by J. N. Chaney
“I’m not touching that one,” X-37 promised.
Pain shot up my neck. “That hurt,” I complained.
“Where does it hurt?” X-37 asked.
I told him.
“Your cybernetics are out of synchronization with your body. You have two options: see a qualified technician who has access to replacement parts, a laboratory, and diagnostic tools—or grow stronger,” X-37 said.
“Not helpful. Do you have any idea what I would need to lift with the right side of my body to equal my left?” I asked. “Never mind the difficulty of performing the really good exercises with one arm?”
“I do, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said quickly. “You would need—”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, exasperated. “Just don’t.”
“Would you like me to research accessory exercises and physical therapy regimens to address this problem?” X-37 asked. “You can’t just squat, bench, and deadlift.”
“I do other stuff,” I complained.
“There are many accessory exercises I can research for you,” X-37 offered.
“Will that help?” I asked.
“Probably not.”
I rolled my neck until I found some relief.
“Congratulations on quitting smoking,” X-37 said.
“You are such an asshole, X.”
“My personality is based on yours, Reaper Cain,” X-37 reminded me.
I cut across the street to a bar that opened toward the street. The awning provided shade. A sign promised the beer was cold, which was probably true. Gronic didn’t have excessive amounts of technology, but their air-conditioning and refrigeration units were overpowered most of the time due to the warm climate. Out here on the street, it was hot as hell. Inside most of the red rock structures, I’d probably need to button up my trench coat and find a blanket or a fireplace.
The street-side bar was a happy medium. Cool air blew from window and ceiling units.
As for the clientele, I didn’t think we were going to hit it off.
“It is my estimation that none of these people can provide the Glandarian silicon you need for repairs,” X-37 whispered in my ear.
“Give me a beer,” I said to the bartender.
The man poured a tall red rock mug full of brew and slid it over to me. I paid with some of the local coins I’d acquired since arriving.
“You a cripple?” some thick-necked fuckstick at the end of the bar demanded, popping the knuckles of one hand in the other. “Something wrong with you? Got a disease or something that makes you twitch like that?”
“Was I twitching, X?” I asked, facing away to avoid looking like a crazy person talking to myself.
“What did you call me?” the ruffian asked.
“No more than normal, sir,” X-37 answered.
“Hey, asshole,” the man said, leaning forward from his barstool.
The beer, it turned out, was almost too cold. I took a sip, looked at the carved mug, and realized it had probably been machined rather than hand-carved. It was easy to think of the locals as cave dwellers, but starships came here for all the normal reasons, including repair and refitting. The orbital space dock was always busy.
The locals didn’t have the most advanced tech or manufacturing infrastructure, but they had enough.
“I was talking to you,” the local tough guy said, edging closer, dragging one hand along the bar with his beer mug in it. He’ll probably try to hit me with it, I thought.
“Was?” I asked. “That implies you’re no longer talking to me. Which is good—for both of us.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, suddenly unsure.
I turned my gaze on him, and he took a step back.
“Hey, look at that. Bobby’s scared,” one of the other patrons jeered.
“Yeah, he’s always been squeamish around foreigners,” another man said.
“You guys piss off,” Bobby spat. “I just don’t feel like kicking his ass right now. My beer’s still cold and I’m thirsty.”
“Whatever, Bobby. Why don’t you buy me one of those cold beers too so I can see how good they are?” Bobby’s friend asked.
“That was a close call, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said dryly.
“Are you being sarcastic?” I asked, then took a long draw of my very cold and too bitter beer.
“I was attempting humor through sarcasm. Was my statement, in fact, funny?” X-37 asked.
“Work on it, X.” I wasn’t in the mood, but I wasn’t really annoyed either. My glitchy arm and eye exhausted me. The pain wasn’t so bad, it was just constant and irritating. The minor flareups could be a problem if they happened at the wrong time, but I’d deal with that when it became a problem.
“While I was delighting you with my entertainment software,” X-37 said, “I also ran an analysis of this confrontation. I doubt we have seen the last of Bobby.”
I killed the rest of my beer and slid the mug back to the barkeeper. “Thanks.”
“You paid for two,” the barkeeper said.
“Keep the change.”
2
A gust of wind picked up shortly after I left the street-side bar. Dust filled the air. I turned left at the first corner, catching sight of Bobby and some of his friends in my peripheral vision.
Of course they were going to follow me. Why couldn’t anything be easy? And what made guys like this so dumb? Didn’t they know I was the most wanted and feared killer in the galaxy?
I went into an alley, climbed up the fire escape, and went over a building so that I could drop down on the other side. After a few more maneuvers, I was on a second building watching my pursuers bumble about in the maze of stinking alleyways and narrow side streets.
“That seemed relatively simple,” X-37 said. “Perhaps you should do something spectacular to show off. Maybe light a cigar and say one of your senseless one-liners.”
“I hate you, X,” I said.
“Which affects me not all. In all seriousness, your adversaries have lost interest,” X-37 announced.
