Severance

by Chris Bucholz

  Until now. Stretching out, Stein rolled over on the floor of the safe house, careful to keep her cloak over her as she repositioned her cramped limbs. “You’re sure these things will work?” she asked the shimmering lump beside her.

  “Try it and see,” the lump responded with Bruce’s voice.

  Stein pulled out her terminal and instructed it to scan in the infrared, panning it back and forth over Bruce, hidden beneath his own shimmering infrared cloak. A bright spot appeared on the screen, glowing orange–red. “I can see your leg.”

  “Oops.” The cloak shifted. “How about now?”

  “Now, I can see the top of your head. Your cloak a bit small, champ?”

  “Was that a fat joke?”

  Stein laughed.

  And so they waited, waiting to be hunted down, waiting to be declared innocent, waiting for the universe to decide what to do with them. While Bruce busied himself with the pistol and stun grenades he had dug out of the weapons cache, Stein sat and fumed.

  She had already sent a message to Sergei from a false identity using Bruce’s rigged terminal. He hadn’t responded. She wasn’t surprised by that. Even if he didn’t think she was a bomb–throwing anarchist, there was little chance he would be seen talking publicly with her now. For a few seconds, she entertained the idea that he had known about the plot the whole time. She dismissed that idea quickly; Sergei had trusting, kind–of–dumb eyes. If he had any secrets, they weren’t that big.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bruce asked.

  “I’m never thinking what you’re thinking, buddy. Woe be the day that it happens.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you then since you didn’t ask. I’m thinking maybe we should do something. About this, I mean. The…the everything.” Stein peeked under the edge of her cloak, seeing Bruce’s eyes peering back beneath the hem of his. “We should do something about everything.”

  “Assuming we’re right about the…everything,” she said. “I don’t even know what to call it.”

  “Split Plot.”

  “I’m not calling it that.”

  “Yeah, you will. And we are right. They are doing it.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “They are.” She thought about it for a moment and added, “You think they’ll try again?”

  “You think they won’t?” Bruce asked.

  She sighed. “I guess if it was worth trying once, it’s probably worth trying twice.”

  “Okay, then,” Bruce said, satisfied. “So, they’ll try again. Which brings me to my original question: Do we want to try and do something about it?”

  “Not much we can do under these cloaks.”

  “Lots we can do under here.” Bruce punctuated the thought with a fart.

  “How do you do that on command?”

  “Does it show up through the cloak?”

  “Gross.”

  Bruce waved his cloak around for a bit, clearing the air. “I mean, let’s be realistic,” he said. “Doing something about it is unlikely to be very tidy. Or conducive to living. At least knowing the methods we prefer.”

  “The methods you prefer. And what, are you trying to talk me out of something? Because I’m not proposing doing something about this.”

  “Neither am I. I’m just trying to fill time with a rhetorical dialog.”

  “Rhetorical dialog? Where do you come up with this shit?” she asked.

  “My brain,” Bruce said. After a few moments, he continued, “So, let’s look at the flip side. Do we want to do nothing about the Split Plot?” Another pause, then, “You know what type of question that was?” She groaned. “Maybe when I answer it myself you’ll figure it out.” Underneath her cloak she made a rude gesture at him. “I mean, is it so bad that we end up on half a spaceship, flying uncontrollably through space?” he continued.

  “That’s assuming we could even survive on half a spaceship.”

  “Why not? We’ve got a reactor. Fuel. Scrubbers. Recyclers. Plenty of sexy dames and virile studs. We could keep going for centuries.”

  Stein had come to the same conclusion, but still didn’t want to admit it. “I’ll think of some reason it won’t work.”

  “There’s that can’t do spirit I love.”

  She smiled under her cloak. “Okay, how’s this: we wouldn’t be able to stop at that planet. You know? The big one we’ve been going to this whole time?”

  She could hear Bruce exhale and roll over. “Do we even want to stop at Tau Prius? We don’t exactly live bad lives here. You seem pretty happy.”

