by Jason LaPier
“What?”
“My – my first husband,” she said. “He’s a researcher at the observatory. We don’t even really speak any more, but I don’t want him to – I don’t want …”
Runstom pinched his temples with one hand and tried to drive away the visions of the prisoner barge. There was no guarantee that Space Waste wouldn’t harm anyone out there, whether there was cooperation or not. People were going to die. People were probably already dead.
He looked around at them. Leesen, Harrison, Polinsky; their wide eyes on him, just grasping that their formerly banal research compound was under attack. Troyo, glancing over each shoulder, the drive of a sale eclipsed by the drive for survival. The four privates, heads cocking and eyes narrowing, a cross of curiosity and caution, trained for this moment, but probably never expecting to need such training.
They should defend the city, that was the obvious choice. It was the sane choice, the safe choice. But Runstom knew the Wasters weren’t coming that far. Why would they? The power outages, the panic. It was all so they could home in on their target. He didn’t know what they wanted at the observatory, but he knew they would find it fast and then be gone. And they wouldn’t spare any lives.
“Willis,” Runstom said. “We need vehicles.”
“Hey, man, I wish I could.” Polinsky’s voice was distant, frail. “But it’s protocol.”
“Surely you can override it,” Leesen said. She sidled up to Runstom and he could feel her pushing her hopes onto his shoulders.
“It’s VCP,” he said helplessly.
“What’s VCP?” Runstom asked.
“Guess our high-ranking consultant didn’t do his homework,” Scruffy muttered.
Runstom swallowed the urge to punch the kid. There hadn’t been anything in the briefing documents about VCP. Had there? Had he missed something? So much of it had been irrelevant, he could barely stay awake reading it.
“Vulca City Protocol,” the female private answered. “They got all their ground transports wired to it. Freakin’ ridiculous, if you ask me. When it kicks in, like for an emergency, the cars come home but they can’t go anywhere else.”
“What about Captain Oliver and the others?” Runstom asked. “Are they stuck out there? Or will they be forced to drive back?”
Scruffy laughed. “Nah, man. Defense don’t deal with that. We got our own rides.”
“Are there any here?”
The privates frowned at each other, and the one standing said, “They’re all out on patrol.”
“So this protocol,” Runstom said to the woman. “Private …?”
“Private Mikas, sir.”
“Private Mikas. This VCP – how is it wired to the transports?”
“I think they do it at the garages whenever new vehicles are brought in. It’s an add-on to the standard navigation computers on all Sirius-5 built models.”
“Alright,” he said, thinking. “Alright. An add-on.”
“Yeah, if they get it in there, it’s pretty impossible to remove.”
“If they get it in there.” Runstom paced and then came upon the privates and faced them head on. “Defenders, I want you to go to your armory and get as many weapons as you can carry. Especially anything long-range. The louder and flashier the better. You got anything like that?”
“Well, not really,” the standing private said.
“There’s Billy,” the unshaven one said, smiling.
“Oh right, Billy,” the first said. “Ballistic Incendiary Long-range Explosive.”
“Kinda heavy though,” Scruffy said. “Especially without wheels.”
Runstom leaned over him. “We’re at point two five Gs on this moon, Defender. Is the weapon too heavy to get from your armory to the center of town?”
“Uh, I guess not …”
“Then bring it. And anything else you can carry. We’ll find wheels there.”
“This is crazy, Stanford,” Troyo said. “What do you think you’re going to do? Willy already said all the transports are locked down. And Private Whatserface said it’s a city-wide protocol.”
“Transports that have the add-on installed.”
“Yeah, so? Where are you going to find any that don’t have it? She said they all get it.”
“It’s not that hard, Peter,” Runstom said. “We just need to find someone who doesn’t obey the rules.”
