Existence is Elsewhen

by John Gribbin

  “Dockworker Marcus Raines is wanted by Station Security in relation to the murder of supervisor James Franklin earlier this morning. The office of the Security Chief has refused to comment but sources inside the department report that Raines key card was used shortly after the murder and that his DNA was found near the body. He is considered armed and danger–” I tapped the display and shut the bitch off mid-sentence. Shit. Note to self, don’t vomit at crime scenes. This changed things, no way could I go to Security now. They’d never believe me. I was royally screwed! Murderous smugglers hunting me on one side and trigger-happy Station Security on the other. What the hell was I going to do?

  I flopped onto a box of cleaning supplies and considered what to do next. I had to get away from both factions and off the station. First stop would have to be my quarters though, I had my old service pistol stashed there. I stripped off the stained work clothes leaving my key card in the pocket (it would only get me caught now anyway) and tugged on a spare pair of trousers and a battered brown jacket (both left behind from previous stays).

  Emerging from the closet I found the corridor empty and set off back to the lift. Arriving without incident, I hit the button for P deck where I slipped onto one of the mag-trains bound for the residential district. The entire journey I just sat, eyes fixed on the floor, expecting to be spotted at any second. I guess I just looked like any drunk heading home though because no one approached me or raised the alarm. When the train reached my stop I hopped off but didn’t head straight home. Security were sure to be watching so I had to be sneaky. Luckily I knew a way.

  Like the docking area (and everywhere else on the station), the walls of the residential area were a dull grey but this area seemed much more lived in, with the walls being scuffed, dirty and even covered in graffiti. It was also much more cramped here, the corridors were barely wide enough for two people, the lights were dim and even the ceilings were lower. I’m 6'2" and the top of my head almost scraped the roof. Behind one of the adjacent dorm blocks, I found what I was looking for: a maintenance shaft which took me up into the crawlspace between decks. It would be a tight squeeze and take me almost fifteen minutes to wriggle across to my quarters but it was safer than using the front door.

  The space between decks was incredibly tight, barely half a metre high, and, with no lights, felt a lot like being trapped in a coffin. Moving through it wasn’t easy either, my clothes and boots kept catching on exposed bolts and I banged by head more than a few times. The only saving grace were the numbers on the ceiling tiles to indicate which room lay below, numbers which I unfortunately had to read by the meagre light of my comm unit. Those fifteen minutes were some of the longest of my life.

  When I finally arrived, I carefully unscrewed the ceiling tile and peeked into the room below. The whisky bottle next to the toothbrush told me I had the right bathroom and from what I could see the coast was clear. I dropped down as quietly as I could and slotted the tile back into place. I looked longingly at the whisky bottle wishing I could take a drink. I knew it would make me feel better, hair of the dog and all that, but I also knew I’d end up finishing the bottle and I needed my wits about me if I was going to survive.

  Trying my best to ignore the bottle I tapped the keypad and opened the door to my main living space. What I found there was chaos. I’m not the neatest of people but this mess was not mine. Everything had been turned over. Books had been tossed from their shelves, clothes ripped from drawers and dumped on the floor, bed stripped and turned over and the biggest surprise, two hulking guys stood in the centre of the maelstrom of mess.

  There was a moment where I just stood there, not sure what to do next. To be fair one of the men looked just as shocked as I did, the other just looked angry. He had good reason to be pissed though, the last time we had met I’d barged him into a bulkhead and kicked him in the stomach. He let out an almost bestial roar and charged at me. Thinking quickly, I stepped back into the bathroom and stuck out a leg. Childish I know, but it worked. Beast man tripped over my leg and went head first into the wall, his big bald head making a sickening crack as it collided with the solid steel. Leaping forward, I tackled his friend before he could react and heard an ‘Umph’ as the breath was driven from his lungs and my momentum carried us both to the floor. My opponent recovered quickly and drove a fist into my stomach causing the air to explode from my own lungs and making me want to retch again.

