Jarod shuddered and turned away. It may have been a couple of hours…and a couple of social strata down the ladder…since he had eaten lunch, but something down there was threatening to make a reappearance. What was happening here would turn the threat into a certainty.
What was truly frustrating was that he had struck out in finding a ship once again. The promised contact was missing in action, and after asking a couple of people where he could find “Crunk,” Jarod started getting some suspicious looks from the patrons. This had been the last of the leads. He was at the end of his rope. And after seeing the display here, he wasn’t so sure that selling his body to get them all home was such a great idea.
At least he hadn’t taken anyone with him. Cleo would be doing her best to convince the strippers that this life wasn’t really for them…well, after scrubbing her eyes with rubbing alcohol, at least. Jarod could imagine Buton calculating the exact angle the snake was forming with the raised leg, and exactly why that wasn’t such a good idea for the woman’s reproductive system.
And Rob? Well, having Rob with him would’ve gotten Jarod arrested, even here. And really, there were certain things that no fourteen-year-old kid should see, at least if he ever planned on having sex with the lights on in his lifetime. Jarod made the mistake of glancing at the stage once more and reassessed. Scratch the “with the lights on” part and plug in “ever, ever, ever.” His stomach lurched and sent him heading toward the door—just in case.
Near the entrance, a bouncer stood like a pillar of gneiss. He must have been at least six-foot-five, with muscles bulging out of his muscles. The guy’s arms had tattoo sleeves of intertwined women who would twist and lurch every time he flexed his biceps. The burly man gave Jarod a disinterested glance and snorted.
“Can’t take it?” the bouncer yelled over the music.
Jarod took a second to keep from retching before answering. “You can?”
“Meh. After a while you get used to it. I dunno, though…Misty and her Mysterious Marmot still gets to me.” He shrugged, and then looked a little closer into Jarod’s face. “You the guy who was looking for Crunk before?”
“Aha. Well, that depends. I kinda got the feeling that maybe asking was a bad idea. I’m not looking for trouble—just a ship.” Jarod watched the big guy, ready to dart out the door if the man made any sudden moves.
The pillar nodded sagely. “Yeah, I gots ya. The guys who come here don’t much like questions.” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a mild roar. “Crunk got pinched two days ago. Got lots of folks on edge.”
Jarod heaved a huge sigh. “Well, there goes my last hope.”
“For a ship?” Off Jarod’s nod, the big man leaned in even further. “I might know of a place you can go look. ’Slong as you don’t mind getting dirty.”
Dirtier than this? Jarod almost said “no,” but then pictured his crew’s reactions when he told them that there was no ship. He took down a name and directions from the bouncer and hightailed it out of the club as fast as his feet could take him. He should’ve known no good would come from visiting a place called “Ass-teroids.”
As he headed toward the new location, Jarod did everything he could not to think about how anyone at that club could refer to some other location as “dirty.”
Transportation on the moon was fascinating. As much as possible, the builders had linked every location they could so that as little time was spent out where helmets were needed as humanly possible. In addition, most of the structures had been built during the Moon Rush, so they went up incredibly fast. What this meant in practical terms was that the habitable areas of the moon were a warren of labyrinthine mazes, with passageways and tunnels and twists and turns.
What Jarod noticed most about his route was that it took him into darker, deeper, and dirtier tunnels than any he had experienced so far. Nooks and crannies along the way were all filled with the down and out…those upon whom the Star Diamond gods had not smiled. And here they camped out, rotting in their own filth. Jarod picked up his pace as he passed by the ramshackle huts built out of abandoned drywall and cardboard with the occasional dull gleam of aluminum.
After three more turns and several more tense minutes, Jarod found the place the bouncer had recommended. It was called the Honeycomb, and it had been around for longer than most of the structures on the moon—close to twenty years. According to the big man at the club, it had started off with a crazy billionaire who had decided to house a call center on the moon. He had built this structure to mimic the cubicles of call centers back on Earth, but carved out of rock or built up with plasteel. In other words, pretty much permanent.