CHAPTER 9
The whole of Vulca City had plenty of space to stretch out under the low rows of hexagonal dome ceiling tiles. Most of the buildings were wide and short, and The Rambling Whistle was no exception. When Runstom had received his initial tour of the moon’s facilities, the fairly good-sized tavern had stuck out in his mind as a possible escape from the drudgery of public relations, mainly because it had so many people coming and going, he knew no one would bother him if he found himself a corner to hide in. That and the Whistle had been the only place he’d seen on the tour that looked like it served a decent drink of any kind.
Inside, it looked much different than he expected. The rest of the town was so stark; all the buildings were a shade of gray, the lights were bright, there was always a dampened quiet, and everything was so sparse, and so clean. But here inside the Whistle, it was anything but those things. There were colorful paintings adorning the walls, so many of them they almost touched frame to frame, varying from abstract to photo-realistic. Music that seemed to sway between dreamy waves and punchy rock pulsed through the air like a heartbeat. It smelled real, a mix of cheap alcohol, cheap wooden furniture, and cheap clothing. And it was well attended, the chatter of a few dozen conversations mixing with the music like background percussion. It wasn’t so packed that Runstom and Troyo couldn’t move, but there were enough people to bump shoulders a few times on their way through the crowd. Among the majority, which were stout, light-skinned Sirius-fivers, Runstom noticed significant diversity in stature and skin color.
Not that he saw any green hues. Not that he ever did, even if he always caught himself looking. When he was a cop, scanning a crowd was taking stock: it helped to know where folks came from. Betelgeuse-3 dome. Barnard-3 dome. Barnard-4 dome. Sirius-5 dome. Terroneous. Poligart. A mining colony. An outpost. Even Earth. They all grew up somewhere. Unless their mother raised them on a ship. Always on the move. Never breathing an atmosphere. Never knowing sunrises or moon cycles. Artificial gravity exercise routines. Food from a tube.
When he was young, she wouldn’t stay put. Couldn’t stay put. Shadows on the horizon, ever closing. When he was old enough to fend for himself, she disappeared. Contact after that was on her schedule. Her prerogative.
He wasn’t a cop any more. So scanning the crowd, taking stock, what purpose did it serve? What was he doing? Not a cop, but still trying to get to the bottom of a situation. Not a cop, but still butting heads with criminals. Not a cop, but still trying to protect people.
“Now what?” Troyo said, relieving Runstom of his swimming thoughts.
“We need to start talking to people.”
“Okay.” Troyo looked around. “Where do we start?”
“Just—” Runstom didn’t know where to start. He needed people with vehicles. People who would have found a way around the Vulca City Protocol. The place had the feel of people who didn’t fit the rest of the complex, that was certain. “Let me just think for a minute.”
“Well, if we’re going to stand around in a pub, I’m getting a drink.”
Runstom followed Troyo up to the bar, where they found a pair of squat stools unoccupied. Troyo sat down in one and whistled over the din. For lack of any other direction for the moment, Runstom sat next to him.
The bartender was a broad, heavyset Sirius-fiver with only scraps of black hair lining the crown of his head. He waddled over to them and leaned across the bar. “Fellas. You two are new to town.”
“Yeah, but not new to alcohol,” Troyo said. “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
“Gin, tonic. You?”
Runstom frowned and cha
sed away the thought of how good a drink might taste. “Nothing for me.”
“Fella, we’re busy this morning. If you’re not here to drink, get off the stool.”
“Come on, have a drink, Stanford.” Troyo flashed a card. “ModPol’s buying.”
He sighed. “Beer, please. Something light.”
The bartender signaled to a woman behind the bar to pull the beer from a nearby tap while he went off to make Troyo’s drink.
“Excuse me,” Runstom said, leaning over the bar to address the woman. She was another Sirius-fiver – squat, but lean and muscular, dark hair drooping in curls around her face. “Is it usually this busy in here? It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“It’s the protocol,” she said, sliding his beer across the bar.
“The protocol? The VCP?”