  I fought down the need to vomit and struggled to catch my breath. Unfortunately the smuggler wasn’t willing to give me the chance. Twisting his body round he sat astride my chest and began to pummel me around the face. He was strong, seriously strong, and his blows felt like sledgehammers. I raised my arms, trying to deflect the blows and protect my face as best I could. Wriggling and trying to throw him off me did nothing, the bastard was just too damn heavy so I resorted to cheating.

  Punching someone (especially over and over) isn’t as easy as most people think. In fact it’s damn exhausting so I did my best to keep blocking, waiting for an opening. The moment his onslaught slowed, I struck. I swung both arms up as hard and fast as I could, cupping my hands as I did, and slapping them onto the smuggler’s ears with all the force I could muster. He gave a scream and clapped his hands to his ears. Using the distraction I jerked my hips once more and this time managed to throw him off. I glanced around for something I could use and saw an empty whisky bottle half under the bed. Grabbing it by the neck, I brought it smashing down on the smuggler’s face. He grunted as I raised the bottle again and again and again until finally he was quiet and I let the bloody bottle drop to the floor.

  I had just made it back to my feet when I heard another shout and turned to see Beast man staggering out from the bathroom. There was a large cut on his head but the worrying thing was that it was already healing. He was an ASH user which meant he was not going to be as ‘easy’ to take down as his friend.

  I dived for the bloody bottle on the floor hoping I could stun Beast with it but as I swung it at his head he easily caught my hand. He gave a squeeze sending pain shooting up my arm and causing me to drop the bottle. Still holding my wrist he backhanded me across the face.

  I could only have been out for a second because when the world came back into focus I was still on my feet held in Beast’s vicelike grip. I needed to get free. This guy could kill me without breaking a sweat if he wanted to, and by now he definitely wanted to. Time to cheat again. I know it’s not honourable but fuck honour, as far as I see it if you’re in a fight, you do anything you can to survive. So with that thought I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls.

  It didn’t do much good though. I was hoping he’d end up curled up on the floor whimpering but he barely flinched, just grunted. His grip did loosen a little though, just enough for me to twist free. I staggered backwards, legs still weak. Before I had a chance to recover and regroup Beast lunged at me, one massive fist swinging at my head. I ducked under the blow and dodged around him, managing to trip over the upturned mattress and fall into the bathroom. As I fell to the floor I grabbed for anything I could use but when I finally landed all I found in my hand was my toothbrush.

  Suddenly Beast was towering over me and reached down to grab the front of my jacket. Desperate, I gripped the toothbrush as hard as I could and jammed it into his left eye. This time he reacted. Beast let out a deafening bellow and staggered backwards giving me a chance to get back to my feet. What I wanted now was my gun but it was stashed on the far side of the room, behind Beast. Even wounded the guy was a monster. His punches, if they connected, were probably lethal. Since I couldn’t get to my gun I decided to improvise. While he was distracted I crept closer and acted quickly. I hooked my left hand behind his head to brace it while, with my right, I punched the toothbrush as hard as I could driving it deeper into Beast’s eye socket. Instantly Beast stopped struggling and silence fell in my quarters.

  Beast’s enormous body slumped to the floor just as dead as his partner. I let out a sigh of relie
f, collapsing down next to them. I didn’t care, I just let my body relax: felt the utter exhaustion and the shaking that came with the adrenaline leaving my system. As soon as I could, I got back to my feet and headed to my small wardrobe. Most of the clothes I kept there were currently decorating the floor but they weren’t what I was after. I was in luck, the loose floorplate was still in place and my gun, along with the three spare magazines, were all where I’d left them.

  I carefully tucked the pistol into my waistband and slipped the clips into my pocket then I stripped off the jacket and shirt which were now covered in blood and snatched a cleanish jacket and one of my old navy shirts from the floor. Donning them quickly I ducked into the now quite trashed bathroom and splashed water on my face in an attempt to wash off the worst of the blood. Then, bracing my foot on the sink, I climbed back into the ceiling, not relishing the prospect of the claustrophobic crawl back to the maintenance shaft.