Not that it looked all that permanent at this point. Wherever possible, poor prospectors— and sometimes their families or crews—would come in. Using their mining tools, they would carve out niches for themselves. The effect was one huge human beehive, with less privacy than a high school locker room. The Honeycomb.
And now all Jarod had to do was find one guy out of what looked to be several hundred. No problem.
As Jarod looked for the markers that the bouncer had given him, he couldn’t help but watch the penniless squatters who had made their homes here. Most were sitting or lying down, bags and clothes heaped around them for warmth. In the entire area, Jarod saw maybe three who were actually up and moving around, and even they were listless.
There was one other oddity to this area. Jarod found he could barely breathe. Thinking about it, he realized that the administrators of the Moonbase were probably not overly concerned about airflow to this particular area. The oxygen was mighty thin around here. Maybe that was part of the reason for the lifelessness of the homeless here. He watched as one of the nearby denizens popped his head out of his hovel, glared at Jarod, flipped him the bird, and retreated inside.
Well, this was just ridiculous. He wasn’t going to find this guy by wandering around and ogling the natives. Jarod stopped at the next nearest habitation and tried to knock on the cardboard, only to have it crumple under his hand and fall to the floor.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy? That’s my roof you’re beating down!” A middle-aged woman with gray hair sticking out at all angles emerged from her makeshift hut, petting what mostly appeared to be a cat. The part that didn’t look like a cat resembled something found at the bottom of a shower. The cat-thing hissed at Jarod and dug himself into the crook of his mistress’ arm.
Stepping back from the woman and her “cat,” Jarod had to wonder just who was crazy enough to take a pet to the moon. “I’m looking for a man named Mr. Onrove.”
“Rovy? That hottie? I’ve been trying to bag that man since he wound up here.” She shifted her raggedy blouse around, displacing the cat in the process. “Stupid twit’s faithful to his wife back home. Idiot! Hasn’t even talked to her in, like, three months.”
“Well, I’m trying to find him. Do you know where he is?”
The older woman got a twinkle in her eye as she looked Jarod up and down. “What’s it worth to ya, pretty boy?” She fluttered her eyes at him. She cackled at Jarod’s obvious discomfort. “Don’t worry, sexy. I don’t bite. Unless you really want me to.”
“Ahhh…right. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Your boy Rovy’s over around the corner there. Probably whining about his ‘honey.’ “She yelled over Jarod’s head in the direction she had indicated. “I got your honey right here, Rovy! You hear me?” She continued cackling as Jarod waved his thanks and moved around the corner as fast as his feet would carry him.
Rounding the bend, Jarod peered out over the heads of three or four groups of huddled humanity. So little distinguished one from another. The color of a blanket, the length of the ratty hair, the depth of a cough…superficialities. The worst part of this experience was seeing how much of a leveler need was. Truth be told, the only real thing keeping Jarod from being amongst them was time…and his friends. Otherwise, his own choices could easily have landed him in this position, whe
ther here or back home. He called out to the mounds.
“Mr. Onrove?” Jarod saw, in the second group on the other side of the hallway partially obscured by a plasteel divider, one head bob its way up to a somewhat upright position. Jarod maneuvered around the closest group to make his way over to the man. Mr. Onrove looked to be in his early forties. His full head of hair was going gray at the temples. He wasn’t nearly as far gone as most of the others here. His hair was unkempt, but not quite grown wild. His shirt, while filthy, still showed its original checkered pattern.
This was a man down on his luck, but not quite gone yet.
The failed prospector squinted up at Jarod. “You called my name?”
“Yeah. Mr. Onrove, right?” The man nodded his assent. “I understand that you’ve got a ship fit to fly to the dark side?” Jarod did what he could to keep the desperation out of his voice, but this guy really was his last shot at the diamond fields. Jarod had no desire to head back to the strip club to find another lead that probably wasn’t there anyway. Some things no one should have to see twice. Hell, let alone once.
