Gravlander

by Erik Wecks

  This time her voice was almost quiet. “I guess I’m just scared that if I attack him I’ll get myself in trouble somehow.”

  Ohlson leaned in. “Honey, when a woman stands up for herself, she’s going to piss the boys off, but if she does it well, they respect her, and they leave her alone. You’ve got to decide, honey. Do you want to run all your life, or do you want to finally earn some respect?”

  The image of her firing a gun at Chapman flashed through her head. She flinched. Her shoulders slumped. She looked down at the table. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to shoot him.” She looked up expectantly.

  This time Ohlson’s voice carried with it just a hint of tenderness. “There’s nothing to say you have to do it my way. Like I said, sweetie, I’m not your angel. Sometime or other the baby bird has to leave the nest and grow up. This is your mess. Maybe it’s time you clean it up rather than run away.”

  Jo swallowed hard and just nodded. “Yeah, I see that.”

  Ohlson paused before she gestured to Jo’s white outfit and added, “I take it you’ve got some kind of medical training?”

  Jo nodded.

  “I wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard there are lots of ways to kill people with medical stuff.”

  14

  Chapman Tamed

  Jo found herself holding her breath while she watched Chapman’s fingers wrap around a wet glass filled with sharp brown liquid and ice. As she concentrated, the noise of the busy bar around them seemed to dim. Only when he took a sip did she give him a false smile and take a sip of her own.

  Forty-eight hours had passed since her conversation with Ohlson. Forty-eight hours of nonstop work to bring Chapman to this meeting with a woman he believed to be a castaway looking for a fresh start on Tortuga.

  Between her short skirt, exaggerated heels, and low-cut top, Jo felt overexposed. Any time she stopped to think about it, her plan felt ridiculously flimsy—like trying to hang a case of jurang by a thread. It had taken all of her paycheck from the Clarion to purchase what she needed. It had been enough—assuming that the nanites she bought weren’t some kind of scam, and that the programming tool really worked, and that she had remembered the procedures for programming nanites correctly. To top it all off, the program she had given the nanites was a state secret of the House of Athena and could result in her trial for treason. That didn’t bear thinking about.

  More terrifying still, she had no fallback and no thoughts about the future beyond the next couple of hours. The Clarion had been scheduled to cast off some six hours before, so that bridge was officially burnt. Jo hadn’t taken the time to make contact with either the landlady that Soren had recommended or any of her business contacts, either, and while it might make starting out on Tortuga more difficult, some part of her was grateful that the life she built would be her own, independent of any assistance.

  But that was all in the future. Right now, she was climbing a steep face without a belt to save her. She wasn’t sure if she felt invigorated and alive or terrified beyond hope. For good or for ill, her die had been cast when she handed Chapman his nanite-laced drink laced.

  As she drank, Jo could feel the sweat beading on her forehead. How the hell is that camo gel still in place? She imagined the putty losing its grip on her skin and melting off in a gummy sheet of nervous goo.

  Everything could be purchased on Tortuga, even highly secretive camouflage gel. Before yesterday, Jo had heard about but never used the puttylike substance that could be programmed to flow and mold to a wearer’s face. After trying on thirty or forty different examples of the millions of randomly programmable faces, Jo had decided upon a redhead with straight hair, wide innocent-looking eyes, dimples, and a few dark freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked innocent and pure—ideal bait for Chapman—and more importantly, she looked nothing like herself.

  Another sip.

  Jo’s heart pounded. It was now a waiting game. All I want is some peace and quiet. I’m done with adventures for a while. There’s only one person in my way.

  Ohlson had been right. There was no way that she could have shot a man in cold blood, but Jo Lutnear was a doctor, and a damn good one at that. She knew a thousand more subtle ways to kill a man. And worse.

  Chapman smiled over his drink. “So, sweetie, how did you end up on Tortuga?”

  Jo thought fast. In the mad-cap preparation that led to this point, she really hadn’t given any thought to the time she would need to distract Chapman with conversation. It felt like a huge oversight.