  Stein shook her head. “Oh, I’m happy as hell. Living and breathing in a crappy cramped ship. Every god damned surface with a hundred layers of human filth on it. It’s lovely.”

  “I guess when you put it that way.”

  “You don’t want to land?”

  Bruce looked away. “No. I do. I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I mean, it’s not so bad living here. We’d die old and happy.”

  “Our descendents would freeze to death.”

  “They’d be cool with that.”

  Stein laughed despite herself.

  She could practically hear Bruce grinning. “Okay,” he finally said. “So, we’ll stop them, then. Fuck the bad guys, whoever they are.”

  Stein laughed. “Yeah. We’ll just punch our way through a massive, deadly conspiracy.”

  “Let’s do it. Let’s kick this ship’s ass to save its ass.”

  Stein smiled, enjoying their brave talk. But she could tell that Bruce was treading dangerously close to convincing himself to do something stupid. Madness, knowing what they were up against, Captain Helot — the announcement of her ‘terrorist attack’ confirmed he was behind this — and presumably the entire naval and security departments. And her goddamned boss, that little wiener Curts. So, just the major pillars of power on the ship. And that little wiener Curts. She shook her head, knowing she would have to talk Bruce out of this before too long.

  She was spared the need to pull her friend back from the abyss by the quiet beeping noise of one of their proximity sensors. Two right hands moved to two pistols, both she and Bruce fumbling with their weapons and terminals, checking to see who was coming.

  §

  “I got a hit,” Croutl said over the commlink. “A machine shop at…4825 Slate.”

  “What’s the IR say?” Hogg called back.

  “One person, I think. It’s weak though. I think he’s pretty far back in there.”

  “Or she. Okay. Set up across the street. Cover the front door.” He looked at the map on the terminal. “Linze, take your team to the entrance in the hall around back.” Linze acknowledged his order, while Hogg signaled his own unit to follow.

  Only one of them. He wasn’t sure whether Stein and Redenbach would split up or not. Maybe. But it was also just as likely they were dealing with another Fauxmless.

  Hogg led his team down the block, setting up a short distance away from where the machine shop was. Croutl, Petronus, and Deek had taken up position behind two packing crates across the street. He approached the main door, a double–wide, checking his own IR sensor. There. A strange figure in the back of the warehouse, prone. It was human, but something was obstructing part of it. Only a pair of legs was clearly visible. Just as he was about to shut his IR off, he spotted something else, a patch of blue, unnaturally darker than everything else. It was hard to make out, backgrounded by another wall, almost as cool. But it was definitely there. The patch seemed to shift and shimmer as he looked at it.

  “I count one man in there, with a possible camouflaged second,” he whispered into the radio. “Okay. Full breach, everyone. Linze, take position.” He gestured his team members to positions on either side of the entry door. “Croutl, keep your team outside to cover us. Linze, ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Five, four, three, two, one, now.”

  Hogg tapped the access pad with his ungloved hand. Recognizing him as a security officer, the door
slid open.

  §

  “Security!” someone shouted. “Security! Put your hands up!”

  Behind her, gunfire, Bruce shooting wildly. That was the plan — he would cover one door, she would cover the other. But she couldn’t move, all muscles locked in place out of terror. Security officers streamed in the door she was supposed to be covering, shooting, stun shots sailing over her head in the direction of Bruce. A bright flash of light and a thud behind her. The officers in front of her ducked, blinded, having missed the brunt of what she guessed was a stun grenade. They were less fortunate when the second grenade exploded on her left, scattering them like leaves.

  “Come on, Stein! Back way’s clear!” Bruce yelled from somewhere behind her. But she was still stuck, arms and legs refusing to respond, bound tight by fear. More officers streamed in the door in front of her, a vicious volume of fire erupting from their guns. They still hadn’t seen her, or hadn’t cared, too busy fighting her brave and useful friend.

