The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

  Thirty-two steps across the street.

  A prostitute clicks past, relaxed, unafraid. Business opening for the night.

  Early on, prostitutes offered warmth, comfort, food. The enticement of safety. But kindness came at the price of short skirts and high heels, makeup and long nights.

  Ninety-one steps and the prostitute disappears. Another twenty-two steps and the tap of spiked metal against concrete fades.

  She creeps forward, close to the ground to stay small, invisible. Dirt covers the white skin of her arms and face, rubbed in to make her a smudge among the shadows.

  Quiet rumbles fill the night, vibrations in the street that buzz through feet and into bones.

  A quick glance to the right shows a street sweeper. It chugs around the corner, large and square. Metal brushes stretch from between its wheels, grasping arms pulling loose debris into its waiting maw. Smoke belches out among gurgles and crunches as it sorts trash into combustibles or compost.

  It's a block away, but moving fast.

  A man steps out of an apartment complex, two doors down from the trash can. Night goggles rest on his head, his steps hurried. He's not paying attention, distracted by a note in his hand.

  Sometimes, risks are necessary.

  She darts across the street, bent low to the ground, eyes on the ball of foil. Her fingers grasp the pointed edges as a metal brush swings forward. Wire bristles scrape against the wrapper.

  "Hey, watch out!" An angry hand grabs her shirt collar and yanks her out of the street sweeper's path. She falls on the ground, staring wide-eyed at the man. “Stupid street rat!"

  He snatches his note off the sidewalk, folds it and stuffs it into his pocket. "You're lucky the sweeper didn't get that, or I'd be taking it out of your hide!"

  His foot lashes out, striking her in the side. She twists into a ball, curling around her shining prize.

  The man stomps away, and she limps back to the ally, to her hole, to safety.

  Above the trash bins, a crack forms where two buildings lean together. The aluminum lids groan as she climbs up. Bricks pull at her clothing as she wedges inside.

  The foil crinkles and pokes at her fingers as she unravels the ball. The scent of mustard and beans perfumes the air.

  She feels inside, a careful search. Wetness covers her fingers, but no solid food.

  The holo-sky flickers and goes dark as she licks the wrapper clean.

  It's been a good day.

  Lights-Out

  The Out of Luck Blue Guard

  Time: 0337

  Loser. Loser. Loser.

  The pointed folds of the maintenance log tattoo the word into his side with every step. A sharp prod of pain like the little jabs his girlfriend takes at his pride.

  The last time he’d seen her, they’d fought again about moving up a Level in the city. She was getting worried she’d hitched herself to a losing ride and had his salary alerts to prove it. She’d been in his accounts again. All part of the sharing thing she was always talking about. But he was the only one who shared.

  Finding the maintenance log at the end of his shift was fate. Street Sweeper Seventeen showed multiple errors and was flagged for recall. The memory of his girlfriend's voice goaded him to swipe the report before the repairman saw it. Barely taking the time to change out of his uniform, he'd hurried to the Sweeper Battles and bet two weeks salary on a guarantee that unit seventeen would malfunction.

  Dread bubbled like acid in his gut as the sweeper pulled through each round without a single error.

  Now he needs credits he doesn’t have, or something sharper than a maintenance log will stab him in the side.

  He needs to get out of the warehouse before the debt collector comes looking for his payment. Bouncers posted at the main door ensure everyone exiting has their bets settled.

  Dodging through the crowd, he tries not to look desperate.

  A pillar offers brief respite as he furtively rubs at the stamp on his hand. His skin reddens, but the gold negative symbol still glows in place, unaffected by the chafing. Only the debt collect's magic dissolvent can remove the mark of his debt.

  He scurries to the back wall, searching for another exit, one without a guard. A small ventilation window flashes high in the wall. He'll be in plain sight if he tries to squeeze through it.

  A quick glance around. No one looks in his direction.

  He creeps under the opening, scoots a hand up, and pushes at the window frame.