  Sandy’s Bar was a fixture on the promenade, at least to anyone who lived on or around P deck. I’m sure the fancy upper levels had their own posh bars with champagne and caviar and the lower decks had their dive bars, but Sandy’s was ours.

  Sandy’s was a nice, clean place styled after an Old Earth English pub. Lots of synthetic wood and beer on tap. He also had a good supply of whiskies which he got from a freighter captain he knew. Despite all that had happened to me since first waking, it was still early in the day and not quite lunchtime. Samuel Sandy didn’t bother opening until late afternoon. He always said it was because he was a busy guy, but I thought it was just so he could sleep in. Sam usually helped himself to a decent amount of his own stock each night and it was a common sight to see him as drunk as any of his patrons.

  I dropped into the bar through the ceiling tiles just as I had into my quarters. The drop was a bit further here, but I managed to turn my landing into a roll, narrowly avoiding a couple of stools. Climbing to my feet, I clutched at my right side. As I’d been crawling through the maintenance passage away from my quarters I had become aware of the pain. Either Beast or his friend had broken a rib or two sometime during the fight. At first I thought the bar was empty but, after a quick inspection behind the bar (I was making sure the place was secure and certainly not checking out the whisky bottles!), I discovered Sam, camped out on a bed of blankets. From the stains on the blankets this probably wasn’t the first time he’d crashed here either.

  “Sam!” It took a fair bit of shouting and shaking to rouse the bartender before I sat him down on a stool with a bottle of water and a promise not to shout anymore. Sam was somewhere in his forties but you wouldn’t know it from looking at him, he was solidly built and in great shape. He could have passed for twenty if not for the long grey hair that he had pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Marcus, you know you’re always welcome here but I have to ask, what the hell are you doing here so early? And how’d you even get in?”

  I considered what to tell him. I knew Sam pretty well, hell I’d spent more time in his bar in the last six years than I ever spent with my wife. An unfortunate fact that pretty much explained why my marriage failed. No, I trusted Sam. He was a friend and I needed his help. Perching on a stool, I began to tell him everything: where I’d woken up, what I’d witnessed, the chase, the fight in my quarters, even the news broadcast I’d seen. By the end Sam looked stunned and almost sober.

  “Damn. You don’t come in for one night and look at the trouble you get into. Wait here.” Sam got up and crossed to the till behind the bar before tapping a few buttons. The drawer popped out and Sam paused for a second. After a moment he pulled out a stack of credits and tossed them to me, “Here, these’ll help. And you’re in luck, todays the day my whisky shipment comes in. Docking Bay 17. The captain’s name is Spencer Morgan. I’ll let him know you’re coming and he’ll give you a lift off the station.”

  I shook my head, “This is too much,” I waved the stack of credits at him, “I’ve no way to pay you back.”

  “I know you’ll find a way. Send it by courier ship if you have to.” Sam checked his watch. “Spencer’s ship should be arriving in about an hour. You’d best get to the docking ring.” He made his way around the bar and towards the door, “I’ll go first and make sure Security aren’t watching the place. Give it two minutes then head for the docks and for god’s sake, use the door.”

  Sam did his job well. When I left the bar there was no sign of him or any security forces and I managed to make it all the way to the station’s docking ring without incident. Oddly the docking bay I was headed to wasn’t far from M-23. This worried me, Station Security or even the smugglers could still be lurking around. Because of this I crept along the corridors and checked every corner before rounding it. I’m sure I looked damn suspicious but, apart from servitors scurrying around on their various tasks, the hallways were curiously empty. Maybe the murder had scared people away.

  I arrived early and ducked into the bay. The docking chamber was very similar to the cargo bay, except for the enormous air lock which opened out into space, and a cargo crane in the corner which would be used to aid unloading. The space door was still sealed, meaning Captain Morgan’s freighter had yet to arrive so I paused, wondering what to do. I didn’t want to wait around, in case someone came in and recognised me but I also didn’t want to leave, in case I got delayed and missed my ride. That just left hiding.