  Finally, one of the officers saw her, a look of recognition splashed across his face. He raised his pistol.

  A bright flash of light and then darkness.

  §

  Outside the back of the hideout, Bruce stopped, gun pointed at the door he had just exited from. A security goon appeared in the door, Bruce pegging him neatly in the face with a stun shot, blood spurting from the goon’s nose. Bruce backpedaled, gun still trained on the door. Another flicker of movement, Bruce scaring it back inside with two more stun shots that thudded into the door frame. He reached the corner of the street and sidestepped, taking cover behind the edge of a building.

  “Dammit, Stein!” he hissed, though he was more angry with himself than her. He should have known she would freeze, should have come up with another plan. At minimum, he should have gone down fighting with her. But there had been no time for thinking, barely time for manic reactions. Just shooting and ducking and hurling grenades like a monkey.

  Footsteps. Bruce steadied himself, waiting. A security officer appeared around the corner in front of him, Bruce firing a shot in his chest. As the officer fell to the ground, Bruce fired another pair of shots into his groin. That felt good. More footsteps. “Crap!” Bruce said, steadying himself.

  By the third iteration of rounding a corner only to be dropped by a shot to the face or groin, the security officers had learned their lesson, and he heard no more advancing footsteps. But he knew they would be circling around him or calling for support. Still too many of them left, too many to charge, too many to fight off and rescue Stein. He wished he had some Brash with him, wished he wasn’t so useless. Bruce turned and ran, hating himself more with every step he took.

  §

  The officers sprawled across the briefing room, making a mockery of the furniture’s ergonomic design. The tables and floors were littered with helmets, pistols, intimidation knives, thumping sticks. The men looked tired and angry, Helot thought, realizing with a start that at least some of that anger may have been directed at him.

  Thorias stood at the head of the room, not sprawled in the slightest. Helot had invited himself along with Thorias, curious to see the ship’s security forces up close. As they had traveled to the briefing room on one of the upper–levels of the security base, he had been surprised at how empty it was. Considering the amount of activity that must be going on, he had assumed the place would be swarming with security men. Which meant that hundreds of security officers were elsewhere. Helot realized that his security chief had been furtively moving his officers about, setting up the lines and arrows on his map without telling him. He wasn’t going to dress the chief down in front of his men, but this was something he would have to keep an eye on.

  Sergeant Koller entered the room and sprawled amongst the rest of the officers, his position towards the front of the room the only sign of his seniority. He directed a long, disdainful look at Helot before turning his attention to Thorias.

  “Well?” Thorias finally asked.

  Koller shook his head. “Nothing.” Koller and his team were the ones Thorias had sent out mayor–hunting. Unsuccessfully, it seemed.

  “Care to expand on that?” Thorias asked.

  “It was empty,” Koller said. They had found footage of Kinsella entering his home shortly after the failed attempt to split the ship. “He had a hidden back door in his bedroom. The hooker door, I guess. Staircase there, went all the way down to level two. No footage of him coming out, but he could have been in disguise. He had a ton of wigs in that bedroom. Like, a ton.” Koller extended his arms to indicate how many wigs the mayor had. Helot raised his eyebrows. It was a lot.

  “How about his associates?”

  “Bletmann’s place was empty too. No wigs though, thank fuck. Tried a couple other of his friend’s places, too. All blanks.”

  Thorias turned to look at Helot for instructions. Helot just stared back at him blankly. What else can we do?

  Thorias turned back to his officers. “Well then, keep trying,” he said. “Friends of friends. Acquaintances of acquaintances. Find out who the hell is making all these wigs and break some of his fingers.”

  Helot stepped outside and rubbed his face in his hands. Why was everything so hard? A moment later, Thorias joined him outside. Wordlessly, they began walking down the nearly deserted corridors of the security base.

  “He doesn’t wear wigs in public, does he?” Helot asked after a while.

  “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Which means he’s wearing them in private.”

  “That stands to reason.”