  It doesn't move.

  Across the room, a blonde head moves through the throng of people, swiveling back and forth, hunting. The debt collector scans the crowd for stragglers, a serpentine path towards the back of the building.

  Frantic, he slams his hand against the window frame. The seal, created by years of paint buildup, breaks apart. With a blast of cold air, it shrieks open, the noise deafening in his ears.

  But a panicked look back confirms no one noticed. The crowd’s own noise masks his escape.

  The frozen sill chills his hands as he hoists his body through the hole.

  A soft heap of garbage cushions the fall. The light from the warehouse illuminates the alley for a few feet, then darkness. The streetlights won't come back on for another hour. The world shifts to shades of green as he slides the night goggles into place.

  Trash shifts and tumbles as he clambers out. He checks for the knife in his pocket, the hard handle against his palm bringing a rush of comfort.

  Hunching his shoulders, he hurries past the few people who prowl the streets. Their goggles shine like stars as they glance his way. He listens for footsteps that slow, change direction, match his stride.

  Like a beacon, the single light at his apartment complex shines a path to safety. He makes it inside unscathed.

  Running up the stairs to his unit on the thirteenth floor, he shoves his key into the lock and hurries inside. His feet slip and he catches himself against the wall. Something hard crunches beneath his shoes.

  "You here, babe?" He takes off his goggles and flips on the light.

  Ripped couch cushions spill rice filling across the floor. Open kitchen cabinets reveal bare shelves, and naked hooks display blank spaces where pictures once hung.

  "Babe?" He shuffles through the mess, hand on the wall for support. Devoid of sheets, a stained and empty mattress rests abandoned in the sleeping nook.

  "No. No, no, no."

  He hurries to the closet, falls to his knees, and rips at the baseboard in back. It comes away with ease.

  An empty hole mocks him where his secret credit sticks should be.

  He leans back on his heels and gazes over his home. She's taken everything of value. Even his clothes. Only his uniforms remain, skewed on the hanger as if she thought about it and changed her mind.

  He turns off his light and puts his goggles back on. Through a small window above the bed, the distant shapes of prostitutes go about their business. They'll be finishing up work soon, loaded down with credits. A good one makes more in one night than he does in a month.

  He pulls on his Blue Guard uniform, buffing his badge until it shines.

  Getting the credits will be easy.

  No one questions Peace Keepers.

  Quarter-Light

  The Misled Prostitute

  Time: 0435

  Her feet hurt, among other parts of her body she no longer likes to think about. Early on, she learned to compartmentalize. When the streetlights dim, she has hands, arms, legs, and feet. Sometimes she has a face. But other areas, they aren't part of her anymore.

  They're for work.

  At Half-Light, she’ll meet up with her handler, gives him his money, then goes home to wash. She becomes a whole person when she’s clean and the streetlights are back to the Day-Light cycle.

  Now, though, they’re dim, the credit-band on her wrist full.

  "Morning, ma’am.”

  "Morning, Blue Guard." She smiles at the guard, because today she has a face to smile with. But it takes a m
oment to understand why she can't move past him.

  His arm stretches between them, ending at a hand that grips a part of her she doesn't want to acknowledge yet. Not while the lights are dim.

  “Shop’s closed for the night, sir.” The smile stays in place, painted red to highlight the whiteness of her teeth. A good smile is good customer service.

  “This will only take a minute.” His hand moves to her arm, grips above the elbow, fingers pressing hard white stripes into her flesh.

  Insistent, he yanks on her arm. She stumbles to follow in heels designed for a more casual pace.

  The dark alley hosts a low dumpster and a discarded rug that lays rolled against the wall, conveniently missed by the street sweepers. A white smear glistens on the ground next to it. Her second visit to this alley today.

  They stop before reaching the rug and she hopes he wants to use her hands. The hard ground disagrees with her soft knees. Blue Guard shoves her against the wall and turns to look back at the street. He frowns, adjusts his cuffs, and rubs a hand over his mouth.

