“Not that folks like yourself would know about,” Mick smiled. He forced an artificial laugh.
“You stay put. You see my friend over there?” Longjaw asked. He pointed to one of the hunched figures visible through the grey.
Military uniforms haven’t changed much.
“Yea.”
“He’s UCA Bounty Division. So we’ll run your plant, and then leave you alone. Hell—I’ll buy you a round. That okay by you?”
Don’t act guilty. Keep hand on gun. You’re going to have to leave her. Reason replied: Where the hell are you going to run? Some back alley? You know as much about the layout of this city as you do Utopia. Fight or flight replied: I can dodge them, find the Fogstar, leave the planet. Reason rebuffed: You’ll have worse than these thugs after you—you’ll have Sera.
“Listen—I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m UCA military myself. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to my drink.”
“Really, why didn’t you say something? What’s your name?”
Real or fake?
“Mick Compton.”
“Well Mick—we’ll just punch you in and my apology will be in order.”
Before Mick could reply, Longjaw walked away, smoke swirling to follow him. He looked back to the bathroom corridor: Axa strode into view, walking fast toward him.
“How’d it go? Did you get yours?” she asked calmly, brushing white powder from her shoulder.
“Yea. Two. They’re on the ship already. Listen—I think we’re fucked. Someone is tagging me for a bounty.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look behind me—mangled jaw—what’s he doing?”
Axa stared into the stinging film. The figures seemed to be checking a handheld computer terminal.
“I don’t know, looks like they’re on the net—what’s going on?”
“We run on my word—straight to the Fogstar—you got me?”
“What about Sera?”
“You want to die today?”
“Your word.”
The bounty officer handed Longjaw his terminal computer. Longjaw studied it, then returned to Mick.
Maybe they’re off the scent. Bad files. Name somehow registering from a thousand years ago without dates attached.
“And who’s this fine-figured lady?” Longjaw asked, terminal dangling at his side.
“Your girlfriend for a fine-figured piece of plastic,” she replied, working hard not to grimace at the grotesque opening along his mouth.
Distract him. Take him out of here. Let me get the hell away.
“For you, I’d just about pay anything. But don’t consort with this one—he might be tainted.”
Mick’s face turned red.
“What?” he said, taking a step toward the door. Longjaw drew a pistol and aimed it at Mick’s head.
“Mick Compton? Sure is military—problem is friend, he died in the 3100s. Nice try. You’re coming over for a plant check.”
Mick pointed his hidden pistol at Longjaw. He looked at Axa, signaling her that he was going to fire and run—his finger climbed the trigger underneath his shirt.
“Are you sure this can’t wait? I don’t know if I’m going to be able to cancel my next appointment,” Axa said.
“Bitch, you can wait. And if you don’t, I’ll buy you out. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” he smirked.
Buy her out? His alone—his red-jawed, lascivious sickness. Keep it going Axa.
“I’d like for you to buy me out.”
“What?” said the man, confused. “What’s this about? He mean something to you?”
“Him?” she acted.
“Sit down whore. Don’t go anywhere.”
All eyes watched them now. Mick couldn’t wait any longer. As Longjaw turned slightly away, distracted by Axa, he pulled his gun out:
“Drop it,” Mick said. Longjaw laughed.
“Do you think that’ll work?” he grinned.
“It might, and that’s enough for me. Now drop it, or lose the rest of your jaw.”
“See behind me? No—really—it’s not a trick. Take a look.” Mick flicked his eyes. Longjaw raised his own gun and pointed it squarely back at Mick. “They’re both squaring pistols at you too. Did you see it? How do you like three-to-one odds?”
“I see it.”
“So why not calm down? We’ll check your plant, then you’re free. Nothing to hide here, no reason to get hurt.”
“There is nothing to hide. You see, I am Mick Compton. I am from the 3100s.”
Longjaw bellowed. “Okay. You can’t say I didn’t try to reason with you.”
Blasts sounded. A pistol fired twice. Mick dropped to the floor. Blood pooled. Axa fell and groped along the ground, struggling to see what was happening above the smoke line. Another shot fired. A scream, long and shrill, tore through the bar. A hand came down through the smoke and tugged Axa up, then attempted to rouse Mick.
“Let’s go!” Sera said. “Didn’t I tell you not to hang here and wait for her? Back to the ship! Do you think I make suggestions lightly?”
Mick stepped over bleeding bodies strewn between the tables, one of whom, groaning, he recognized as Longjaw. His two friends, the UCA officer and a plainclothes man, lay slumped on top of each other, dead.
“You saved us,” Axa said. They exited into the sweltering heat of a Glisreel afternoon. She ignored the praise and pulled them through a winding city alley in the direction of their spaceport.
“But you’ve killed us anyway. I’ve been at this for how many years and never tainted my plant? We’re as good as dead now.”
“You’ve killed before, why would it be tainted now?” Mick asked.
