by Jason LaPier
The man reached behind it and Jax could hear the click of a reset switch. The Kitcheny made a sort of an odd humming sound, then went quiet.
“Dammit,” he said, frowning at the thing.
“What’s it plugged into?”
They turned to stare at Jax in silence.
“For power?” Jax prodded, trying to lean close enough to look at the device without imposing.
“Right back here,” the manager said. She gave him a wave. “We got a converter we use for domer stuff.”
He followed the cable that came out of the back of the Kitcheny into a converter box. Another cable from that ran down under the shop counter.
The two of them seemed to back away as he approached, so he took it as an invitation to get a closer look. They must have known he was a B-fourean, from his appearance. Maybe they had faith that he’d know what to do with it. He bent down to inspect the converter.
“Oh yeah,” he said, seeing the problem right away. “This part here – this triangle. It needs to be lined up with the triangle on the box.”
“That’s supposed to be pointed up,” the manager said. “It’s an arrow, not a triangle.”
“Noooo,” Jax said cautiously and detached the cable. “See the matching triangle here on the base of the converter box?”
They stared at him in silence for a moment, then at each other. Jax clicked the cable into place and stood up. He hit the reset button on the back and the Kitcheny came to life with its expected jingle. Its face bloomed with a swirl of colors, and after a moment the animated interface revealed it to be devoid of food and ready to call home for a re-stocking. Home being a dome on B-4 or B-3, and unreachable, of course.
“See, like I told you,” the man said, stretching his arms out. “Mint condition!”
“Right.” The manager frowned down at the device and Jax caught her glancing at him sideways. It struck him that it was possible she’d connected it wrong as a ruse, a way to buy the unit for a much cheaper price.
“Of course, it can’t connect back to the central service,” Jax said with a dismissive wave. “Any food you put in there will have to be registered with the device by hand.”
“Sounds like a pain in the ass,” the manager said with a nod. “I’ll give you two hundred for it.”
“You kidding me?” the man shot back. “It’s worth four hundred at least. You could turn around and sell it to some richie for double that.”
“Where did it come from?” Jax wondered aloud. The look he got from both of them made him wish he hadn’t asked.
“I traded for it,” the man grumbled.
“Two-fifty,” the manager said.
Jax ducked away while they continued their negotiations. He tried to look at some of the other items in the store, but he was too distracted. It wasn’t the banter, nor was it the guilt that he’d imposed on the deal. It was the damn Kitcheny. How something like that got from the domes to Terroneous was anyone’s guess. What did it matter? What bothered him was how glaringly out of place it was. Its presence was nothing short of wrong, sitting in a makeshift market in a small backwoods town on the frontier moon of a gas giant millions of kilometers from the domes of Barnard-4.
Where did you come from? the voice in his head spat.
He could have gone to Barnard-3 as well. Dropped in on his father and his stepmother. They’d have understood his situation, helped him hide from the authorities. Would he even have to hide from local authorities? It seemed like it was only ModPol that wanted him.
In his pocket he kept his notebook. It was Stanford Runstom who got him into the habit of writing by hand, scratching ink onto paper. At first Jax hated it, how sloppy his words were, how much it hurt his hand. Then after a while, he began to relish it, knowing there was no power involved, no electrons jumping to and fro. No tracking, no ether for data to swim around in. Just the physical presence of a notebook tucked into his pocket.
And in that notebook were letters unsent. Dozens. All to his father. The man had moved from B-4 to B-3 a few years previous, to be with his new wife. To live the high life of the better domes on the better planet. Which Jax hated him for. But he never truly hated the man.
His fingers felt the ridges along the side of the notebook, but he kept it in his pocket. Kept it safe. There were letters he’d send when he could. D-mail from one planet to another was expensive, he reminded himself.
He couldn’t yet afford to send them.
“That was impressive.”
