Backstab (Worlds of Deception Book 1)

by Everet Martins

  Halfway around the arcing floor, I finally see them long after they see me. Paragon and Saber have their backs to the wall, chairs set at a forty-five degree angle to each other. They watch me approach with predatory friendliness. Mercs think the world is out to murder them. When I think about it, their caution is actually warranted.

  Saber slowly lifts a drink to his lips, eyes narrowing, what amounts to pupils shimmering as the lenses in his sockets adjust. Paragon’s expression breaks into a surprisingly friendly grin. She gestures for me to sit in the chair in front and between them. I’m the third wheel.

  “Hey.” I nod and do my best to pretend my nerves aren’t a frazzled wreck. I take them in before I sit. Saber is dressed much the same as he was before, decked out in combat clothing and ready for a fight at a moment’s notice. His cybernetic arms emit an imperceivable hum as he lowers his whiskey. He must’ve paid the bouncer a lot to get in looking like that.

  Paragon’s makeup is all smoke and shadows. Her kimono is dark gray trimmed in white. Her breasts seemed to have grown since we last met, peeking above the cut of her dress. “How lovely for you to show up, Desmond.”

  “You look like shit,” Saber grunts, setting his glass down with a clink that seems far too loud. “And you still have some blood on your auricle.”

  “My what? Am I that apparent?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “Your ear.” Saber gestures at his own.

  “It seems someone had a run in with a Merc at the downtown Hyatt recently. Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Paragon’s fingers start massaging the table’s edge. It’s a synthetic dark wood that borders on black.

  I avert my gaze and slump into the chair, aware of how my shoulders start to sag. “Fuck,” I breathe, twisting my neck to sweep my eyes over the huddled groups behind me. “I…”

  “You what?” Saber prompts, and the corner of one of his eyes twitches. Paragon tilts her face at him and puts a hand over his gleaming forearm. I wonder if he feels the warmth of her touch.

  “I need…” I pause, the words clenched tight in my chest. Spit it out. “I need your help.” It’s like tearing off a bandage, and I’m relieved it’s over.

  Paragon’s lips pull into a mocking smile. I stifle a groan as she revels in my suffering. I go deep into the vestige of that shame, drawing on childhood pains to draw blood to my cheeks. My humility must appear authentic.

  “Help might be available, if the price is right,” Paragon says, sliding her eyes from Saber’s to mine. Her eyes are black pools of infinite depth. They’re not meant for mortal eyes. I want to fall into them and live there forever. As if reading my mind, her lips further spread into a broad smile showing perfect teeth.

  I have to trust someone, and if I expect them to help me, they should know it all. First, I order a whiskey on the rocks. I recount my evening starting with Mohawk. I leave out the part where I cowered in terror from the gangers, stewing in my own excrement. I tell them how Erinas has ordered my execution. I essentially tell them I’m a lamb ripe for slaughter. I say that I’m nearly broke. I add the last part to build trust via the admission of my flaws.

  My admissions are intentional. Strength is revealing that you are powerless. When the powerful reveal weakness, it brings them down to earth and makes them mortal. It makes them easier to trust when you feel as if the tables have turned.

  The two attractive killers before me have likely considered my story a mistake. They also have likely decided that any connection to me could drag them into my grim future. There are dynamics working below the surface. They’ll keep me around, and I’m betting that they’ll help me. I’m wagering they won’t kill me to appease my employer.

  If I acted like nothing was amiss, and the plan was progressing smoothly, they clearly would’ve known that I was a liar. They’re veterans. These two can smell shit from miles away. They would want to know what lever I was pulling and what my true ploy was. They would know I’m trouble and ask me to triple the cost of the job or else I could fuck off. I know the game. I have the experience and know when to play the humility card. I must fully believe I am nothing in this moment for the ruse to work. It must persist in my every cell, or I will fail.

  Paragon and Saber know the game too. That’s why they’re both still alive. By my guess, they’ve been in the Merc business for well over ten years. These two are apex predators who recognize one of their own, even if we walk in different shadows. They can see I’m no ordinary String, a fuck up who will get them killed. We watch each other for a long moment, decision crawling along the razor’s edge.