The squatter blinked a couple of times before responding. Jarod guessed that this was probably the first conversation the man had with anyone in a couple of weeks. “Maybe.” He licked his cracked lips. “But not much farther…” Jarod winced inwardly. He needed a ship, but he needed one that would get him and his team to where they needed to go.
“How are its certifications and licenses?” Jarod pressed. If the thing was licensed, it had to at least fly, right? Jarod thought about the Eureka and tightened his mouth. Okay, maybe not, but he had to have a ship.
That question seemed to perk something up inside Onrove. Hope brightened his features, making clear the fact that here was a man down on his luck, but not completely out. “All clear as glass. It’s ready to fly. All’s we want is enough to get back home.” He wagged his chin at the two younger men drowsing on either side of him. From the look of their faces, Jarod guessed they were his sons, or at least close relatives. This family had gotten trapped on the moon after probably risking everything they had to get out here.
It was uncomfortably close to Jarod’s own scenario. It wouldn’t take much to put Rob or Buton’s face on one of these half-sleeping wretches. Jarod had to make this work.
Jarod assessed his funds and gave what he hoped would be a solid offer. “We can give you 200,000 credits for—”
A flash of light reflecting from polished jade burned into Jarod’s corneas. A lithe figure stepped into his view, even more out of place here than she usually appeared elsewhere. The voice Jarod had heard more often than he’d like…and yet, somehow, not enough…countered, “250,000.”
Seriously. What was wrong with this chick? Had she not made his life miserable enough already? And now, she wanted to swoop in and steal his ship? “Ah. So wonderful to see you again.” Jarod infused his tone with all the sarcasm he could muster while tipping an imaginary hat. “And here I thought you had standards. Turns out, you just had a price. Which must not have been very high if Gil paid it.” He returned his attention to the squatter. “300.”
“Four,” the woman fired back. Apparently, she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. “And I’m not ‘with’ Gil. His was the only craft not damaged by the blast.”
“Yeah, right.” Jarod peered into the woman’s eyes, looking for any sign of deception. She coolly returned his gaze, raising an eyebrow at the extended standoff. Jarod snorted his disdain, then turned back to the sale. “450.”
For the first time, the Asian squirmed a bit before countering. “475. If I were with him, why would I be trying to buy a ship?”
Good question. An even better one might be why she cared that Jarod believe her. Didn’t take too much to put all the jigsaw pieces together. Especially since the smartest people had handed some of them over to him, he knew. “Same strategy as blowing up the docking ports, babe.” Jarod put on his condescending smirk, daring her to find a flaw in his logic. Well, Buton’s logic. Whatever. “Consume all the resources, and leave nothing for the competition. Supply and demand 101.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean, ‘what about you?’ “
“Well, Gil’s was one of two ships that made it safely off the station.” As she spoke, the tiger necklace, nestled right at the top of her cleavage, kept bouncing up and down. It was very distracting. Jarod forced his eyes back up and into the conflict.
“Safe? Safe? Our pilot almost died. Actually, he did die. Twice. There was nothing safe about our escape from that deathtrap.”
Mr. Onrove cleared his throat, snapping the tension between the two like it had been a cable cut with a hacksaw. “Soooo. Did you guys want to buy my ship or not?”
Jarod decided to go big. He spoke to Onrove while keeping his gaze locked with the woman’s. “515…And tickets to Disney World.”
Mr. Onrove looked at the woman to see if she would counter, but she just shook her head. The prospector turned back to Jarod. “Sold.”
Jarod couldn’t help but gloat a bit as he watched the attractive backside of his female nemesis melt back into the crowd. Okay, half gloating and half admiring. Then, the enormity of what he had just done hit him full in the gut. Along with the enormity of the last number he had uttered to the prospector.