  Stalling for time, she shrugged and pretended to think. She knew that when you lied it was better to use part of the truth, but she wasn’t sure what she could tell him since he knew her history. I can’t use my history. So what do I say? “I ran away from home when I was a minor.” Internally, Jo cringed. That sounded cliché.

  Chapman nodded sagely, and Jo took another sip of her drink to disguise her relief. “Yeah. A bad home can be a tough thing. So being a minor, I guess that means you couldn’t get an ident card when you turned eighteen?”

  She was so excited that Chapman was filling in her imaginary story all on his own that she agreed a little too enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s it.” Oh, fuck, Jo. Could you be any more obvious?

  Chapman smiled his oily smile at her. His speech slurred a little. “Yeah, a lot of us have that same story. Used to be that’s how most of the Omitted came to be. Nowadays, the Unity seems to be helping the process along with all their abandoned camps and the like.”

  Jo nodded, but she had no idea what Chapman was talking about.

  Chapman sat still for a moment, and then said. “So where did you get your straight red hair?”

  He reached out and touched the ends of it, stroking it with his fingers.

  Jo noticed the problem before he did.

  When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were momentarily colored the same color as her hair, and then the thin red dye in his hand melted into a gray, claylike substance.

  So much of her money had gone into the materials for Chapman’s drink that very little had been left for Jo’s disguise. She had heard that a quality camouflage cream would have held up to the scrutiny of a light touch and much more, even feeling like real hair and skin. On the other hand, Jo’s had been the cheapest possible.

  Chapman looked down at his hand and smirked. He didn’t seem disturbed until he looked up and noticed the strands of hair that had been betrayed by the cheap disguise. Chapman’s face flushed. He looked down at his drink and his eyes widened. He looked back at Jo, staring intently at her disguised face.

  Jo reached up for the strand of hair that Chapman had touched and felt the blonde curls there.

  Both of them started moving together.

  Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!

  If Chapman had truly guessed her identity, Jo felt sure that he would try to kill her. Her only hope was that it had been long enough. She doubted it. Another twenty minutes would have made her much more comfortable.

  Chapman jumped up from the table cursing, knocking over his chair. He reached for his fletch pistol.

  Jo grabbed at the heads-up in her pocket. Instinctively, she ducked down behind her side of the table. Without putting the device on, she madly tapped the panic button on the outer screen and hoped it would work. Otherwise, she was about to die.

  Chapman managed to pull his gun from its holster before his arm stiffened. He held the gun pointed awkwardly at the ground and then stood there, frozen.

  Jo stood, heart pounding. Her muscles tensed, ready to help her bolt. She glanced around. The noise of their scuffle had attracted far too much attention—two of Chapman’s bodyguards stood in the corner opposite Jo—yet, so far, no one moved to intervene.

  In a microsecond, the image of her alone on Tortuga with no food, no place to stay, and Chapman hunting her flashed through her head. I have to win! I have to do this!

  Jo took a deep breath and, turning back to Chapman, she gave him a sheep
ish, tentative smile, ducking her head a little as if she were asking permission to see his actions as all a joke. At the same time, she whipped the heads-up onto her head and thought frantically, Laugh, Chapman. Laugh!

  Nothing happened.

  Jo knew a mind hack to be a delicate operation at best, and she was trying one on a target who was already protected by his own defense bots. That made it all the more difficult. She’d programmed hers to try to get control of Chapman’s motor functions first. Voice control was more complex and wasn’t supposed to come until later.

  Jo’s heart felt like it was going to leap from her chest.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jo noticed one of the guards start to walk slowly toward them. She was going to have to do better than just stop him from killing her to keep her secret hidden. This time, rather than thinking words, she tried to picture exactly what she wanted Chapman to do.

  Chapman appeared to relax and holstered his gun. A harsh, unnatural laugh escaped his lips. Slowly his body language became less stiff, and he turned around and picked up the chair he had knocked over and sat down on it, perhaps a little clumsily.