  Paragon is the first to speak. “You said he had a pink mohawk?” She steeples elegant fingers, the nails painted a jet black with reflective hints of blue.

  “Yeah,” I say quickly, doing my best to mask the euphoria of victory. “Asshole shot at me, chased me into autocar traffic.” I snicker.

  “He had you cornered in your hotel room, and you managed to get out?” Saber asks with a frown. His lips are a chapped and angry red.

  I give a stoic nod and let out a lip blubbering sigh. It makes me seem frazzled. “Mhm.”

  Saber finishes his drink and flags the waitress for another. “Tell me again how you managed to evade all of his shots?” He leans back in his chair and crosses enormous arms. He wants to ask how an asshole like myself skirted a Merc’s scythe, but he’s a professional.

  “Don’t know. Got fucking lucky.” I shrug and wonder at the angle of his questions. Maybe he thinks I’m something more, a Mutant, maybe a Psioninc. I, unfortunately, have no gifts beyond my charm, stunning looks, and wit.

  Paragon and Saber exchange glances. I think they’re communicating via AR, but my hacking skills aren’t that sophisticated and I’m certainly not an AR Specialist.

  There are some highly paid Mercs who can infiltrate these channels. I prefer humans to life behind the screen. AR Specs spend the majority of their time in the virtual world, cut off from human society and living in cloistered apartments. The few I’ve met are slovenly creatures without the dignity to bathe before a meeting. Many perish while in the Virtual, unaware that they’ve been pissing themselves for days and haven’t had a proper shit in weeks. Some waste away to organs and bones, fat and muscle cannibalized in a haze of chems. It’s not an enviable death. The virtual world is an addictive drug best avoided by all but the most iron willed.

  Paragon rises with an indiscernible expression. Her hands are clasped before her groin. “Fine,” she says. I raise an eyebrow in question, but she turns and starts for the stairs.

  Saber groans as he stands, and I think I hear a vertebrae popping over the trance music. He gives his empty glass a wistful glance before meeting my eyes. I force a sigh through my nose.

  Did I just fuck myself?

  Had they seen through it all?

  I open my arms in an unsure gesture. “So?”

  Saber turns and marches after Paragon. “Come,” he throws over his shoulder like I’m his fucking dog. If I had a tail, I would have wagged it as I follow.

  7

  The Hangar

  We take the stairs and slip around the bar. Paragon carves an easy path through the swarming bodies. I follow Saber out the fire exit door. It’s painted the same color as the wall as if it’s intended to never be found in case of a fire. I get it. I would’ve done the same.

  The club owner thinks having a jarring door color would ruin Mint’s aesthetic. If there ever was a fire, club goers would invariably return once they’ve forgotten what transpired. Everyone forgets. Perhaps it could even be a selling point. I envision a sign. ‘Mint – The Most Haunted Club in Chicago.’

  They parked in a lot a few streets over from Mint. We brave the sinus-burning pollution dragged down to the streets by a harsh wind. I steal a glance at Paragon as she passes under a street light, enjoying how her kimono wraps tight against her form. She nods at a parking guard wearing what looks like a trash bag over soiled rags. He nods back and gives an appreciative
wave after receiving a tip via AR.

  They drive a gray sedan with rusted pocks and two missing hubcaps. I nod in approval, seeing how well it blends in with the other shitty cars. Only the very wealthy and very poor drive themselves. I pause before the car as Saber enters the driver’s seat and Paragon the passenger.

  “You want me to ride in back?” I balk in disbelief, but as the words come out, I know there’s no other option.

  “Could put you in the trunk, but it still stinks like blood and shit,” Saber offers, glaring at me through the scratched window. “On second thought, maybe you’d feel at home there?”

  “The back it is,” I concede, bracing myself for further affronts to my well-earned dignity.

  Saber starts the car, which ridiculously backfires before sputtering to life. Paragon slowly turns to regard me with either a sultry or mocking smile.