“I just shot three people in the head in the span of ten seconds. One military. In Glisreel City. That’s it. We’re fucked. Too much too fast. My circulatory mods won’t prevent a taint this time.”
Circulatory mods? So a plant isn’t a plant—it’s dependent upon modifications. Could she have been killing these damned expancapacitors herself?—is she using me as a safety measure? A pawn? Reason broke: You’re each other’s pawns.
They arrived at the spaceport and Sera barked orders at them.
Not the time to ask questions.
The ship lifted into red-gold sky. Sera seated herself at the cockpit and drew the pilot stick back. The ship rocked back and shot up, driving the crew down into their seats.
“Shit,” Sera said plainly.
“What is it?” Axa asked.
Mick didn’t need an explanation—he’d seen the blip the moment it had lit up.
“We’ve got a tail.”
40
Crowds pushed through the gold-rimmed sidewalks of Glisreel’s Main Street. Rainbow advertisements flashed upon crystal skyscrapers; their hexagonal walls bore the signs of extravagant wealth by their diamond moulding. Venders along the street vied for the money of passersby.
“What’s this here?” said a man hidden by a cloak. He looked down upon a table with a holographic presentation of chess images, behind which sat two ancient droids.
“XJ, our first entrant,” GR whispered, nudging his friend to life.
“Hello sir. This is the Glisreel Chess Tournament of Champions. The prize pool will be ten thousand UCD,” said XJ.
“Chess? Timeless game. How many do you expect to have?” the man eyed the strange couple with suspicion.
“One hundred, at least,” XJ replied.
“Wow—it seems you have my interest then. You see, I’m in need of a holiday. This might be my ticket.” The man pushed back his hood, revealing a lined face, scarred; his once black hair had faded to grey in most places. His thin eyes squinted a malevolence that the droids could not recognize.
“XJ—look!” GR squealed. A rocketing ship blasted overhead, heading into orbit.
“Is that…” XJ said. GR nodded.
“Can’t be, she wouldn’t leave us here.”
“Who left you?” the man replied, curio
us, watching the ship they followed. Another ship followed, chasing it into orbit.
“Our friend Sera, our ship—” GR began, but XJ silenced him:
“Hush GR. It’s a personal matter, no concern of his. We’ll deal with it. Please come back to sign up later. The tournament will be grand, I promise you.”
XJ shooed the man the away and gathered up his projector and items from the table he’d rented. GR followed him down an alley toward the docking station several blocks away where the Fogstar had been stationed. The cloaked stranger watched them go, looked back to the sky, then followed after them.
41
A phone rang invisibly in the house. Karen paused over the stove, looked to Christopher and Mickey who sat impatiently for their breakfast.
“Hello?” said Karen into thin air. The house replied:
“Karen, this is Sergeant Reynolds. Can you come up to the office today?”
“Private,” she said. The kids were cut off as the sergeant’s voice fed directly into Karen’s ear. “Eric? Is everything alright?”
“Yea, we have to go over something. It’s about what happened at Fedeli’s the other month. A loose end I have to tie up with you about the report we filed.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yea, it’s paperwork. You’ll just have to sign off on some papers.”
“Okay, I’ll come after the kids head into school—is that okay?”
“Whenever you can get in is fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
The call ended. Christopher looked concernedly at his mom.
“Is everything alright? Was that about daddy?”
“No honey, just bills. Are you guys hungry?”
“Yea!” little Mickey cheered happily. She loaded up their plates, and then loaded them onto the school transport. She slipped into her car and drove anxiously to the police headquarters building. The incident had been finished two months ago—covered up. What does he want now?
Eric Reynolds sat behind his shiny oak desk, his curtains drawn, his door blocking the view of the hallway.
“Come in, sit down.”
“Hey Eric,” she said.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. He poured himself a shot of scotch.
“No. It’s eleven o’clock.”
“I know. The stress of this job is going to kill me.”
“Is everything alright? How is Vanessa?”
“She’s what she is, you know?” he replied. He finished his glass and poured another, sitting back down and sighing.
Awkward silence filled the air. Karen fidgeted in her chair. Eric was a handsome man, and young—the youngest to have ever achieved the rank of sergeant at Metropolitan Station. He’d met Mick many years ago through his father, who’d trained Mick when he’d first entered FRINGE. They’d become quick friends over fast cars and drinks.
“I’ve been thinking Karen,” he said slowly. “You know I love him, Mick. But this shit has been going on for too long. The cover-ups, lying to the media.”
Her face turned white. She realized it wasn’t just papers, that there were no papers. He was throwing it right at her—everything she had been too afraid to confront for years.
“It’s his training—”
“I know all about the rewiring he went through. My father oversees it. It’s a bullshit excuse for his behavior.”