“Yep, that’s the one. Half these people should be out working. The other half showed up because the lockdown seemed like a good excuse to drink.”
She walked away and he turned to Troyo. “I need to get everyone’s attention. There’s got to be a bunch of drivers here who have unlocked transports.”
“Then why aren’t they out driving them?”
“Well, then they would get caught.” Runstom sipped his beer and thought. “Right? They wouldn’t drive them unless they had to. No point in getting fined for violating the protocol for nothing.”
“More than fined,” the bartender said as he traded a drink for Troyo’s card. “Arrested.”
“Wait, that’s an expense account?” Runstom asked as the bartender took the card and waved it at the register behind the bar.
“Yeah, of course,” Troyo said. “You have a card, don’t you? You haven’t used it yet?”
He had been given a card, but no one really told him what constituted an expense. “They said I could buy clothes.”
Troyo leaned back in his stool to look Runstom up and down. “You haven’t even done that yet?”
“What, no – these are some of the clothes I bought.”
“Stanford,” Troyo said between sips of his cocktail, “you need to learn how to spend the company money.”
Runstom looked around the room briefly. He didn’t have time to think about shopping and they didn’t have time to sit around and drink. He needed to start talking, and he needed people to listen.
“Yeah, you’re right, Peter.” The bartender handed the ModPol expense card back to Troyo, and Runstom snapped it away and pointed it back out. “I’m going to start right now. Bartender – a round of drinks for everyone in here.”
“Fella, you know how many people are in here?”
“Is there a limit on this thing?” Runstom asked Troyo.
He shrugged. “I haven’t hit one yet. But I don’t think this is going to help your cause.”
“Do it,” Runstom said to the bartender. “One condition, though. I need you to turn off the music.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Runstom stood up and leaned over the bar. “Look. I just need a few minutes. A few minutes and everyone in the house gets a drink on me. And I’ll put something extra on the card for the service.”
The bartender studied him for a moment and then took the card. “Have it your way, fella.”
“This isn’t going to work, Stanley. You can’t bribe these people with booze.”
Still standing, Runstom looked down at Troyo. “It’s Stanford.”
The music stopped abruptly and after a moment, there was a collective groan of disapproval that continued to grow in volume.
“Listen up, folks.” The bartender had a small microphone and his voice projected from the speaker system. “We’ve got a newcomer to The Rambling Whistle, and this fella claims he needs a few minutes of your time.” The rumblings of the room amplified and Runstom looked around to see disapproval everywhere. “Now to make up for the interruption,” the bartender continued, “this fella is buying everyone in the house a round.”
The reaction was mixed, from muted celebration to sullen distrust. Whatever the case, he seemed to have their attention. The bartender handed him the microphone and Runstom looked out at the crowd. He was a bit taller than most Sirius-fivers, but not by enough. He took a deep breath, then stepped up onto his stool.
As he looked out over the sea of faces, now all turned on him, he decided to get quickly to the point. “Who here has heard of Space Waste?”
There were some low murmurs, and then someone called out, “Space Waste ain’t real, ya dummy.”
From the other side of the room an answer came: “They hell they aren’t! My cousin’s trawler was blinked by Space Waste.”
Shouts and jeers popped up around the bar. “I wish they weren’t real,” Runstom said, overpowering the discourse with the speaker system. “I wish that I’d never seen what they can do. I wish I’d never seen them murder two dozen of my colleagues, along with as many passengers. But I have.” He went quiet for a few seconds to make sure he had the pub’s attention. “I wish I thought they were a story. But they’re not. And I wish I didn’t have to stand here right now and tell you that they’re on Vulca.”
At this, the crowd erupted into a mélange of fearful questions and distrusting dissent. He could hear the words not real bouncing around the room, balanced by the words kill us, the latter delivered in an anxious, higher pitch.