“Just a waste of time,” I said, patting my trench coat pocket for a cigar I knew wasn’t there. My eye twitched and my vision filled with static that pulsed in time with my heartbeat for several seconds. “I’d forgotten what a pain in the ass being a Reaper could be.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve updated your local map to the shop you requested.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed a ladder with both hands, pressed the soles of my feet to the outside, and slid to the ground like I was responding to battle stations on a starship. Some kids saw me and shouted encouragement. “None of you little bastards try that. I’m not explaining to your mothers why you broke your necks.”
They thought this was hilarious and immediately started trying things I’d never do even in my prime. Kids were invincible. And stupid.
The shop I needed was called the Punk Ass Geek. The sign displayed a half-naked woman that I didn’t think had anything to do with the technology they sold inside. The proprietors probably just liked it for its intrinsic art value.
The shop owner, despite the juvenile decor and the trash cans full of junk food, wasn’t a kid. He was either older than the hills or looked that way because of hard living. Time had worn deep grooves into skin that looked more like leather than a face. Gronic did that to people. I had been here before and hadn’t liked it then either. Of course, it had been one of my bloodier missions with very unclear directives.
Reapers had been designed to go places other peoples couldn’t and do things they wouldn’t.
“I’m closed,” the man said, levering himself up from a stool near a holo screen.
“The sign says you’re open,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I just didn’t feel like walking out there to turn it around. Have you seen the back of the sign?” he asked, laughing like a fifteen-year-old, which was disturbing given his tortured vocal cords. I had a pretty good idea that he’d been smoking his whole life and had never paid for an actual Starbrand ciga
r.
“What’s on the back of the sign?” I asked, unimpressed and rapidly growing bored with this guy’s lewdness, mostly because I thought it was an act.
“Hehehe. You’ll have to flip her over to see.” The shop owner cackled like this was a great joke. The problem was, he had a habit of keeping one hand down the front of his pants.
“It’s a great sign, I’m sure. How much did you pay the artist?”
He waved the comment away, annoying me further.
I really needed something smooth—a cigar, a drink, a room with a view—to take the edge off, not that I’d ever find any of those luxuries on this planet.
“Camera Pony,” I said.
His eyes went wide. “Oh shit, you know the watch word. Don’t get excited and start asking for stuff. All that proves is that you ain’t no cop. Doesn’t mean I have anything you want.”
“How about I throat punch you and toss the place until I find what I want,” I said, my tone mild but with an edge to it.
His eyes narrowed, and I realized there was some steel in him. He might look like a broken down old pervert, but he’d fight me if I pushed it.
“Are you joking?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Sure. I’m joking. If that’s what you want to hear.”
“I don’t think you’re joking. I think you’re a cold-blooded killer. And I’m old, so that probably means you’d win. But I don’t give an actual fuck. And before you think you can take what you want, my safes have new locks and all the good stuff is hidden away.”
“I only came here to buy things,” I said, growing impatient.
“Go out there and turn that sign around so it says we’re closed,” he instructed.
I did as he asked, noticing that the back of the sign was the back of the rather well-formed girl, and suddenly I had the urge to wash my hands. This guy really was like a horny teenager.
“You know there aren’t any women actually built like that, right?” I said.
“It’s all kind of irrelevant at my age. I don’t give a shit about the sign. If you don’t have a sense of humor, that’s your problem. What do you want?”
“My source says you have Glandarian silicon,” I said.
He snorted, slamming one palm on the counter as he turned away from me in a huff. “Your source? Your source! I’ll tell you something about whoever sold you that lie.”
“Let’s cut to the chase. I need it and you have it. What’s your price?”
“Ah, fuck me running, you’re one of those Glad-sil freaks. Why do I stay in this shit place?”
“It’s just business,” I said, watching his every move.
He shook his head. “You sure you want the Glad-sil?”
The man despised me nearly as much as he despised what he was doing. I saw it in his face—the scornful eyes, the slight backing away as though from a junkie, and the way he reached into his jumpsuit where he had a weapon.
“That’s what I said. I know you have three kilos in your safe.”
“What are you going to use it for?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
He motioned for me to back up as he punched in the combination to his safe. “How much do you want?”
“Give me .05 kilos.”
When he turned, I thought he would draw his pistol and shoot me in the throat. “Get out of my shop. Stop wasting my fucking time. I don’t sell less than .5 kilos. That’s what you actually need to build anything useful. You’re a fucking junkie.”
When I smiled, the vertical scar that crossed my left eye stretched. The thing itched like a son-of-a-bitch lately. As for the eye, it shined just enough to reveal its artificial nature. “Then give me .5 and leave that handgun in its holster. You don’t need it.”
His eyes widened slightly, probably because he was crapping his pants and trying to guess how I knew the weapon he was carrying. That wasn’t the type of skill a Glandarian silicon eater normally possessed. In general, they hallucinated about sexual violence until the law dragged them out of their holes and sent them to rehab.
The rest of the transaction was tense but straightforward.