  When he turns back, meanness lurks in his eyes. Hard and narrow like the customers who like to hit and leave marks.

  “I’m gonna need that credit-band.” He whispers like telling secrets, easy to misunderstand.

  “What kinda joke you playing, Blue Guard?” She laughs, because laughing makes the situation less real.

  “I’m not playing.” He reaches for the silver credit-band on her wrist. A gold negative symbol glows from the back of his hand, throwing light on his desperate face.

  It’s bright, bright like a beacon calling its master home.

  “My credits aren’t gonna fix that debt for you!” She slaps at him, fingers clawed like hooks to scrape at his eyes. The ground wobbles under her heels, unstable.

  He shoves her, the building an indifferent force as her body slams against it. Her head thunks like a bag of rice hitting the wall. Thoughts scatter, little grains of reason littering the alley.

  Nails scrape bloody tunnels into her skin. Her whole body shakes as he pulls on her arm. Kicking at him, she misses and loses her balance as her shoe bounces further down the alley, past the dumpster.

  “No!” she screams as her head hits cement again and sparklers appear in her vision. Little stars that remind her it’s quiet time. “No!” she shouts, defiant, pushing at the body boxing her in. “I'll get cut on if I come back empty-handed!”

  “Let go, bitch!” Another shove. Her knees shake and buckle beneath her.

  Why can’t she stand?

  She strains her eyes to see through the dancing lights. Grains of thought slip and slide out of place. Blinking, she focuses on the psy-gun in his hand, and the small orange light that indicates a nonlethal shot. The bastard stunned her. With his bad aim, she only loses function in her legs.

  It could have been worse.

  Her body jerks and he drags her a few feet by the credit-band, trying to pull it free.

  A gurgling, strangled laugh seeps from her at the humorless situation.

  Only her handler has a key; good product protection.

  Dropping her arm, he glares down at her. The glow from his debtor’s mark sets the whole alley on fire with its light.

  Her body lays sprawled in front of the rug, where she thought their encounter would begin.

  That, too, is funny.

  “Shut up!” He pulls back his foot and slams it forward, into her stomach. The laugh coughs out of her throat on a burst of air. He stomps down on her hand, a horrible crunch beneath his heel.

  White pain rushes from beneath his boot, fire and ice flooding her senses. Her mouth contorts, a gaping howl without release. She can’t even scream. Screams need air, and there’s none of that in her lungs.

  He bends down, shakes the pulped lump, and the silver band slides into his hand.

  “It didn’t have to go this way,” he mutters under his breath.

  There’s no other way it could have gone.

  She opens the compartment in her mind, makes a place for her hand. Broken products are not a part of her. She slams the lid and the pain cuts off.

  The concrete feels like fine-grit sandpaper beneath her bare skin as she rolls around until she can prop herself up on the rug. A soft place to watch the streetlights from. They brighten into Half-Light, but appear dull compared to the golden glow surrounding the Blue Guard as he runs from the alley.

  She can breathe again, and she uses her breath to laugh.

  Full-bodied, gut-shaking laughs.

  Half-Light

  The Hungry Girl

  Time: 0630

  Usually, the sight of a blue uniform sends her in the opposite direction. She wears large clothing with sleeves that hang past her fingertips. Since Blue Guards on Ground Zero rarely stop people to check for dat-bands, she should be safe.

  But the chance always exists, and risks should be avoided.

  So Blue Guards should be avoided.

  This morning, though, the brightening streetlights glint off a silver band as it peeks from the Blue Guard's back pocket. It gets her thinking, entices her to follow instead of flee.

  If it’s a credit-band, she can trade it for food. Unsatisfied with the wrapper remnants, hunger forms a tight fist against her spine. If it’s a dat-band, though, she can use it to get a job, buy her own food, and become a person again.

  The temptation outweighs reason.

