by Lyn Forester
The house of my soul is as familiar to me from this angle as it is from the normal entrance through the crack in the cliff wall. It’s been a long time since I used this particular entry point. Lifetimes even. Back before I was Reagen, before I was Mark, before I was Raine.
The years peel away like layers of skin, strip by strip, until raw and bleeding, I crash into my lake. Icy water engulfs me, razors that hook into my flesh, cutting deep as they drag me down into the murky depths.
Down to where the monsters lurk.
They circle me with open arms, a welcome home. Like the mermaids of human legend, they sing to me, enticing me to stay. I twist in the icy depths until I see the glowing light far above.
This is not the day I remain here, surrounded by my past.
Legs kicking, I surge toward the surface as water fills my lungs. It burns to breathe, the liquid thick and viscous inside my lungs. But it won’t kill me. Nothing in my house of souls can do that. Torture, yes. Kill? Only if I allow it.
I’ve never been one to give up.
My head strikes a solid surface. Ice covers the lake where none existed before. I push against the cold sheet, searching for the exit.
Time passes, pounded out by the pulses of my heart. Slowly, light brightens overhead. A bright figure crouches above me, their image wavy, unclear.
A hand reaches down, passing through the thick ice with ease. Glowing fingers curl toward me in invitation.
NOT THE BRIGHTEST IDEA
DRAKE
As Drake leaves Mr. Black’s office, a sour knot forms in his stomach. He’d told his boss everything he knew about Reagen so far. A disappointing amount of detail that’s leaving him riddled with guilt. Somewhere along the way of getting her to trust him, he’s wound up liking her. Never good in this line of business. Not when he has a job to do.
The trip back to his office passes in a blur, and he almost misses the thin crack of light in the door where the latch doesn’t meet the wall. He was in a hurry to make his meeting on time, but not so much so that he would forget to lock up.
Eyes narrowed, he pulls the psy-gun from his shoulder holster and moves to hug the wall as he approaches. From inside, feet shuffle against carpet in a quiet brush near the front of the room. Drake shoves the door open hard, satisfied as it slams into the body on the other side. A heavy thump sounds against the wall, and he keeps his momentum going to trap the body in place as he scans the rest of the office, psy-gun at the ready.
No other intruders. On his desk, a small bouquet rests at the corner.
With a glare for the wood door, he presses against it harder. “That better not be you again, Tim.”
“Mr. Esten.” A skinny arm appears from behind the door, hand waving. “You have another delivery.”
“So I see,” Drake growls, low with irritation. He doesn’t want to look at the card from the sender. It’s just going to piss him off more.
“Can I come out now?” The kid squeaks after a moment passes, and Drake doesn’t move away.
“I want you to hold future deliveries at your desk, Tim.” Drake holsters his weapon as he moves toward his desk.
“Yes, sir.” Shuffling comes from behind him. “I’ll guard them with my life!”
“I think my deliveries will be safe.” He scowls at the cream-colored card. It pops out against the red roses. Three lush blooms in full glory, just on the cusp of death. In a day, the petals will start to drop. Most who pay the credits on real flowers buy them as buds, the longer to enjoy them. Is Victor, the owner of Penned, trying to flaunt his riches or looking for an excuse to send the next extravagant gift?
“Would you like a coffee, sir? It’s late. You must be tired.” The kid’s eager voice comes from too close, and Drake glances back over his shoulder to find him hovering, curious gaze focused on the card.
Drake’s eyes drift to the clock on the wall. Already past Lights-Out. How did such a small report take so much time?
As tiredness swamps him, he nods. “Yes. Thank you, Tim.”
The kid straightens with a grin, skinny shoulders squaring, as he turns and bounces his way out of the office. His bright orange hair glares under the overhead lights, more vibrant and offensive than Drake remembered.
He turns back to the bouquet to pluck the card free. Red stains the creamy envelope at the corners, artificial coloring from the flowers. Customers like to personalize them with hidden meaning. The vibrant red is a glaringly obvious signal. His fingers clench, crumpling the card, as new irritation washes through him. When he forces himself to open the small envelope, he snorts with disgust.