“You know the statistics. Seventy percent of FRINGE operatives experience changes in temperament for the worse—anger, rage, violence. It’s not who he is—”
“That’s bullshit. My father went through it. He never did this kind of stuff. He never punched a waiter in his face over—”
“It wasn’t the waiter. It was more than that.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on then? Because it’s getting hard covering for him.”
“I knew him before you did. He was different. Completely different. Now, I never see him—and he never sees us. Three months at a time, then years off planet. That’s how it’s going to be.”
“So that’s it?”
Two tears mirrored each other on either side of Karen’s face.
“Why did you ask me to come here? Where are the papers?”
Eric stood up from his desk, finished his second glass, and walked over. He sat down in a chair beside her.
“You know I have the same shit going on at home?”
“I thought things were fine with you two. You’ve never said a word.”
“It always does look like that doesn’t it? Hell, if I didn’t work here, do you think I’d think any differently about you and him? If I didn’t have to clean up his shit first hand?”
She didn’t reply, and instead looked away at the wall, viewing a photograph of a rocket. Below the rocket stood a man, Eric’s father, smiling, FRINGE logo across his chest. She felt warmth on her knee—a hand. Her first instinct told her to let it remain, allow it to grow, but she jerked away. She faced Eric and peered into his empty, longing eyes.
“I’m burnt out Karen. Vanessa and I are finished. She’s not who she used to be either.”
“I’m sorry, I had no idea. I don’t know how I can help you though—me and her, we never got along very well.”
“Because she’s a bitch you mean?” he laughed, placing his hands back in his own lap.
Karen looked away again, unable to contend with the intensity of his desire.
“Look—there are no papers to sign. I just wanted to talk. I have no one else to talk to about all this. And no one would relate to it anyway. Guys here would laugh me out of the job.”
“Then maybe you should get a therapist,” she replied coldly.
“Yea, maybe I should. Let me ask you this: why should we be stuck with bad hands? You waiting three years at a time for someone who supposedly loves you, me stuck with—” Karen cut him off:
“Mick does love me.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he said, standing up again. “This was a bad idea.”
“What exactly was your idea?” she looked at him cuttingly.
“Just to talk. I need someone to talk to. I’ve always felt a connection to you when we’ve talked.”
“I don’t know Eric. I really don’t. You said it yourself—neither one of us is on stable ground. His last departure was—it was rough this time.”
“I know.” There was a long silence. Finally Karen stood up, eyeing the door as if it were a pressure release valve.
“I have to go.”
“Meet me for dinner?” Eric said. Karen froze. He’d been too direct, too transparent.
“I—Eric…” she stumbled for words; a tornado of emotions, eroticisms, guilts, shames, fears, and excitements ripped through her body.
“I’m asking you out to talk. That’s all. You don’t have to say anything. Just go. Think about what you really want.”
She looked back at him, her husband’s best friend, and saw the emptiness again; she knew it: it mirrored the coldness in her own body, the longing, the distance between the life she had once expected and known, and the one she had come to inhabit. She turned, opened the door, and walked out.
42
“This is the UCA Bounty Division. We are ordering you to return to planet immediately by authority of UCA law,” a crackling voice hissed into the Fogstar cabin.
Sera gripped the pilot rod and tugged it hard, sending the ship faster away from the planet.
“Did they tell you in school that you weren’t such a good listener?” Mick said, astonished at her calm.
“Sit down and strap in. Both of you,” she commanded. Mick and Axa obeyed. The com broke in again:
“You are ordered to stand down—you are wanted on four counts of murder, one for military personnel. We have permission to shoot you out of the sky. I repeat, we have permission to shoot you down. Please slow and redirect your course for a Glisreel port.”
“Maybe I would have been better off staying on your old ship,” Axa grumbled.
“Shut
up and relax,” Sera said, turning with a smile. “You may not have much time left, so you might as well enjoy it.”
“She’s crazy,” Axa said to Mick, who stared at the trailing blip on the radar screen.
“She’s also good—damn good—so let her work,” Mick said, banking she’d do what he’d seen her do before: beat impossible odds, namely by sending a cruiser against two light-class vessels.
“Mick, you ever heard of a stall-reversal gambit?” Sera asked.
“That’ll be a new one,” he said.
“More ships’ll be trailing us soon if we don’t blast this one out of the sky. Here’s what I’m going to need you to do. Go to the engine room, kill the thrusters.”
“Something tells me you don’t mean put the brakes on,” Mick replied.
“No, I mean we are going to near break them apart. It’s our only shot.”
“Fogstar, stand down immediately. We are ready to open fire.”
“They won’t shoot,” she said. “These types are as lawless as law can be, and that’s saying something. They know we have plastic and expancapacitor bodies on board. That’s their paydirt. Idle threats. They won’t destroy the treasure they’re after.”
“Are you sure?” said Axa nervously. Sera ignored her.
“Okay, Mick, go shut down the main thrusters, rotate them, and then fire them up again. Do all that in a span of ten seconds. You got it?”
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