Revelation Run

by Rick Partlow

  A confusing, rapid-fire cross-talk ensued and she wasn’t able to follow all if it, though she got the general idea Salvaggio was the one who controlled Trinity, or was allied with the ones who did, and a lot of the people who lived and worked there were from a place called Revelation and owed Salvaggio money. The conversation petered out as the lift began making stops, and she thought the people who’d been interested in her had left for one level or another, but then Larry appeared next to her, squeezing past the new entries and leaning in conspiratorially to speak in her ear.

  “Do you think you could sneak me out of here?” he asked her, voice so soft she could barely hear him. “I mean, if they want to hire me? Or I could pay you a little and maybe work the rest off?”

  The man, she realized, was desperate; she could smell his fear and it was contagious, infecting her by osmosis. Her breath was coming quicker, oncoming panic pressing down on her like the faux gravity, increasing the further the lift descended.

  “I’ll ask,” she blurted, perhaps a bit too loud. “I’ll ask my team leader and see what he says.”

  “My name’s Larry,” he told her urgently as the lift stopped again and his eyes darted toward the door. “Larry Tirado! I’m a tech in operations in level M-63…don’t forget!”

  And then he was gone, sliding out the door and merging with the crowd beyond, and she tried to breathe again. She barely had herself back under control when she saw the indicator flip to G level and she joined the press of bodies heading out the door, the storage box cradled in her arms. The corridor outside the lift was broad but low-ceilinged, barely tall enough for the Belters who frequented the station to avoid scuffing their heads against the cheap light panels or the air recycling vents sealed into tunnels burned through the rock. Water dripped from the vents into catch basins and was vacuumed up, presumably to be recycled as well.

  The place was nothing like the orbital stations or military bases she’d been aboard back in Spartan space. Those had been metal boxes, antiseptic and ruthlessly efficient. This was a cave, albeit one dug by humans rather than water erosion. The people wandered through the tunnels like blind mole-rats who would never see the sun, never feel it on their skin. They bustled from one task to another, from one meal to another, from one vacuous entertainment to another and barely lifted their hopeless eyes.

  She shivered at the image, but steeled herself, clutched the data crystals to her chest and stepped out into the maze of rats.

  7

  The bald man squinted at Terrin over the screen of his terminal and smirked, the glow of the display lighting up his face green in the low light of the little cubicle.

  “You know there’s a pretty big fee for this, right?” he asked. “I mean, like, there’s a 300-credit fee and also a twenty percent charge on top of that. And if you ain’t in the latest updates, you’re gonna have to wait until the next relay ship comes through the jump-gate with new data. Sure you ain’t got nothing you can sell?”

  Terrin was very conscious of the oversized thug from Customs standing over his shoulder, but he considered, for just a moment, whether he might be able to sell the Courier. It was useless to him and anyone else without processed antimatter fuel, and he was sure no one would be able to reverse engineer the thing without destroying it, but it felt wrong. Besides, it would probably get him into trouble even quicker than the funds transfer.

  “No, let’s just do it.”

  “It’s your money, kid.” The bald, doughy-faced clerk tapped at the surface of the touch screen with the desultory crawl of someone who was going to be working all day whether they helped you or not. He spun the screen around and pointed to a pad on the corner. “Put your thumb there for DNA ID and stare into the red dot for a retinal scan.”

  It won’t tell them my real identity, he assured himself, following the clerk’s instructions without enthusiasm. Not yet.

  No, it wouldn’t tell the clerk, but if anyone was smart enough to back-trace the routing codes, they’d be able to tell it went pretty far up the Spartan government ladder. And what was that saying Lyta had kept trying to drum into him? “Just because they’re bad doesn’t mean they’re stupid.”

  “Okay,” the clerk said, tilting his head back and forth like a metronome as he waited for the system. “…and there we go.”

