Time Virus

As Lida’s car breezed into the parking lot of the nursing home, she noticed a few letters had fallen off the sign. At first glance, she thought the bottom of it read “noir living.” Her stomach sank. Then the “o” and “i” rearranged themselves back in the proper order where the “s” and “e” of “senior” had fallen away. She didn’t really want to be here for her final high school volunteer credit. Still, it was better than picking up trash along the highway. Roadside beautification projects were the worst.

She was fifteen minutes late which was unusual and annoying. She’d had trouble finding the place. Her car’s navigation system had gotten confused by all the new neighborhoods. Something was wrong with the last auto-installed update. The complex was nearly hidden among old trees. Lida remembered riding her bike to the middle school just down the road before her father’s job had moved again. Back then, all these streets had been two-way, not green-spaces crisscrossed with alternative transportation routes. She hadn’t known this facility was even back here. Allison had said there was an old Civil Defense bunker tucked away somewhere nearby, too, but Lida had never believed her.

The sky was a hazy tan that dimmed the sun like fog. All her social media pages said it was from layer of fine Saharan dust blowing across the Atlantic. It looked surreal but it made for a pretty sunrise. Maybe it was a sign that she was really meant to be here. With her father’s transient work schedule, she always felt alone, a leaf on the wind blowing from place to place until nowhere felt like home. At first she’d been excited that they’d ended up back here. But Allison was the only friend who let her back in. Kind of.

The parking lot was almost empty. Lida instructed the car to claim a spot near the front door. At least it didn’t try to park in the handicapped zone again this time. It was a known issue with this version of the operating system, but her father said a general recall would cost too much. She plugged the car into the charging post, hoping the solar cells had been maintained, and went inside.

She was greeted by a male nurse in teal scrubs sitting behind a counter. She hoped they would give her scrubs. As long as they weren’t pink, and didn’t have any cutesy little animals on them. He filled his out nicely. His green-bordered electronic badge read “Salvatore.” An exotic name that matched his tanned forearms and sun bleached hair. He was cute and maybe five years older than she was.

“May I help you?” he asked in a mild, Mediterranean accent. “If you are visiting a resident, you will need to sign in.” He tapped a clipboard on the counter with a ballpoint pen. Who still used those? She expected a tablet and a stylus like even most low-end restaurants had. It was like this place had dropped back in time.

She glanced at the paper. Not many names. Good. Maybe that meant she wouldn’t have much to do. How hard could a summer of this be? She stood up a little straighter, smiled and pulled her hair back over one ear. “I was told I report to Mrs. Quinn.”

He gave her a quick once over, taking in her sneakers, jeans and maroon t-shirt but not lingering like she hoped he might. “And you are?”

“Lida Lorenz,” she said, resettling her purse on her shoulder. He just stared at her politely until she added, “Your new community service volunteer.”

A kind of recognition dawned in his eyes. His professional smile turned brittle. “You’ll find her at the nursing station in B Wing.” 

“And which way is that?” Lida asked when he didn’t offer any more information.

“Through there and around the corner.” He pointed to the doors to his left. “Mrs. Quinn is the only one in white.”

Lida wanted to flirt but his attention had already wandered. No one took her seriously anyway. Just another mandatory high school volunteer, and not a cute one like Allison. She hoped everyone else was nicer. Bad enough she was forced to perform two summers of community service before she could graduate.

As she passed through the double doors from the lobby, the smell of the place nearly overwhelmed her. A sharp, acrid scent like a mix of industrial cleaners and grandmotherly decay. Yuck. How could people stand it? She stopped at a water fountain to dab on some perfume. She didn’t want to go through the day smelling like janitorial old age. The people here deserved something more pleasant to brighten their day.

The hall was lined with shadow boxes framing large, neon colored butterflies, their beauty frozen in their final moment. Poor creatures, sacrificed for someone else’s sense of need. Every room she passed had a television blaring, sometimes two in conflict. Lida wondered how much attention any of the residents really got. Entertained by a steady stream of game shows while served by imported guest workers and conscripted volunteers, there was the irony in how much their service to the nation was valued. But it was the only way to balance the budget and keep their taxes low her father said.

When Lida rounded the corner, she was confronted by a gauntlet. Nearly a dozen men and women, most in wheelchairs, lined the hall between her and the nurses’ station. Some of them murmured to themselves, others repeatedly asked for help, both kinds mumbling the same words over and over again like a prayer. Two young nurses, maybe a couple years older than she was, were chatting over steaming beverage cups, ignoring the patients until one scuttled up to the counter.

“We’ll be with you in a minute, Mrs. Mikkelsen,” the blond nurse in bright pink scrubs said, not looking directly at the woman.

Her dark haired companion in blue wave patterned scrubs told another patient who started forward, “Mrs. Browning, you know it’s not time for that.”

Both had distinct accents. The blond sounded like that Russian model from Lida’s favorite streaming comedy, the brunette like all the islanders she’d met on the Caribbean cruise with her parents last Christmas.

The press of patients was daunting. But Lida hitched up her purse and tried to snake her way through the congregation, dodging one way then another as they vied for her attention and converged to block her way. An overripe aroma of geriatric vinegar assaulted her nose even through her perfume. She felt sorry for them but didn’t know what she could do.

Somehow, she made it to the clear space around the horseshoe counter untouched, almost as if the nurses’ station was the safe zone in a slow-moving game of tag. Before she could introduce herself, she heard the circular squeak of a wheelchair approaching from behind then felt an insistent set of tugs on her shirt like a young child demanding her attention. “Miss… Miss…”

“Mr. Bahr, you leave that poor girl alone,” the Caribbean nurse admonished. “Unless you need something, get to your room. Otherwise, back against the wall and wait with the rest.”

Like a sulky child, the old man dropped the corner of Lida’s shirt. She watched him retreat down the hall muttering, his wheelchair screaking the entire way.

A sturdy woman in a white uniform and tightly squeaking white shoes strode past him the other way with barely a glance. Her short, mousy brown hair that had just begun to grey to tarnished steel. As she approached the counter, the patients parted around her as if driven back by her wake. Her red bordered electronic badge that contrasted against her formidable bust read, “M. Quinn, R.N.”

“Lizabeth, get these patients sorted.” the woman instructed the Caribbean nurse in a lilting accent of her own, “I want this hallway clear before PT and OT arrive.”

Next, she turned to the Russian nurse, “Sara, I’m surprised you have time for chatting. I’m sure that means when I look in on A Wing, I’ll find all your duties done.”

Finally, she fixed her sea-gray stare on Lida. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Nymphalida Lorenz, your new…”

“I know who you are, Ms. Lorenz,” the older woman snapped. “I also know you were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

“I had trouble finding…”

“That’s not my concern,” Mrs. Quinn cut her off. “You’re here for a community service credit, though God only knows why the administrator thinks this is a good idea. But if you’re late again, I’ll report you.”

“But I didn’t…”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’re here to work. Tomorrow, see that you come on time and prepared. That means a scrub top and either scrub bottoms or white pants. Just like the orientation packet says.”

“No one gave me an…”

“And wash off that perfume. Some of our residents have allergies.”

“Sara,” Mrs. Quinn addressed the blond nurse again, “give Ms. Lorenz a quick tour of the facility. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get her a badge. She can help you in A Wing today. And see if you can find her something more suitable to wear.”

“Ok, ladies, chop, chop.” Mrs. Quinn clapped her hands like an elementary school teacher shooing errant children in from recess. “We don’t have all morning. Oh, and don’t let me catch either of you without your badges again. Out and above the waist, those are the rules. Infractions won’t help you at your naturalization hearings.”

Both women sheepishly pulled their badges from their pockets and clipped them to their collars. Lizabeth circled around the desk and began tending the gathered patients, the green border of her badge lighting up briefly with each one she approached as it recorded their interaction, just like Lida’s school ID. They probably used the same color code, too. Green for guest worker, red for naturalized citizen, and blue for native born. Their monitoring seemed to be the only modern touch in the entire facility.

Sara guided Lida back the way she’d come. “I’ll show you where you can lock up your purse.” She gave Lida’s torso a critical once over. “I think I have an old top in my locker that might fit.”

---

Mrs. Quinn kept Lida running the rest of the morning. Each time she’d tried to sneak a break, she found the older woman hovering behind her. Like she had a GPS tracker on Lida and knew exactly how much time she had on her hands at any given moment. All three women assigned Lida scutwork errands they could have easily run themselves. A community service credit wasn’t supposed to be this hard. 

By late morning, both wings had begun to calm down. On her way back from dropping off another set of obsolete paper files, Lida snuck into the break room to catch her breath. She found Sara and Lizabeth chatting over an early, impromptu lunch. Sara absently thumbed through a glossy magazine. Lizabeth studied an old-fashioned newspaper, like Lida’s grandfather used to read. She didn’t know anyone still printed those anymore. Neither of them much more than glanced up when she entered. Like her mother and father nearly every morning at breakfast.

Lida pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her social media pages to see what her friends were doing. It had to be something more interesting than this. How had she gotten stuck with this assignment? She’d been late to class that day, too, because of the car, and all the choice slots had been taken. She should have written out an independent study outline like Allison. Her community service counselor had tried to convince her she would actually be helping people here. He almost made it sound appealing. Another condescending lie like all adults told, though Lida had really wanted to believe him.

“Some sky this morning,” Sara said to no one in particular. “The radio said it’s dust from Africa but I don’t believe that can be true.”

“Mmm,” Lida answered. She didn’t bother to correct the other woman. No one ever listened to her anyway.

“That top looks good on you,” Sara said a moment later.

Lida glanced up from her phone, surprised. “Does it?”

“It looks better on you than it ever did on me,” Sara replied, her eyes still on an ad with impossibly shapely and happy women laughing in a gym. “Keep it. It’s out of style this year anyway.”

Before Lida could say thank you, Sara began browsing an article with a bored expression that said her gesture was nothing but just that.

Lizabeth noisily folded up her newspaper then sighed and asked Sara. “So what does your afternoon look like?”

“I have to check on Mr. Wu.” Sara rolled her eyes, flipping another page.

“Which one is Mr. Wu?” Lida asked. She wondered if he was one of the patients around nurses’ station that morning.

“You haven’t shown her?” Lizabeth shot a dark look at Sara.

“I haven’t had time,” Sara protested, finally looking up. “This is the first break I’ve had.”

“All those clocks in his room,” Lizabeth shook her head, “not one of them right or running…”

“And the cat in the garden?” Sara interjected. “Every time he sees it, he calls it a different name.”

“It’s dark magic.” Lizabeth shivered, then admonished Lida, “Stay away from that one, child. He’s infected with the time virus.”

“Time virus?” Lida rolled the words around, uncomfortable with what they might mean. Hadn’t Allison shared an underground shockumenatary about something like that back in middle school? A secret anti-aging experiment conducted on military volunteers? Some sort of bio-engineered virus that threw a switch in cells. The video had claimed there was an uncertain age threshold where the treatment would no longer work and unwanted side-effects on those who had survived. Most seemed to drift through time, their memories unanchored. One moment they believed they were sixty, the next sixteen. See, immortality wasn’t all sparkly vampires, Allison had said. When Lida had asked her father if everyone would live forever now, he had said none of it was real or it would have made cable news. Besides, the government couldn’t afford it after the riots over retirement benefits and the debt. The price of a volunteer economy.

“At least he’s not violent,” Sara added. “And his poor wife. Can you imagine him volunteering her as a test subject? Maybe it is best he doesn’t remember.”

“Don’t listen to their foolishness, Ms. Lorenz.” They all looked up to find Mrs. Quinn standing just inside the break room door. Somehow, she’d entered without any of them noticing. “He’s no different than any other patient. We’re a VA facility. We don’t get to pick and choose. Speaking of which, ladies, let’s get back to work.”