  I crossed to the cargo crane ladder, passing dozens of crates stacked chest high near the wall, and climbed up into the cab near the roof. I was barely settled when the hallway door opened and six heavily armed smugglers burst inside, automatic rifles sweeping the room. By some stroke of luck none of them thought to look up. Had they followed me or were they checking everywhere nearby? I got my answer when the six of them finished their sweep and took up position at the door clearly waiting for someone. They were definitely there for me.

  Quietly as I could, I slipped my pistol from my waistband and checked the safety was off. Something told me I was going to need it. I didn’t have to wait long. After just a few minutes the door opened again and two familiar figures stepped through it: Joker and Sam. I began to panic. Somehow they’d got hold of Sam and it was all my fault. He’d been trying to help and now he might get hurt because of me. That was when I got my second shock.

  Sitting up in the crane’s cab, I was too far away to hear anything going on below me but I could see just fine. Sam began gesturing angrily but instead of seeming pissed off the smugglers appeared to be doing whatever it was he was telling them to do. He was part of this, one of them. Hell, from the way they were acting he might be in charge!

  My former friend, the traitorous scumbag, didn’t stay long. After about a minute he turned and left the way he’d come, leaving Joker and his men watching the door. Well, I was back to square one: trapped on this damn station with no way off. As I pondered what to do, the doors opened once more but instead of Sam, it was a pair of security officers. Down below me everyone froze. Then one of the officers went for his gun but, before he could even get it out of his holster, he and his partner died in a hail of bullets.

  This was my chance, using the distraction I climbed from the crane’s cab and slid down the ladder using my mag-grabs to stop my descent just short of the deck. I ducked behind the crates and made my way swiftly along the edge of the room. I peeked around the corner and found I was barely twenty metres from the smugglers and most of them even had their backs to me. I wasn’t going to get a better chance than this. I levelled my gun and quickly squeezed off the whole clip.

  By this point my dishonourable discharge from the navy had been more than six years earlier and, with guns being banned on the station, I hadn’t practiced since. I was a tad rusty and the shakes didn’t help either. Still, I did manage to hit four of them and they quickly dropped to the floor – not that I stayed to watch. I ducked back behind the crate, already ejecting the empty magazine and fumbling a fresh one into the slot. Behind me I could feel the crate shaking as the
three remaining smugglers fired round after round into it. When they paused to reload I Ieant back out and fired off a pair of shots. My aim was improving. One of them took a bullet in the head and dropped to the deck.

  When the Joker and his friend opened fire again, I crept back along the row of crates a few metres before popping back up to fire off another round. Joker’s pal span to shoot at me as soon as I emerged from behind the crates, his hail of bullets throwing off my aim so that, instead of getting another kill, the gunshot went through his leg. There was a scream and the sounds of gunfire stopped. I turned and, still hunched over, ran the length of the room and back to the base of the crane. I turned the corner and waited, wondering what Joker would do. Would he continue to hunt me? Or help his friend and maybe fall back?

  I got my answer when I heard the sound of a single gunshot and the screaming stopped. Joker was one heartless bastard. I peeked around the corner once more and my chest exploded with pain. It was so extreme that I blacked out again.

  This time I was out for more than a second. When I came to I was struggling to breathe and Joker was standing near me, his back turned. He’d assumed I was dead. To be honest normally when you hit someone in the chest with an automatic weapon that’s a safe assumption. Normally they aren’t wearing a naval issue nano-weave shirt though. The shirt, while able to stop the bullet, couldn’t stop the force of the impact. It had felt like being hit by a shuttle and would leave a hell of a bruise. Still, better than being dead I suppose.

  I wasn’t going to give Joker the chance to realise his mistake. I reached for the pistol lying beside me, raised it and emptied the remainder of the magazine into his back. Yeah, yeah, I know it was a low blow but you already know my opinion on fighting fair. Anyway it was the exact same chance he’d given Franklin. Lying on the ground I pulled up my shirt to check the damage. Slap bang in the centre of my chest was a nasty looking red welt. If I hadn’t been wearing a bullet-proof shirt I’d be dead for sure.