  He opened a drawer of his desk, pushed a button and then nodded to an armored guard propped up on a stool in the corner. The man had been motionless and Terrin had thought he might be asleep behind the closed and darkened visor of his helmet, but he pushed up to his feet almost immediately and stepped over to a safe set in the wall. He raised his flechette gun across his chest, barrel at about a forty-five-degree angle, what he’d heard Lyta refer to as high port, and watched as the clerk entered a code into the lock panel, making sure to put his back between Terrin and the display so he couldn’t read it over his shoulder.

  When the clerk turned back around, he held a stack of paper-thin plastic chips, each infused with a pattern of nano-circuits programmed with a non-counterfeitable code. Terrin took them gingerly; he’d never actually used them before, though he’d seen them in action and mystery shows he’d streamed. Their texture was rough, bumpy, like the skin of a fruit except so thin he could fold them in two and fit them in a pocket. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he counted out the amount he owed Customs and handed it back to the agent. The big man counted them again before nodding, his greasy dreadlocks waggling in the lower gravity, and turning away to head for the lift station.

  “Be careful with those, kid,” the clerk advised him. “You got a big enough stack there, some people might kill for it.”

  Terrin shoved the bills in his pocket quickly, getting them out of sight before he stepped out of the tiny office. Tradenotes were the life-blood of the black market, the only currency everyone took wherever they went without any sort of identification or authentication or an established account required. He felt eyes on him, as if he wore a sign around his neck advertising fresh meat, and he hurried away from the area, hoping if he got far enough, no one would know he’d been there.

  He heard the chime of his ‘link and fished around in his jacket pocket until he found it and raised it to eye level. It was a message from Franny and he sighed with relief just to be getting it. He’d been worried about her going off alone. He read the text scrolling across the display of the ‘link and allowed himself a smile. She’d found them a broker. He fashioned a quick reply and headed for the lift banks.

  It was time to get rid of all this money.

  The place was dark and intimate without seeming stifling or claustrophobic, the soft grey of the curtains separating the room from the stark reality of bare rock. It reminded Francesca of a blanket fort she’d made with her cousins during a sleepover when they were six.

  “Your friend here tells me you’re the money man,” the woman said in a strange, outland accent, leaning back on her thick cushion as she regarded Terrin. “I am Lana Kane, and I make arrangements. What would you like to arrange?”

  The room suited Kane. Her robes were the same soft grey as the curtains, perhaps made from the same materials, and cheaply fabricated bits of jewelry shone red and blue and green where it was braided into her thick, auburn hair. She had the mannerisms of one of the actors who performed on the street corners outside the temples for the glory of Mithra…and contributions from the faithful.

  It had taken Franny almost an hour to find the woman. G-level was a fractal pattern of blind curves and dead ends and she’d been terrified to ask anyone, but she’d finally worked up the courage to speak to one of the custodial workers. Then she’d had to find someone else to ask because the directions the custodial worker had given had deposited her at the door of a kiosk selling some sort of fried soy on a stick. The soy had been delicious, even if it had cost her the golden anklet her last boyfriend had given her as a birthday gift.

  Even when she’d found the broker, she hadn’t wanted to risk approaching her alone, not ca
rrying the data crystals. She’d wound up waiting another half an hour for Terrin to find his way to her. It hadn’t taken him as long because he’d been able to trace her ‘link’s location and follow her path.

  “How do I know we can trust you?” Terrin asked.

  “You can ask around, if you have the time,” she invited him, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Or I can give you some sob story about how I worked my way up from mopping floors to brokering deals for the big boys and girls in the five years I’ve been stuck on this Mithra-forsaken rock trying to pay off my debt to Momma Salvaggio. Or you can just get down to business.”

  Terrin’s eyes flickered from Kane to her assistant, a stooped-over old man pushing a broom across the floor.

  “Gustavo,” Kane said sharply. “Leave us for now.”