---

By mid-afternoon, Lida needed some fresh air. The stench of cafeteria lunches still roiled her stomach. Almost as bad as the underlying odor of the rest of the facility. She wondered if it would cling to her clothes like the smell of grease had during her mandatory work-study internship in fast food for her work ethic class.

On her way back from yet another errand that any modern computer network would have made obsolete, Lida ducked into the facility’s large central courtyard. It had once been a manicured garden where the residents could experience a little nature. Now, it was overgrown with weeds and tiny wildflowers sampled by yellow butterflies. Like a haven or a sanctuary. A prefect place to hide.

She really needed coffee but they didn’t have a single-serve machine in the break room, just some disgusting sludge in a communal pot. She wished she could slip out for a mocha but didn’t know where to get one nearby. Plus she didn’t think Mrs. Quinn would understand even if she brought one back for her.

Instead, Lida pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her messages, then ran through her sites again looking for little red numbers. Less than a half dozen. She began posting a quick series of updates, copying them across platforms. Her being here wasn’t really helping anyone.

She jumped when something brushed against her leg. A Siamese cat meowed for attention as it looked up at her. Lida ignored it, turning back to her phone. It stood on its hind legs and rubbed against her knee. Then it headbutted her shin with a hollow thunk.

“Felicia,” a man’s voice scolded from deeper in the garden. “Leave her be. Can’t you see she wants to be alone?”

Lida looked up, confused whether the man was talking to her or the cat. He stood ten feet away, neatly dressed in casual clothes. He wasn’t young but didn’t look old either. Definitely not a nurse. A visitor, maybe?

He made a high-pitched noise by sucking air through his teeth. The cat ran to him.

“You must forgive my Sandra Day,” he said, petting the cat’s head and scratching behind its ears. “The sun-bleached sun fades to moonrise against a brushed platinum sky.” He looked upward then smiled at her apologetically. “The color of ashes instead of its normal blood. It’s confusing.”

A patient? He didn’t sound quite right, but was he dangerous? Lida didn’t think so. The way he spoke reminded her of her grandfather after his stroke. Even if he couldn’t get the right words out, there was still an intelligence trapped inside. If only she could interpret this man’s strange poetry.

“Are you ok?” she asked. “Is there someone I should call?”

“No one knows I’m here.” He reached down and scooped the cat into his arms. The Siamese didn’t seem to mind. “I’m infected, but I’m not contagious.”

“Infected with what?” Lida was torn. Part of her wanted to back away but another part of her wanted to hear his answer.

“Time virus,” the man said as he stroked the contented cat. So it was real. “It was the only way to save her.”

“The cat?” Lida asked, confused. A therapy cat maybe. She’d seen online videos of those but no one had mentioned the facility had one.

“Pristina doesn’t want to live forever,” he answered, scratching beneath the cat’s chin. “Do you girl?”  The Siamese began purring as rough as an ancient combustion engine, the kind they’d outlawed when Lida was a child. The man cocked his head. “This place is run by the military, you know.”

Lida nodded. “You’re a veteran?”

“I did my duty to bring us to a new country. We both agreed. ‘Soldiers fight and soldiers die. Soldiers live to wonder why.’”

“I’m sorry.” Lida reached out to touch his arm. She was sure he was harmless. She felt sorry for him. “Is there anything you need? I’ll be here every day for a while.”

He shrugged. “When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m tired, I sleep. Otherwise, I just am.”

“Are you hungry now?” Lida asked, hoping there was something she could do to help, even if it was small. “I can take you to the cafeteria.”

He shook his head. “I’ve eaten all my children. It’s just me and Jasmine, now.”

“Then why don’t I help you back to your room,” she said, not quite sure what else to do.

He paused as if considering then nodded once as he deposited the cat back on the path. He didn’t look unsteady, but Lida offered him an arm as she used to do with her grandfather when she’d take him out for coffee. He smiled wanly as he slipped his arm over hers, a touchstone for balance not support.

Outside the wide, faux-wood institutional door marked 47A, the name “Wu, Wei” was printed on the tiny display screen, parenthetically marked “Unoccupied” in red below. So this was Mr. Wu. He didn’t seem crazy, just maybe a little lonely. Sometimes people only needed someone to listen.

“They know when I come or go,” he said as he stood before the door, then snuck an exaggerated peek at her collar and smiled. “But they don’t know who comes in with me unless they have a badge.”

Lida took that as an invitation and followed him inside. She wasn’t ready to get back to meaningless make-work anyway. Besides, she liked him. When she spoke, he looked at her like he was really listening, like he was truly interested in what she had to say. Nobody had ever treated her that way before. Most people were only waiting for their turn to talk.

The room was heavily shadowed with thick draperies drawn against the outside light. It was configured as a studio, not much bigger than her room at home, with small living area adjacent to a recessed, curtained off sleeping nook created by the wide-mouthed bathroom. Opposite, a no-stove kitchenette with a dining bar looked out on the curtained wall.

Nestled among the cabinets, a microwave flashed either noon or midnight, like a constantly blinking reminder of a long forgotten appointment. It had to be old to be independent and disconnected. Lida wondered if it even worked. Every appliance she’d ever seen was on the network and self-setting except on the rare occasions when the satellites were down.

“Sit, sit.” Mr. Wu said, waving her through to the main room as he diverted into the kitchenette. “Guests require tea.”

As Lida entered his living space, she saw several more clocks displaying static, unmoving time. These were truly ancient, all gears with two hands meant to rotate around a dial, just like she remembered being taught by a grandmotherly volunteer in daycare and had rarely seeing since. But all their pendulums were still, their springs unwound, their hands at different angles.

A wall clock, a freestanding grandfather, a carriage clock, a dark wood cuckoo with its distinctive pinecone weights and chains, silver and gold pocket watches, a pre-quartz Timex wristwatch without a band, a kitschy, windup travel alarm cube no larger than an inch on every side. The kind of clocks she’d only seen at her grandparents’, at elderly neighbors’, on documentaries and in antiques stores.

They were interspersed between black, lacquered frames with old photographs, ink and glossy paper, not even digital never mind moving. A few were even black and white.

The rest of the furnishings were sparse, two backless, wooden barstools, a rustic coffee table with matching end tables beside a pair of bentwood and leather swivel chairs. The back of an ivory kimono hung on the wall behind them, delicately embroidered with a swarm of lavender butterflies rising from tree-lined mountains like a wisp of smoke.

A small easel stood facing the wall of draperies. Its tray held a set of sable brushes with a stone basin on one end stained with ink, the kind she remembered from art camp that you grind and mix yourself. The easel held a canvas with a brushstroke cat curled up in a stylized hollow of bamboo. Lida drew open the curtains a hand-width to find they concealed a floor to ceiling window that looked out onto a clump of bamboo in the garden. The room warmed as a beam of dappled light spilled in.

Mr. Wu hummed in the kitchenette as he clinked his way through assembling a tea service. A low tone from an electric kettle indicated the water had boiled. The sound of pouring followed.

He emerged a moment later carrying a wooden tray containing two handleless, ceramic mugs, an iron tea pot, a strainer and mismatched containers for sugar, cream and tea. The blue and gray glaze on the mugs reminded Lida of mountains against the sky.

Mr. Wu carefully set the tray on the coffee table. He motioned for Lida to sit as he began preparing the tea. He set about the task as if performing a familiar choreographed ballet, his manner precise yet effortless. He moved slowly but purposefully, completely focused and unrushed.

A moment later, he extended a steaming mug toward Lida with both hands. He showed no sign of even the slightest tremor. If anything, he moved more fluidly than she did. The mug was warm as she grasped it. Mr. Wu flicked a hand toward the sugar and creamer on the tray.

Normally, Lida would have swirled a heaping spoonful of sugar into the mug as if it were coffee. The only tea she’d ever had was brewed from a bag that came out of a large, cardboard box at her grandmother’s. It always tasted bitter. This smelled different, mellower. It was pale green rather than ditch water brown.

Mr. Wu watched her, unmoving. She opted to take an unadorned sip. It was surprisingly smooth yet full of subtle flavor that sugar might have destroyed. Nutty with a hint of plum, not bitter at all. Lida smiled and nodded. Mr. Wu smiled back and picked up his own mug in response.

A silence settled over them for a moment as they each enjoyed their tea. Mr. Wu didn’t seem bothered so neither was Lida. Most people saw silences as awkward, unnatural moments meant to be filled. She studied the nearby photographs.

“Is that your wife?” Lida pointed to the picture of a woman in a kimono that appeared to be the same one on the wall. “She’s beautiful.”

“The lady of the lake.” Mr. Wu smiled warmly. “The lord of the ring.”

“She’s dead now, isn’t she?” Lida said quietly.

He nodded gravely. “Two fish chasing each other’s tail, one black, one white, each on opposite sides of an ever-curving line. One defines the other and can never swim alone.”

“What happened to her?” she asked, only thinking after the words were out that perhaps she shouldn’t have.

“I did.” Mr. Wu didn’t sound perturbed, just honest and forthright. “Without me, she would never have volunteered.”

“Was she infected with the time virus, too?” Lida turned the mug nervously in her hand.

He nodded. “Too late to save her. Only me. The present is a finely honed razor slicing past from future. She had passed beyond the threshold I will ever stand before. Forever Chronos, I have no past, no future, only an eternal now.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lida said, adding as reflex, “I wish there was something I could do.”

After a long, evaluating pause, Mr. Wu finally said, “Light is razor sharp yet shadows shine like polished silver. But even shadows fade as clouds obscure the sun.” He eyed her oddly and whispered, “Help me fade.”

A deeper silence settled over them. Lida felt self-conscious like she was suddenly on display. Like the days she’d sat with her grandmother in her perfectly ordered living room, a child struggling not to squirm.

A moment later, Mr. Wu set down his mug, walked into the alcove with the bed and pulled the curtain shut behind him. Lida could hear him moving, out of sight. Eventually the sound of his rustling stopped. She could still hear his slow, even breathing.

Lida remained in her chair. She knew she should leave, knew she should get back to work before someone came looking. But the tears welling in her eyes kept her frozen in place. The other nurses thought Mr. Wu was crazy. Lida knew he wasn’t crazy; he was just trapped by the time virus in a life that was barely an existence. She’d seen it with her grandfather.

She sat for a long time, staring down at the cooling mug, the warm, welcoming tea turning bitter in her hands. She didn’t know how much time had passed. Finally, when she noticed Mr. Wu’s breathing had become muted as if he’d fallen asleep, she rose. She carefully set her own mug next to his. She walked quietly, purposefully just as she’d seen him do.

At the curtain, she paused, uncertain. She wasn’t ready to be alone. Was this what he really wanted? Was that what he’d really said? As much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she’d come here to make a difference. Mr. Wu’s plea echoed in her ears, words her grandfather had never said but always seemed poised to. Help me fade.

Quietly, she slipped through the curtain and stepped inside.

---

Lida was used to failing, as was everyone around her. Now, she would have to find another volunteer position before she could graduate. Maybe she’d talk to Allison.

On her way out, she stopped before the wall clock. She knew she shouldn’t linger. Sara could come at any minute to check on Mr. Wu. When she found him, there would be an investigation that would likely end with Lida’s dismissal, or worse if she was seen. At least she’d helped someone even if that meant she was once again alone.

She noticed a clear, plastic push pin a quarter inch from the framing around the pendulum, just off to one side. She slid the bottom of the clock snug up against it so that it was no longer quite level. She set the hands to the time on her phone then flicked the pendulum with a finger.

The mechanism was ticking rhythmically as the door clicked shut behind her. 

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Underground Science

Underground Science - a reading (on YouTube)

The basement was hot, damp and poorly lit. A less than ideal classroom. We hadn’t repaired the window unit. Not that we could run it anyway. Gomez said power consumption would be monitored. A continuously running AC meant someone trying to conceal a heat signature. Heat signatures attracted the Heritage Police. So we foiled and bubble-wrapped the windows, and kept the lights as low as possible. Even dim, naked bulbs generate heat.

