“What did you do that for?” Solomon gasped in pain, which Jezzie thought must be coming from the electrifying chip in his neck, not the fall.
“Get it together, Cready,” Jezzie said, a little out of breath. She offered him her fist-pad for him to grab, but he resolutely ignored it as he stood up on his feet again. “You can’t afford to stand out from the crowd right now,” she murmured to him, but his heavily shadowed eyes told her that he didn’t want to hear it.
“What does it matter anyway, right?” he muttered back at her. “You know Arlo smuggled a weapon into the last training mission, right?” he admitted.
“What?” Solomon had never mentioned that, and the ‘Break and Enter’ session had been almost a week ago now!
“Yeah. Just to try and intimidate me, I think. But one of these days, he’s going to try and kill me for sure.” Solomon’s face was a mask of fury. “I’ve got people here who want me dead, and Coates will find any excuse to bust me back down to convict, for sure.” He looked exasperated and upset. “And I know for a fact that my test results can’t be that bad. I’ve been acing the study lounge, and the command lessons.” He appeared to be working himself up into a fit of rage—another thing that Jezzie thought wouldn’t help his chances.
“Sol, calm down. Think. So, the warden is picking on you, right? Think it through. What are you going to do about it? How are you going to beat him at his own game? Use some of that amazing strategy advice you’ve been given in command!” Jezzie’s voice sounded harsher in her own ears than she would have liked.
I’m annoyed with him, she thought. Maybe too annoyed, but she knew that her would-be Gold Squad Commander couldn’t afford a moment of self-doubt or despair. He was right that the warden probably was picking on him for his past crimes. The warden had declared in front of all of the Outcasts that he didn’t trust someone like Solomon Cready—murderer of his own best friend.
“You gotta be better. You can’t give him any excuse,” she tried to explain, earning a jagged snort of disgust from Solomon.
“Change up,” he snapped, looking over to where the nearest sparring partnership had broken up, meaning that it was time to swap fight partners.
“Hold on, Sol, this is important…” she was saying, but Cready had already stalked over to the next partnership and was starting to square off against one of them, lowering his stance into a combat hunch.
There was nothing she could do, if she didn’t want to draw attention to Solomon’s erratic behavior, but she saw that the second person of that group that she was meant to fight was already begging off. The Outcast sat on the floor, holding his hand where he appeared to have strained or sprained a wrist.
“Fine, I could do with some water anyway.” She waved at the man that it was alright, and instead turned to stalk to the water dispensers at the side of the gymnasium. It had become customary to be able to break off a fight for injury or exhaustion, each Outcast being responsible for their own peak physical fitness, until they joined the sparring once again.
But Jezzie was still annoyed as she got to the large wall-mounted units and took one of the flimsy plastic cups and started filling and refilling the cup until she had quenched her thirst.
“Wen.” A voice startled her. She wasn’t used to being surprised and thought that she must be angrier with Solomon than she had thought.
“Yes?” When she turned around, she saw that it was, strangely, one of the gray-suited station staffers who was busy pulling a trolly loaded with water barrels towards the dispensers.
“Oh, sorry,” she murmured an apology and stepped out of the way. Almost ready to get back to the sparring, anyway, she thought as the staffer knelt beside the wall unit, and with a control pad started to transmit the codes that would unlock its interior workings.
It was at that point that the staffer muttered something down into his data-pad as he worked, which sent chills of recognition through Jezebel Wen’s spine, almost as if the warden had activated her implanted drone-chip.
“Boss Mihashi has a job for you.” The staffer didn’t even look at her.
“Boss Mihashi!?” Jezzie felt as though the station’s gravity had suddenly been turned off, and she was floating in surreal freefall even though she hadn’t moved an inch.
I came up here to get away from them. There’s no way they can reach me out here…
“You heard,” the staffer muttered under his breath as he worked, unloading the empty barrels of water to replace them with new ones from the trolley. If any of the other Outcasts even glanced over at them, they would simply see a gray-suited staffer apparently ignoring Adjunct-Marine Wen as she watched him work.
