Memento Mori

by Gingell, W. R.

  Worst of all, the officer who was currently looking down at him in a satisfied sort of a way was carrying a knife in one hand that was absolutely not WAOFy approved.

  Seventh Worlder, thought the very tiny portion of Sergeant Gormley’s brain that wasn’t screaming knife knife knife KNIFE!

  The Seventh Worlder took a single, swift step forward, yellow interview room light sliding greasily along the blade of his knife, and Sergeant Gormley ceased to think. He simply rolled onto his back without considering the indignity of it, and kicked.

  ***

  There was silence in the Evidence room. Suspicious silence. Marx had run as stealthily as he was capable of at his age and in his physical condition, but he was sneakingly sure that his best hadn’t been good enough. He should have been able to hear someone moving around the Evidence room with him, but all he could hear was the steady in and out of his own breath, and the occasional pop as the bone in his hip tried to right itself.

  That meant whoever was now in the room with him was trying to be very, very quiet. And that meant they knew he was somewhere in the room. Marx, looking around the room for inspiration—or perhaps just for somewhere to hide the Box temporarily before he came back for it—caught sight of something green and box-like atop one of the evidence lockers closest to the ground. If he’d been any taller, like the real Sergeant Gormley, he wouldn’t have been able to see it.

  Marx grinned. Someone really had hidden Sergeant Gormley’s lunchbox in the evidence lockers. That was amusing and very, very useful. He opened it and dumped the contents further back on the locker, then slid the Newlands Box inside and closed the lid. He put the lunchbox back where he’d found it and sauntered away from it, this time without troubling to hide the sound of his footsteps. He still couldn’t hear anything, but he had seen the flicker of shadow and light against the lockers approaching his, and he would have guessed that there were at least five other people in here with him.

  He didn’t even make it to the end of the aisle before two Seventh World men rounded the corner, their tread light and predatory. They weren’t as outright frightening as First World Hunters, but they had a deadly grace of their own that was hard to fight against in the regular type of rough and tumble that Marx was used to. Moreover, these men were young, and there was a nasty gleam in their considering, half slit eyes.

  Marx turned to retrace his steps, but by then another two men and one whip-like female were approaching from that direction. The question was now not if he could escape without a fight, but how many hits he would have to take before he could land a punch of his own.

  Marx took a few easy steps backward and let one shoulder drop a little toward the back wall so that he could keep an eye on both sets of approaching Seventh Worlders.

  He asked, “Looking for me?”

  “You and another little thing,” said the female.

  “I wouldn’t bother with the other little thing,” Marx said. “You’re likely to get bitten, and you don’t know what you’ll catch from a bite like that.”

  The female’s head tilted. “The girl is still with you?”

  “Not exactly,” said Marx, and jabbed a punch at the closest Seventh Worlder.

  ***

  Sergeant Gormley didn’t afterwards remember much of the skirmish. That was unsurprising: he had only the slightest of coherent ideas about what was happening at the time itself. A knife slashed close by his stomach, flicking up a single thread that he couldn’t help watching although there were more important things to be watching, and the Seventh Worlder tumbled over his kicking legs.

  It was a controlled tumble, though the man lost his knife in the performance, and he was on his feet again in a moment. Sergeant Gormley would have given himself up for dead, but somehow the Seventh Worlder was suddenly much taller—or was that a small girl sitting on his shoulders, beating him about the ears with a…a shifting spanner?—and then he was much shorter. He was, in fact, on his knees and falling forward, and Kez was dismounting from his shoulders at a satisfied trot. She continued toward Sergeant Gormley without a glance back at the body behind her, shifting spanner decidedly bloody.

  “You’ve killed him,” said Sergeant Gormley. He seemed to be gasping, though he would have preferred not to be.

  “Don’t think so,” Kez said, with a cursory look behind her. “He’s twitchin’. Didn’t hit him that hard. Marx don’t like me killin’ people.”