  Jo sat down and laughed with him. Even Jo could hear that her laugh sounded fake, still dusted with a coating of fear, but Jo thought that given the circumstances it might have been the right choice.

  The guard arrived at the table and gave Jo a look full of suspicion. He leaned down and whispered in Chapman’s ear.

  Jo strained, but couldn’t hear what he said. She wasn’t exactly sure how general she could be in her commands. She almost gave Chapman a very broad one like, “answer the man,” but realized in the nick of time that such a command could have been really dangerous if the man had asked about Chapman’s safety, and he had answered honestly.

  It took her a half beat to hit upon an idea, and for a second there was an awkward pause in which the guard only seemed to become all the more suspicious of her. Still leaning down, one hand on the table, he turned and stared at her, rage growing on his face. Jo grabbed her glass with both hands as she felt them start to shake.

  She tried to keep her face passive, returning the guard’s gaze with what she hoped was a convincing look of innocence. She was highly aware of the tells that gave away the use of a heads-up. She kept her eyes focused on the room, holding them perfectly still, and she kept her mouth from moving while she thought at Chapman.

  Slowly his face dissolved into a sneer. Chapman turned toward the guard, glared at him, and jerked his thumb back toward the corner.

  The tall man stepped back and stood up straight, almost as if he were a kicked dog, and walked away.

  Jo’s first reaction was to take Chapman by the arm and flee, but she realized that it would look a little suspicious if she and Chapman sprinted away. So instead, she sat there and took another sip of her drink, trying to keep her shaking hands from giving her away.

  With a thought, she commanded Chapman to finish his.

  Jo felt a seductive rush of power as Chapman tipped his back in an almost natural fashion and drained his glass. He drank it a little fast and a bit dripped from the corner of his mouth. Jo grinned. The high wire felt good, like making a blind man reach on a climb with no belt.

  A little giddy, Jo almost had Chapman wipe off the extra liquid with the back of his hand. At the last second, she thought better of it. It didn’t quite seem to fit Chapman somehow. He was neat and fastidious like a cat, so she had him reach for a napkin instead.

  Jo’s momentary sense of ease evaporated instantly when she noticed that Chapman’s two bodyguards in the corner had now completely given up on their conversation. Instead, they stood watching their boss, uneasy.

  Jo decided that it wouldn’t hurt to give herself a little more breathing room with Chapman’s odd behavior. She had Chapman begin to sway in his seat ever so gently. He waved for the bartender, and when he had her attention, he pointed to his glass, a silly smile on his face.

  The bartender didn’t look too impressed by Chapman’s demanding behavior, but she didn’t seem to question it, either. She poured another drink for the pimp and brought it to the table.

  Thankfully, the bartender didn’t speak when she set the drink down with a slam. Chapman rudely held up his wrist in her face and gave a harsh barking snort at the bartender’s annoyance. Jo forced him to smile. The bartender glared at him but took the credits and walked away. Jo gave her a sheepish, embarrassed look and shrugged. The woman didn’t return the warmth.

  Again, she pictured Chapman drinking his liquor quickly. He finished the drink in three or four swallows.

  The whole time, Jo’s heart pounded. She knew that she could control his body as long as she didn’t get him too drunk, but she wasn’t sure about his voice, so when he was finished, Jo had him lean in toward her. He swayed in his chair, an effect that might have been caused by her nanites, but he seemed to be trying to say something. Jo matched his posture and leaned toward him, then commanded him to whisper in her ear.

  His voice came out as a strangled breath, as if he were screaming but had no voice. “You’re dead, Lutnear. I will kill you with my own hands.”

  Jo wasn’t at all sure that he had spoken quietly enough that no one had heard him, but at this point, she was committed, so she played along. Smiling demurely, she laughed. Using only her index finger, she gently stroked his cheek while nodding enthusiastically.

  Wanting to appear genuinely excited and touched by the scumbag’s attention, she looked him in the eye. She was prepared to see rage there, a dark hatred and vile anger, but instead she discovered terror. Jo knew then that underneath her control of his musculature, Chapman trembled with visceral fear. Her smile almost faltered.