This time, the den owner addressed his overtures to Drake. A greasy invitation to come back to the shop to sample one of his hosts. At the bottom includes an offer for him to bring a guest. Like he would fall for that one. He could just imagine Reagen’s face if he asked her to go to a whorehouse with him.
A smile tugs at his lips. Maybe he should take her to a whorehouse. She needs to remedy that abstinence thing she has going on. It can’t be healthy. They just won’t go to Penned. Now that the thought has entered his head, curiosity sets in. What kind of person would she pick? Probably someone small and delicate, easy to take charge of. She likes her control.
In the next moment, guilt rears its ugly head once more and smashes his good mood. Shit, he needs to talk her into joining Mr. Black’s organization so he doesn’t need to find something on her to use as blackmail.
“Here you are, Mr. Esten,” Tim chirps.
Drake tosses the card into the trash bin destined for the incinerator before he turns to take the hot cup of coffee from the kid. The steamy surface glistens with a rainbow slick of oil as he cradles the cup in his hands and eyes Sub Timothy. “Why are you here so late?”
Tim flushes at the question, the smattering of freckles over his nose standing out. “It’s taking me awhile to get the rest of those reports together for you. The contract writers keep sending me in circles.”
“I need those documents, Tim.” Honestly, he’s not sure what he expects to find in them. The question of why three aphremore dens were licensed within a block of each other moved down his list after the drug dealer blew up the night before.
Eyes down, his subordinate wiggles in place. “I know, sir.”
“Be firm with them.” He raises the cup to his lips to take a stinging hot sip of sludge. Mmmm, tastes like it came from the security office. Energy already spreads out from his stomach. “Go down to their office if you need to. Don’t leave until they produce the files.”
Tim’s shoulders hunch as he whispers, “Yes, sir.”
Drake takes pity on the kid and sets the coffee cup down to scoop up the obnoxious bouquet. He thrusts it into Tim’s hands. “Do that in the morning. Go home for the night. Get some rest.”
“Yes, sir.” Tim fumbles with the flowers with confusion. “What do I do with these?”
“Same thing you did with the last ones.”
“Yes, Mr. Esten.”
As the kid turns toward the door, Drake calls after him, “Don’t forget to check out a pair of night goggles from security before you leave.”
He jumps a little, surprised, and the tips of his ears turn red. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good night, Tim.”
“Good night, Mr. Esten.” He closes the door as he leaves.
He should take his own advice and go home to sleep. But he’d barely started digging through Troy’s financial mess. Shit, he was supposed to check in with Reagen hours ago. He’d shoot her off a quick message. She might already be asleep.
When he fishes his palm-port out of his pocket, the message light flickers in the upper corner. He’d put it on silent before his meeting with Mr. Black. Reagen will give him hell.
With a grimace, he presses the button and lifts the device to his ear. Her husky voice comes through, fast with excitement. “Drake, I have a lead. Found one of those delivery trucks Henly told us about. Call me back.”
He checks the timest
amp on the message. She called just as Quarter-Light set in. He clicks to the next message. Irritation clouds her voice. “Drake, meet me on Level 5. I’m following a lead. My tracker will lead you the rest of the way.”
Shit. He hurries out of his office as he clicks over to the next message. This one comes in text form, minutes before Lights-Out. I’m going in.
No further messages.
He’d been on his way out of the meeting when the last one came in. If he’d checked his palm-port before heading to his office, he might have caught her, told her to wait for him.
As he hurries down the hall toward the lifts, he sends her a fast message. On my way.
He might already be too late by the time he gets there. He swings by the security office on his way out to grab a pair of night goggles. The pair of guards behind the counter tries to pull him into conversation, and he waves them off as he runs out of the room.