  Sergeant Gormley opened his mouth to ask again who Marx was, but there was still blood making tiny puddles on the floor below Kez’s spanner, and he found that he felt safer not knowing. Instead, he asked, “Did he just try to kill me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Kez shrugged. “Dunno. Never met the bloke. Maybe he don’t like sergeants.”

  “I don’t think that’s right,” said Sergeant Gormley, with the idea that Kez was evading the truth. She might even have looked a bit guilty.

  “Well, maybe he thought you was hidin’ me,” mumbled Kez. She added, defiantly, “Ain’t sure of that, though. Maybe they just wanted your name, too. There’s lots of people out there who ain’t as nice as me an’ Marx—would’ve been easier if we just killed you to start with, too.”

  “Oh,” said Sergeant Gormley. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Too messy,” Kez said, hunching her shoulders. “Don’t think we wouldn’t if we ’ad to.”

  There was an awkward silence where Sergeant Gormley didn’t know whether to say thank you or oh, then Kez sniffed and said, “Oi. The evidence lockers. Where are they?”

  “In the Evidence room,” Sergeant Gormley said, stupidly. He wasn’t surprised when Kez sniffed at him, though he did go slightly red.

  “I know that, bucko. I mean, where on the station are they? Point at the right bit on the map.”

  She brandished a small render pill at him, and from its reflective surface grew a render of the station that hovered above Kez’s palm. Where had she stolen that from? And why, wondered Sergeant Gormley suddenly, hadn’t he heard the door opening and closing behind him when she left?

  “That bit,” he said, indicating with the faintest twitch of one finger. He wasn’t in quite as bad a state as he had been before; at least now he could twitch those fingers. Was the wrap lock at last beginning its disintegration cycle?

  “Right. Gotta go.”

  “What?” Sergeant Gormley couldn’t prevent a less welcome twitch that sent his feet scrabbling against the shiny floor. “Go? Where are you going this time?”

  “Ain’t just one bloke,” said Kez. “Wot’s tryin’ to kill you, I mean. There was about seven of ’em out there in the halls when I got this liddle bean. An’ I reckon some of ’em are goin’ for the Evidence room. Reckon they’re after summink we’re after.”

  “I’m not after anything,” said Sergeant Gormley gloomily; but he was quite certain that we didn’t refer to himself and Kez. “What if they find me again?”

  “Reckon they’ll kill ya,” Kez said. “Best not be makin’ too much noise, eh?” she added, and disappeared.

  ***

  Marx wouldn’t have admitted it, but when Kez appeared and belted two of the Seventh Worlders from behind with his shifting spanner, it was only his third, exasperated thought that wondered how she’d managed to find him. His first thought was that if he’d known he was going to be fighting so often these days, he would have taken the trouble to get fit again first. That thought was accompanied by a small, grateful one acknowledging that he only had to incapacitate one last assailant before it was safe to rest.

  That last assailant, taking advantage of his distraction, sent Marx reeling into the lockers with a good, straight punch. Marx found himself hugging a tilting locker that had just enough of a slant to it to send the lunchbox he’d replaced there sliding into his face. He shook his head to clear the buzzing and heard the whisper of movement as someone crouched down behind him. Marx grinned and swung with the lunchbox, catching the last Seventh Worlder o
ver the ear with a nice solid hit. The man dropped sideways without a sound, disclosing Kez behind him, her hand raised to clock him with the shifting spanner.

  “Oi,” she said. “There’s a bunch of Seventh World types on the station.”

  “Yeah,” Marx said. “Got that. Thanks for warning me.”

  “Think that one’s tryin’ to get up again.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Marx, massaging his jaw as he rose. Nothing broken. That was nice. “I broke his leg. If he gets up he deserves to get away.”

  “Should I kick his leg?”

  “What did I tell you about kicking people?”

  “Go for the injured bits first.”

  “When did I tell you that?” demanded Marx.

  “Ain’t that you told me—”

  “Are you saying I fight dirty?”

  “Flamin’ dirty,” said Kez, with conviction.