Since the Fall, all of us had changed. Gomez had run a grow house. Marquez had been a coyote. Grings had been a black market smuggler. Guerron had been an identity thief. They were now frontline soldiers in the resistance, heroes of the revolution. And me? I was a biologist. I was barely out of grad school when the Heritage Police shuttered our department. Like the others, I was now an outlaw. Our cell lived from moment to moment, basement to basement, spreading knowledge of the resistance one lecture at a time.

Outside, Gomez stood lookout in a cool suit. That gave him a couple hours before he’d be visible to the circling IR drones. For people who had tried to criminalize the 2^nd Law of Thermodynamics, the Heritage Police certainly exploited heat.

Guerron was off nailing down new identities to get us to our next destination. Each year, the watch lists grew exponentially. With the increasing number of proscribed writings, it was harder and harder to find clean names. Now, even a single copy of Watts or Reynolds earned an official inquest. Schrödinger’s little book drew hard labor. As did anything that contradicted the official texts.

Grings set out just over a dozen books, one every two chairs. They’d been smuggled in from Glasgow via Halifax then down eastern seaboard. Each one carried a death sentence. And still they’d have to share. But physical books were safer than electronic copies. The Heritage Police had spiders that crawled through everything that touched the web.

Marquez led the recruits into our improvised classroom, mothers and daughters, no makeup, modestly dressed, just like that bans dictated. Many had once been professional women, the ones who’d lost nearly everything in the Fall. Their unadorned faces and long skirts served as camouflage now, just as their business suits and lipstick had before. It always surprised me how many risked their lives to ensure their daughters were exposed to more than just a single book. Though, were I a mother, I knew I’d be sitting right beside them.

Marquez and Grings settled by the door as security. Assassination attempts had become all too frequent. The others carried guns; I carried spores. Either way, if we were captured, none of us would survive. The stakes had become too high for one cell to compromise the entire organism. The Heritage Police were a cancer. We were the antibodies. It was our duty to sacrifice ourselves so the greater whole might live.

Once the audience stopped shuffling, I stood and approached the lectern. All eyes remained on me. No one dared look left or right for fear that someone might mistake their curiosity. Informants were an ever present danger. More than one cell had simply disappeared.

I smiled and made eye contact. This was so much different than when I’d been a TA in college. Then, I’d seen teaching as a burden. Lecturing to huge auditoriums filled with students nearly as disinterested as I was. Now, standing before just a couple dozen was a privilege.

Sweat trickled down my neck and ribs. Only a little of that was nerves. Thirty bodies crammed into a tiny basement heats the air up fast. I hoped our improvised insulation held. I had an hour to cover the material then half that for Q&A. This lecture and the book might be the only exposure these women got before they passed the knowledge on.

“Since our time is short,” I began, “I want to touch on a few key concepts.”  I quickly reviewed variations in domestic species, variations in nature, the struggle for existence. Instinct, hybrids and embryology. The balance between predators and prey. Fortunately, most of the women had taken at least a year of high school biology before the Fall. The girls were not so lucky. The mandatory classes had been censored. Advanced placement remained open only to the faithful.

“Now let’s turn to Chapter IV,” I said, glancing at my watch. Half my time was gone. “First, allow me to clear up a common misconception. Social Darwinism is not survival of the fittest, no matter what the Heritage Police might say.”

As if invoking their name could summon them like the magic they believed in, the lights went out and the basement door crashed open. In the pause as each of us drew a breath, we all knew we’d been betrayed. An instant later, twin staccato strobes of gunfire flashed and echoed through the confined space as Marquez and Grings opened up.

A confused scramble erupted through the basement. Folding chairs clattered to the floor. Men yelled. Women swore. Girls screamed. A window shattered. Something small and metallic bounced across the floor.

Dropping behind the lectern, I fumbled for my failsafe, a glass vial narrower than a cigarette and just about a third as long. As my hand cleared my pocket, an explosion rocked the basement in a lightening strike of blinding thunder.

I was groggy and slightly dizzy when my mind refocused. My ears rang like church bells on Easter morning. The moans and scuffling around me were distorted like noises underwater. My cheek rested on cool concrete. My field of view was limited to a few feet of floor. Beyond, thin beams of light played back and forth through the suspended motes of dust.

The vial had rolled to rest against a large, wooden splinter just where my vision turned fuzzy. I reached for it like a final ray of hope. From above, a white light pinned me to the floor.

“Brother Samuel,” a soldier yelled through the wool that clogged my ears, “I think I’ve found one of the misbelievers.”

I turned my face toward the muffled voice as my fingers continued in their quest. Just as my fingertips brushed the curved glass, a boot pressed down upon my wrist.

A bearded face peered down at me. I couldn’t help but be reminded of its kinship to a hairy ape. He scrutinized my features then nodded. “She’s the one.”

“Eva Cartesia,” he intoned, “you are under arrest as the recusant minister of an unlawful congregation conducting illegal classes. You will be put to the question for the distribution of heretical texts.”

Despite the pain shooting up my arm, my fingers scrambled to roll the vial into my grasp.

“Resistance is fruitless,” he said. “The time for fists is gone. Submit and all can be forgiven.”

I replied through clenched teeth. “I’ll never accept your irrational superstitions.”

His boot pressed down harder, grinding bone against cold, unyielding concrete. My grip loosened on my prize. Without it, I knew the resistance would wither. The Heritage Police would kill as many cells as their torture would inevitably reveal. Their techniques were meticulous and malign. No one held out for long.

“Do you know why you misbelievers will never bring back the dark, godless days that brought the Fall?” He bent closer, studying me like a collected insect, or a frog pinned for dissection. “You think knowledge alone will save you. You believe in nothing you can’t see. Yet, for all your lies about evolution, you are unwilling to do what’s necessary to survive.”

Turning my face away in feigned shame, I pretended to sob like he expected from my gender. Painstakingly, I pressed the vial between my thumb and fingers until I felt the sting of shattered glass and a trickle of warm blood. Uncurling my hand, I took a breath, closed my eyes and blew. Dust and deadly spores commingled in the air.

As Brother Samuel began to cough, I calculated vectors, virulence and incubation. I’d done my research. He had minutes to get everyone into decontamination. Without isolation, only a handful in the city would survive.

Something in Brother Samuel’s speechless wheezing must have been a signal. The soldier began to kick and beat me, cursing as he carried out his task. But his words felt rote, his blows mechanical. As if he’d realized his god could no longer save him now.


© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

One of Us

Illustration © 2014 Sonya Reasor

"One of Us" - a reading (on YouTube)

Once a month, I saw them at the bus stop waiting for the 131 in the shade beneath the shelter. He was an adult. She was maybe seven. I’d formed the impression they were father and daughter though I had no way to be certain.

She looked like any normal little girl, wearing different clothing each time I saw her, sometimes pants, sometimes a skirt, almost always something flowery and bright. Nothing fancy. Wal-Mart off the rack.

He was always dressed all in black, head to toe, his hands and face completely covered. Like one of those women I’d see in news from one of the countries we’d invaded. Only his robes gave him more form and left the distinct impression that he was a man. I wondered if he had a sun allergy, or whether he was hiding from something else. I could only imagine how uncomfortable he must be in the full summer sun.

I only saw them in passing. Usually, I was across the street on the 133, looking out the window as we drove by. Today, I’d missed my connection, so I was trying to backtrack to the 107 by way of the 131. I was still confused by the transfer schedule. My company had just moved to a new building. The owners had taken away our parking and given us all transit cards instead.

I see them waiting as the bus lurches to a stop.

She bounces up the steps and runs two HARTline passes through the reader. The driver smiles as if he knows her. She scans the aisle for seats while she waits for the man behind her. She looks poor but not dirty. Her face is clean. Her fine, blond hair is combed back into a ponytail. She is cute in the way all children that age are but otherwise plain and unremarkable. She carries a sparkly pink Hello Kitty messenger bag half as big as she is.

He ascends the stairs behind her with a heavy heel. He wears snug, leather gloves, and heavy leather work boots with scuffed toes. His face is deeply cowled, his eyes invisible within the shadow. The edges of his gauzy robes are sun-faded, bordering on gray. Only a silver wallet chain breaks the fields of black. The kind bikers wear.

It’s rush hour. The bus is crowded. The only empty seats are the one next to mine and another across the aisle. I stand, offering them a pair together. I step across and sit beside a woman who doesn’t look up from her Kindle.

The little girl skips down the aisle, her ponytail swaying back and forth with each step. She smiles up at me as she slides toward the window. The man plods along behind her. He nods his thanks as he approaches, the only acknowledgement I expect from a stranger on the bus. I flash a smile in return before looking away.

I catch the scent of cologne as he settles across from me. Something masculine yet light and exotic with hint of sandalwood maybe. Nothing heavy or trendy. Not Axe or Drakkar Noir.

“Did your teacher give you any homework?” the man asks the little girl. His voice is soft yet deeper than I expect from such a wiry frame. It is comforting and resonant like I remember my father’s being when I was young.

The girl pulls out a multiplication worksheet with tropical fish encasing each problem. She spreads it on her messenger bag like an improvised lap desk.

A muffled trilling emanates from beneath the man’s robe. His gloved hand burrows within and emerges with a cell phone. Not a smart phone like mine, a pre-paid flip-top. He glances at the number and sighs before opening it then snaking it within his hood.

“I asked you not to call this number.” He keeps his voice low. I’m uncertain if it’s out of respect for the other riders or a desire for privacy. I can’t help but overhear. I stare at the seatback in front of me, pretending not to listen.

“It’s always important, Francis,” he whispers, sounding like my father when he was exasperated with me as a child. “What time is it in Rome?”

I can only hear his side of the conversation. The other is muffled by the robe. Though what little I can make out sounds lilting, fast and foreign.

“What would you do if one of them had done that to your sons or daughters?” he asks, his patience now tinged with something not quite anger but growing close. “…Well, maybe it’s time to change that...”

I glance sidelong across the aisle wondering what he might be talking about. He points to a problem on the girl’s worksheet. She counts out the answer on her fingers then writes the number with a yellow pencil in the bubble before the fish’s mouth.

He nods, then points to another fish whose answer bubble is empty. “The rules are right there in the book,” he says into the phone. “…I didn’t write it... There are a lot of translation errors... Use your best judgment…”

What I can hear reminds me of the questions I field from some of my team supervisors almost every day. The joys of management. Finished with the problems, the little girl begins coloring in the fish on the worksheet with crayons.

“We’re almost at our stop. I need to go... Quickly, please... We’ll see... I’ll look into her situation later tonight... You know I don’t have the power to do that anymore. Until Jess is old enough, they’ll just have to work out peace on their own.”

He turns his head to watch the girl coloring beside him, gently laying a gloved hand on her head, then stroking her hair. Intent on her task, she doesn’t notice. Her shading is precise and within the lines.

“Please don’t call this number again unless it’s an absolute emergency, Francis.” He says it patiently but firmly. I sense a hint of resignation in knowing his request will go unheeded. Francis sounds like a ten-percenter, the people whose problems take up ninety percent of my time at work. “I mean armies gathering on the hill at Armageddon...”

His phone trills once, and then stops abruptly. The girl continues coloring, bringing her fish to life. The colors she chooses are vibrant yet complementary. Even though she only has a small selection to work with, she blends them well. I wonder what her math teacher will think of this unexpected art.

“Francis, I’ve got to go… I have another call coming in… I really have to take this… Bless you, too, my son…”

He pulls the phone out of his cowl to tap the pound key then slips it back inside.