It takes an agonizing amount of time for an elevator to arrive. Impatient, he stabs the call button until the doors open. Once inside, he realizes he has no idea where he’s going. Slinging the goggles over one wrist, he pulls up Reagen’s contact info. Sure enough, she programmed her tracker info into his device at some point. He activates it, and a location pops up on the screen.
L5S8R7. Level 5, Sector 8, Ring 7.
He digs out his Black Corp badge and swipes it over the panel, then punches in his executive code using the floor buttons. All of the buttons turn green and the panel pops open to reveal a second, hidden panel.
On paper, the NuArc building stops at Level 9. But as the top of a foundation construct, all of the buildings below NuArc reach the holo-skies of their respective levels, helping to support the levels above them. Mr. Black had had the foresight to buy up those buildings, drilling his way through the layers to create his very own lift to Ground Zero.
It’s meant to be used for emergencies, but his partner could be getting herself into all sorts of trouble right now. And Mr. Black wouldn’t want to risk her. She’s a valuable asset that his boss wants to acquire.
Reasonable justification for abusing his position in the organization.
He hits the button for Level 5, a little surprised. He would have bet good credits he would be heading to Level 4, closer to the aphremore dens in question. Reagen is only a couple blocks over from the Pink Skirt Motel, if he remembers correctly. As the lift drops, he leans forward to type his access code into the panel to make it move faster.
His stomach rises to clog his throat as the lift accelerates. By the time he passes Level 6, he feels a sense of weightlessness. His ears pop, pain shooting through his head. He clamps a hand onto the safety rail that lines the elevator’s walls as, with equal speed, the metal box begins to decelerate. In an instant, gravity pulls him toward the floor, and his stomach shoots to his feet. Nausea rolls through him. Maybe not the brightest idea he has ever had, but it’s gotten him down to Level 5 in half the time.
As he stumbles out into a dark hallway, it takes a moment to regain his bearings. On this level, the lift would exit into a plastic factory six Sectors over from where he needs to be. At Lights-Out, the portals will be closed. He checks his palm-port one more time, just in case Reagen got back to him. No need to venture out into pirate-run streets if she’s fine.
No new messages have come in.
Either his partner is neck-deep and can’t answer, or she’s ignoring him. Unease ripples down his spine. She wouldn’t ignore him out of spite, at least not in this situation, which means she might be in danger.
Urgency hurries his steps as he runs toward the back exit.
~
One row away from Reagen’s location, her tracker blinks off. Drake freezes for a heartbeat, willing it to come back on. He has her general whereabouts, but without the tracker, he can’t pinpoint her. He wasted too much time getting here. His disc-bike would have made the trip faster, but also made him a glowing beacon for every pirate out to lay a trap.
As it was, he had to duck two hunting parties, the shine of their night goggles alerting him to their presence before they spotted him.
Shoving his palm-port back into his pocket, he jogs toward her last known whereabouts. In a street full of dark warehouses, the one at the center of the street glows a vibrant shade of green through his night goggles. A moment later, a disc-bike zips out of the side alley, dual wheels of purple streaking through the dark.
Two more disc-bikes pop onto the street in hot pursuit, their tri-rings struggling to keep up. Drake squints against the glare long enough to judge none of the bodies surrounded by the energy wheels are the right shape to be Reagen.
Once they pass, Drake waits another minute to make sure no one else joins the chase before he runs toward the building. He ducks down the alley they came out of, ears open for any hint of movement. Did Reagen trip an alarm? He shakes off the thought. She’s not that sloppy. This has to be her location, though.
The buildings on either side show zero sign of activity. Is she trapped inside? Bunkered down while she waits for the commotion to die down?
Silent, he creeps down the alley, sticking close to the wall to avoid discovery. Halfway there, he pauses in the deep shadows of a dumpster. The pungent odor of decay wafts from the open bin as if to encourage him on his way. He presses a shoulder against the cold metal side and pulls out his palm-port. If he comes barging in, psy-gun firing, it could ruin whatever she has planned.
He types out a quick message. I’m here, where are you?
