STELLAR DATE: 08.26.2981 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: The Span Club
REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony
Ngoba Starl’s smile shone in the flashing lights, making him easily recognizable as Andy and Karcher approached. He was sitting at a wide table with more people in black suits on either side of him, multi-colored pocket squares reflecting the garish light display. This was the Brutal Dandy with his court, everyone at the table looking nearly as smooth as him. Starl’s laugh rose above the music during a pause, round and full of self-satisfaction.
“Captain Sykes!” he called, holding out a hand to offer a place at the table. “How are you? Welcome to Span Club. Have a seat. You hungry?” He looked up and down the table before shouting, “Someone get my friend a drink!”
The club was packed. Strobing light flashed off people’s faces and bodies, making everything resemble a stop-motion video or a broken long-distance communication. It must have been Body Mod Night, since most of the people on the floor had at least one modification, from alloy arms and legs to glowing artificial eyes. Many were tattooed with writhing live images. One woman dancing near the table was covered in multi-colored, glowing cilia that waved as if she was underwater. She looked soft and inviting as she danced with her arms outstretched, eyes glimmering turquoise, and Andy wondered if she absorbed prey like a sea anemone.
A man in a hanging cage had thin, carbon fiber butterfly wings extending through the bars, flapping languidly to his own rhythm as he watched the dancers below. The air was so crowded with pheromone enhancements that Andy’s nose burned.
The music throbbed all around them, making it even more difficult to follow what was being said at the table. Starl kept smiling and nodding, holding eye contact with each face down the line as if he wanted to share a moment with everyone at the table. When he caught Andy’s gaze, no words came across the Link, only a satisfied smile alongside the raised whiskey tumbler. Andy lifted his untouched drink in response.
Being in this chaotic place made Andy miss the kids all the more. He wished he was back in the apartment, comforted by the sound of his children sleeping, not this raucous din.
“To Cruithne!” Starl shouted, his voice a murmur above the music. “And her complicated relationship with Earth!”
People raised exotic drinks and laughed.
Andy tried to push off the slim tube of liquor placed in front of him by the green-eyed woman beside him, but she wouldn’t allow it.
Karcher sat on the other end of the table, making it impossible to get any more information about Zanda. Andy didn’t know how to spot the other gangster beyond the sound of his gravelly voice, and that had only been over the Link.
The blue-eyed woman with long black hair next to him nudged his arm. “You going to drink that or what?” she asked.
Andy could barely hear her over the throbbing music. “I’m good. Thanks.”
She tapped her temple with a long index finger, asking why he didn’t communicate via Link. Andy didn’t want to be rude and say it was because he didn’t know her, but that was the truth. He was feeling vulnerable and out of sorts in the new suit, and after so long out in the dark with just the kids and the sound of the Sunny Skies’ reactor he felt like the club was going to blow out his ears.
Andy worried that, despite Karcher’s assurances, someone would take him for a member of the Lowspin Crew. He also hadn’t expected the strange emotions wearing something that felt like a uniform would raise in him. He wasn’t TSF anymore—he wasn’t anything. A strong desire swept over him to slip out to the restrooms and put his beat-up overalls back on or, better yet, get back to the kids.
Two men walked up to the table and nodded to Starl, one thin with stringy black hair, the other looking like a corn-fed soldier on leave. Both wore suits and stood out as non-mods among the dancers—at least not modded in obvious ways. Ngoba Starl’s smile never wavered, making him look like a king in his court. They appeared to be talking via Link.
Andy leaned toward the woman and mouthed, “Who is that?”
She shook her head with a raised eyebrow, curving her full lips in a smile, and tapped her temple again. Andy rolled his eyes and sent her the connection request.
Andy nodded, watching their carefully relaxed body language as the three men talked. Zanda looked like a rough version of Starl, while Kraft clasped his hands against his belt buckle and did a good job of checking everything around him while still nodding to the Brutal Dandy.
Andy slid his gaze from Kraft to Petral, who had leaned in a little closer. She smelled spicy. Andy’s mind went blank.
She held his gaze for a second, obviously disappointed in the question, then shrugged.
Andy frowned, thinking at first that she was criticizing his parenting, then realizing the questions was meant to get a rise out of him. He gave her a tight smile.
Her gaze slid across the room in front of them, moving as evenly as a scanner. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something else. When he didn’t add anything, Petral said in the half-sarcastic tone:
Petral’s green eyes dipped to his chest and came back to his face.
Trying to keep his attention on the body language between Zanda and Starl, Andy nodded absently. Cal from Heartbridge stood impassively, hands crossed in front of him, but something about his demeanor made it obvious to Andy that everything in the man’s being was focused on Starl. He looked as implacable as a boulder.
After spending so many months in space with the kids, not having to deal with other people’s voices in his head, Petral’s soft purr traced its way down his spine like a trailing finger. He glanced at her and realized she’d slid closer.
Andy tried to keep his attention on the two crime bosses. As Zanda continued to communicate with Starl, Cal Kraft turned his attention to the other people sitting at the long table. When his gaze met Andy’s, his slate-blue eyes seemed to freeze. There was recognition in his expression that Andy hadn’t expected, as if the man had been looking for him.