“Namaste, Tenzin Gyatso… Jess is doing well. We’re just sitting here working on her multiplication tables… If you ask, I know it must be important. Tell me what I can do to help.”

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Humanitarian Aid (Memory Block, pt. 4)

Read Time-Lock (Memory Block, pt 3)

Nick Michaels stood on the observation deck watching the container ferry burn. Clusters of the crew that manned the aboveground portion of Mare Frigoris did the same. The commander had ordered all off-duty personnel to take a look, no matter their duty station. Plasma fires were rare. He wanted his crew to get a good, long look at the cost of complacency and the necessity of all the drills.

Michaels always monitored the base’s 1MC from his underground lair. Unlike some of his colleagues, he saw all information as valuable. Though he wasn’t sure exactly what had brought him to the surface. Voyeurism wasn’t normally one of his flaws, at least outside a professional context.

The ferry floated half a klick above the lunar surface, well away from normal base traffic. Its gravitational drives held position on autopilot, perhaps the ferry’s last operational system. All its command circuits were jammed as ionized gasses flooded the electromagnetic spectrum with exotic radiation. Industrial fire suppression robots kept station beside the gravitic tugs that had nudged the ferry off the standard approaches, away from the hangers and lading areas, and well clear of the habitation dome. They would wait to see if the fire burned itself out before dispensing their reaction-smothering sheets of lead. No need to waste resources on what amounted to a glorified insurance claim if it didn’t threatened life or station property. Unless the ferry’s casualty company agreed to pick up the tab. Unlikely as the entire consignment was a total write-off by now. And such a generous gesture could be viewed as accepting culpability. Better to let the lawyers sort it out.

Michaels stood mesmerized by the interplay of light and shadow as one container after another was consumed. There was something meditative about watching the rippling neon colors flare, swirl, dance and spread, something primal. No one on the observation deck spoke above a whisper, as if reverently observing the ancient rite of marking someone else’s misfortune with a silent prayer that it wouldn’t become your own. Everyone knew that entire careers would be consumed before this fire burned itself out.

Unlike the technicians and station specialists, Michaels couldn’t help but puzzle out cause and effect. The basics were fairly simple. A fusion generator, probably well beyond its annually forged safety calibration, had broken loose from a wobbly containment field, sending an arc-welding stream of particles jetting toward the cargo space. The likely underspeced firewall should have at least damped it, if not contained it, but hadn’t. Somewhere in the stacked containers, an oxidizer had been waiting to be freed. Since, by construction and design, that wasn’t in the containers themselves, it pointed to the cargo. With an oxidizer, the incident would have quickly escalated to a cascading failure.

Fire, fuel and a stream of exotic particles would have blended into a witch’s brew of superheated plasma that quickly ascended from kilo- to mega- on Kelvin scale, initiating a self-sustaining reaction as molecular bonds dissolved. A Townsend avalanche. Dissociative recombination. Mare Frigoris’s private little star.

But it wasn’t the physics that fascinated Michaels so much as the politics. That’s where the final report would get interesting. The oxidizer must have been undeclared or the cargo would have required special placement and handling just to avoid such a catastrophic accident. That meant a smuggling operation. He started ticking through the possibilities of whose it might have been. Those he knew, and those he suspected. Those which were run by allies and those run by rivals. And those whose exposure might profit him most if he wanted to shift the blame.

His mind latched onto and discarded scenario after scenario as he spun them out in a fugue state, an old trick to distract himself from a more pressing problem long enough to allow an intuitive solution to emerge. Like a lesser intellect playing solitaire, this was his mindless game.

Suddenly, the knots of even this simple problem began to tangle. The nape of his neck tingled. He was no longer alone. Why hadn’t the proximity alarm of his integrated assistant flashed a warning? Better yet, who was so socially inept as to dare violate his crafted aura of solitude?

He turned to fix his deadest stare on the offending individual, only to find Yan Kanu standing at his shoulder. Micah Aaronson’s self-appointed guardian angel. He should have known. He’d long suspected she had some sort of proximity suppression upgrade installed. But why would she choose to reveal it now? He’d think about it later. Better not to react.

Michaels barely acknowledged her by glancing down. She remained as still and unmoving as a porcelain doll, and just as pretty if you were open to such distractions, which he wasn’t. He puzzled over her genetics to see if he could tease out any new information on her background, though he’d tried and failed before. She was small, downright diminutive, yet perfectly proportioned. A short black ponytail that bordered on indigo offset her near perfect, pale skin. Her facial features betrayed her as Asian, not so much a particular flavor as a trendy fusion of cuisine. Put her in a plaid mini-skirt and she could pass for a Japanese schoolgirl. What better disguise for a ninja? He was almost envious. Yet, he suspected the effect was carefully calculated.

She had mirrored his posture and position, staring out at container ferry still burning as merrily as a Dawali decoration. Where had that reference come from? He filed it in another mental compartment. All he knew was that if Yan was aligning herself to him physically, she wanted something.

He didn’t want to reveal anything by guessing, so he settled in to wait.

“Plants or live animals?” she finally asked.

Not the question Michaels had expected. “Excuse me?”

“Plants or live animals?” she repeated, still taking in the scene below. “The odds on favorites for smuggling ops up from Earth.”

Yan always did see events as black or white. A lack of imagination. “Are you setting up an office pool?”

She laughed, high and sparkling, like fine leaded crystal tapped with the back side of a silver knife. He wondered if she practiced it or whether it came as a feature in whatever genetic modification upgrade her parents had chosen.

Of course, her assessment was correct, but there were so much more interesting possibilities. He chose one at random. “Vacuum rounds.” That might get her chasing her tail. “Either that or the next shipment of rush for the starport workers.”

Yan raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit cynical.”

“I prefer ironic poetry.” Michaels smiled.

“Rumor has it that shipment was marked as Humanitarian Aid.”

Michaels replied with a noncommittal “Mmm.” He found that bit of information quite intriguing, both in substance and in Yan revealing it. He wondered if it was true. He also wondered if Yan had expanded her operational network into smuggling as a cover for moving assets and information undetected. He filed that snippet with the other to investigate later.

“I’m surprised to see you up here.” She turned to face him now. “It’s so rare you come up from the dark.” And so it began.

“Were you looking for me?” he asked innocently. “I’m really not that hard to find.”

She cut straight to it, direct as usual, “Micah is anxious to put a bow on your latest operation.”

So it was Micah, now? Like she’d been there from the beginning. Like they were as close as siblings. “You can tell him I’m tying off the loose ends now.”

“That edge seems ragged,” she observed.

“Four strings in an operation this complex is hardly ragged.” He didn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice at being second-guessed by some tiger mom’s fresh-weaned kitten.

“Pull any one and the whole tapestry unwinds,” she noted.

He shook his head. “Only one, really. And I have her under control.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

He smiled enigmatically. “I can give her what she wants.”

Yan smiled back like a predator. “I’m not sure you really understand what any woman wants.”

“Care to enlighten me?” He raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Rumor has it you’re quite the seductress.”

“Just a tip, Michaels: It’s hard to seduce a woman when you don’t know where she is.”

“Finding her is trivial.” He waved a hand. “Convincing her to do what I want is where the real skill lies.”

“One woman in sixty billion, hiding out on the Fringe?” Yan crossed her arms beneath her chest. “Long odds even for you.”

“The wrong odds. And I always thought you Asians were good at math.” He threw the barb just to see if she’d react.

She betrayed nothing as she waited for him to continue.

He obliged. “When I was in school, you didn’t approach the campus beauty directly; you tracked her through her friends. One of hers is quite a rare commodity.”

“Times change, Michaels,” Yan chided. “That’s called stalking now.”

“And here I thought that was what Micah paid us both to do,” he replied sweetly, a thumb under his chin, a finger tapping against his cheek.

“Then I suggest you get to it. Because once he turns over this mess to me, I won’t be as sweet on her as you.”

“Which is why he never will,” Michaels countered. “This situation calls for subtly, not the Chooser of the Slain. Micah lets me run my own operations without interference because I always give him something he wants, even if he doesn’t recognize it immediately.”

“There’s always a first time,” Yan said. She turned to walk away.

He watched her go, her ponytail swinging furiously, keeping time with her narrow hips. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see her skip. It would have completed the illusion of innocence. Women had used the same weapons since time immemorial. He had to admire the ingenuity of their arsenal. Yet he remained immune. Too often beauty concealed danger just as straightforwardness masked deception. Yan tried so hard to be taken seriously despite her stature that he suspected it was a ruse.

He turned back to the plasma fire just in time to see the container ferry slowly settle to the surface, its final failsafe kicking in. The fire suppression robots rushed into position with their sheets of lead. A moment later, the star winked out. The incident was over but the excitement had just begun, first with the cleanup and then an investigation. He toyed with the idea of influencing the direction it took but decided that Yan would now be looking for his fingerprints. It wasn’t one of his smuggling networks, so he saw no advantage in changing the outcome. And if by chance it was one of hers, well, letting the truth slip through might serve as a cautionary tale. Probably one too subtle for Yan to pick up, but Micah wouldn’t miss it.

As he turned to descend back into the tunnels toward his underground lair, his mind returned to his original problem: Gigi Gagnant. Without the constraints of his bargain with the Grey ambassador, he might have favored Yan’s solution. But getting Gagnant onboard in the first place had required a secret marriage, one he was hesitant to annul. He saw too many advantages in that alliance now. Gagnant was only a pawn to him but the ambassador saw her as a potential queen. It might be worth his time and patience to find out why. That translated into keeping her healthy for the foreseeable future.

Despite his obfuscation, Michaels knew exactly where Gagnant was, at least as of a month ago, the delay in interstellar communications. Home. He’d received the information through a contact on Obsession and confirmed it through independent sources. Saddling Gagnant with a CuFF had been inspired. But it wouldn’t take long for Yan to begin tracking her by the same method. CuFFs on detached duty from the Navy numbered only in the hundreds. Their specialized transport was much easier to trace.

Yet his conversation with Yan might mean that Micah suspected he had entered into an unsanctioned agreement and sought to reel him in. He and Micah might be as close as brothers, but all siblings had their rivalries. And older brothers always thought they were right, regardless of the facts. It was divine law.

That meant fieldwork, which Michaels loathed. He had assets on Home he would contact immediately, but he either had to oversee them himself or risk the situation devolving into a proxy war. That would be good for no one. Maybe he could manipulate Fagerstrom into covering his absence. The man was beyond duplicity. No one would question the big oaf. But he’d have to be careful. There was a reason Micah called Fagerstrom the Hammer.

As Michaels approached the office without a nameplate on the door deep within the lunar maze, his mind buzzed contentedly with contingencies and options, the framework of a plan. He’d have to move fast to catch Yan off-guard. And if he meant to keep his promises to the ambassador, he had light-years to go before he’d sleep.

---

Yan tried not to bounce as she strode away from Michaels. The IAI darkware module had done its job, first electronically anesthetizing Michaels’ proximity detector then performing exploratory surgery. She hadn’t come away with much data, nothing he would miss if his implant security software didn’t notice the tiny scars across its memory. But enough that she would be able figure out what game he was running and formulate a plan.

Micah wanted him back on task. That meant this Gagnant woman had to be shut down. She’d served her purpose. Michaels seemed unable to part with his operatives, collecting them like a hoarder. They were loose ends and that meant exposure. Exposure none of them could afford. Their reputation had suffered enough after their failure to predict or prevent the Green Revolution.

Micah had made it clear there was no room for private operations. They all had to sing from same hymnal now. The sooner Michaels understood that, the better.

And she now possessed the final piece she needed to reinforce that message. She’d see to it personally. A chance for her to get back in the field. That meant finding a way to smuggle herself onsite under Michaels’ radar. Fortunately, by instigating the container fire, she had just the right leverage with the people who could pull it off.