“Listen to me,” he said, then had to repeat himself to regain the stage. “Listen to me. These Wasters, they’re bloodthirsty, savage bastards. But they’re just people. They act like animals. They think like animals. They only pick a fight when they know they can win. And like animals, they’ll run from a fight they might lose.”
A large man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “What are you gonna do, huh?” His voice was rough, and his once-black hair was showing streaks of gray. He was too tall to be from Sirius-5. “You gonna buy them rounds of drinks until they run away?”
“No.” Runstom looked at the man, then back out at the crowd. “They attacked the observatory. They aren’t coming here. Understand? If they were coming here, they would have come here first. But they went there. They want something in that observatory, and when they get what they want, they’re going to kill everyone there.”
Another man pushed his way to the front, though with greater difficulty. He was thin and tall and he had the stark-white skin of a B-fourean. “My wife Linzi is out there,” he said, looking from Runstom to the big man and back. “She does research at the observatory. You’re saying they’re going to kill her?”
Runstom wanted to answer in the affirmative, but looking the man in the eyes, the words stuck in his throat. “I can’t promise they won’t.”
The big man looked at the B-fourean. “What does he know?” he said, waving a dismissive hand at Runstom.
“Hey, you’re Officer Stanford Runstom.” A small, red woman with a wire-laden, bowl-shaped device strapped to one side of her head appeared at the edge of the crowd. “I recognize you from HV. You’re him, right?”
Runstom pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m Stanford Runstom.”
More noise rippled through the pub, though this time it was little more than murmurs and whispers.
“Officer Runstom,” the B-fourean said, raising his hand hesitantly. “My wife is out there. I – if there’s the slightest chance of danger – well, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what you plan to do, but I – I’m in.”
“Poppin, don’t be stupid—” the big man started.
“No, Koin, I’m going.”
“What are you going to do?” the woman said, aiming her helmeted head at the B-fourean called Poppin. “Walk to the observatory? We all know VCP kicked in about an hour ago.”
“Not every vehicle is locked down,” Runstom said. The room mumbled and nearly all of its occupants began to glance left and right, expressions ranging from sheepish to paranoia-fueled nervousness. He put up a hand “It’s okay. We aren’t going to—”
“No,”
Troyo said suddenly. He was up, standing on his own stool, jabbing a finger out at the crowd. “It’s not okay. It’s against the law. We got a few protocols of our own.” He turned to Runstom. “I say we go to every garage in this two-bit town and do an inspection.”
Runstom put a hand up to the subsequent grumblings. “We don’t have to do that.”
“Come on, Koin,” Poppin said. “You want them to impound that sweet rig of yours? I know you don’t have the add-on.”
“Damn it, Poppin. What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you tell them that?”
“Koin, we can save my wife’s life.” Poppin put a hand on the big man’s shoulder and pleaded into his eyes. “And you get to keep your truck.”
“We’ll get ourselves all killed is what we’ll do,” the short woman said.
“I promise you, you won’t have to engage them directly,” Runstom said. “We just need vehicles. As many as we can get.”
“Hey, do you think the Wasters knew about the protocol?” Troyo asked after slurping the last of his gin.
Runstom flinched and looked at him. He lowered the mic. “What?”
“Do you think—”
“Shit,” he said. He closed his eyes. He needed to stay in the moment, but he also needed to reason it out. “If they knew … then they knew no one would come out if the power was cut.”
From somewhere near the door, a voice floated over the crowd. “Hey Koin, Poppin. You guys. There’s a couple dudes outside in camouflage, and I think they have …”
“What?” Koin shouted.
“I think they have a hovercart. Full of guns.”
There was a surge toward the front windows, and it swept up Poppin but not Koin.
The short woman whistled. She was standing on a table looking out. “That is a lot of guns.”
Runstom felt Koin staring up at him. “You said we’re not going to engage.”
“We’re not,” Runstom said. He stepped down off the stool to meet the other man face to face. “I figure, we ride out there at top speed, discharging our loudest, brightest weapons.”
