by Astrid Amara
There was something to be said about the nature of a place where a man could swing another man over his shoulder and walk through a bustling corridor and no one gave it a second glance.
Tover knew Jarrow was a bad place, but now he felt in his bones the futility of looking for help amongst these strangers. He tried to call out but his hoarse whisper drowned in the cacophony of the enclosed trading market. Hunger made him nauseated, and he closed his eyes and forced back the sensation of throwing up.
With eyes closed, he could sense his home. He could feel the contours of his bed, back on DK Station, as close as the blood and sweat-stained fabric of Cruz’s shirt. Tover tried repeatedly to create an orbifold around himself but couldn’t succeed, as weak as he was.
Cruz’s hands seemed gentle as they held on to Tover, and he offered a slight stroke, almost reassuring. It broke Tover’s heart. This fucking traitor was going to sell out Harmony secrets, and to do so, he was trading Tover like silver. The reassuring stroke mocked all the feelings Tover had toward the man, and Tover formed a loose fist and struck at Cruz’s back, hoping to hit him in the kidney.
The blow barely brushed Cruz’s shirt. What a fucking joke, Tover thought.
From upside down over Cruz’s shoulder, the layout of Jarrow made no sense. They climbed stairs and went into a tram tunnel. Then they re-emerged and took another set of elevators. Cruz and his soldiers were not disturbed by anyone, and Tover noticed several gave the men a wide berth. When smugglers avoided the Pulmon Verde, what chance did Tover have?
At last Tover recognized his environment. Even upside down he could tell they walked a narrow metal companionway connecting a ship to the satellite. Although the ship was separate from the structure, the welded connections between the satellite and the ship confirmed that this vessel never went anywhere. It was a permanent feature of the satellite.
At the entrance dock, one of Cruz’s companions spoke with a guard. Tover wished Cruz would swing around so he could see the make of the vessel, be able to report it to the authorities once he broke free.
Tover managed to catch the name of the vessel, The Baroque, before Cruz turned completely and lowered Tover to the ground. Cruz gently eased Tover off his shoulder, propping him up against the cold metal wall. He didn’t make eye contact.
They waited for some time in the hallway. Cruz and the skinny man stood guard over Tover while Ramirez and the bearded terrorist went inside.
The Baroque. It sounded familiar. While studying to become a navigator, Tover had to memorize the entire fleet of vessels containing navports. Since his schooling years, the number of vessels had more than doubled, but The Baroque was old, and the name triggered a memory. He recalled something about a first-generation jumping barge.
“Vamos.” Ramirez motioned toward them with his hand. Tover tried to get to his feet again and flee but Cruz was faster, quickly reaching down and pulling Tover up by his arm. The blood had dried on Cruz’s forehead.
Tover struggled out of his grasp, and Cruz supported him as he attempted to stand. But his legs gave out and Cruz ended up carrying him through the doorway and down a loading ramp, then turned right into a small carpeted office.
The room’s sterile smell burned Tover’s nostrils. For the headquarters of an illegal operation, the room had a distinctly mundane, bureaucratic feel to it. There was a cheap-looking faux-wooden desk with the edges peeling, a plastic potted plant, holo photos of the ship and an emergency exit map of the vessel layout on the wall, as if it were the headquarters of any fleet operation. But on the desk were dozens of wristpad implants attached to a base unit, and piles of holoscreen platforms.
The room’s inhabitant stood, arms crossed, weight resting on the edge of the desk. He was a stout man, with trim brown hair and a tidy beard, light brown going gray. His hazel eyes watched Cruz warily as he lowered Tover to the ground.
Tover fumbled for Cruz’s wrist. His fingers weakly closed, and for a moment he held him. Cruz looked at him, expression unreadable.
“Don’t,” Tover gasped.
Cruz immediately turned away.
“He’s no good to us crippled,” the smuggler said.
“He’ll recover.” Ramirez glanced at Cruz. “Right? He’s just wiped from the last jump.”
After a moment, Cruz nodded.