Mr. Onrove held out a hopeful hand. “The money?”
Jarod groaned.
* * *
The beginning of a new mission always filled Captain Stavros with energy that mere adrenaline or caffeine could never approximate. There was an exultation about a mission go that was almost spiritual in nature. And this specific mission was doubly that. This was a task that could very well be career defining…no, life defining. Stavros could feel it in his bones. If he were successful here, no limits would exist on what he could achieve. It was time for the Eclipse’s maiden voyage, yes. But even more than the ship, it was time for Stavros himself to ascend to the heavens.
He rested his arms against the handles on either side of his chair—the leather with the Sensaform gel underneath—flowing and forming to his contours in milliseconds. This craft was less a vessel and more a lover, finding so many ways to caress and comfort those sheltered within her hold. Stavros surveyed his team, watching the precision of the way they compensated for one another in an endless dance that was almost hypnotic.
And then Dr. Weigner came within Stavros’ field of vision. The vaunted doctor tromped across the bridge, reaching out and touching a detail here, scrutinizing an instrument there. The expression plastered on his face seemed to indicate that Weigner had smelled something rotten and was searching out the source of the unpleasantness.
This Dr. Weigner was a problem.
From the moment Stavros had laid eyes on the scientist and discovered that the man would be accompanying Stavros and his team to the moon, the captain had known it would be an issue. The doctor clearly had no military background. His lack of protocol, the imprecision of his movements, even the vagueness of his gaze screamed “civilian.” And a civilian on a military op, especially one who seemed to believe he had authority? Stavros smelled a confrontation coming. Soon. Stavros had no intention of letting some private-sector brainiac run the show up there.
The doctor stopped and hovered at the communications station. He peered at the panel in front of him, reaching out and fiddling with the lever that controlled the speaker volume. It snapped off under his hand. The scientist sneered at the broken object for a moment before handing it to Stavros’ head of communications.
“Poor design. I would have integrated the lever to make it a part of the panel.”
Stavros felt every muscle in his body tense as he observed this assault on his shuttle. His head of communications stared a question at his commander, clearly seeking permission to respond. Stavros shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible. There would be a confrontation, but when Stavros wanted it. Not before.
Stavros turned his back on the doctor, facing th
e front vid-screen once more. The anticipation of this moment had soured a bit with the addition of Weigner’s dissonance, but his crew could handle it. Stavros could handle it. He blew out a long breath.
“Engage engines.” The captain spoke with minimal volume, but his crew responded without delay. Stavros felt the throb of energy pulse through the craft. There was no delay between command and execution with this shuttle. He could feel the power radiating through the soles of his boots.
Stavros watched as a panicked doctor scrambled to find a seat he could strap himself into. The captain chuckled as it dawned on the man of science that no one in the bridge was in a harness. One of the many benefits of being on the team with the most toys. The Eclipse employed a cutting-edge gravitational force dampener, which allowed the crew to operate as if they were strolling around a park—even while the ship battled the relentless pull of the Earth’s gravitational field.
As the shuttle exited its secret hangar, the roof peeling back in four equal sections, three Tomcat F-14’s formed a triangle around her, offering protection to a craft that didn’t appear to need any. Stavros knew that was not the case. Until they were out of the atmosphere, the Eclipse was vulnerable. The ship’s shielding was not designed to protect them from missiles, but rather the Earth’s atmosphere on reentry. And her maneuverability while in the atmosphere was much greater than most shuttles, but still not any match for a plane designed for combat. Thus, the escort.
It didn’t take long for the inevitable resistance to appear. No matter how tight security was, in this day and age, secrets were close to nonexistent. Or perhaps more accurately, detection and response time had improved. For something as unusual as the launch of a state-of-the-art spacecraft, the reaction period had been reduced to the point that their enemies were on them in less than a minute. The radar flashed and buzzed as several foreign fighters entered their airspace.
Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection) Page 36