A muffled buzz comes from the left, almost imperceptible. Dread fills him as he stands to move in front of the dumpster. The high metal wall comes up to his eyes, and through his goggles, blood glitters like stars from one edge.
Shit, he doesn’t want to look inside that bin.
Drake grasps the lip of the dumpster and hoists his body up until he can peer inside. Reagen sprawls on top of a pile of refuse. In a few hours, the street sweepers will come out, and she would have been carted away to the incinerator, another disappearance never solved by the blue guards.
More blood glitters on a plastic bag under her head, and one long leg is folded in half, caught beneath her body. His jaw clenches as he fights down the regret. The least he can do for her is make sure she gets a proper send off, not dumped out with the trash.
He boosts himself into the bin, feet sinking ankle deep in the trash next to her hip. When he lifts her arm, the warmth of her skin takes him aback. She hasn’t been in here long. Heart lurching, he presses his fingers against her wrist in search of a pulse. He checks her neck next, in the hollow above her collarbone where even a flutter should be easy to find.
Nothing.
Determination settles in as he kneels beside her. There might still be a chance. He tips her head back, hand on her pointed chin as he opens her mouth. With a deep breath, he leans down toward her.
She coughs into his face, body arching up. He falls back on his ass in shock, sinking as putrid trash molding around his ass. She stays frozen, body bent into a bridge, mouth open wide. And then, with a shudder, she sinks back into place.
He scurries to her side, hands sweeping bags of rotten debris out of the way. He checks her throat again. Still nothing. He bends to press an ear to her chest.
Air rattles in her lungs, and he hears the unsteady thud of her heart. She coughs again, then whispers, “Are you copping a feel while I’m wounded?”
“Shit, I thought you were dead.” He straightens to stare down at her.
Her eyes slit open, dark green glimmers in the shadows of her face. “I’m not that easy to kill.”
“What happened?” He demands as his hands skim over her, searching for injuries.
“I fell out of the window.” She raises a shaking arm to point above them. He follows her direction to see a blank wall. But she doesn’t have night goggles on like he does. She can’t know for sure where she points.
His gaze travels higher, to an open window on the third story. She’s lucky she landed in the du
mpster. “We should get you to a doctor. You hit your head.”
“So that’s why I hurt so much.” She pats around until she finds his shoulder and tries to heave her body upright. With a groan, she flops back into place. “I don’t need a doctor. Just get me out of here. It reeks.”
“You definitely need a doctor.” His hands hover over her shoulders. “I’m not sure I should move you. Something could be broken.”
“Nothing’s broken. Help me up.”
“You can’t know that.” He stares at her leg, dubious. She’s limber but that still looks unnatural. “You’re in shock.”
“We can’t stay here. There are bad guys around.” She blinks and squints. “It’s still Lights-Out, right? I’m not blind?”
“No, you’re not blind.” With a huff, he gingerly grips her shoulders and props her up. She clenches her teeth against a hiss of pain. “You know we’re the bad guys, right?”
“These are badder guys.”
“Did they throw you out the window?” He peers back up the height of the building. No way she fell out. Not Reagen’s style. She would have gone out, psy-gun firing, and taken down the whole building.
“No, I fell.” Her bent leg trembles as she tries to straighten it. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“Sure it’s not broken?” Now that she’s brought it up, his shoulder blades itch with how exposed they are right now. The people on the disc-bikes could come back at any moment.
“Just help me up.” She raises her arms, fingers wiggling. Like a child reaching for a parent.
He grips her under the arms. “Upsy-daisy.”
“You did not just say that.” She lets out a low groan as he lifts her to her feet.
He shifts, arms supporting her weight, until he can prop her against the side of the dumpster. On top of the trash pile, her hips come level with the top. Too easy for her to tip over if she falls. “Where are your night goggles?”
She pats her neck, then over her shoulder. From behind her back, she pulls around a broken pair of goggles. Light sparks around the rim of the cracked lenses. “I don’t think I can wear them, even if they still work. My head is killing me.”