Jax flinched at the voice from behind, feeling heat flushing his cheeks. He turned to face a man almost as tall as himself, though not nearly as pale. He was well dressed in a high-end, polyester, green-gray jacket and similar pants. His brown hair spilled in waves around his head in a way that should have looked disheveled, and yet was perfectly placed. He held a hand out, expectant.
“Thanks,” Jax said, shaking the man’s hand out of reflex.
“I’m David,” he said. “David Granderson. I hope you don’t mind that I was observing your … interaction, a moment ago.”
“Observing,” Jax said. “Uh.”
“It’s what I do.” He beamed a reassuring smile. “No, I’m not a stalker. I’m an observer. Actually, I’m a documentarian.”
Jax let go of his hand and nodded slowly. “You make documentaries.”
“That’s right. And you,” he said, then paused to turn his hand upward. “You fix things?”
“I do?” Jax cleared his throat and glanced at the counter. The negotiations had ended and the manager was counting out credits to the stout man. “Yes,” he decided. “I fix some things.”
Granderson beamed, not just a smile but his eyes seemed to shine. “Excellent. I am in need of a fixer. I recently acquired some new cameras that – well, they’re just a little off.”
“Oh. And you think I might be able to fix them.”
“You seem to know your way around dome tech.”
The term caught Jax off-guard. He hadn’t really considered technology to be specific to a place, but he supposed it made sense. “You may have noticed,” he said with an ungainly shrug, “that I am from Barnard-4.”
Granderson’s smile widened. “Naturally. And you possess a … technical inclination?”
Jax couldn’t help but to return the smile. “Yes, I suppose so.” He leaned in a little. “But I don’t normally work for the fun of it.”
The documentarian waved and gave a fake-pouty frown. “Never you mind that. I can make sure you’re paid well.” He paused, mouth half-open, then continued. “Although, I am based in Stockton. It’s just a little ways from here.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Begging your pardon, but I’ve been around a bit. Gotten to know people. You’re on the move.”
“What if I am?” Jax used what little height advantage he had to attempt to glare down at the man menacingly.
Granderson leaned back with a smile, though there was a sadness to it. A pity. “What’s your name?”
“Jack,” he said reflexively. Jack Jackson of Barnard-4. “Fugere.”
“Jack—”
“I prefer Mr. Fugere, please.”
“Fair enough.” Granderson’s stance opened up, as though he might wrap an arm around Jax, but instead giving him a cautious buffer of space. “Come to Stockton. It’s a lot bigger than this place, and a lot more diverse. They’re a little more used to seeing domers from time to time. And there are people there who could use your services. You could settle for a little while, do some freelancing.”
“Stockton.” Jax sighed. He repeated the name in his head. Stockton. Could that be a place to call home? Or at the very least, shelter? “How do we get there from here?”
Granderson’s smile re-widened. “I have a car.”
* * *
Constellations drifted across the black like leaves floating down a slow river. Interstellar flight. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly – the God-defying speed, the freedom, the danger – but Dava couldn’t get enough of it.
She didn’t turn from the window as the others came into the briefing room. She tuned out the jolly shit-talking between Johnny Eyeball and Captain 2-Bit. She tuned out Rando Jansen’s awkward attempts to force casual camaraderie. She tuned out their dumb jokes, their bombball talk, the updates on their kill counts. She tuned them out and watched the stars.
Jansen’s voice beside her broke through. “If you’re looking for Sol, it’s on the other side.”
She sighed through her nose. “I’m not looking for anything.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. She didn’t want to look at him, but staring at the stars made it hard to tell if he was being genuine or if he was trying to push her buttons. “I guess I assume you must miss it.”
Now she turned to face him. He blinked vapidly, and she decided to give his ignorance more credit than his wit. “Of course,” she said. “Everything except the end.”
“Hey, are we early or something?” Eyeball said, his question cutting across the chamber. “I fucking hate being early.”
“No, no,” Jansen said. She saw him using the interruption to extricate himself from a dangerous conversation he wished he hadn’t started. “I wanted you three in here before I talk to the rest of the squad. I need to go over some … particulars.”
