“We can’t fully sedate you,” said Doctor Manda. “We need you up and ready to go back in as soon as you’re able.”
“But I thought you got the nanobots out,” she said. “Why do I need to get scanned again?”
Doctor Manda hesitated.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Doctor?”
“We should focus on getting you rested for now,” she said, carefully. “We can talk later.”
“So I just lay here?” she asked. “And wait until my body miraculously heals itself?”
“Pretty much. Modern medicine is kind of like that. The body still does most of the work.”
Well, if that was the case, modern medicine sucked. “Hmmph.”
“Don’t worry,” said Doctor Manda, making a point to smile reassuringly. “You’ll have plenty to do real soon.”
What exactly did that mean? “Pardon?”
“Just try to rest for now. We’ll talk later.”
Guano sighed and tried to pout, but the medication in her veins made her too sleepy. Doctor Manda left, the nurses left, and she closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
When the coast was clear, Guano gently slid the plugs out of her, groggily slipped out of bed and stumbled to a cabinet. She rummaged through it, fighting the agony in her head and the wooziness in her step, until finally she found what she needed.
Stims. The same kind of uppers they gave her when she was flying. With them she just might be able to walk around…
She put the needle into her IV, and in seconds, she felt the effects.
It wasn’t much, but it would do.
With shaking hands, she pulled out her communicator and scrolled through the apps. She tapped on Locate Person, then tapped in a name:
Mattis, Jack (CPT)
The computer instantly drew her a map of the inside of the ship. Now all she had to do was follow the line and hope nobody recognized her… or realize she shouldn’t be walking around. Or that her guards didn’t show up. Or any number of things that might happen.
Yeah, great plan, idiot…
Chapter Thirty-Six
Shuttle
195km from Chrysalis Station
Kepler-1011 system
Despite dosing herself with as much travel sickness meds as she could stand, Blair felt her stomach heave as the shuttle drifted away from the Caernarvon and toward Chrysalis station. It felt like her insides were protesting the shift in gravity by undergoing violent upheaval, threatening with fire and fury to leap out through her nose.
All she had to do was wait, just get through the intolerably disgusting but mercifully short trip, and she would be okay. But the shuttle kept turning and twisting. Why didn’t they just fly in a straight line? There was no atmosphere, why did they have to keep dodging? Was the pilot trying to make her sick?
“You look like you’re about to upchuck, Detective,” said Harry Reardon. He had a huge, heavily modified rifle sitting in his lap and was wearing a ridiculous leather jacket and denim jeans. “Make sure you look away when you do, yeah? I am dressed for success right now.”
“I’m not a Detective. I’m a Special Agent.” Blair glared at him, airsickness bag clutched tightly in one hand, ready for use. “You have a license for that longarm?” she asked, doing her absolute best to look as intimidating as she could, despite feeling that, at any moment, her lunch could make a cameo appearance.
“Nope,” said Reardon, grinning so wide his stupid mouth looked like a half moon on his face. “No license. And it has an illegal suppressor, and a restricted night-vision scope that I also don’t have a license for, and it has souped up extra-hot rounds that I also don’t have a license for—and are stolen!—and the rifle’s stock is 3-D printed from plans I did not pay for.” He gave the weapon a soft jiggle. “And it’s been used in criiiiime. What do you think of that, De-tect-iiiiiive?”
He was enjoying himself way too much. Blair honestly had no idea what to do or say, so just kept the airsick bag close to her mouth. “Great. Don’t point it at my face or anything like that. Just—” she hiccuped. “Just tell me you know how to shoot that thing.”
“He does,” said Sammy Reardon, with an edge of despondency. The ship changed course again. “It sucks because he actually is a good shot.” He smiled reassuringly. “If it helps, I have licenses for all my hardware.” He patted a matte black pistol in a holster on the side of his wheelchair.
“Good, at least one of you isn’t going to get a stern talking to—” she hiccuped again. The ship swung to the side. “Aww, crap.”
