Escape Velocity: The Anthology (2 page)

      
Farber, with his white skin and black eyes that looked like they had just exuded his life right out of him, and a missing arm ... and now his hair.

      
Farber sat up and seemed to stare right at the kid, but Banger knew better. There was nothing left behind those eyes.

      
Banger felt Farber’s body heave once, twice, and he inched away. “Farber, no! Not here.” Farber opened his mouth, releasing the contents of his stomach onto Banger’s lap, down his legs, into his boots.
  

       “
Aaahh, geeze, buddy.” For the first time since he had met Farber,

Banger wanted to cry.

      
Too shaken to worry about the caustic puke seeping into his boots, Banger stared out the window, counting tile blocks on the tunnel wall as the tram slowed down through Station 25. Banger didn’t see where Farber had gotten the syringe, but when he pulled his gaze away from the window Farber had already jabbed a needle into his own thigh.

      
A shiver cascaded down Banger’s spine. “Farber, what are you doing? Oh, God.” Banger jerked backwards, watching Farber’s body coil and plunge to the floor. Farber trembled for a moment, and then went limp. A thick yellow liquid oozed from the pores in Farber’s face and remaining hand, devouring his skin.

      
Banger’s gaze locked onto the yellow goop that had once been Farber’s body, the enormous overcoat he had worn sinking into its mists, melding with the tram’s rusty metallic floor; Farber’s existence erased from the world — just like what should have happened to that cliff-diver, Jekkie Lane, if only —

      
The kid must have activated the emergency signal, because the tram came to a sudden stop just outside Station 25. When Banger looked up, he saw the black “E” on back of the kid’s tan jacket as the kid left the tram.

      
A wave of dread moved through Banger. He leaped over what was left of Farber and ran.

What had incited Molly Holden to stay in the soul-wrenching town after she passed the Bar exam eluded her. A bad decision. Corrupt political fruitcakes, street-gang hoods, serial-killer wannabes, and now she could add sick bastards to her list of clients. The closest thing she had to a friend was a floppy-lipped, over-fed precinct detective with a shocking disregard for fashion.

      
Fighting her desire to slump on the floor and curl up, Molly pressed her hand against the observation window. It had been another late night. She tried her best to stand straight.

       “
Doctor Nicholas Lorenzo Dunn III,” said Detective Allen Parker, glaring at the detainee who sat behind the glass. “Brought him in early this morning. Found him wandering outside Station 25.” He sipped his coffee and tucked his sweater into his trousers. His baggy retro pants rolled halfway down his butt and ejected the shirt right back out.

      
He leaned into her, his breath reminding Molly of the garbage truck she had passed on her way to the precinct. “Goes by the name of Banger,” he said. “An astrophysicist, believe it or not, and two-time, silver-medal runner. Should’ve seen him when we brought him in. Wore a big bloody overcoat. A real sick-o. You wouldn’t believe the crime scene.”

      
Molly inspected the man who sat on the wooden chair behind the glass. He wore the red jumpsuit given to all suspects. Thin. Needed a shave. Hair like a half-breed Pekingese on a bad day. “Why would an astrophysicist want to kill Jekkie Lane?” she asked.

       “
Beats me,” replied Allen. “Look at the guy. How could someone that skinny overpower a guy like Lane, twice his size? He keeps mumbling something about galeapers and finding an orange-haired mohawk kid. Frankly, I think he’s nuts. But that’s for you to prove, counselor. He’s your client.”

       “
Thanks, Allen.”

      
Allen wrinkled his nose and turned to go, but hesitated. “Let me give you some advice, Molly. This creep killed a super star. Don’t try too hard.”

      
Wanting nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed, Molly squared her shoulders and entered the observation room. Doctor Dunn stood when she entered, his wrists in shackles. She hadn’t noticed the chains, or the bandage on his left hand. She kept her distance.

       “
Dr Dunn, I’m your attorney, Molly Holden. I’ve been asked to—”

       “
I didn’t ask for an attorney.”

       “
Doctor, you’re being held for murder. You
do
need an attorney.”

      
He sat back down on the chair and remained quiet, rotating his shackled wrists.

      
She walked closer, examining Dunn’s physique. It was hard to determine what musculature hid beneath the jumpsuit, but his posture indicated a lean build. No match for Jekkie Lane. She watched his eyes and asked, “What does the orange-haired kid have to do with this crime?”