Dava turned from the window and looked from Jansen to 2-Bit. “Someone want to tell me why we’re getting briefed halfway to the mission? How are we supposed to prep? We’re already in transit. All the stores are back at the base.”
Jansen smiled his overconfident smile. “We have everything we need, trust me.” He motioned to the table. “Have a seat.”
The others sat but Dava remained standing near the window. Jansen turned and put up an expectant hand. “Sir,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t know everything I need.”
Jansen nodded. “Something tells me you are always prepared.”
“Are we going to blow anything up, RJ?” Eyeball interrupted, drumming his muscled hands on the table.
“Take it easy, Johnny,” Captain 2-Bit said, reaching a steadying hand across the table. “We’re here to loot first, destroy second.”
“We’re where?” Dava asked.
“Thank you, Captain,” Jansen said, silencing 2-Bit before he could answer. “We’re not destroying anything we don’t need to. I want your team focused on the goal.”
Dava turned back to the window. “And the goal is what exactly?”
“We’re headed to Vulca,” 2-Bit said. She could hear him tapping away at the table’s viewscreen. “It’s a moon of Sirius-5.”
“So there will be Pollies.” Eyeball’s statement wasn’t a question, but sounded more like a promise.
“Well,” Jansen said, drawing out his words. “Maybe. Not likely. There will be a local security force, of course. But they’re not used to much action.”
Dava huffed. “But Sirius-5 is under ModPol jurisdiction.”
“Yes, that’s right. However, the contract that ModPol has with Sirius-5 does not extend to the planet’s satellites. According to our intelligence.”
“We’ve got three dozen guns on board, and four personnel carriers.” Dava turned away from the window again and started to walk around the table to get in front of him. She wanted to look into his eyes. “For an inexperienced local security force?”
“We’re splitting up,” 2-Bit said in his matter-of-fact, don’t-worry-about-it voice. “That’s how come we brought so many boys.”
“What are you talking about, Cappy?”
“There will be a main strike force,” Jansen said, motioning to the viewscreen while 2-Bit pulled up a map. “Led by Captain Tubennetal—”
Eyeball stopped drumming and leaned forward. “Who?”
“Uh …”
2-Bit laughed and slapped a hand on Jansen’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you can call me Cap’n 2-Bit. Don’t think of it as an insult.”
“Right,” Jansen said. “Okay. The main strike force will be led by the captain here. They’ll make a push for this observatory. It’s about one hundred and twenty kilometers east of the rest of the Vulca research complex. Capo Dava and … ah … Capo Eyeball.”
Eyeball smiled and winked as Jansen seemed to wait for approval to continue.
He scrolled through a HandiMate, and for a moment Dava was surprised the posh underboss hadn’t upgraded to one of the new WrappiMates. “Uh, you’ll take Special Ops Freezer and Squaddie Barndoor, and uh … Squaddie Thompson-Gun … uh …”
“I never knew we had so many damn titles around here,” 2-Bit said into his chest. He held out a hand and Jansen reluctantly gave up the HandiMate. 2-Bit squinted at it and nodded. “Okay, so’s it’s Dava and Johnny, plus Thompson-Gun, Barndoor, and Freezer.” He looked up. “Good unit.”
“Thanks,” Jansen said, taking the pad back. “Captain,” he said, motioning to the viewscreen with the map. 2-Bit panned around for a moment, then stopped when he found the particular group of rectangles he was looking for. Jansen pointed. “Outside of the main city is a research station that just received brand-new radiation detection equipment. It’s supposed to be for solar storms and other astronomical anomalies.”
“But it also picks up most kinds of ships,” 2-Bit said with a proud smile.
“Right,” Jansen said. “It’s capable of measuring the traffic patterns of almost half a system from one location.”
“Really?” Eyeball’s one good eye widened and he spoke with hushed intensity. “You guys … we gotta get that thing.”
“Good idea, Johnny,” Dava said. “That scanning gear should be our goal.”