Another pause in the music was filled by deeply vibrating bass sounds, providing a foundation of staccato bursts that reminded Andy of weapons fire. The music shifted but the cracking sounds didn’t change. Someone was firing three-round bursts in rapid succession.
As soon as he said the words, people started running in every direction to get away from the dance floor. Several tripped and fell, causing others to trip over them. The anemone woman sprawled on the floor, screaming.
A series of flashes on the landing near the main door revealed
a tight group of attackers in light EV suits, faceplates hiding their features. They fanned out as Andy watched, taking aim with automatic rifles on the crowd below.
Andy turned in time to catch the flash of a pistol spinning through the air in his direction. He caught it, recognizing the weapon Karcher had used back in the shopping district. He checked the action and sights. It wouldn’t do much damage across the room, but up close it might penetrate armor.
Andy wanted to spit out that problems didn’t work that way. Instead he saw shots hit the table and dove to the side, narrowly avoiding a short burst of fire that had been aimed at his center mass. The rounds tore jagged holes in the back of the chair and table where he had been sitting.
Petral kicked the table over and pulled up her dress to reveal her thigh splitting apart. She pulled a long-bodied pistol from the inside of her leg, planted her feet and raised the weapon, forearms absorbing recoil as she fired a steady flow of rounds.
Andy moved behind the table and squinted through the flying debris and leftover smoke from the dance floor mist machines. Most of the attackers had moved down the wide stair while two remained on the landing laying covering fire.
As the dancers ran screaming, the attackers shifted their targets from the dance floor to the booths against the walls where other patrons were huddling behind overturned tables, many returning fire with a surprising amount of heavy weaponry.
Zanda and Cal Kraft were crouched beside Starl, whose slicked curls still looked impeccable though his face was clenched in concentration as he aimed and fired.
Petral laughed.
The black-haired woman squeezed off another shot and nodded toward a doorway to Andy’s right, slightly hidden behind a tall curtain. There wasn’t much for cover between their disappearing table and the door.
Beside Andy, Petral had a hand inside the front of her dress, digging around as if adjusting her bra. She pulled out a small black sphere and tapped it three times with her thumb before lobbing it over the table toward the stairs.
Andy counted to three, tensing. He was sprinting when the explosion filled the club with a roaring concussion. Even holding his hands over his ears, his head still rang like a bell. Slipping on broken tiles and bits of smashed table, he maintained his momentum without tripping over the wall curtain beside the steel exit.
When Andy hit the door, Petral immediately pressed up against his back, using him to stop herself. Her pistol nearly raked the side of his head while her breath was hot in his ear.
Starl’s black suit was on fire as he came to a stop inside the corridor. He glanced down at himself and patted the flames out, then pulled the fabric taught and sucked his teeth.
Karcher pulled the door closed behind them and stabbed its control panel with his index finger. The panel flashed red and the ka-chunk of locking bolts vibrated through the floor.
Starl didn’t bother to look back as he strutted down the hallway.
Petral nodded in agreement as Andy shook his head.
Andy didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. He was frustrated that a gangster like Starl could see his core so easily. The incongruity that the TSF had left him with nothing, while a criminal offered him everything wasn’t lost on him. However, it didn’t lessen the feeling that he’d finally escaped Rabbit Country only to find himself in the Wolf’s Den.
Chapter Eighteen
STELLAR DATE: 08.26.2981 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Lowspin Docks
REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony
After a long series of corridors and a trip in a private maglev car that seemed to be taking them away from the repair docks and the Sunny Skies, Karcher opened a set of heavy doors to the command deck where Andy had stood earlier with Fran. He was surprised to see that it had been an hour since their escape from the club. Now that the adrenaline from the firefight had drained out of him, he could barely keep his head up. At one point in the maglev, he’d woken up drooling on Petral’s shoulder.
“You’re cute when you’re dead tired,” she’d said.
“Where’s Hari Jickson?” Starl was shouting as he strode onto the command deck. “Get me that so-called brain scientist. We need to make this happen.”
The Link was silent. Finally, Fran answered,
Starl turned to Andy.
Starl pursed his lips.
From another doorway, Jickson walked slowly into the room. His clothes were disheveled and his hair looked like he’d been electrified.
The doctor looked around as if he was in a dream. “Why are you all here?” he asked aloud. “What’s going on?”
“Doctor!” Starl yelled aloud. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s time to move ahead with the plan.” He crossed the room to Jickson, who continued to look confused, and clapped him on the shoulders. “Everything you’ve worked for is about to take a great step forward. It’s time to wake her up.”
“Wake her up?” Jickson said. He sounded drunk or medicated.
“Wake her up,” Starl said. “It’s time for the surgery.”
“Why? We still have days. I need time to prepare. This is all very fast.”
“This is what you wanted, yes?” Starl said sternly. “When you came to me, you said this was what you need to have happen.” He spread his hands. “It’s happening.”
Jickson stared at him, not seeming to understand. Then he gave a small nod. His gaze flicked to Andy. “You’re ready?” he asked.
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