“But that’s impossible.” Jezzie felt faint in a way that no amount of training could do to her.
The staffer’s shoulders jumped as he apparently suppressed a chuckle. “You think the Yakuza can’t get off-world?” he asked lightly. Of course Jezzie knew that they could, as they constantly managed to smuggle weapons, people, goods, and services up and out of Shanghai’s space elevator, even though that platform was nominally under the control of the Chinese Triads.
But that wasn’t what the man was saying, was it, she thought. This staffer was Yakuza. Like her. Like she had been. She looked at the man now, really looked at him to see that he, like her, was Anglo-Japanese—the Yakuza had let their ‘ethnic purity’ standards slip in the last century or so, as the world had become a truly globalized metropolis.
Jezzie Wen was also willing to bet, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that were she to pull the guy’s work suit off right here and now, she would find some sort of coiling dragon racing up his body, just as she had a long-bodied Chinese water dragon curling from left ankle, all the way up her thigh, around her belly, across her back and finally resting its watchful head on her shoulder and neck.
That dragon was the symbol of the most brutally punishing criminal group in the part of the Confederacy known as the Asia-Pacific Partnership—a cute, catch-all term for the old nation-states of China, Japan, Korea, large parts of Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia—all the way down to the South East Asian islands. The APP, as it was more formally known, was a powerhouse of poverty and industry, with a booming population that controlled half the world’s industries—everything from machining cheap consumables to consuming said consumables in high-rise megaflats.
Of course, the Yakuza were only one of a number of criminal gangs and syndicates that operated in the APP, just as a whole range of underworld organizations ran the Anglo-American parts of the Confederacy too. The Yakuza ‘shared’—well, savagely fought to the death, Wen clarified—the APP with the Triads, and elements of both the American Mob and the Casa Nostra Families of Europe.
But none of the other criminal gangs in the APP had quite the same respect as the Yakuza. They might not have control over the elevator—yet—but they ruled the streets. There were no freeloaders or junkies in the Yakuza. Every one of their highly-selective members were expert fighters, and usually fanatically loyal to the Boss.
But the Yakuza numbers are small… Jezzie’s mind raced. Which was why they couldn’t control the other gangs in the APP. They were the best trained and offered the harshest punishments for any who got in their way, but their elitism and selectivity worked against them in some ways.
Which was why Jezzie had thought she would be safe up here, thousands of miles away through the vacuum of space. Why would Boss Mihashi send a valuable Yakuza asset all that way just for her?
“We’ll be in touch, Miss Wen,” the staffer said in a low growl, turning back to look at the utility machine as if nothing had happened between them at all, and leaving Jezebel still reeling in a state of shock.
Why would they send an operative all this way just for me? she thought, but Jezzie, unfortunately, already knew the answer. Because I used to be a VERY valuable asset to them. And what this gray-suited staffer was letting her know was that the Yakuza could not only get off-world anytime they wanted, but that they could also get
to her anytime they wanted…
4
Old Habits Die Hard
‘Calm down,’ Solomon repeated to himself, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe that Jezzie, one of his own squad members, had told him to ‘calm down’ back there. The physical training had ended, and, exhausted but still filled with an electric energy, Cready was making his way back to the Outcast dormitory, feeling like he had a supernova about to go off inside his head.
I was better off on the streets of New Kowloon, he was thinking. If only he could find a way to get off this rock. Stowaway on one of the food transports, maybe…
In the reflective chrome walls of the corridors, the young man caught sight of himself—just one amongst many tired and bedraggled Outcasts, morphing out of shape and back in again as the steel didn’t quite give a perfect reflection.
A glint showed the gold band on his training jacket.