---

The Interdiction skimmer hovered above the Stack Maze, its beam slicing through the darkness, illuminating the rooftops four pi meters squared at a time, glimpsing but never quite focusing on the illegal activity teeming around its edges. The weak and slow, sometimes the foolish, might find their fifteen seconds of infamy within that circle of light, fifteen minutes if Interdiction had the resources to make a raid in force rather than follow their usual procedure of ID and fine for violating curfew. Their usual catch was a tourist who didn’t have an untraceable account or a low-end courier who didn’t have the credits to pay.

Like most wars from the air, this was a futile exercise in feel-good politics that lacked a strong ground presence willing to break a few heads. Though occasionally, a skimmer would perform an outright assassination. Interdiction wasn’t above smoking the random innocent now and then, if such a person could be said to exist this deep in the warren of refugees and illegal immigrants. That’s what had her worried.

Carissa Anderson knew that the spotlight wasn’t Interdictions only or even primary sensor. Skimmers were equipped with IR, LI, x-rays, passives, actives, transmitter tags, behavior analysis routines, databases and, most importantly, snipers. One could have his weapon trained on her right now. Wouldn’t that be irony? Dying at the hands of the people she worked for?

The Stack Maze rose above the street, a hive of laissez faire capitalism rivaled only by the Freedom Hall on Liberty, or the entirety of Anarchy, only more accessible than either. It was a virtual red zone for Interdiction personnel, at least without drone support and a triplicate of prior authorization. The last lone trooper who had dared enter had to be rescued by twenty of his fellow officers who found him zip-tied and stuffed into a cabinet. Every year Home threatened to crack down on the problem, yet every year the acreage of the Stack Maze grew. With the impending amnesty for all Darwin refugees, it was hard for her to imagine the problem ever being resolved or dismantled.

Moving between the shielded cargo containers that comprised the Stack Maze in such a way as to confuse the algorithms was the key. Home’s mirror of the reverse-engineered counter-surveillance site from Anarchy had proven quite useful once she’d acquired access. It paid to have friends in low places. Especially for transactions that required face to face contact.

This should be a simple exchange: cash for a favor, in this case coerced. Technically, solars were still traceable. It was just required more resources to follow a physical rather than purely electronic trail. The advantage to solars was they could be held until people lost interest. Or cycled through enough legitimate transactions that their buffers were overwritten. Not quite as safe as a quid pro quo exchange. But she needed money to reinforce her niece’s new identity as she played a shell game with the Interdiction databases. Even three centuries of the Age of Credit hadn’t changed a fundamental business axiom. Cash was still king.

The entrance she wanted was just ahead.

Carissa swerved beneath the threshold of the overhead container, down the tunnel it created, only pausing after two quick corners to get her bearings. The dim, haphazard cold lights created more shadows than they dispelled. Branching corridors split off left and right, some masking recessed doorways. The containers had once been various colors, some bright, but now were coated in a patchwork camouflage of dun, smoke and gray with the occasional flash of composite where the grime had been scraped to its underlying bone. The air stank of moisture and mold, though thankfully not of sewage which was too valuable to waste.

Even with the cold lights, she barely noticed the shadow slide from beside the doorway she had just passed before a gloved hand clamped onto her arm and pulled her inside. Instinctively, her own hand dropped into a pocket to grasp the retractable stun wand, while she smiled her most disarming smile and canted her hips into a posture of not quite unwelcome surprise.

“No need for the stunner,” a synthi-voice construct said. The figure stroked a button that sealed the container. The door slid home with an echoing thud. A string of cold lights flickered to life.

Her assailant was concealed behind layers of blackness. Its face was a pair of welding goggles wrapped with strips of darkness. Black-hole cloth woven with carbon-fiber nanotubes. It absorbed almost all light and played hell with body recognition algorithms. Perfect for the Stack Maze.

Carissa relaxed. This was not a random abduction. This creature was her contact.

“You’re late,” the androgynous voice said. It sounded eerie. Like listening to a ransom call for a kidnapping only in person, not over a comm.

“I got here as soon as I could. It took time to clear the drones.” She wished she could tell whether her contact was male or female so she could strike the proper posture. She opted for her disinterested but to open to reconsider pose, the one that shook out the overanxious ones in the bars. It also worked to say she might be open to an encounter with her own gender. A compromise, but she couldn’t do much better without more information.

“You should have built that in. Solars don’t wait.” Distortion ranged up and down the spectrum, like an audio file recorded backwards then played forward, speeded up and slowed down. Expensive and impossible to analyze.

“Ten K, like we agreed,” Carissa said.

The creature pulled the solars from a pocket. The reflective gold laminate buried beneath layers of clear plasteel was the only remaining vestige of ancient, commodity-based monies. As the gloved hand counted out each coin into her palm, the holographic animation of Sol flared while Terra winked in the foreground, certifying they were genuine.

As her hand started to close, the creature grabbed her wrist. “You’re forgetting what you owe.” The figure’s other hand appeared offering a memory module.

Carissa eyed the module suspiciously.

“You will divert this cargo container from the Interdiction warehouse,” her contact instructed. “My people will take possession.”

“Diverting a container under seal draws a lot of unwanted attention,” Carissa said warily. “Especially with the limited access my clearance provides.”

“The hard work will have been done for you. One of your colleagues is on the payroll of the people smuggling it in.”

Great. The risk extended across both sides of the line, Interdiction and the black market. She needed attention from neither.

“Next,” the figure continued, “you will make contact with the listed individual and offer an introduction to provide security for the container’s auction in the Kraal. I’ll setup the rest.”

“And if that individual refuses the contract?” Carissa asked, already hoping she might have an out. She wished she were dealing with her normal contact but he had sold her off to someone higher up the food chain.

“She won’t. She and her friends are fugees who need the money.”

That promised more time in the Stack Maze which equated with greater risk. “And she’ll trust me why?”

“You shared time on Darwin during the Revolution. She was in Customs Enforcement, just like you. You both fought on the winning side of the argument though not together. And you both ended up in the Stack Maze with something to hide. Somewhere in there, you’ll find something to talk about. ”

Whoever her new contact was, he had deep pockets of information.

“You will be able to read the details once and then it will self-erase,” the concealed figure said as he proffered the memory module again. “When you remove it from the port, it will slag. Oh, and be sure you don’t have any Interdiction programs loaded. It has a pretty paranoid security algorithm.”

“You’re asking a lot for ten grand.” Carissa weighed the solars in her hand. They were light for their size; very light for the months it would have taken her to acquire them in legitimate trade.

“Feel free to profit from the information in any way you can, as long as nothing goes off before the auction has started, and nothing involves me directly. Just make sure I get what I’ve paid for.”

That was a generous offer, perhaps worth more than the deal itself. Which said exactly how dangerous her contact thought it was. Regardless of the risk, Carissa knew she didn’t have a choice. She was already in too deep.

She plucked the module from the figure’s gloved palm and dropped it into one pocket, the coins in another. “Which way out?” she asked knowing it was suicide to exit the way she’d come.

The figure gestured to another hatch on the opposite side of the container. “Follow the left wall, ignoring the doors. In twenty minutes, that will drop you into a heavily trafficked area just outside Petit Darwin. I’ll send a decoy back the way you came.”

Perfect. Almost home. Carissa left through the hatch the figure had indicated and began following the left wall.

---

The black clad figure waited until the hatch behind him cycled. He retrieved another pile of solars from his pocket. Crouching down, he divided them into two stacks on the floor. Twin cylinders grew with each flash of the composite, reflective coins.

He rose and considered the stacks of solars. His trained, augmented eye could see the furniture shadows nearby along with the signs of recent cleaning. He hoped she hadn’t noticed, though it wouldn’t matter either way.

He picked up one stack and exited the container. Within fifteen minutes, the displaced occupants would return. Outside, he set the second stack in the center of the hall. Clearing this section of traffic had been costly as well.

At a shadowed crevice just beyond the door, he turned his shoulders and disappeared inside. Now, he only had to wait.

---

Gigi stared out over Juliet from her vantage point in the Stack Maze. Through her nightshades she searched the city shine near the horizon for skimmers and drones. Night had settled over the city proper. Below, the starport glowed under the arc lamps of nocturnal commerce, a planetary restocking that never ceased. The Stack Maze lay shadowed but still teemed with activity. Like an ocean at night, most of it was invisible from the surface. How in God’s name had they ended up here? Patel.

She toyed with the auto-injector in her hand. This wasn’t another of Obsession’s Immunity Boosters, a designation misnamed and misapplied. She’d kept taking those in hopes of unraveling these memories one day. This was a private bargain, her one remaining secret. The fulfillment of Patel’s promise of the nano-tech that would tug the hooks seeded by the Immunity Boosters throughout her mind and unzip all the memories that they touched. Maybe more he’d said. Since The Farm, she felt as if she was constantly waking from a nightmare that haunted her more with emotion than detail. A simple injection and all that pain would disappear.

And so would the formula for Patel’s antidote to the Immunity Boosters. She was the only one Patel would shared it with. It was their passport off Home and to the Fringe beyond. But only if she didn’t use his auto-injector first. A constant temptation. Before she gave in, she had to see her team safe. At least what was left. She wondered how long she could keep them all together.

Gigi heard the soft rattle of beads as someone stepped up behind her. Wilmots. Gigi pocketed the auto-injector.

The two women stared out at the lights across Home’s capital. Just across Green Line fence, Petit Darwin beckoned. Wedged beside it, Mocha Village twinkled with nighttime recreation, just beyond their reach. Only the dark gash of Beechfern Preserve that crawled down the mountains like a scar completely reflected Home’s night cycle.

“Maahes hunted us up some rats,” Wilmots said. “Real one, not those disgusting neos. Bryce is seeing about trading them for some Aid rations now.”

Gigi just grunted. If any of them had thought military rations were disgusting, they’d been cured of that thought after less than a month on Home. “How’s everyone holding up?”

“Bryce is saying Patel betrayed us,” Wilmots said.

“He got us here,” Gigi reminded her. “The rest was always up to us.”

“He promised to get us to Anarchy,” Wilmots said. “They’re the only ones who can distribute the antidote. That’s what we all signed on for.”

“Home’s the gateway. We have to prove ourselves here first. We all knew that coming in.”

Wilmots shrugged. It didn’t really matter who knew what. A month living on the edge was a long time with no end in sight. Down 2, Scorn, Obsession, each had each taken its toll.

They both stood silent for a moment, surveying the shadows of the Stack Maze for threats. The artificial landscape was full of dark, blind corners. In the month they’d been downside, they’d managed to carve themselves out a small space, one container and a rooftop which meant solar, a little water but no steady food. Mostly on sufferance from Patel’s contacts, though having their own cache of smuggled equipment and weapons to defend it didn’t hurt.

“I scrounged up an offer today,” Wilmots said. “Security for an auction. A Humanitarian Aid container.”

Gigi turned to face the other woman. “Legit?”

“I think so. It came through an Interdiction officer who used to work Customs on Darwin.”

“You trust this contact?”

“The name’s familiar but I never met her,” Wilmots said. “Word is she’s got something to hide. Something in the Stack Maze.”

“Everyone in the Stack Maze has something to hide,” Gigi said. “She the seller?”

Wilmots shook her head. Her beaded hair rattled. “She just provides an introduction and relays the word.”

Which was pretty much how everything in the Stack Maze worked. “What do the other two think?”

“Maahes is up for anything. He doesn’t really mind it here.”

“And Bryce?” Gigi watched Wilmots’ reaction.

The other woman didn’t hedge. “The sooner we get him out of here, the better. He’s riding the hairy edge. My contact needs an answer by tomorrow.”

Gigi turned to watch the lights crawling around the starport. Like the Stack Maze, it was a city that never slept. One of the transports down there could be hauling that container now. Auction security was easy duty, just stand around and look serious, and seriously armed. As long as it wasn’t an Interdiction sting. Relentless forward progress. No risk, no reward.