She put on a pensive face, covering her smirk with a gloved hand as 2-Bit and Jansen stared at them incredulously.
“That is the goal,” 2-Bit said, throwing his hands up.
Dava glanced at Jansen, who furrowed his brow and looked at her suspiciously. She turned away and walked back to the window.
“Anyway,” Jansen said. “We’re taking the bulk of the force to that research facility. This equipment is of substantial mass, and we’re going to have to load it up on the transports.”
“They’ll see those coming a mile away,” Dava said as the stars drifted by.
“You’re right,” 2-Bit said. “Which is why you and Johnny and the other boys are going after the power. Come take a look, Dava.”
She pulled her eyes from the black and back to the table, where 2-Bit was anxiously jabbing at the map. He had zoomed out, so that the cluster of rectangles got smaller and four smaller squares appeared near the edges. “Here and here are the power stations. And here is a relay.”
“What’s this one?” Eyeball asked, half-squinting and pointing.
“That’s the observatory,” Jansen said.
“That’s where they keep the detection equipment,” 2-Bit added.
“So that’s where we’re going.”
“No, that’s where we’re going,” 2-Bit said. “You and Dava and your squad are going here. This relay station is the weak point. There’s barely any security, and from there Freezer can hack into the whole control system. He flicks off the lights and over here at the observatory, they won’t know what the hell is going on. That’s when we waltz it, fire a few rounds to scare the crap out of everyone, then we stroll out with the goods.”
“Good plan,” Eyeball grunted.
“Well, it’s RJ’s plan,” 2-Bit said sheepishly.
Dava came back around the table to get one more look at the map. “So we go in, cut the power, and then you make your move.” She looked at Jansen, who wasn’t forcing a smile for once. “I suppose it’s not the worst plan.”
“Thanks.” His eyes flicked to hers and then back to the map, then down to his hands. Pre-assault nerves. He knew what he was doing, and he was sharp, but she wondered if he was really cut out for Space Waste.
“Whatever you have on the relay station,” she said, waving at the viewscreen, “send it over to my room. And then don’t wake me up until we get to Vulca.”
CHAPTER 5
The holding room inside the Vulca Research Park’s main office building – no one had called it a holding room, but that’s the only way Runstom could think to describe it – was a perfect circle. There was only one wall, and it curved around on itself in a way that made him dizzy. The only corners in the room were where the wall met the flat ceiling, several feet above his head.
Vaguely to his left, a doorway appeared when an unseen panel slid upward with a mechanical swish. He was pretty sure it wasn’t the same door he and his companion came in through, but having lost his sense of direction in the angle-less room, he couldn’t be sure.
A woman in a white lab coat came in. “Hello, Mr. Troyo,” she said, the door quickly sliding closed behind her before Runstom could see where it led.
Runstom’s companion was an account manager named Peter Troyo. He’d only just met the man a few hours before, when he’d picked Runstom up at the landing pad on the other side of the moon. The train ride from there gave them plenty of time to get to know each other.
“Heya, Johanna, great to see you again,” Troyo said, reaching out to take her hand before she could extend it. “How is everything? This is Stanley Runstom.”
“It’s Stanford—”
“Dr. Leesen. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Runstom.”
Troyo released his grip so that Runstom could shake hands with her. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
She was short and a little stocky and had beige-white skin, like most Sirius-fivers. Her light-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and beneath her white lab coat was a pale-gray shirt and matching pants. When Runstom first met Troyo, he was impressed by the man’s platinum-colored suit – matching jacket, shirt, tie, and pants – but next to this woman in this circular space, he was another white-and-gray Sirius-fiver. The two of them made Runstom feel like a square peg in the round room.
“Johanna is the head scientist around here,” Troyo said, beaming his practiced smile.
“I’m the Director of Research.” She produced a small translucent card and handed it to Runstom. He took it gingerly and turned it into the light to read it, but all it said was Doctor Johanna Leesen, Director of Research, Vulca Research Park.