“What would you do with .05 kilos, stranger?”
“Eat it. What do you think?”
“You’re not a junkie. Don’t bullshit me. I see that now. You asked for .05 when you can afford .5, which means you’re something or someone I’ve never seen around here.”
I paid the man and slipped the bundle into my trench coat. All I needed was a bead of Glandarian silicon to complete the repairs to my cybernetic arm, but I wasn’t telling him that. The material was old technology now, no longer used to build anything. Some enterprising drug addict had realized that eating the substance caused three days of hallucinations and an erection that wouldn’t quit.
“It’s for a friend,” I said. “Brother-in-law. He promised to go into rehab if I can get him to Roxo III.”
The man tilted his head, giving me a sympathetic look and letting out a breath that he’d been holding for too long. “That’s rough. But we’ve all got one in the family. Roxo ain’t a nice place.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The man rambled nervously, probably thinking I was a cop after all. “You ever been there, because you might reconsider. It’s only safe if you have a shit ton of money for security.”
“I’m familiar with Roxo, unfortunately,” I said.
“What the hell kind of business did you have on that place?” he asked.
“I had to cut off someone’s head,” I said without hesitation.
He didn’t laugh until I did, slapping him on the shoulder like we were sharing a joke in a street-side bar.
“No offense, sir, but you scare the shit out of me,” he admitted. “And that ain’t something I’ve said in a minute.”
Our conversation went nowhere. Neither of us seemed interested in small talk or pointless arguing and our business was nearly done. Once he’d wrapped the silicon in wax paper and handed it over to me, I paid him with a single-use encrypted bank code and walked out.
The temperature dropped the moment the sun went down. Normal citizens went inside for dinner or maybe to just collapse on their beds and sleep after a hard day at one of the factories. The area was quiet compared to a lot of cities I’d visited over the years.
Quiet and dark, and full of red stone for as far as the eyes could see—the place was spectacularly scenic for about five minutes. Then it was just depressing.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” X-37 asked after I had swept my vision over the street.
“I’m literally seeing what you’re seeing, X,” I said, looking for anything I’d missed.
“Of course, sir. It seems our friends from the bar are back,” X-37 said.
I’d expected to get jumped. Guys like this with no jobs—the type of tough guys who could spend the afternoon drinking and playing pool before the real action began—didn’t let go of grudges easily. Personally, I didn’t have time for that shit. There was really only one grudge that mattered, and that was against the Union.
The only reason I wasn’t making a direct assault on the Union capital was because I didn’t know where my mother and sister were.
“Hey, foreigner,” Bobby from the bar said as he crossed the street. “I thought I told you to stay away from here.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “But if you had, I would have still ignored you.”
“Get him!” Bobby shouted.
I hadn’t expected to get rushed without a bit more foreplay. Back in my neighborhood on Boyer 5, it was more ritualistic—more insults and trash-talking before squaring off. Six of these guys came at me, though two were lagging behind, possibly unsure how far they wanted to take this. They probably hoped their leader would crush me before they had to get involved.
I slipped to one side and launched a roundhouse kick, aiming to miss his outside leg in order to catch him on the inside of his other thigh. A lot of cage fighters knew how to slam their shin agains
t the common peroneal nerve along the outside of the leg, but only the most skilled practitioners could time it and catch the inner thigh where there were a lot of sensitive nerves and arteries.
The force of the kick scooped up his back leg. I put my foot down in the middle of his stance and drove forward with my right elbow, slamming him onto his back. He was big—bigger than I remembered—and he fell hard. His head made a wet thump on the pavement.
Under other circumstances, I might’ve dropped my weight on him, but I wasn’t trying to kill him. I just needed to put him in his place.
There were also five more locals to deal with. I spun away, hands up and ready as the next two came at me. Deflecting their grabs and punches was harder than I expected, but still not difficult. Drunk and angry, they swung with everything they had. The speed and momentum of their strikes was a problem, but they were extremely predictable.
A long fight for a Reaper was thirty seconds. X-37 would probably tell me this engagement took nineteen seconds. I wasn’t counting, but the Reaper AI kept track of things like that.
A series of punches and elbow strikes dropped the second two fighters. I moved on to the B team. The two who had hung back ran. The last guy stood, not quite knowing what to do.
“You can stay and get choked unconscious, or you can follow your friends,” I said, stepping forward.
The man nodded, processing my words through a sudden haze of fear. He glanced at his fallen comrades, then decided to abandon them.
“What do you think, X? Leave them here or render aid?” I asked.
“What a strange question. Are you getting soft or have you found religion?” X-37 wondered. “My analysis of local laws suggests you should try to render aid. Unless you want to go to jail.”
“I ain’t trying to go to jail.” I started with the big guy, slapping him gently on the face until he roused himself.
He came up swinging and I pushed him back down, locking his elbow in a hold that immobilized his upper body completely. “Don’t be stupid. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead before I left.”
He cursed at me in one of the local dialects I didn’t understand. The emotional content of his street slang was hard to misinterpret, however.