Sammy gave a crooked, nervous smile. “But, uhh, it is under a fake name, of course.”
Of course. The shuttle dove, and her stomach felt like it was about to fly out her nose. “Urp…”
Reardon casually pulled back the charging handle, loading the rifle. “Yeah, you’re going to fit in just perfectly here.”
Blair hiccuped again, closing her eyes and trying to steady herself. The shuttle turned, banking toward what she presumed was the hangar bay. Damn it… so close. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t think about what might happen if you do—create a beautiful little Bob Ross masterpiece out of puke. But probably more like Jackson Pollack…
“Hey, open your eyes,” said Sammy. “If you’re getting motion sickness, try to focus on a distant point. It’s caused by your middle ear and your eyes telling your brain different things.”
She forced her eyes open against her better judgement and turned her head to look out one of the small, round portholes. Just in time to see a huge black and spiked space mine drift past, a slowly blinking red light perched on top of it flashing ominously.
“Holy shit—”
“It’s fine,” said Reardon, laughing playfully. “That’s just the mine drifting by to say hello. They’re totally harmless.”
“Gravity mines are not harmless,” she said, crumpling the bag in a tight grip. That must be why the pilot was dodging all the time. To try and avoid crashing into them… “That thing could just detonate at any second and—”
“And we’d never feel it, so why worry?”
Blair waited for the devilish thing to just get bored and explode, killing them all, but it didn’t seem to. The shuttle approached a large hangar bay cut into the asteroid, and they were swallowed like a fly drifting into the mouth of some giant beast.
“It’s good to be back,” said Sammy, grinning. She couldn’t understand it.
“What the hell’s so good about this place?”
Sammy tittered. “Apart from the best damn hot noodle box you will ever taste, period? Apart from the great coffee, the super awesome games and VR consoles?”
“And the hottest babes ever?” offered Reardon, reaching up and unstrapping himself from his seat. A soft alarm started beeping incessantly.
“Hey,” said Blair, eyes wide. The shuttle was still going. “You can’t get up. We haven’t stopped yet.”
“And that’s the beauty of Chrysalis,” proclaimed Reardon with a wide sweep of his arm. “You can do whatever the absolute hell you want—”
The shuttle’s skids touched down, the vibration throwing Reardon off his feet and onto the metal deck.
Sammy laughed hysterically. “You dumb piece of shit,” he said, cackling like a demented hyena.
Reardon laughed too, pushing himself up onto his elbows, blood trickling from his nose. And she still felt like throwing up.
And she still had the hiccups.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Main Street
Chrysalis Station
Kepler-1011 system
With her stomach still tied up in knots, Blair stepped off the shuttle and onto the receiving area of Chrysalis.
The whole place was lit up with gaudy lights and bright, neon advertisements that hawked various wares. Expensive-looking computer screens crammed full of advertising and marketing nonsense covered up grimy air vents and poorly welded bulkheads that, she reasoned, could give way at any moment.
>
And there were so many people.
“Home sweet home,” said Reardon, stepping forward and taking in a huge, deep breath of the air, exhaling it slowly like a man breathing his first breath in a long time.
“This isn’t home,” said Sammy, wheeling down the ramp behind them. “This is a vacation destination.”
Reardon grabbed Sammy’s head, noogying it playfully. “That it is, little brother. Our home is the Aerostar and the stars between which she sails.”
“I hope,” said Blair, running her finger disdainfully along a grime-covered air vent, “that your Aerostar is cleaner than this place.” Hiccup.
“She’s a dirty girl,” said Reardon proudly. “And just like this place, she is strong and full of character.”
“Sounds like she needs a good vacuuming. Just like this place.”
They moved out onto the crowded street proper. Walking in Chrysalis was like swimming through a sea of people. Standing room only. Sammy’s wheelchair took up a lot of room. Blair shook her head and walked farther down the main street. “So,” she said, “where’s our contact again?”