  I go with sultry and grin back. “What?”

  Her eyes go hard and narrow. “Be a good String and don’t do anything you might regret.” She levels an ancient Beretta 92 at my head. It’s been upgraded with a neural stem port, but she doesn’t use the wire that connects the firearm to her nervous system. “I don’t want to have this car cleaned again, understand?”

  “Mhm. Don’t worry, I’m unarmed.” I give a slight nod. My jaw clenches down any additional words behind a cage of teeth.

  “We know,” Saber chuckles.

  “Ah, right. Cyber eyes,” I say with what I hope sounds jovial. I look at Paragon. “Maybe you could take your finger off the trigger in case we hit a bump? Not sure I trust the suspension on this junk heap.”

  She grins. The hint of a laugh pulses through her nostrils. “No.”

  I see now that all of her flirtation was a mask hiding the killer. Should I have expected anything less? My penis has once again betrayed me. The gears of the logical side of my brain squeal to life. I appreciate her professionalism, and I realize I’ve made a great hire with this crew. It’s my turn to smile.

  “Do you find something amusing, String?” Paragon asks.

  I shake my head while pursing my lips in contemplation. Paragon tilts her head at me, then reaches around her back and tosses something at me. It’s soft and flutters down to my lap. A dark handkerchief shrouds my crotch.

  “Go on, put it on,” she gestures with the Beretta.

  “Sure, but please don’t point that thing at my groin. Maybe you could not point it at me at all?”

  She grunts and holsters the weapon under her kimono. “Don’t be stupid, String,” she says as she swivels around to face the road. I put on the blindfold properly, knowing she’d ensure I didn’t half-ass it.

  A half hour later, I’m instructed by Paragon that I can remove it. I peer through my window to see that we’ve arrived at what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. “Could this be any more cliché?” My breath fogs the glass.

  Saber throws his head back in a bellowing laugh that startles me. “Can’t blame us for using a good structure. The hangar is alright, inner walls are covered in lead paint that’s held up well over the years, blocks the majority of the radiation.”

  I lick my teeth. “So you’re exchanging radiation for heavy metal exposure? Not sure what’s worse. Lead does wonders for the brain.”

  Saber and Paragon spill out of the car, and I follow. The hangar is a looming arc that can easily house a few personal aircrafts. It appears to have a second level whose windows are shattered, leaving a demon’s mouth of glass around the steel frames. I think about telling Saber that radiation can easily pass through those gaps. I don’t. The building’s foundation is made of brick that seems to be turning into dust at the base. I’m suspicious of this structure’s capacity to remain standing. As we draw closer, I see there is maybe six inches of brick dust collected at the base.

  Paragon tracks my eyes. “We’re moving soon. We know it won’t last.” There is a strange warmth in her voice.

  I nod at her. Is this a way to rekindle what I think might’ve been brewing between our long bouts of eye contact? I need to stay focused.

  There is a giant steel door that leads into the hangar’s bay. Saber yanks on a rusted handle and seems to struggle to open it. The door finally yields with a groan and squeals as it slides open. I snicker at how absurd this is.

  “Don’t suppose you two are trying to reenact a 1980’s action film?”

  “No one watches that old shit,” Saber mutters as he strides into the hangar. Bright overhead lights reflect from his arms like tens of suns.

  Paragon pauses before the door and gestures for me to enter before her. “You know, String, you’ve got a big mouth.”

  “I do. It gets me in trouble sometimes, but it also makes life interesting.” I raise my eyebrows at her, and to my surprise, she winks at me and again gestures for me to go in.

  It’s predictably spartan. To the left is a small makeshift room of shoddy wood construction with a mix of bunks topped with bedrolls and sleeping bags. Below the bunks, debris is strewn about the floor. In the center of the room is an antique dining table you might expect to find in a Victorian mansion. It could easily seat twelve. I wonder how it found its way here of all places. The ceiling is studded with a few white LED bulbs that sway in a breeze, suspended by a tangle of wires.

