a couple of blocks over.” She indicated the passenger seat between us. “Please, get in so we can talk in private.”
I studied the seat, running my eyes down the length of it: a recliner, black cushions, headrest, plump, clean, screaming comfort. I clasped my hands behind my back, shaking my head, staring into her shiny, dark eyes. “I don’t get into vehicles with people I don’t know, with agendas I don’t know, to talk about who knows what.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose, eyes blinking, mouth opening in surprise, she said, “Of course. I’m sorry. I assumed you’d been receiving my correspondence. I feel like we’re old friends by now.”
“Well, I haven’t been and we aren’t.” I looked down and rubbed at a smudge of gunk on my pants. “I haven’t been allowed messages until a few minutes ago.”
“Well, then.” She reached out a finely manicured hand, dark blue fingernails glittering. “Let’s get acquainted. I’m Krishna Wiatrek. I’m a headhunter for FountainCorp and I’d like to offer you a job.”
“A job?” I stared at her hand until she pulled it back. “At FountainCorp?”
“You have a certain skill set and we have certain issues with corporate security.” Her smile widened. “I think you’d be a perfect fit and you come with a glowing recommendation. I’m very excited about the prospect of you joining the corporation.”
“That’s almost too good to be true. Me just out of prison and all, and you here to offer me a job.”
“I know, right?” She giggled. “You’re a lucky lady.”
“An old man I used to know told me that when things seem too good to be true, it’s a lie.” I straightened, relaxing my shoulders.
“Lie?” The smile evaporated from her face, all the fake joy and cheerleader rah-rah fading with it. “It’s no lie. We want you at FountainCorp.”
A taxi swerved through traffic, pulling around a bus, darting in between two cars, tires squealing, skidding to a smoking stop behind Ms. Wiatrek’s auto.
“Thank you,” I said, putting my hand on her door. “But I am not a vile money-grubbing mercenary.”
I slammed her door shut and stomped over to my taxi. “Let’s go get some eats.”
None of the customers looked my way when I entered the joint. The dim panel lights on the ceiling flickered, their edges mottled and stained with age. Real-life wax candles burned on round tables with red and white checkerboard tablecloths and the clientele-there were four groups of them, twelve civilians total-relaxed, leaning in toward each other to whisper, to laugh, to talk, sitting back in comfort and ease; I wasn't looking for ambiance, wasn't planning on bringing any cute guys here anytime soon, but it was dark and quiet, and that was good.
Most importantly, the place smelled like good food, so good my knees shook, threatening to dump me to the floor before the door even sealed itself shut behind me.
I stood at the door, looking around for a sign to seat myself or wait, knees trembling from low blood sugar, awkward at being alone, like everyone was taking time off from their socializing to notice and stare at some single woman in a cheap suit with a grease stain on the slacks coming in for some grub.
A man, with khaki-colored skin common of Hellenes, a brown handlebar mustache, his bald head shaped slightly wrong, scars running down his face and neck, a black vest with no shirt, a rug of curly hair on his chest and arms that had to be a sanitation violation of some sort, stood behind the bar, wiping out a mug with a fluffy, white towel. I would have dismissed him as a poser, someone who looked scary to cover some cowardice or weakness, except that he moved wrong; he moved like he had training, with a killer’s grace. In the mirror, I saw he had a
winged skull tattoo on his thick, heavily-veined left biceps, confirming my suspicion.
Posers don't wear military tats for very long; it's not good for their life expectancy, especially a HART tattoo-Hellas Advanced Recon: Tactical.
“Sit anywhere,” he said to me, seeing my confusion. “I’ll be there in a beat.”
I nodded, walking past the bar. His eyes narrowed, studying me, classifying me: threat or shin banger. I could tell without looking that he didn't like the way I moved, my training as obvious to him as his was to me, but I chose to ignore him. I could show him the winged skull tat on my biceps later if we got into a pissing contest.
My stomach grumbled and my mouth watered at the smell of good grub, real food, not what I’d been subsisting on for so long. Selecting a table far away from everyone, against the wall, where I could sit and watch the door outside and the door to the kitchen, I eased myself into the seat. I touched my temple, bringing up the pub's menu, the words forming in my eyes.
The bartender sauntered over and stood with his thumbs looped into his belt, looking tough. "What can I get for you?"
"The Amarth's on tap?"
"Mmmhmmm." He dipped his chin.
"A mug of that, a cheeseburger with everything, and fries."
"That it?"
"That should do." I smiled, tension I’d lived with seeping out of me, leaving me exhausted without having done a thing. I needed to gather myself, come up with a plan, figure out what I was going to do now.
He leaned over, whispering, "I don't want any trouble in here. You got any problems, you take 'em outside."
“I’m just here to get a bite.” I raised my hands, showing him my empty palms, a sign of surrender. "You don't like my creds, I'm gone, no fuss, no muss."
"I'm keeping you to that.” His eyes narrowed, looking me over, studying me more closely. “Do I know you?”
My heart stopped like I’d been pounded on the chest by a sledgehammer. I swallowed, shook my head. “No.”