  “Well, you’re not wrong,” Marx admitted. Kez was sufficiently small that her fierceness wouldn’t always be able to save her. “If you’re fighting, yeah; go for the injured and soft bits first. But when you’re done fighting, stop.”

  “Oh.” Kez looked down at the Seventh World denizen, who was still looking distinctly apprehensive, and had entirely given up on rising. “Why d’you reckon this lot is tryin’ to kill us?”

  “Could ask ’em,” said Marx, cracking open the lunchbox to show Kez the Newlands Box. “But I reckon it’s because of this box.”

  “Oooh!” Kez said. “Lookit that! This one knows what we’re talkin’ ’bout!”

  The injured Seventh Worlder shook his head violently, but Marx was already crouching by his side in a friendly manner.

  “Let’s have a chat, mate,” he said. “Who told you to steal this box?”

  “The Box—we weren’t—” the Seventh Worlder hesitated, but when Marx’s hand slapped down lightly on that injured leg in a slightly less friendly manner, he whitened and gabbled, “We weren’t sent for the Box. We were sent for you. Orders were to kill you and bring back anything on you. We didn’t know you’d have the Box.”

  Marx sat back on his haunches and remarked, “Well, that’s rude. What did we ever do to you?”

  The Seventh Worlder looked surprised. “Do? Nothing. It’s just orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Oi, Marx,” said Kez. “There’s more of ’em comin’.”

  Marx muttered under his breath and Kez kicked him in the shin. “What?”

  “If I ain’t allowed to swear, you ain’t!”

  He muttered under his breath again, but this time it was a more circumspect mutter. To the Seventh Worlder he said, “If I see you again, we’ll have a word together.”

  “Yes,” said the Seventh Worlder; though he looked as if he would very much have liked to say no. Marx saw his eyes flick past himself and Kez, saw his mouth open to yell for help, and then Kez shifted them both back into the Upsydaisy.

  ***

  Sergeant Gormley was quickly becoming inured to captivity. He had felt the loosening of the wrap lock a little earlier, though he wasn’t sure if that was natural decay or if it had been helped along by the scuffle, but he didn’t really begin to struggle until it occurred to him that the Seventh Worlder on the floor, who had until now been lying perfectly still, was now beginning to stir.

  “Oh,” said Sergeant Gormley. “Ah.”

  He began to struggle with something of a panicked lurch, rocking his shoulders back and forth to get every inch of extra room he could work out, but he was still wriggling out of the lock when the Seventh Worlder climbed grimly to his feet, dragging his knife with him. Sergeant Gormley, scuffling desperately to be free from the invisible bonds of the wrap lock, extricated himself just in time to stagger to his feet at the other side of the room.

  “Good,” the Seventh Worlder said from his side of the room, in heavily accented Common. “Now can kill you standing.”

  “Oh,” said Sergeant Gormley again. “Ah.”

  ***

  If left to himself, Marx would have used Sergeant Gormley’s lunchbox as part of his not-quite-plan. As was usually the case where Kez was involved, he wasn’t left to himself.

  “Can’t go blowin’ up the bloke’s lunch,” she argued, when he went to fill it with the delayed explosives he’d brought back from the Upsydaisy. They were once again in the Evidence room. “Oi, where’d them Seventh World blokes get to?”

  “Probably licking their wounds and looking for the Upsydaisy,” said Marx. “And I’m not blowing up Gormley’s lunch; his lunch is on a locker somewhere over there.”

  “Yeah, but we already hit him on the head—”

  “You hit him on the head.”

  “We already hit him on the head, twice. Can’t go blowin’ up his lunch as well.”

  “His lunch is—”

  “Use this one instead,” said Kez, more persuasively, pushing a far more expensive model of lunchbox into his hands.

  This one was a proper coolbox with segments and a special warmer as well. Marx wasn’t sure where she’d gotten it from, unless she’d been jaunting around the orbiting station while he was engaged in finding enough explosive to make a reasonable bang. Kez only grinned at him when he looked enquiringly at her, so Marx said, “Well, it’ll hide the explosive, anyway.”