Ah yes, Specialist Commander Cready, Solomon scoffed at the blurry, gold image. He remembered feeling proud—absurdly so—when he had received the star from the Marine colonels, claiming that his quick thinking and character traits made him perfect for a command role. It was the first time that someone had believed in him. Well, someone who wasn’t asking him to steal money for them, that was.
Did his squad believe in him? He thought of the metal golem Malady, Karamov and Kol, Jezzie. The memory of Jezzie’s annoyed look hit him like a slap across the face. Clearly not.
His squad would probably be better off without him anyway. He grimaced as he tucked his head down and shuffled forward. The food vending units were coming up, and the crowd always slowed when it was time to start receiving the dispensed cubes of reconstituted goop that the staffers said were full of every sort of nutrient, mineral, enzyme, and protein that their bodies needed.
What he wouldn’t give for some New Kowloon street food. His stomach grumbled at the thought. Crispy duck. A honey and mustard dressing. Fresh noodles. Proper noodles, still steaming hot and spicy with chili, ginger, lemongrass…
“Here he is, Commander Cready!” said a French accent up ahead, making Solomon groan and open his eyes warily. It was, of course, Arlo Menier, leaning against the opposite side of the corridor with two handfuls of the nutrient cubes.
Who did he bully to get a second? Solomon wondered. He was already in a bad mood, and the jitters of the warden’s control chip still ran through his limbs.
And it’s probably all this big lug’s fault, isn’t it? Solomon realized. One of the reasons that the warden had singled him out for special punishment was the fact that Solomon had been the commander who had finished last, leading his squad to the lower rankings of the last training mission.
That had been because of Arlo cheating. Solomon’s eyes flared.
And met their match in Arlo, who was staring at him as steadily and as hungrily as a wolf might look at a lamb. Silence seemed to gather around the two men—Arlo large and built like an amateur weight-lifter, while Solomon was thin and wiry, and a good head shorter than the Frenchman. It seemed as though the rest of the Outcast Adjunct-Marines had been waiting for this confrontation, as they stepped back to form a space for them.
“You don’t deserve to be here.” Arlo’s first volley, which Solomon thought was pretty weak, to be honest.
“We’re all ex-cons. I don’t think any of us deserve to be here,” Solomon countered, and heard a small chuckle from somewhere in the crowd. He wondered if it was Karamov or Kol, rooting for him.
“You’re an idiot.” Arlo ignored his riposte, instead going for the direct insult.
“Maybe, but you’re ugly. At least I can pretend to be clever,” Solomon stated.
The Frenchman’s face turned a deeper shade of purple as his brain caught up with the insult, and he let out a strangled grunt of rage, stepping forward—
“Halt!” a voice cried out, and suddenly Solomon felt that sharp singe of pain moving from his shoulders to his neck and down his spine. He lost control over his legs and staggered into the nearest Outcast member, who was similarly gnashing their teeth in rictus pain as they slid down the wall.
“Gentlemen,” said an eloquent women’s voice, tinged with a Russian accent. The pain started to subside from Solomon’s and everyone else’s control chip, leaving them gasping for air. Solomon was able to blink aside the tears of pain to see that it was indeed Doctor Palinov, standing in the center of their circle in her white lab-coat and austere blonde braid, holding up a control device similar to the one that Warden Coates used.
Solomon’s heart was suddenly in his mouth. She will have to report this to the warden. Even if he hadn’t thrown a punch yet, he was sure that the warden wouldn’t care.
“Save your fighting for the gymnasium, please,” the doctor stated, turning on her heels to go, before pausing over Solomon’s huddled, pain-wracked body. “Cready. Get up and follow me.”
Oh no. Solomon managed to force himself to his feet even though every joint ached. He was certain that this was it, that she was going to take him to the warden, who would order his expulsion from the program.
I know that I wanted to get out of here, he chided himself. But that doesn’t mean that I want to spend the rest of my days on Titan!
Behind them, he heard the murmur of the other adjunct-Marines, similarly struggling to their feet, but with their eyes watching the downfall of Specialist Commander Cready.