“Ok,” Gigi said. “Let’s hash out the details over dinner. Maybe the boys will have traded up for something decent.”

Wilmots rolled her eyes. They both knew how likely that was.

---

After discussing it over an improvised dinner of grilled mystery meat, a few Aid rations and a sprinkling rooftop organics, Gigi put it to a vote. They all agreed to accept the contract despite the risk. Anything that would get them closer to leaving Home.

Later that night, after Bryce left to stand watch and Wilmots was asleep, Gigi pulled Maahes outside and set him to a confidential task. The CuFF had developed an independent intelligence network. Few people in the Stack Maze suspected the genetically modified feline was anything but a normal stray hunting the ubiquitous rats.

Something about this contract didn’t smell quite right. Smuggling operations usually had their own security. Why exactly had someone farmed this one out? Was someone new trying to muscle in? Or was it so high profile no one wanted the exposure? Any way she sliced it, it came up with a high risk-reward ratio. But she couldn’t afford to veto it, not just on a feeling. Her team was restive. They needed discernable progress soon or they’d all fly apart.

Maahes eyed her with an inscrutable expression as she confided her concerns. When she finished, he just said, “I’m on it,” and disappeared into the shadows, gray on gray, like fog seeping through an outcropping of tumbledown rocks.

The inkling of a memory that image evoked made Gigi shudder. She fingered the auto-injector in her pocket. She was once again tempted by the forgetfulness it offered. Instead, she returned to the relative safety of the plasteel container.

---

In the morning, Maahes was nowhere in sight before Wilmots had to leave with their answer. Gigi wasn’t too concerned. She could always back out if Maahes uncovered anything critical. He knew the timetable so if he’d found something crucial, he would have scrambled right back.

Maahes returned just seconds after Wilmots. He met Gigi’s eye then slowly blinked and looked away. His report could wait.

Wilmots laid out the details. The auction was slated for three days from now in a place called the Kraal, just this side of the fence with Petit Darwin. That was barely enough time for recon. They were lucky they didn’t need to acquire weapons.

They could only scout the location once before the auction. Wilmots’ contact had setup a rendezvous with the seller later that same day. Only two of them, Gigi and one other, both unarmed. She opted for Maahes. He had a predator’s instinct for spotting traps. Plus, he could bring her up to speed on the intel he’d collected.

While Maahes caught a catnap, Gigi reviewed the route to the rendezvous on her nightshades. They were headed deep into smuggling country, the darkest recesses of the Stack Maze where the black market tunnels from Petit Darwin were rumored to emerge.

She decided to leave Patel’s auto-injector behind. Up to now, she’d treated it as her failsafe to guard the formula. But she couldn’t afford to have it confiscated if she was searched. So, she hid it with the only other personal possession she didn’t want any of the others to find: a Pocket Jesus she’d carried since The Farm. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept it. But every time she’d tried to get rid of it, she found that she couldn’t. She wasn’t religious but some buried attachment made her reluctant to let it go. So, she’d hidden it like shame.

Once Maahes awoke, munched and groomed, they headed into the Stack Maze.

At the rendezvous, they met their guide, a young boy between ten and thirteen depending on how much malnutrition had stunted his growth. He was armed with an old assault rifle that was almost as big as he was. But he carried it in a casual way that spoke of a long relationship, like a better adjusted child might have with an imaginary friend. His hard, vacant eyes scared Gigi more than any Green she’d ever met. Adults, even fanatics, generally understood the complex tradeoffs of social interactions that could turn enemies into allies of convenience. Children were not noted for their nuanced reasoning. They killed like sociopaths, casually and with very little provocation.

Everyone in the Stack Maze knew she and her team were former LOW OrbIT. Gigi assumed most suspected some of them had fought against the Greens. Neither side brought up the past. The only protection her team had was under the umbrella of Patel’s reputation. Right now that felt about as sturdy as a rice paper parasol her father had once brought her back from a cheap tourist shop on Blue. She was keenly aware she didn’t have so much as a sidearm.

Through a rough-cut floor of a container, they were lowered into the smuggling tunnel by a hand-winched crane. Gigi held Maahes in her arms. She took the opportunity to have him update her over a secure comm channel. Maahes had an inductive CuFF comm unit strapped to his back. Gigi used the visual interface of her nightshades to avoid her half of their conversation being overhead.

“Intel on the container?” she flicked out with her eyes as they slowly descended, the click-click-click of the winch timed with each tiny drop. The walls of the tunnel were hard packed dirt shored up with mismatched odds and ends of castoff building materials, corrugated roofing, scraps of synthetic lumber, rebar reinforcement and chainlink fencing. None of the jury-rigging looked close to passing an occupational safety inspection. People died in these tunnels every day.

“I haven’t been able to pin down what’s in it,” his synthesized voice whispered in her ear. “But whatever’s in there, it’s hot. Most of the drones over the Stack Maze are searching for it.”

Great. She knew the deal was too good to be true. She only wondered if her team was being set up to take the fall.  “Who’s looking?”

“Officially, Interdiction. But there’s some sort of factionalized shadow war going on. A lot of LOW OrbIT contacts are being tapped for information. With all that attention, the Greens have perked up their ears. Plus a couple independents out of Anarchy are sniffing around, now, too.”

They reached the bottom of the shaft. Gigi set Maahes down. Their guide impatiently motioned for them to catch up. While the boy could fully stand, Gigi had to stoop. The tunnel looked like a cross between an improvised prison escape passage and a nature holo of the interior of a rabbit warren. A string of cold-lights ran along the ceiling. Gigi tried not to touch the walls afraid the slightest brush might trigger a collapse.

“You sure this tunnel’s safe?” she called up to their guide, eyeing the haphazard reinforcements.

He turned his head to face her, his eyes dull in the dim, overhead light. “We reopened it this morning,” he said in a heavy Darwin accent. “My brother died in here last week.”

Gigi let the subject drop.

A few dozen meters later, the tunnel expanded to where she no longer had to crouch. Now it reminded her of an ancient catacomb like she’d seen in the historical docudramas recreating Terran history. In place of hollowed out tomb niches, small crates lined stacked against the wall. Their labels read plascrete, infant formula and broad-spectrum bacteriophages, all stamped as League of Worlds Humanitarian Aid. Gigi shook her head. It was always gratifying to see Aid going to its designated use.

Long, unmarked, shock-proof cases were stacked along the opposite wall. Gigi focused in on them with her nightshades. The enhancements could just make out where the official LOW OrbIT weapons tech seals and markings had been etched away.

“Are you seeing this, Maahes?” she flicked out with her eyes. “There’s enough firepower here to start a war.”

“Lieutenant…” Maahes growled.

Before he could complete his warning, someone snatched Gigi’s nightshades off her face. The boy was screaming at her, then striking her with his rifle to force her down. In an instant she found herself lying on her belly, hands clasped behind her neck. All she could make out through the boy’s quick, accented stream of words were accusations of “Interdiction” punctuated by intermittently by “spy!” The dust rising from the hard pack floor dried her mouth and stung her eyes. She knew that she could die.

She had no idea where Maahes was. Without her nightshades, they had no way to communicate without being heard. She suspected trying might tip the boy into a killing rage so she stayed silent. Suddenly, the boy’s hands roamed up and down her body, either roughly searching her or groping her, she wasn’t sure which. He lingered over her missing breast in confusion or fascination.

She closed her eyes, relieved she’d hidden Patel’s auto-injector before they’d left, and at the same time wishing it was still in her pocket so she could make all this go away. Just wake up wondering why someone was still screaming at her, wondering exactly what she’d done. Wondering if she’d been transported back to boot camp, or back to her father’s quarters in the contract mines on Lode.

Snap out of it, Gagnant, she thought. People are still counting on you. Without you or Maahes, Wilmots and Bryce won’t stand a chance. Yet she felt powerless to alter the situation. Any move would likely be taken wrong. All she could do was keep alert in case an opportunity arose. Survival 101.

She tried to ignore the assault rifle repeatedly poking at her back. Somewhere a metal door slammed shut. Booted feet came running. Louder, quicker accusations were exchanged in a language she didn’t understand.

Suddenly, someone rolled her over and pulled her to her feet. She found herself eye to eye with a pair of welding goggles. Without her nightshades, it took her a moment to pick out the shadow of a person, his face was wrapped blackness, his loose-fitting clothing the same.

Something about his stance and posture left Gigi with the vague impression of him being male but she couldn’t be certain. If she analyzed her nightshades later, she might get a better idea. But only if they’d caught a glimpse of him. And only if she got them back.

“I must apologize.” He spoke through a synthi-voice speaker buried near his throat in a voice not unlike Maahes’ only more distorted yet slightly more refined. “My friend is nervous. The last tunnel through which we brought guests was raided by Interdiction three days later.”

Gigi glanced around as she dusted herself off. She was bruised but otherwise unharmed. She found Maahes perched atop the crates of Humanitarian Aid. The boy, still clutching his assault weapon, glared at her from the narrow portion of the tunnel.

The man extended a gloved hand and offered her back her nightshades. “Perhaps you should keep these out of sight until we return to the Stack Maze. They make my colleague… uneasy.”

Gigi accepted them and slipped them into a fatigue pocket. “And you are?”

“Loptr,” the figure answered. “I’ll be handling the merchandise in the Kraal. You must be Gagnant.”

“There isn’t going to be a problem getting my team in and out, is there?” She glared at the boy sulking down the tunnel. Her ribs still ached. “In three days, we’ll be coming through fully armed.”

“The day of the auction, we’ll bring you in a different way.”

She tried to keep her voice and expression neutral. “Then how are we supposed to check the security of the route?”

“Let me handle that. You were hired for onsite security. Nothing more.”

Gigi wondered what Loptr was trying to hide. Or hide from. Not scouting the route left her team at a serious disadvantage if anything went wrong. This whole operation stank, like every mission since The Farm. Her instincts told her to forget the contract and walk away. But that ding to their reputation might poison any future opportunities. They’d have to roll with the circumstances if they wanted to get off Home. Relentless forward progress.

“It’s your show,” she finally said. “Let’s get this over with.”

---

They emerged from the maze of tunnels into a wide, covered corridor with a long, descending ramp that led to a ring of dappled sunlight. They passed through a gatehouse and an open cargo hatchway into a cross between an amphitheater and an arena. Like the rest of the Stack Maze, the Kraal was constructed of castoff shipping containers from the starport. The structure was sunken to where the top of the highest vertical walls remained below ground. At the very top of the covering dome, a roughly circular opening was shaded by smart camo cloth. The sunlight filtering through it created a shifting, speckled pattern on the hard-packed dirt below.

Gigi tried not to squint as she surveyed her team’s task. Without her nightshades, she felt naked and exposed.

From a security perspective, the Kraal was a nightmare. The bottom level was octagonal. Each of the two levels above added another container in circumference. Archways had been cut into their outer facings. Hundreds of people could crowd the ascending tiers each accessible through a seemingly random, asymmetric assembly of half-concealed ladders and stairwells. Niches and deeply shadowed crevices lurked between the joints in each concentric ring.

As far as she could tell, there were two primary entry points: the gatehouse and a second cargo hatchway opposite, this one sealed.

She turned to Loptr. “There is no way I can cover this place with a four-man team.”

“Your job isn’t overall security,” he said. “The owners ensure that guests arrive unarmed and ready for commerce. I contracted you as insurance until a buyer is found and the exchange is made.”

“Insurance against what, exactly?” Gigi asked, as if she couldn’t imagine several unpleasant possibilities.

“The unexpected,” he replied.

Gigi glared at her employer. “Anything more specific we should worry about?”

“You’re the professional. You tell me.”