The smuggler crouched beside Tover and reached out, turning Tover’s head to face him.
Tover glared back. The man studied Tover’s face, then nodded. As he stood, his knees cracked.
“Yes, it’s Tover Duke.” He had a strong accent, and hit his consonants hard. “Damn.” He grinned. He lifted his wristpad to his mouth. “Cherko. Get in here.” He walked behind the desk and rustled around in a drawer for a moment, mumbling to himself in a language unfamiliar to Tover.
“Call…PK…” Tover tried to say. No one even heard him. He started to crawl toward the door, but the bearded terrorist grabbed his arm and easily shoved him back down on the ground.
The smuggler pulled out a thin memory drive. He licked his finger and wiped off the number written on its side.
Ramirez yanked the drive from the smuggler’s hand. The smuggler chuckled.
“Hey, no offense.” He brought his hands together. “We have a business. It isn’t personal.” He watched, seemingly amused, as Ramirez took out a handheld reader from his pocket. He lay the reader flat. A second later a gray mist formed over the surface of the reader, and Ramirez stuck his finger in it to identify himself to his computer. The three-dimensional screen took form. He whisked the drive through the mist and studied the readouts that appeared. After a moment, he nodded to Cruz. He pocketed the device.
“Your identities will remain anonymous as long as the navigator’s presence here remains the same,” the smuggler told the Pulmon Verde.
All but Cruz nodded. Cruz studied the map on the wall, clearly avoiding eye contact.
A giant of a man entered the office. He was bald and sported a bushy moustache. His bulk dwarfed even someone as strong as Cruz. He ducked his head to clear the doorway.
“Yeah, boss?”
The bearded smuggler smiled. “Cherko, the man on the floor’s our new navigator.”
“Fuckin’ A, boss.”
“Right.”
As the giant approached, Tover tried to pull back. He knew his terror showed on his expression, but he couldn’t help it.
“Please,” Tover managed to gasp. He reached his hand out toward Cruz. “Don’t leave me here.” His hand fell weakly to his side.
For a moment, Cruz hesitated. His frown deepened slightly. “It won’t last long.”
The other Pulmon Verde laughed at that and slapped Cruz on the back, then Cruz was gone, his precious data saved, and he never even looked back.
For a long time the two smugglers watched him, discussing matters in low voices in a foreign language. It sounded Russian but the rhythm of the language made it noticeably different.
At length the brown-haired man crouched once more and looked Tover in the eye.
“My name’s Savel.” He nodded to his companion. “This is Cherko. I make sure things get where they need to go. He makes sure people do what they need to do. Understand?”
Tover focused on maintaining his glare. He didn’t want these men to see his fear.
“You work for us now,” Savel said. “You jump the goods where we say, when we say it. If you don’t, we hurt you. If you do, you will be rewarded. Every luxury will be afforded to you once you have proven your loyalty.” Savel smirked. “You are not the first navigator we’ve worked with, so don’t think we don’t know what we’re doing.”
Tover gathered enough saliva together to spit at Savel. The spittle fell short, but the meaning wasn’t lost, and Savel’s expression darkened. He stood and left the room. Tover heard rustling and looked up to see Cherko, arms still crossed, grinning maliciously d
own at him. The man had no teeth, Tover noticed.
Savel returned, carrying a thin-gauge restraint wire. Tover almost laughed—where did they think he could go, with no strength to move?—but then Savel jerked Tover’s head back by his hair and wrapped the restraint wire around Tover’s neck.
Tover panicked and pulled back. Savel twisted both ends of the wire tight and it strangled Tover’s neck. Terror flooded Tover. He tried to fight but all he could do was thrash on the floor. Savel tightened the wire, locked it, and stood.
For several seconds, Tover writhed on the ground, unable to swallow, unable to breathe…then he realized the wire was painfully tight against his throat but he could breathe, barely, although every swallow was restricted and the wire cut deeply into his neck. It made him light headed, and he had to concentrate not to panic again. He took shallow breaths.