So, Solomon was surprised when Palinov turned right instead of left at the end of the corridor, leading him past the entrance to the study lounges and toward the double-plated, reinforced glass doors that led into the restricted medical lounge.
Palinov reached into her pocket and waved a small card of white plastic at the door controls. With a dull hum, their red restricted lights turned to green, and the doors slid open.
“This is more for your benefit than it is ours,” Palinov said as they swept through and the doors closed behind them. “We have all sorts of pathogens, diseases, viral and fungal antibodies…” she explained, gesturing up the large, industrial air filters and fans that were mounted in the ceiling at regular intervals. “We couldn’t have the lot of you getting sick on us now, could we?” she said lightly.
Just like the entire Outcast complement got sick with the flu—even Malady—and even though there was no way for the virus to be introduced to Ganymede? Solomon thought, but didn’t say. He already had his suspicions about that particular viral outbreak, and this might be just the chance that he got to confirm them.
The medical lounge was built like a scientific suite, with large glass windows and similarly locked doors in front of labs on either side of them as they walked down the pristine, chrome and white corridor. Solomon couldn’t help but look through the glass. There were rows of metal tables and white-suited staffers working at test tubes or screens. Other bays were filled with reclining medical chairs, stuffed with an array of instruments over their heads.
“Hmm.” Palinov noticed him looking and waved a hand as she strode forward. The windows darkened, the reactive chemical properties in the glass responding to some signal she gave.
“Can’t give away all our secrets,” she said in a slightly amused tone, which Solomon knew meant she wanted to sound as though she were being agreeable and talkative. It only made him suspicious.
She brought him to one of the rooms with now-darkened glass. The door hummed aside to reveal a more conventional doctor’s room—small, with a reclining medical chair on one side, next to a desk with a screen and walls mounted with test tubes and strange medical equipment.
“Hop on the bed, if you please, Mr. Cready,” Palinov suggested, while she turned to busy herself at one of the desks, laying out data-pads and donning sterile blue gloves.
“Is this, uh… Is this going to hurt?” Solomon asked. Stupid question. Everything hurts in this place. But even as he was worrying about what fresh hell the doctor had in store for him, he found that his eyes were also scanning the room in that way that he had taught himself, s
o many years ago.
He had been a thief back on Earth, in the part of the globe known as the Asia-Pacific Partnership, and more specifically, the largest ghettoized urban area called New Kowloon. But Solomon Cready hadn’t just been your run-of-the-mill mugger or snatch-and-run sort of thief. No pinching tourists’ handbags for him.
Solomon had been one of the very best, infiltrating mega-corporate laboratories and Confederacy museums, industrial factories and the elite penthouses of the rich and corrupt.
He was quite proud of that fact, to be honest.
Anesthetic. Antibiotics. Vaccinations. He studied the assembled bottles and jars and dispensaries. Not that he was particularly interested in stealing any of them—unless of course he could start to trade them with some of the other Outcasts for favors?
But then again, this isn’t prison, not really. What favors do I need from anyone in here? Solomon thought in disgust. Everyone here was in the same boat. He could possibly use them to bribe other Outcast Marines to stand with him against Arlo. Maybe he could bribe Arlo himself to get off his back….
Nah. That was a road that Solomon didn’t want to go down, as he knew where it would lead. Never be the person paying off the bigger guy, gang, or syndicate, his experience told him. You’d only end up more in debt.
So, no. He was still surreptitiously looking at the different cabinets and metal lockers when he saw something that did interest him. Doctor Palinov had reached down to wave her ID card once again over a set of steel cabinets. There was a dull, internal click and the metal doors slid back, revealing rows and rows of test tubes. Solomon squinted at them, seeing small labels with printed names. His suspicions were confirmed when Palinov riffled through the tubes to pick out one, and, as she stood back up, Solomon was sure that he saw the letters “CREA—” stamped on its side.
The Kepler Rescue Page 4