  Before she loses her nerve, she hurries her steps at a diagonal path to the guard's, sliding past him. Her fingertips brush against slick material and she passes into the alley beyond.

  She keeps the same pace for a few steps, then backtracks to glance around the corner. The guard continues on his way, oblivious, with hands stuffed deep into coat pockets. Squeezing the band now in her hand, she tamps down on the fizzing bubbles of excitement.

  Her heart pounds in her chest and she forces herself into motion. The alley exits onto the next street over and she lets the early morning crowd drag her along for a while.

  The band burns in her palm, demanding attention. It distracts her enough that she almost misses the boy who slides between two men on her right, or the other boy, two pedestrians ahead.

  Her heart lurches, the excited pound teetering into a panicked sprint. Every instinct tells her to turn around, locate the threats. The panic rises; she fights it. If those two are close enough to spot, then she must be surrounded. Gangs like to corner their prey before an attack.

  Gangs, another thing to avoid.

  She keeps her pace casual, breath level, trying not to alert them that she sees them.

  Ahead, an alley forms a shadow between two buildings.

  She tries to remember, is it a dead end, or can it be used to escape? She can't remember, her mental map refusing to line up with her surroundings. The cement jungle of Ground Zero makes orientation difficult and she allowed herself to become lost in thoughts of a future that might not last the morning.

  A familiar billboard advertises the smiley face of the GoGoNow Energy Drink’s mascot. The corner, tagged with a red trident, nudges the mental map into place.

  The alley leads to a dead end.

  To her right, the boy edges closer.

  She stumbles into the person in front of her, clutches at a soft gray sweatshirt. The man turns on her, scowling and suspicious as he checks his pockets.

  “I’m so sorry!” She hunches her shoulders and bends her knees. The smaller she can make herself to him, the better. A quivering lip and wide eyes compound the image of innocence.

  “Yeah, watch where you’re going, kid.” The frown on his face melts. He might be gruff, but he has a soft spot for kids.

  They form a break in the crowd, the masses surging around them. The boys back off to bide their time.

  She clutches the man’s shirt tighter and stops him from leaving.

  “Do you know where SuppleMart is? Mom and me were on our way there, but I got separated.” She digs her nails deep into her palm until tears mist her e
yes.

  The man glances over her outfit, notes the dirt on her skin. His brow furrows, but he could use a bath himself.

  “Sure, kid, you’re almost there.” He pats her hand and pulls her alongside himself. “I’ll take you. It’s on my way.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Skipping next to him, she watches the boys from the corner of her eye.

  They still follow, but at a distance.

  “Mama says be careful of strangers, but you’re super nice!” She beams up at him, thankful slow development and malnourishment help her appear younger.

  “You should listen to your mama.” His expression turns soft and mushy. “You be careful of strangers. Not everyone’s nice down here.”

  She pats his arm for his sweetness.

  The boy on the right gets pulled ahead by the crowd.

  “Oh, there’s my mama now!” She points at an angle and gives the man another pat. “Thank you so much, sir!”

  The man squints around, confused as she leaves him and dashes across the street, around the vibrant orange and green glows of disc bikes. Eighteen sprinting steps and her feet slam onto the hard surface of the sidewalk. She merges with the crowd heading in the opposite direction.

  She stays with the pedestrians for fifty-five slow shuffles that blend with her neighbors. Another alley comes into view.

  This one opens to the next street over. She ducks into it, thankful her height keeps her below head level of most of the foot traffic. Her movements will be hard to track.

  A dumpster halfway down offers a potential place to hide.

  She runs toward it and stumbles over a high-heeled shoe. Momentum propels her forward and she flings out her arms to protect her face.

  The cement sandpapers skin off in layers before she slides to a stop. The silver band bounces from her numb fingers, skittering past the dumpster, and comes to rest against a fishnet-covered leg.

  Stunned, she lays there for a moment and stares. The leg doesn’t move, and that makes it more terrifying.

  Ignoring the burn in her arms, she crawls forward.