  “Why am I thinking about that?” Helot shouted. “Why can’t I stop thinking about the mayor’s sexy wig time? What a fucking disaster!”

  “I’d try not to think…”

  “What if there aren’t even any hookers? What if it’s just him and the wigs?”

  Helot’s despair was interrupted by a beep from Thorias’ terminal and Thorias’ abrupt and grateful grab for the device. The pair of them stopped in the entrance lobby for the security base. The chief clucked his tongue a couple times. “Well, there’s some good news,” he finally said. “We’ve taken Laura Stein into custody.”

  “Who?”

  “The terrorist. The lady one.”

  “Oh, right. The Argos’ most wanted criminal. I guess the danger’s over then.” Helot chuckled.

  “She’s being held in the bow detachment. Looks like she and her buddy tore up Hogg’s team pretty bad. They lost the fat one entirely.”

  “I thought Hogg wasn’t that bad?”

  “So did I.” The pair resumed their journey, stepping out of the security base into the street. A couple blocks north of them, the massive bulkhead door loomed. “What do you want to do with her?” Thorias asked. “Throw away the key?”

  Helot stared at the bulkhead door and all the bad decisions its presence reminded him of. He closed his lips and exhaled, inflating his cheeks. “How close did she come to figuring it all out?”

  “Close. Her and her buddy were snooping after the other dead technician. We know they saw one of the disconnects.”

  Helot’s eyes narrowed. The other dead technician. The other murdered technician. Yet another reason to reign in Thorias and his goons. “Think she’ll start squawking about it?” He shook his head, knowing the answer. “Of course she will. I would.” He exhaled. “Can we bring her down here? Away from anyone who might be willing to listen?”

  Thorias nodded. “I’ll have her moved to the main holding cells right now.” He tapped something into his terminal. “How long we going to keep her for?”

  Helot turned away from the door. “I guess we can probably just hang on to her until we’re ready to try again,” he said. “Then cut her loose.”

  “Or just leave her there in the cells. The security base should remain intact when we detach.”

  Helot snorted. Should. Another life tossed around pretty casually. “Fine,” he said and walked away from the bulkhead door, wanting to get aw
ay from the security man. From all the security men.

  §

  Stein opened her eyes. She was looking at something large and flat. Something that looked pretty floorish. I know this. I know this thing. This is a floor.

  She closed her eyes again, the strain of piecing this together having exhausted her. Her head throbbed. Her legs throbbed. Her stomach throbbed. The volume of half–digested food rocketing up her throat may also have throbbed, but given its rapid movement, it was hard to tell. The probable floor in front of her was soon coated by a definite layer of vomit.

  She opened her eyes again. Everything outside the center of her vision was blurry, as was everything inside the center of her vision. She could tell she was in a room, empty save for a couple of large, blurry objects and a puddle of blurry vomit. Rushing things, she tried to sit up, failing completely. Her hands seemed to be bound together behind her. A couple of minutes passed, as she let her brain reacquaint itself with her body. Eventually, she tried sitting up again, this time more or less succeeding.

  “Look who’s awake.” A man’s voice, behind her. She dragged herself around to face him, her vision finally starting to clear up. She was in a jail cell, a small room with a bunk on one side, toilet in the corner. One end of the room was sealed with heavy plastic bars, behind which stood a security officer, looking at her sternly. She squinted, recognizing him. The officer who’d been investigating Gabelman’s death. Hogg.

  “Where am I?” she tried to ask, though her ears told her that what she said sounded more like “Hurk.” Her mouth filled with saliva, the act of speaking spreading the bile taste in her mouth.

  “Where?” Hogg said. “In trouble. More specifically, a holding cell in the Detachment on 40th. So, Big Trouble. And don’t move around too much. It just makes things worse.”

  “Gotcha,” she replied, her ears informing her that she had gotten that sound basically right. She twisted her body around to face the rear wall, and waggled her arms, still bound behind her back. “So, you’re not going to take these off, then?”