  Jo’s eyes quickly flicked away from Chapman’s, instead looking just above them at his forehead. For an instant, she almost lost control of her link to the pimp’s mind. Chapman’s face started to reflect his internal rage and fear.

  Wordless recriminations burst in Jo’s head. Stop it, Jo. He was either going to murder you for a reward, turn you over to Unity custody, or force you to fuck men in order to eat. He’s just getting what he deserves. The briefest of seconds later, Jo forced herself to retake control. Chapman’s expression returned to his normal mix of smug predation and cocky S.O.B.

  Jo forced the pimp to reach out for her hand, which she took, trying to allow herself to appear grateful, even while the rage within her boiled. What does it feel like, Chapman? What does it feel like to have someone else own your body for once? You deserve all of this. You’ve done this to so many people.

  Yet even as she repeated these accusations to herself, she wanted nothing more than to have never taken the pilot’s advice. So far, power over Chapman hadn’t created the expected sense of freedom. Instead, Jo felt as if she were staining her soul—a righteous stain it might be, but still a stain—and with that thought, Jo could no longer stand the bar. She needed to be alone, now. Controlling the fatal impulse to bolt like a bunny rabbit, Jo gave Chapman a command.

  The puppet Chapman tipped his head toward the door, and Jo returned his gesture by bobbing her own head, trying desperately to keep up her demure facade.

  Chapman stood.

  Jo followed.

  The bartender wasn’t even pretending to work anymore. Several patrons sat watching the two of them, and this time both bodyguards stepped out of the corner. She tried to keep her eyes on Chapman, but she worried that her act was slipping.

  An image of Chapman’s guards attacking her while Chapman was freed from the mind hack flashed in her mind. If she didn’t do something fast, she was going to die here in the bar. She’d have to risk it.

  Chapman put his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side. He sneered at the men at the bar. “What is your problem?”

  Both of them seemed surprised to hear him speak, and Jo realized what had caused the suspicion. Desperate to put everyone at ease, she had Chapman’s hand slap her on the ass. Then his hand stayed there, massaging her.
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br />   Inside, Jo felt nauseous, but her bet that she could now control Chapman’s speech seemed to be paying off. She simpered and leaned further into him.

  Chapman tightened his grip. Speaking to the bar, he said, “Like what you see? Well, you can’t have her until I get her trained up right.”

  He rounded on his guards, who were both standing still about halfway between their corner and their boss. He snarled as he spoke. “What the hell is your problem tonight? I won’t need you. Get a drink or have a fuck or something. Catch me in the morning.”

  Then, turning to the bartender, he just gave her a perfunctory wave of his hand and then walked out, clutching Jo to his side.

  The first few steps out the bar seemed the worst. Jo was so sure that the bodyguards were going to grab her that several times she flinched, convinced that someone was behind her. Each new step seemed worse than the one before. After they had gone a block, Jo couldn’t stand it any longer. She risked a look back over her shoulder. The block was empty.

  Jo wandered down the street with a staggering Chapman, laughing and supporting him. She hoped they’d managed a passable imitation of a drunk couple.

  Twenty minutes later, Jo sat in a chair next to Chapman, watching him as he lay on the bed. She shivered a little in the cold, dirty, rock-carved motel room she had made her home for the last forty-eight hours. In contrast, the pimp lay perfectly still. Only his shallow breathing and rapidly moving eyes gave away that he was still self-aware. His lack of movement felt uncanny to Jo, and it only added to the sick feeling in her stomach.

  Sitting just beyond the reach of Chapman’s roving eyes, Jo leaned forward, her hands folded together between her knees. She kept quiet while she tried to gather the courage to finish what she had started. She knew she was doing herself no favors by continuing to watch Chapman’s breathing and desperate eyes. In order to steel herself to finish the job, she ought to look away, but to avert her gaze felt dishonest. If she were to find the courage to do this thing, she felt that she had to do it honestly, without shying away from its horror.