  Our steps echo like thunder from the vast walls. I wrinkle my nose at the stench of mold, or maybe unwashed feet. My ears detect a distant conversation, the words lost in reverberation. Lining the walls are dust covered sheets shrouding misshapen objects.

  The door roars as Paragon closes it. I peer back over my shoulder, eyebrows narrowed in question. Her hands glow with a soft bluish light. I fucking knew it. She’s a Psionic. That explains how she likely came to lead this crew, being one of the more valuable members by the nature of her ability.

  Not all Mutants are grotesque versions of men. Some received only a small dose of radiation after the bombs fell, just enough to fully awaken novel psychic abilities. Psionics greatly vary in strength and their assortment of abilities. Some can teleport, astral project, or read auras while others can only levitate a foot from the ground. There are a few documented cases of pyrokinetics, those with the ability to mentally control fire.

  Psionics are feared by society at large, and most importantly, by the corporations who run it. The Falcon is notorious for locking them away for study in Arctic vaults hundreds of miles below the ice. In there, they believe Psionics are rendered harmless.

  Revealing ones’ Psionic ability is a risk, and this means Paragon trusts me. It’s a mistake. She closes a latch the size of her arms and turns to look directly into my eyes. She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t have to.

  I give her a slow nod. “Thanks. For the help, I mean.” I hope I sound sincere.

  Her eyes drift away from me to Saber, who only shakes his head. “You’re in deep now,” he gruffs.

  “I know.” I sniff. It must be the mold triggering my allergies. And here I was thinking the Boston Hilton was a shit hole. The line between employee and employer has been irrevocably crossed. I’m seeing a world not meant for the eyes of Strings. We like things pretty, tidied up, and lined in Spectrals.

  My eyes adjust to the light and see ten or more crates uncovered. They contain grenades, explosives I can’t name, and endless boxes of rounds. Naturally, there are sub-machine guns, assault rifles, and pistols. I think there might be a crate containing nothing but parts for gun modifications. In another crate are portable rocket launchers with dozens of rockets. I think a few might be nuclear, given the yellow symbol spray painted via stencil on one side.

  I’m not supposed to be here. I suddenly feel like a trapped animal. For a few seconds, my legs refuse to respond. My head feels like it’s been disconnected from my neck and is now floating and filled with helium. When had I last eaten? I slowly lower myself to the floor and lean my back against a crate. Strange shapes jab me in the ribs. Rifle stocks and maybe a barrel.

  “Is he dying?” Saber asks. I hear th
e hiss of a beer can cracking open. I blink at him as he sips.

  “No,” I mutter. “Just give me a minute. Haven’t eaten for a day, I think.” Heat rakes up my neck and cheeks.

  “Hey. You okay?” Paragon bends over in front of me, peering into my face with her hands on her knees. Don’t look at her tits. My eyes invariably go to her tits. “He’s fine.” She grins, grabs me by the elbow, and drags me up with a strength I wouldn’t have believed she possessed a minute ago. I stumble to my feet while mumbling my thanks.

  “We have a guest!” Saber announces then takes another slurp of beer.

  “Who’s this guy? That a fucking String? Please don’t tell me you two brought a String here.” It’s a new voice, feminine yet masculine in its authority. I gaze around the hangar to identify the source. My body language is transparent and uncontrolled. They can see I’m nervous, an easy target.

  Fuck. The last place any String should be is in the den of his employees. I don’t want to be here. They don’t want me here. This is their private enterprise. I realize then that I’ve enjoyed my life. I don’t want to die here.

  Everything was so simple before. I had the Spectrals and would pay the crew to do the job. They’d invariably return to me, complaining that the work was more complicated than they’d anticipated, and demand a larger payment. Sometimes, they whined about how one of their friends died. Maybe someone got shot or received a debilitating wound that would take months to heal. Mercs often returned to me with a flair for vengeance, threatening my life. A nice lump of Spectrals could temper even the most savage rage. I always obliged after some token negotiating and the Mercs would go away feeling like it was a win-win deal.