Reardon pushed through the crowd to catch up, with Sammy scooting up along behind him, using the hole he made. “Blessed Humanity coffee shop,” he said. “It’s just off the main drag. Look for a neon sign of a steaming cup of coffee.”
She did so, keeping her eyes up, searching for a single neon sign in a field of neon signs. They walked past a store selling “genuine” copies of Chinese and US military hardware, a brothel teeming with heavily made up women and men, and some kind of store selling drugs that could, it claimed, send you “into orbit”.
What a place.
“What a place,” said Reardon, striding behind her with his hands in his pockets, beaming like a kid in a candy store, seemingly oblivious to the crushing current of people all around them. “This is so great.”
Curiously, almost everything had a logo on it, sometimes hidden below scratch marks or dust. US corporations. Chinese corporations. Indian corporations. Everything here was made by some company, it seemed. “It’s interesting,” Blair said, “that the only reason this libertarian’s paradise even exists is because of the actions of a highly authoritarian intergalactic government.”
“You said it,” said Sammy, steering his wheelchair awkwardly around a rusted hole in the deck plating, nearly bumping into someone. Obviously a local.
The person was wearing the upper half of a salvaged Rhino armored space suit, covered in dents and scorch marks, and the lower half of a homemade EVA suit. A huge mini-gun was strapped to their back. “Hey,” they said, clearly masculine but otherwise unidentifiable under the helmet. “Running over my foot with that thing counts as laying hands on me. That’s a NAP violation if you proceed.”
Sammy snorted derisively. “Like a wheel counts, jackoff.”
“Any unwanted physical contact is a NAP violation.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sammy wheeled around the person and moved through the crowd.”
“Sorry,” she said, moving past the person and following Sammy. “How far is it?”
“Not far,” said Sammy.
And then, emerging from the neon-lit haze, she spotted it. A steaming mug of coffee, flickering slightly. A bullet hole had embedded itself in the side of the plastic backing, barely missing the neon tubes. “There!”
“Nice work, Detective,” said Reardon, stepping out in front of her. “C’mon. I’ll get you a Hazelnut Fizzle. It’s like a thousand black holes crunched a universe full of deliciousness into a single particle, then made a drink out of those particles.”
“I was thinking more an Irish whisky,” she said, grimacing slightly and hiccuping again. “And don’t call me Detective in public, especially because I’m a Special Agent. But don’t call me that in public either.” A pause. “C’mon. A Hazelnut Fizzle?”
“That’s a very manly drink,” protested Reardon, turning around and walking backward toward the shop, seemingly just hoping that people would make way for him. Which, to his credit, they appeared to. “It’s super manly. And about thirty percent alcohol.”
“It’s pink,” said Sammy, groaning softly as he caught up to Blair, looking up to her with a tired look on his face. “Just ignore him, okay? I learned to.”
Would it be possible to just mentally airbrush the guy out of her life?
Reardon pushed open the door ahead of them and strode in like he was some kind of demented peacock who had just become part owner of the place. Blair stepped in behind him, keeping her head low and avoiding eye contact. She held the door open for Sammy. It was good to be away from the crowd.
The smell of freshly roasted coffee drifted out toward her, making her stomach rumble. She’d been nauseated all morning, and only now had realized how long it had been since she’d eaten. And coffee… how she loved coffee.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” said Reardon, gliding open-armed to two finely dressed women in the corner. They were wearing clothes that seemed to be entirely holographic, merely projections of light that rearranged themselves as they moved, flashing prices in various currencies. Both smiled demurely as he approached. “Guess who’s home and needing some love?”
What the hell. “Aren’t we here to meet a contact?” Blair hissed to Sammy.
Sammy groaned. “Sorry,” he said, grimacing “He’s been… on the ship for a while.”
“Time for some me time,” said Reardon, sliding into the spare seat between the women and draping his arms around both. He raised his voice high enough for everyone in the place to hear. “I’ll be back later, Detective.” Then, realizing too late what he’d said, Reardon’s eyes went wide.