Gigi took an intense dislike to Loptr. He talked like a diplomat. Or a spook. All half-answers and innuendo that provided no useful information. She surveyed the Kraal again, desperately trying to make her unaided eyes see into its darkest corners as she searched for a solution. If this cargo was truly valuable to him, maybe she could use it as leverage.

“What’s behind that door?” She pointed to the closed cargo hatch.

“That’s the staging area for the merchandise. We bring it in before the auction through a series of secure tunnels.”

Gigi frowned. There were too many angles she couldn’t cover. “There’s only one way I can make this work,” she said. “But the price just went up.”

Loptr waited as if he’d expected this. That might make the renegotiation easier.

“First,” she held the nail of her pinkie with her thumb, “my team accompanies the container from the time it arrives to sign-off by the new owner. That includes my driver doing all the cargo handling from the point it comes on site.”

Loptr didn’t balk. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

“Second,” she ticked off her ring finger, “We arrive armed and armored. We come in like Peacekeepers not contractors or security. And we rely on our own equipment from radios to rifles.”

Still Loptr just faced her behind his goggles. She hated playing poker where she couldn’t read her opponent’s tells.

“Third,” her thumb rested on her middle finger, “we control the gates during the auction. They both remain closed throughout. No one in or out until a deal is struck and the exchange is made. It’s the only way we can control the space.”

“And finally?” he asked.

She knew that nothing she’d demanded so far had been unreasonable or even unexpected, not if he was competent. But now she knew that Loptr knew that, too, and was waiting for her real condition. He wasn’t quite the fool after all.

“Finally,” she held her index finger. “When the auction’s over, you escort me and my team directly from here to Petit Darwin. You provide everything we need to disappear anywhere in the Fringe, from identities to transit papers.”

She watched the fingers of his left hand twitch in quick order, almost as if he were working through calculations of his own. Either she’d hooked him or she’d just blown the deal.

“What makes you think I can do that?” he finally asked.

She hated people who answered with a question. But she played along, revealing just enough of what Maahes had learned to make a point.

“Your merchandise has tendrils snaked deep into Interdiction, as does your errand girl. With connections like those and the network of tunnels I’ve seen, smuggling four illegals across the Green Line should be child’s play.”

While she couldn’t see his mouth behind the black-hole wrappings, she saw his cheeks tense in what she took to be a smile. That made her more nervous than anything she’d seen so for.

“Ms. Gagnant,” he stuck out a gloved hand. “I think we have a deal.”

Gigi reached out and gripped it briefly. Then she and Maahes got to work.

---

When they returned to their quarters in the Stack Maze, Gigi found her nightshades had auto-wiped and reset. Someone had tried to hack into their local memory and failed. She suspected it must have been Loptr. Once again, she wondered who their employer really was. She wished she had a way to check but her only resource had just been erased.

After retrieving Patel’s auto-injector from its hiding spot, she stayed up late laying contingency plans with Maahes. Then she consulted with the rest of the team.

---

As they setup for the auction, Gigi handed out assignments and comm frequencies. Her plan called for a bi-level strategy.

Level one was visible presence. That would be her and Wilmots standing beside the cargo container on the floor of the Kraal, fully armed and armored. Like uniformed cops in a jewelry store, they’d serve as a reminder that someone was guarding the merchandise. If they were lucky, the auction attendees would assume a standard three-to-one ratio of guards you couldn’t see to those you could.

Level two consisted of Maahes and two micro-guns they’d smuggled off Obsession. One was posted on the top tier of the Kraal directly above cargo door that led to the staging area. Anyone who looked hard enough would see it. It was a natural spot for an emplacement with a field of fire that covered the gatehouse entry, the bidding tiers, and most of the floor of the Kraal. Doctrine dictated two micro-guns offset by sixty degrees to create an interlocking field, but that would have required a resource they didn’t have.

The second micro-gun was down. Gigi left it in the staging area on the stack of crates containing their personal equipment. She and Maahes made a show of a long and painful debug before finally giving up when they’d run out of time. In truth, Maahes had the gun locked down at his end. Gigi figured the tunnels in the staging area were the weak point of their position. If action came, that had been voted the direction most likely. The gun also covered their line of retreat. She and Maahes kept that deception to themselves. Wilmots and Bryce had no need to know. And Loptr she didn’t trust.

They setup Maahes with the remote gunnery console in the staging area where he could also keep an eye on their stuff. Bryce would roll the cargo container into the Kraal then retreat back inside before the auction started. He would control the remote for both cargo doors, and act as a reserve if things turned bad. Gigi didn’t like dividing the team but saw no workable alternative that didn’t leave them more vulnerable. 

The merchandise arrived just as they finished setting up. A standard, three-meter cubed Humanitarian Aid container like one you’d find in any conflict zone across LOW OrbIT space, loaded on an anti-grav transport sled.

Bryce gave the container a once over. The official seals were intact. The League of Worlds HCR manifest simply read “relief supplies” with no further breakdown. The only thing out of the ordinary was an energy signature he thought might indicate an internal environmental system. Plants or live animals. Perennial favorites of smuggling operations that Wilmots said had the highest margins after the black market triad of weapons, drugs and vice. Perhaps more valuable on Home with its loose social mores and tight import controls on invasive species.

With the cargo container on site, Gigi verified that Loptr had their transit documents. They’d meet Wilmots’ Interdiction contact in a neutral tunnel after the auction had concluded. She would guide them into Petit Darwin and then the starport where they had passage booked on a tramp freighter. A circuitous route but the one that would arouse the least suspicion with Home Security. After that, they would be bound for Anarchy where anyone could live in absolute anonymity. At least anyone with a few solars and something to trade. The last major refuge on a dying frontier. With the proceeds of Patel’s formula, all four of them could disperse and disappear.

While they waited for the signal that the Kraal was ready, Gigi learned of the first wrinkle to the plan. Loptr would be conducting the auction remotely, not from beside the container where she could keep an eye on him. She didn’t like it but short of canceling the contract, there was nothing she could do.

A chime toned in the staging area.

“You ready, Ms. Gagnant?” Loptr asked.

Gigi donned her helmet and adjusted her nightshades. “Let’s get this done.”

The cargo hatch sighed as it broke its seal then slowly ground upwards, segmenting as it climbed along an internal track. As she and Wilmots strode out into the Kraal, Gigi felt like a cross between a gladiator entering an arena and an image model armed to pimp the latest technology at a paramilitary trade show. Neither left her feeling good.

The crowd was sparse, a few dozen bidders spread out in maybe a score of groups on the tiers above. Theirs was the only lot on the sheet. Though what bidders lacked in numbers they seemed to make up for in interest. There was a buzz of anticipation among the knots of people, a mix of men and women, all professionally dressed as if this were social outing, a place to see or be seen. High-end brokers for a simple Humanitarian Aid container. As Gigi panned the tiers, she noted a handful security personnel clinging to the shadows. Whatever this cargo was, apparently, its sale was a dangerous gala to attend.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” A male voice announced across the PA system. “Thank you for coming out. I know your time is valuable, so let’s get right to the action. Today, we have a unique item on the catalogue. As you can see from the listing, the winning bidder will take immediate possession and is responsible for all transport and security.”

That voice sounded familiar. A name played along Gigi’s memory like a word she just couldn’t come up with no matter how hard she tried. A pressure mounted behind her eyes. Something was off but she wasn’t quite sure what. She whispered into her comm. “Stay sharp, people. This could get dicey.”

“You’ll find all the terms and conditions in the Purchase & Sale Agreement of the catalogue,” the announcer continued. “But before we get bogged down in details, let’s get a preview of the merchandise.”

A set of banners unfurled around the Kraal. Smart-cloth images flickered to life revealing the interior of the cargo container which had been converted into a blend between a trendy studio apartment and an institutional cell. Inside, an adolescent girl in a school uniform paced out the minimalist, white living space. She might have been Japanese. She moved like she’d been drugged.

As an excited murmur rippled through the Kraal, Gigi’s aphasia receded like the water before a tsunami. The name of the announcer finally broke free. Nick Michaels. Unwanted memories washed over her. Dead girls on The Farm. Sennikov’s daughter. A child and an explosion on Obsession.

Gigi’s mind reeled as an inner voice began to scream. No, no, no. The visions threatened to overwhelm her. Not again. Never a-fucking-gain.

She gripped her assault weapon to steady herself and dropped to a knee before she began issuing her orders.

“Wilmots, take cover,” Gigi yelled into her comm. “Bryce, get out here. We’re coming back inside. Maahes, inform Loptr we’re voiding the contract.” Then she shouted up at the crowd, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this auction is now over.”

Uneasiness swept across the bidders as they realized Gigi’s actions weren’t part of the tension building script. Kraal Security began drifting toward new positions.

“Loptr’s gone,” Maahes replied. “He disappeared right after you left.”

Son of a mongrel bitch. “Then get that weapon hot. Start tagging targets for suppression fire in priority order. This just became a hostage extraction. No one engages until I give the order. Is that clear?”

Three affirmations echoed through her headset. She still had her team. Now to get them out intact, along with the girl.

The micro-gun transformed confusion to outright panic as it panned across the crowd, darting from target to target as it sorted priorities. Bidders bolted for the stairwells. Security dove for cover. Gigi took the opportunity to grab some herself.

“Gagnant,” Michaels called over the PA. “We each have something the other wants. Let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Gigi replied. “The girl comes with us.”

Gigi and Wilmots hugged the back corners of the container, the only cover available deep within the bowl. They hunkered down, eyeing the upper decks as they waited for an inevitable response. The cargo hatch behind them sighed once more as it broke containment. The cavalry was coming.

Only a single segment rose before the hatch chunked to a halt. The Kraal’s unspoken answer.

“They’ve taken back the door,” Bryce informed her. “I’ve got their signal jammed but I don’t know how long it will last.”

Stalemate. No, a delaying tactic. Time was not on their side. She could see security edging into new positions. Soon the tunnels would be crawling with them. If they didn’t get moving soon, her team was cooked.

“Bryce, secure our line of retreat. Wilmots and I will get the hostage.”

If they couldn’t get the container out the Kraal, they’d have to get the girl out of the container. Gigi studied the grav-sled. A standard model used in starports and military drop-zones throughout the human space.

That gave her an idea. She just hoped no one had been paying attention since Scorn. “Wilmots, can these controls issue a voice override to the container?”

The other woman spared a glance over her shoulder. “Sure. But it won’t do much good without an access code.”

“Set it up,” Gigi ordered. She was counting on Michaels being unwilling to risk indiscriminate fire so close to his merchandise.

Wilmots slung her rifle and scurried back to the controls. After a quick sequence of taps along the keypad, she said, “You’re good to go, for what it’s worth.”

Wilmots and Gigi exchanged places. Gigi pulled off a tactical glove. Then just like she’d remembered Meinert instructing her so long ago, she laid her hand on the scanner and said “Lieutenant Griselda Gagnant, LOW OrbIT Marines. Override and open this container. Military priority.”

She heard a faint click as the container unlocked and the lading seals dropped away. Then, as if that were a pre-arranged signal, chaos erupted throughout the Kraal.

From above, an incendiary missile slammed into the smart camo covering the oculus in the dome. Burning tatters dropped away. A phalanx of drones poured through.

A deep, authoritarian, male voice boomed from a skimmer playing hide and seek above the opening. “This is Home Interdiction. Lay down your weapons and assume a non-threatening posture. You have three seconds to comply.”

Gigi bolted for the front of the container, sprinting low and fast as she hugged its side. She had to get the girl.

“One.”

She flung open the hatch. The container was pristine and white, but also completely empty. No bunk, no toilet, no desk, no girl. What the?

“Two.”

 Shit. They’d been set up. “Maahes, fire!”

“Three.”