  When the other man had gone, Terrin gestured for Franny to hand him the storage box with the data crystals. He set it gently down on the low table in front of Kane and let his fingers slide off it with obvious reluctance.

  “I need this kept safe,” he told Kane, gesturing at the box. “There are going to be people coming, I think, who want to take it, and we can’t have it with us when they do.”

  Kane ran the tip of her forefinger across the lid, but didn’t ask what was in it.

  “And if you don’t return for it?” she wanted to know.

  “Someone is going to come looking for me. My brother, a man named Jonathan Slaughter.” From the slight hesitation in his voice, Franny could tell he’d almost used his brother’s real name, Logan Conner. “He’s the only one you can give it to. I’ll pay you everything I have right now, ten thousand credits, and he’ll give you that much again if you keep your eyes open and contact him when he boards this station.”

  Kane’s eyes went wide, though Franny thought she saw some skepticism amidst the awe at the price he was offering. Terrin pulled the Tradenotes out of his jacket pocket and handed them over to the woman and her hazel eyes grew wider still, her mouth nearly falling open. Then her expression narrowed in what might have been caution, or perhaps fear.

  “Who’s going to be looking for this?” she demanded.

  “The Supremacy,” Terrin answered with an honesty that surprised Franny. “And if you’re thinking you could sell it to them and get a better deal, I don’t think they’re in a bargaining mood.” He made a face, as if he were remembering what had happened on Terminus. “They’re more in a ‘let’s take this and kill everyone who ever saw it’ kind of mood.”

  Kane seemed to consider it for a moment, eyes travelling between the box and the money until greed won out over caution like a switch being flipped, visible in her expression.

  “All right,” she said, tucking the money away somewhere under her robes. “It’s a bargain.” She spat into her palm and offered him her hand.

  Terrin regarded the hand for a beat, clearly disturbed by the gesture but just as clearly not wanting to give offense. He raised his palm up to his mouth and copied her gesture before shaking her hand. Kane unfolded smoothly, with the grace of a gymnast or a dancer, picking up the box as she rose. She half-turned as if she were going to take the thing away with her, but paused and gave Terrin a significant glance.

  “This is a lot of money,” Kane said, frowning. Franny had the impression the other woman was unhappy more about the pang of conscience she was feeling than she was about how badly she was ripping them off. “It’s enough to pay for this, as well.” Kane reached under her voluminous robes and pulled out a compact handgun, offering it butt-first to Terrin.

  The young man took it gingerly, as if he were reluctant to touch it, but he kept the barrel pointed at the floor and checked the chamber and the safety with moves exhibiting some training, if not a great deal of practice.

  “Thanks,” he said with a nod, then tucked the weapon into his right jacket pocket. “Remember,” he told her, “no one but Jonathan Slaughter.”

  “You paid your money,” she said, ducking through a gap in the curtains to one of the back rooms, “and I’ll do my job.”

  Franny waited until she was sure the woman was gone before she turned to Terrin, unable to contain the anger burning in her chest.

  “You gave her all the money?” she exploded with righteous indignation. “We could have bought passage on a ship back into the Dominions with that much money!”

  Terrin furiously shushed her and motioned towards the door. She followed him, grinding her teeth at the effort of keeping silent. When they were outside and down the corridor, in the sanctuary of the anonymous crowd, she cut loose again.

  “She could just toss the box out an airlock or fucking give it to Starkad just to avoid getting into trouble,” she hissed at him, shocking herself with her own language—she almost never cussed. “Why give her all our money and the box instead of trying to make a run for it?”

  “Because no one here is going to give us a ride anywhere they could get spotted by the military or police of any of the Dominions,” he shot back tautly, his voice low but intense. “They’d take our money then dump us and the data crystals out an airlock.”

  They were still walking, but Franny had no idea where they were headed, just an aimless weaving through the crowd to keep moving.

  “Then why not just hold onto them until your brother gets here?”