Shit.
Oh shit. Suddenly the music stopped. Every conversation stopped. All the eyes in the bar were on her. Detective…
She hiccuped.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Blessed Humanity Coffee Shop
Chrysalis Station
Kepler-1011 system
The word rang in Blair’s ears like a gong. Detective…
“Yeah,” said Sammy, reaching up to clap her on the back. “You still got hiccups, Detective?” He glanced to the bartender, an older man with greying temples. “That’s just her name. Weird parents. Hippies.”
She smiled awkwardly. “Y-yeah. That’s me, Detective… that’s my name.” She racked her brain for one of the old cop jokes she’d heard a million times. “Because my last name is Apple.”
The bartender scowled, casually sliding one hand below the bar, to grasp something she couldn’t see. “Detective Apple? I don’t get it.”
Blair smiled. “Undercover crops. My folks, they… ahem. Smoked a lot of weed.”
“A whole lot,” said Sammy. “Like, so much.”
A tense silence, broken only by one of Reardon’s prostitutes giggling in the background.
“Easy, Armitage,” said Sammy, warmly. “C’mon. You know the Reardons. We wouldn’t bring a freaking cop into your shop, would we?”
Armitage, obviously undecided, scowled a little. “I don’t know. Would you?”
Sammy jerked his thumb toward Reardon, who was sitting in the corner, back to obliviously fawning over the two girls. Each one of them had two empty glasses in front of them that had been holding some kind of pink liquid. Reardon had four. How had he drunk them so fast? Where had they even come from? “Look, if she was a cop, do you think Reardon would be stupid enough to announce it to the entire establishment?”
“Fair enough,” the bartender said, relaxing slightly, offering her a little smile. “So your name is really Detective, huh?”
“Yeah.” Blair had been undercover exactly once before, but it had taught her a lot. She knew how to bluff fast enough to stay on her toes. “Look, my name is a literal joke. It’s fine. I don’t like it any more than you do, but why should I change it? It’s mine. It’s everyone else who has the problem with it.”
“Nice,” said Armitage, nodding approvingly. “Everyone gets some
kind of shitty card dealt to them in life. Glad to see you rolling with yours, Miss Apple.”
She nodded. “Sammy, watch the door.”
“On it,” he said, wheeling away.
Blair slid into a stool, grunting softly. “Yeah. Anyway. Gimme some of that pink shit,” she said. “We’re here to meet someone about a missing person.”
“Well, if you want to get straight down to business, we can do that.” Armitage took out a thick mug and poured coffee from a depressingly stained pot. How many months it had gone uncleaned would be a mystery for the ages, but it probably wouldn’t kill her. “Fortunately I got a… missing persons guy. Great guy. Name’s Christopher. Hang on.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Chris, they’re here.”
From a door behind the bar, a man emerged wearing a thick coat, surgical mask, and a hat. Interesting fashion choices for the muggy bar interior. He slid up to the counter keeping his head down low, letting his hat hide whatever part of his face might have been visible from behind the mask. He had a thick chrome briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. “You the curious people with a request for me, right?” He clicked his tongue softly. He spoke in a whisper, ostensibly to mask a strange accent she couldn’t quite place. “I have resources and means at my disposal. I might be able to help you—for a price.”
“That’s us,” said Blair. Smiling as best she could. “I’m looking for a man.”
Chris turned his head toward Reardon and his cohorts. “We have men if you want them.”
Cute. “That isn’t what I meant,” she said.
Armitage slid the coffee over to her. It was bright pink and smelled like acid and sugar.
“Okay,” said Chris, adjusting the handcuffs on his briefcase. It looked uncomfortable. “What then?”
“I’m looking for a specific man,” she said, cupping the mug in both hands. “A missing person.”
The Last Strike: Book 5 of The Last War Series Page 16