“The wire cuts off your navigational cords,” Savel said, standing slowly. He no longer smiled. “Don’t want you going off on your own any time soon.” He pursed his lips. “We’ll give you food, and a few days to recuperate. Then you start work.” He cocked his head toward Cherko, and the giant man grabbed Tover by the right arm and lifted him up.
It felt as though he’d dislocated his arm. Cruz’s touch had been gentle. This man dragged Tover down a carpeted hallway, tossing him like debris into the corner of an elevator. They went down several levels, Tover concentrating on his anxiety, reminding himself he could breathe, regardless of the constriction at his throat. He took slow, deliberate breaths.
Once the elevator doors opened, Cherko grabbed Tover by the arm and dragged him again, heedless of the uneven grating on the floor. Pain vibrated up Tover’s spine as he was hauled along a darkened corridor. At the first door, Cherko swiped his wristpad against a sensor and the door clicked open. The room was barely bigger than a closet, with steel floor grates and dark concrete walls. A hint of light filtered into the room from the grated ceiling.
Cherko dragged Tover to the corner and yanked his arms behind him. He pulled a set of magnetic cuffs from his pocket and locked Tover’s right hand to a thick metal pipe that ran along the base of the wall.
“Stay,” Cherko said, pointing to Tover like a dog. He laughed, and he locked the door behind him, and Tover found himself at last, terribly, alone.
Tover slumped against the wall. “Happy birthday,” he mumbled to himself. He emitted a wheezy chuckle with no mirth to it. Without family, Tover had spent many birthdays in lonely places, but being sold by his lover to a bunch of unscrupulous pirates definitely won the prize as being the worst birthday present ever received.
Chapter Three
Food was everything.
Ravenous, Tover ate constantly, and it didn’t matter that every bite cut the wire around his throat deeper into his neck, and it didn’t matter that he only had one hand free to eat with. He shoveled meals into his mouth with his left hand, and with every bite he felt his strength returning. He drank gallons of water using a straw, grateful that, despite the fact that they had taken his clothes and left him for three days in this cell, Tover was getting what his body needed.
Of course, that’s the whole point, he thought, as he ate another plate of mashed potatoes. They tasted bland, and lacked seasonings, but they were hot and full of calories.
He’d already asked for a mattress and been refused. He asked for his right arm instead of his left, since he was right-handed, but they prohibited this as well. For three days he had been denied every comfort except food and water, but these were given to him in endless quantities. The minute he finished a plate or emptied the bucket of water, Cherko or one of the other smugglers came into his room with another helping of meat or vegetables. Clearly surveillance cameras tracked his progress.
The calories returned his strength, but there was little he could do with it—standing hurt with his right arm cuffed to the base of the wall. And the calories helped with the cold, but he still shivered all the time. He hated being naked, so exposed amongst the men who came and went from his room. There were at least four of them working with Savel, and most ignored him, not reacting to his shouted insults as they dropped off food or exchanged his waste bucket for a clean one. But one of them smirked, and the one Tover nicknamed Dirtbag for the filthy stains on his military jacket made a grab at Tover’s crotch which had drained Tover of color and filled him with terror.
For all he knew, they could be poisoning him, but it didn’t matter. If he wanted to escape, he needed energy. So he ate, fuelled both by the food and by the thought of revenge. He’d get out of here, then he was going to find Cruz Arcadio, wherever he was, and kill him.
No, first he would torture him. Maybe tie a wire around his neck until he bled, see how he liked it.
Then he would kill him.
Because Tover was a navigator. He was the god of entire populations of people, the sole reason Harmony owned half of CTASA. He was worth more than anything else in this entire fucking universe, and he should have been worshipped. Instead, he slept on a hard metal grate and pissed in a bucket under the constant gaze of a security camera. It was humiliating and infuriating, and he spent most of his endless, bored hours those first days planning how he’d surprise Cruz, and kill him. Slowly.
The cell door slid open.
“How you like the food?” Savel entered the room. Cherko stood behind Savel, arms crossed, blocking the doorway.