  “Told yer,” said Kez smugly, and trotted away with the sergeant’s lunchbox.

  ***

  Sergeant Gormley had already seen Kez disappear and reappear without anything to announce the fact. So when she appeared again, between himself and the Seventh World man, there was only a single, prosaic question in his mind.

  Was that his lunchbox she was holding?

  The Seventh Worlder, seeing a figure he had reason to hate even more than Sergeant Gormley, slashed at neck level with his knife, wickedly fast.

  “Oo-er!” said Kez, and ducked.

  Sergeant Gormley didn’t think. He took two long strides across the floor, snatching up the interview chair, and swung solidly with all his weight behind it. The chair connected with the Seventh Worlder, who connected with the far wall. Sergeant Gormley stared at the crumpled figure in vague surprise, and it came to his attention only when it was too late, that he could no longer see Kez in his peripheral.

  “Thanks, bucko,” said her voice from behind him, and something hit him in the head.

  Sergeant Gormley didn’t exactly lose consciousness, but things became slightly kaleidoscopic for a few minutes. When his vision cleared up, there was the sensation of pressure around his upper body again. At least, he thought with a sigh, at least this time his fingers weren’t losing feeling. He blinked a few times and came to the conclusion that he was no longer locked up in a random interview room, either.

  Sergeant Gormley sighed and gloomily decided that this could be seen as a forward step, too.

  Kez cheerfully said, “Oh, you’re back. C’mmon, bucko. We’re goin’ somewhere.”

  “Where?” groaned Sergeant Gormley as the world went odd and perhaps sideways. When it righted itself they were somehow in the Evidence room.

  “Somewhere there ain’t a group of Seventh World muckers tryin’ to kill you,” Kez said, with great good sense, tugging him along by the cuff. “Oi, Marx!”

  That voice was sharp, and Sergeant Gormley wasn’t entirely surprised when the man she had thus hailed nearly dropped the box he was holding. He grabbed for it desperately and caught just before it hit the floor.

  Sergeant Gormley was almost sure he saw the slow tilt of setting explosive from the inside of that box, and he felt sick with relief.

  The man dropped his head and heaved a pained sigh before he looked up again. “What’s this?”

  “Sergeant Gormley,” said Kez.

  “I know who he is! I’m Sergeant Gormley!”

  “You ain’t really, Marx. Them Seventh Worlders hit you too hard?”

  “Do you think you could take off this wrap lock?” Sergeant Gormley asked. That was blood on the floor by
his foot, he was certain, and if there were to be any more attacks he wanted to be able to defend himself.

  “No,” said Marx and Kez together, without looking at him.

  Marx, exasperatedly, said to Kez, “If I’m going around the station as Sergeant Gormley, you can’t trot out the real Sergeant Gormley!”

  “Them Seventh Worlders were tryin’ to kill him, too.”

  “Ah,” said Marx. “They must have been using his name, too.”

  “Yeah, that’s wot I reckon,” said Kez. She sounded far too pleased with herself for Sergeant Gormley’s liking.

  It was even less to his liking that there were a ridiculous amount of people running around this station using his name. Sergeant Gormley was beginning to feel annoyed.

  “Anyway, ain’t safe out there for him.”

  “Are you putting explosives in a lunchbox?” asked Sergeant Gormley, feeling as though he should at least attempt to get some answers.

  Kez said, “Yeah!” with enthusiasm, but Marx flicked him a look and advised, “You’d be better off if you didn’t ask questions.”

  Since Sergeant Gormley was largely of that mind himself, he didn’t try to push the matter. Instead, he said, “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Haven’t decided yet,” said Marx, and walked away down the next aisle with his explosive-laden box. His voice floated back, “But if you don’t forget what you’ve seen today, I can guarantee you won’t like it.”

  “How can I keep quiet when you’re going to blow up the station?” protested Sergeant Gormley.