  “Because we’re not going to last that long,” he said. The anger had fallen away from his voice, the intensity gone from his eyes. His words had the tone of a terminal prognosis from a weary physician. “Someone’s going to trace the money transfer. They won’t know exactly who I am, but they’ll know I’m Spartan government and that’s enough to put a big, damned target on our backs.”

  His right hand was still stuffed in his jacket pocket, probably wrapped around the pistol. Cold realization settled into her core. He expected them to be attacked, taken prisoner, and he was going to use the gun to make sure they were killed instead. She wanted to scream at him, wanted to take the gun away, make him run back to Kane and get their money and the crystals back. This was insane…

  “Terrin,” she said, “there has to be something else, something we can do. Maybe that Kane woman could help us hide.”

  She knew the answer, knew the utter hopelessness of the words even as she said them, but they had to be said, a ritual she had to perform before she let herself give up hope.

  “She can’t hide us and the data crystals, Franny,” he told her. He didn’t seem annoyed with her, which was good because she probably would have hit him, commander’s brother or not. “Believe me, I don’t like this at all.” He whooshed out a breath as if he’d just run a mile. “I am not a soldier.”

  “Do you know how to use that gun?” she wondered.

  “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve never used one on a person, though.” He glanced over hopefully. “Do you want me to give it to you?”

  “I’ve shot a pistol twice,” she confessed, “and the last time was when I qualified during my promotion testing two years ago.”

  “Great.”

  They kept walking and she began to look around, trying to distract herself from the oppressive paranoia. No one seemed to be watching them, no one even glanced up from their own business, whether it be workers trudging from one task to another or travelers seeking their next deal. She began to notice the food kiosks; the fried soy hadn’t quite filled in the gap left from three days at a ration of a quarter of a protein bar a day.

  I’m hungry, she realized. Maybe I’m not dead yet.

  “Did you at least save enough money to get us a room somewhere?” she asked. “Maybe some real food?” She nudged him with her shoulder, and the simple touch made the darkness lighten. “I mean, there’s no point in being miserable while we wait around for someone to hunt us down.”

  He eyed her sidelong, snorting a disbelieving laugh.

  “Yeah, I got a few credits left. Not enough for the Executive Suite, but maybe somewhere we could shower.” He pulled at his collar with a finger and mad
e a face. “And maybe we could buy some new clothes…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Between one step and the next, he stiffened and convulsed; there was the space of a heartbeat when she believed he was having some sort of attack and raised a hand to catch him. Then she saw the dart in his neck, sleek and metallic and still discharging an electric stun charge. He was collapsing, his eyes rolling up in his head, too stunned to even cry out, and she wanted to help him, to grab the gun from his pocket, wanted more than anything to run.

  She was turning, spinning in place trying to find out where the attack had come from. She saw them, two men in dark clothing, nondescript, identical to the workers she’d let her gaze pass over. One of them had the dart launcher raised, pointed straight at her chest.

  She never saw the round that hit her, just felt the instant surge of pain and then blackness.

  8

  “Great Mithra, how do people live in this place?” Saul Grieg murmured, shaking his head. He’d worn his combat armor, but left the helmet behind and Laurent wondered if it was for comfort or simply to assert his authority.

  He seemed to be big on asserting his authority, so she guessed the latter. He certainly hadn’t shied away from throwing his weight around here on Trinity, starting with the head-on approach in the Sleipner, guns trained on the station’s polar docking ring, broadcasting a warning for all ships in dock to remain there or face destruction. She supposed after that, it had been wise to board the station in force to avoid hurt feelings leading to a confrontation, and a full company of Marines was enough to ensure no confrontations.

  “They don’t have much choice in the matter,” she told him, speaking softly from her spot walking at his left shoulder, both of them clomping along the floor of the docking bay in magnetic boots.

  Dull, soulless eyes stared back at her in silent resentment from the crowd of station employees held at bay by the guns of the Marine squad surrounding the Customs office.