Tover licked his fingers clean of mashed potato. “Fuck you.” It hurt to speak, the wire tight against his throat. He had to struggle for air as he talked. “I want my arm free. Where can I go? I’m locked in this fucking cell.”
Savel shook his head. “One freedom at a time, Navigator. You have to earn your freedom. First successful jump, you’ll get your clothes back. Second jump, a mattress. Then both your hands. A blanket. Some utensils for eating. A shower, and a shave. Eventually, you’ll have your own quarters, your own wages, your own whores to fuck, you get me? All these things will be given back to you, but they must be earned. And every time you screw with us, they will all be taken away.”
“You think Harmony doesn’t notice I’m missing?” Tover wheezed. He pulled at the wire against his throat with his finger, but it didn’t budge. Blood encrusted the edge where it cut into his flesh. “They probably have the entire peacekeeper fleet looking for me. You’re fucked when they get here.”
“You think you’re home, being jerked off by corporate cocksuckers? You think some Stuurmanites are gonna rescue you?” Savel pointed at him. “You aren’t in the CTASA colonies anymore, you’re on the Jarrow satellite, where we don’t worship navigators. Only some bug-lung terrorist assholes even know you’re here. You have no rescue party. I’m your fucking rescue party, so start acting like a man and I’ll start treating you like one.”
Tover kept his anxiety hidden underneath the veneer of rage which hadn’t left him since Cruz had abandoned him. He stank. He wanted a shower. But he wouldn’t help these bastards. He’d spent most of his life supporting legitimate commerce through CTASA, and it was pirates like these men who posed a threat to what Tover had worked for.
So he simply glared.
Savel nodded to Cherko and said something in their language. Cherko punched Tover in the face.
Tover fell backward, twisting his cuffed arm, his knees crashing against the hard grates. Pain and shock flooded through him. He had never been treated so poorly in all his life. No one in all of the CTASA allied worlds would dare touch him like that.
Before he could get his balance, Cherko demagnetized the cuffs restraining Tover’s right hand and cuffed both Tover’s hands behind his back. With a jerk Cherko lifted Tover up to a standing position. Despite the throb in his jaw, Tover felt relief. It had been days since he could properly stand, and his back ached.
“Stretch his legs,” Savel said, turning to leave. “Give him a few more days, make sure he’s back to normal.”
/> “I’m going to fucking kill you!” Tover gasped.
Savel shrugged. “Doubt it. Rest up, Navigator. Vacation’s almost over.”
A week of rest did little to calm Tover’s nerves. He grew more impatient every hour, furious his rescue was so slow. What the fuck was Harmony up to? They had to be searching for him. How hard could it be?
Years ago, an important dignitary from one of the overpopulated, politically significant colonies clamoring for inclusion in the alliance was kidnapped, and Tover was tasked to help find the man. He worked overtime, relentlessly jumping a rescue team from location to location, the search resulting in the man’s discovery on a remote insurgency base. It had taken only four days to find a relatively minor political figure. But Tover was an improvisational navigator. His rescue was long overdue.
Granted, they’d have to call in one of the other improvisational navigators to find him, but this was Harmony Corporation. If they needed an employee repositioned in a hurry, it happened. The wheels of corporate bureaucracy spun fast.
But after five days Tover was left to think hard about what his next move would be. Escape constantly filled his mind. He’d tried repeatedly to create an orbifold, but the wire around his throat was terribly effective, and even though he now had strength enough to jump, he couldn’t until someone cut the wire.
However, he wouldn’t need much time once it was. He kept DK Station’s location fresh in his mind, attuned for it in case an opportunity arose. They’d have to cut the wire to get him to work for them, and in that second, he’d be gone. He knew exactly where the medical facility on DK Station was, he’d jump right there and have his doctor get to work on the gash around his neck, and the raw skin at his wrist.
But until he was forced to work, Tover had nothing to do but sit in the cold and brood. Invariably his thoughts turned inward, and he wondered how he could have gotten Cruz so wrong.