The Kraal exploded in a firefight. Drones darted left, right, up, down and sideways, each according its own threat-assessment algorithm. Kraal security returned fire, concentrating on the oculus. Maahes unleashed the micro-gun, which chewed through drones and ammunition with a high pitched scream. Flechettes sparked and ricocheted off the dome of the Kraal. Dead drones rained to the ground. A second phalanx of reinforcements began to pour in.

“Everyone, pull back to the rendezvous,” Gigi yelled into her comm.

She raced back toward the cargo hatch. A truncated scream burst into her ear. She slid to the ground at the back corner of the container, sweeping her barrel for targets.

Wilmots lay unmoving just outside the hatch. Flechettes buzzed through the air like biting flies. Her armor erupted with craters like an unshielded ship in a meteor swarm. Blood pooled beneath her.

The micro-gun swiveled in super slow-motion like those ancient war holos where helicopter rotors crawled through their proscribed circle while making impossibly low frequency whooping sounds. Composite confetti drifted down like burning snow.

Gigi knew she shouldn’t stare, knew she had to get moving. But the weight of another body paralyzed her. Another member of her command dead. Another friend. How many did that make? And what had she done that had been so special? Why did she continue to survive?

“Move, Lieutenant,” Maahes commanded. “I won’t have this gun long.”

Gigi shook her head clear. Time snapped back to normal speed. She jumped to her feet and sprinted across the open ground. Above, the micro-gun buzzed like an angry yellow jacket nest then suddenly whirred to silence mid-sweep.

“Jammers,” Maahes noted.

Gigi dove under partially open cargo door into the staging area. She rolled to her feet, frantically searching for Bryce’s remote to close the door before an ambitious drone followed. Instead she saw he had physically wedged a rod from the floor to the manual release button. She kicked it away. The cargo door slid back down and sealed itself in place.

She turned to Maahes, back in command. “Head for the rendezvous. Tell Bryce to treat the comms as compromised. Go.”

He jumped to the floor but didn’t move. “Wilmots?”

“Dead.” Gigi swallowed hard, remembering her friend’s pockmarked body. “Which is what we’ll be once Interdiction or security shows up.”

Maahes was still staring up at her. “What about the girl?”

“There is no girl. Loptr sold us out.” She snatched up Bryce’s rod and jammed it against the manual mechanism, this time against the emergency close button. Flood the system with a lockdown signal. Old school jamming.

“We should stick together, Lieutenant.” His artificial voice interface almost made him sound reluctant. She knew they were both remembering the Geminal cones on Obsession. Dividing their forces was never a good idea.

Gigi shifted over to the interface for the micro-gun. “I need you to make sure Bryce doesn’t leave us hanging. Without Loptr’s papers, Wilmots’ contact is the only lifeline we’ve got. If that window closes, we’ll never make it out.”

She began working the controls. Still Maahes hesitated. A stream of flechettes pinged the cargo door from the outside, snapping both their heads toward the sound.

“Go,” she ordered, turning back to the gunnery interface. “I’ll catch up. I run faster than you do, furball.”

“Ha! That’ll be the day.” The CuFF bolted down the tunnel at a full sprint toward Bryce and the rendezvous.

Gigi erased all their signatures from the lockout of micro-gun. That made sure it couldn’t be spoofed. It would now fire on anything. She set its sensors to passive only and programmed it to wait until it had at least three targets within its defined field. She moved it to a better location and reduced its targeting range. Then she set a fifteen second delay to allow herself to get clear. All she had to do was initiate it and the micro-gun would become an indiscriminate ambush. It wouldn’t hold long but it might slow someone down and provide a warning. A trick she’d borrowed from the Greens.

Now it was her turn to hesitate. She wasn’t sure why. Her eyes kept drifting to the crates of their personal possessions, small and few. The only remaining remnants of her team and everything that lay behind them. Down 2, Scorn, Obsession. Now Home.

Her training told her there was nothing in there that couldn’t be replaced. Her heart said otherwise. No one would forward anything to either her team or their next of kin. She’d always known that which was why she carried everything she valued on her person.

She ticked off the checklist in her mind. Assault weapon, nightshades, the auto-injector from Patel. And his formula memorized deep within her mind. That was everything she needed.

No. There was something she’d forgotten, something she’d dragged along through every mission. She scrambled through her personal container looking for it, throwing all the other unnecessary junk to the ground. Then she had it, the Pocket Jesus. A repressed memory of The Farm. She slipped it into her fatigues.

One last check, then she engaged the micro-gun. She sprinted for the tunnel after Maahes, hoping she wasn’t too far behind.

Several minutes later as she neared the rendezvous, she slowed, first to a jog, then a walk, and finally a corner clearing crouch. Either Bryce or Maahes should have been posted as a watch. Something was wrong.

She spun through the filters on her nightshades. That’s when she spotted the drops of blood. Human or feline, she couldn’t tell which.

She dropped low against the wall. She interfaced her nightshades to the assault weapon and slowly poked it around the corner. As it panned across the space, there he was, sitting by the outlet door, one hand looped through Maahes harness, the other pointing a pistol at his head. Nick Michaels, his face unwrapped from behind his Loptr disguise. She should have known. His pistol arm trailed blood from a set of long, deep, parallel scratches. At least Maahes had scored a hit.

“You may as well drop the rifle and come out, Gagnant,” he called out, looking right into the camera. “Once again, we each have something the other wants.”

Gigi knew exactly what he wanted. And she knew she would never trade it, not even for Maahes’ life. But she knew she didn’t have a clean shot unless she moved the rifle. The moment she did, Maahes would definitely be dead. That was price she couldn’t bear.

She widened the field of view to fisheye through her nightshades. Bryce’s body lay just beyond Michaels along the wall. His chest had been ripped apart like he’d stumbled into a tiny, directional mine. The kind spooks liked. Blood congealed around him. How many did that make, Gigi wondered. Nguyen, Meinert, Baidu, Okoronkwo, Sagnol, Wilmots. Twenty-two others on The Farm. Everyone under her command came up dead.

Michaels pulled tighter on the harness. A strangled growl emerged from Maahes’ throat. “Now, Gagnant.”

Gigi slowly set the rifle down. As she stood, she retrieved the auto-injector from her fatigues and held it to her throat. Then she stepped around the corner.

Michaels laughed. “Is that supposed to be a threat? Let the CuFF go, or I get it? I’m afraid you don’t understand how this situation works.”

“You spooks never were that smart,” Gigi replied. “You remember that hellhole you sent us to called Obsession? Remember the Immunity Boosters they gave us? Well, a mutual friend told me this auto-injector will self-erase all those nasty memories for as long as I’ve been taking them. Including the one where I memorized the formula for his antidote. So, yeah, let the CuFF go.”

Michaels stared at her for several long seconds. “And if I think you’re bluffing?”

“Try me.” She adjusted her grip on the auto-injector, pressing it into her neck until she could feel her pulse flickering against it. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to forget. Since before I ever met you.”

Michaels licked his lips. Then he slowly lowered Maahes to the ground. But he kept the pistol.

Maahes turned and hissed at him. He raised a paw. Michaels’ pistol twitched.

“Uh-uh, Michaels,” Gigi said. Michaels froze. The CuFF let his paw drop. “Maahes, I want you to vanish into the city. Signal me when you’re clear.”

“And you?” the CuFF asked. His artificial voice remained neutral.

“I’ll give him what he wants and do the same. Don’t look for me. And don’t go back to the Stack Maze.”

Maahes eyed her as if trying to read her true intentions, his expression alien and unreadable. “Lieutenant,” he finally said, “serving under you has been a privilege I won’t forget.”

She wanted to say she wouldn’t either. But she knew that wasn’t true. So she said nothing. He slowly blinked and turned away. His gray fur faded into the plascrete background, as if he’d never been a part of her life at all.

“We don’t have long before someone finds us,” Michaels said. “This tunnel is no longer secure.”

“We wait here or nowhere, Michaels,” Gigi replied. “Once I confirm he’s safe, we’ll go anywhere you want.”

Michaels scowled, but didn’t press. He slowly drew out a handkerchief.

Gigi glared at him a few seconds before curiosity overcame her caution and she asked. “Who was she, anyway? Just some random schoolgirl you snatched?”

“A colleague.” Michaels dabbed the cloth against the ragged wounds Maahes had inflicted. Gigi hoped they left a scar. “Don’t worry, she’s safe. I just needed something to trade, something you could never pass up. She fit the bill perfectly, even if unwillingly.”

“You son of a bitch,” Gigi growled, “you’ve been manipulating me all along by triggering my memories.” If it was possible, she hated Michaels more. She would have killed him if she had a weapon. Hell, she just might try with her bare hands.

Michaels must have seen the murder in her eye. His pistol moved. Gigi stopped and jammed the auto-injector a little deeper under her jaw. He relaxed his hand and let the barrel drop. Their standoff resumed.

“If you’d only stored the formula in your nightshades,” he said, almost wistful, “you’d all be on your way to Anarchy by now.”

Gigi snorted her disbelief.

Michaels shrugged. “I don’t like seeing people killed unnecessarily. Someone jumped the gun.”

“And Bryce?” She nodded to her companion’s body. “Why did he have to die?”

Michaels returned to tending his arm as if Bryce were just another piece of scenery. “He was dead when I got here.”

Gigi thought about interrogating Michaels further, but decided she couldn’t take any more of his lies. So they waited in silence.

A few minutes later, an artificial voice whispered in her ear. “Lt. Thomas Maahes 17 signing off TacNet. Relentless forward progress. Predator, not prey.”

When the comm link went dead, Gigi knew she was truly alone. The last of her team was gone. She had nothing left to lose. Suddenly, she let out belated laugh. Only Maahes would put that spin on her Marine motto. His way of telling her a CuFF would go out swinging.

“He say something funny, Gagnant?” Michaels asked. “Something you’d care to share?”

Gigi smiled, thinking how much she’d miss the little furball, even if he technically outranked her. “Maahes just reminded me that it’s better to hunt than be the hunted.”

Michaels just looked at her quizzically, not quite sure he got the joke.

“Unlike humans,” she explained, “CuFFs know they aren’t apex predators.” She was certain Maahes had worked out her plan and given his approval. Patel would have to find another way. Her smile turned cold and malevolent. “But, then again, neither are you.”

Michaels reacted almost instantaneously. His eyes dilated. The barrel of his pistol started up, too late. It didn’t reach level before Gigi squeezed the trigger.

The chill of the serum shot into her vein, numbing it like ice. She released the auto-injector. Spots of shadow began blinking along her peripherals like antiphoton fireflies. Something clattered to the floor.

A micro-gun burst to life, sustained fire then nothing. Gigi slumped against the wall. She was tired, so very tired. Someone would be coming soon. She knew that was probably bad but could no longer remember exactly why. She could no longer force one thought to follow another.

Nearby, a man started yelling. Her father? He was angry, always angry. Someone slung her over a shoulder as if she’d been wounded. She didn’t feel anything. She wondered where he was taking her. Back to base on The Farm?

Suddenly a pressure she didn’t know existed squeezed into release somewhere deep inside her head. Darkness swarmed to fill in her vision until her consciousness finally winked out. Awash with relief, she no longer cared. For the first time in a year, she was at peace.

---

Gigi Gagnant awoke in coffin quarters of a cheap starport hotel unable to remember how she’d gotten there. When she checked the storage cubby, she found only her nightshades, military discharge papers she didn’t remember signing, a medical report saying she’d suffered dissociative mental recombination as the result of service related trauma, and a pre-paid ticket on a tramp freighter bound for Anarchy.

Tucked behind them she discovered a well-worn Pocket Jesus, like one she hadn’t seen since Lode. As she turned the small book over in her hands, she wondered who might have left it. There was no inscription inside the cover, no mark of ownership or donation. The single dog-eared page contained a familiar but otherwise meaningless Psalm. So she gathered up the rest of her belongings and left it behind, hoping someone else might one day draw comfort from it. 

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III