       “
Orange
mohawk
,” he replied. “Like I tried to tell that other guy, I need to find him. I didn’t kill Jekkie Lane.”

       “
Doctor, yours was the only foreign blood found on the victim, and his blood was all over you.”

       “
I was with a galeaper. Ever hear of them?”

       “
No, but there’s a man dead with your DNA—”

       “
Galeapers’ blood is different. They don’t leave their blueprints on the body. They ordinarily don’t leave a body.”

      
She circled him, studying his saggy-faced expression. He didn’t look like a killer, but sick bastards usually didn’t.

      
He gazed at her with bloodshot eyes. “Farber said it had to be done.”

       “
Who’s Farber?”

       “
The galeaper. He’s dead. He melded himself with the tram because he was dying and couldn’t take the pain. His hair was falling out. That’s how galeapers die. They fall apart and then turn to dust.”

       “
What?”

       “
Farber injected himself with melding-blast in front of the mohawk kid. Then the kid stopped the tram and ran off. Then I ran off, and that’s when they picked me up.”

      
Banger blinked wet eyes. Then he continued. “It shouldn’t have happened that way. Farber was supposed to shoot Jekkie Lane with melding-blast and Jekkie Lane should’ve blended right into wherever he fell. We dressed like Lane’s agents, in overcoats and boots, so he’d think we were there to talk business — Farber’s idea. It didn’t work. Lane fought back, hard. Pulled off Farber’s arm. It turned to dust. Farber got a little crazy then. He killed Lane then we fled. I know this sounds outrageous. That’s why I have to find the kid.”

      
Molly began to think that Dunn
was
nuts. She played along.    “So, Farber was a galeaper. And
where
did he come from?”

      
Banger hesitated before he answered. “I found Farber in a black hole.”

       “
You’re an astrophysicist?”

       “
Right.”

       “
This black hole. It’s out in space?”

       “
Yes, that’s the kind I’m talking about. Farber’s matter was emitted from the hole along with Hawking radiation. His atoms cohered within the particle reaper I used to find the hole and somehow he transported himself through the beam and into my laboratory. It was either Lane or me. You see, I invented the technology to find black holes, but Lane’s descendent will take that knowledge to a formidable level.”

      
Dunn’s story garbled Molly’s balance, or was it latent effects of the previous night? “Doctor, I don’t understand all of this. What is Hawking radiation?”

       “
Black holes emit radiation and information about what had been sucked into them.”

After drinking a life-sized virgin Bloody Mary, Molly took the tram to a section of town called the “drudge,” where she hoped to find Sonlin, a former client. Sonlin knew all of the hoods in Graveton, and for a price would do anything to help her.

      
The rain came down in icy sheets. She pressed her arms against her body, keeping her raincoat shut. Her head still spun from listening to Banger’s crazy story.

       “
The idea of an alien race transforming planets into what they perceive as paradise is absurd, Doctor,” she had said at the precinct.

       “
That’s why they’re called galeapers,” Banger had replied. “They leap through time and galaxies, eliminating bloodlines that interfere with their plans. Jekkie Lane’s descendant would do just that.”

      
Genetic cleansing, or extreme justice; A spooky, preposterous story that Molly suspected was just another dark tale told by another sick bastard. Banger was either completely out of his mind or she was being set up.

      
Molly soon found herself staring at the third floor of the ‘leaning house,’ a name given to the building because of the illusion provided by missing red bricks along one of its sides. Plywood covered most of the windows, and wooden cartons served as front steps. The usual hawk-eyed lookout lingered by the doorway. He gave Molly a nod of recognition as she walked past him.

      
A spindly-looking doorman she didn’t recognize let her inside Sonlin’s third-floor dwelling. Sonlin sat cross-legged on the floor beside a plywood-covered window. A light-blue silk poncho draped his large body. A pile of clothing, an old mattress, and many small wooden crates packed with food remnants cluttered the room. The smell of cannabis drifted from behind her and mingled with a greasy odor of stale sweat.

      
Sonlin remained seated, delivering his blanket of warmth to her in a wide, compassionate grin. A contrast to his dark Asian skin, his synthetic teeth sparkled like sun off a pond.

       “
Ms. Molly,” Sonlin said in a deep voice. He extended his arm.

      
Molly returned his smile and squeezed his hand. She pulled cash out of her raincoat’s pocket and handed him a bill. “I need information, Sonlin.”

      
He snatched the bill. “Anything for you.”

       “
I’m looking for someone. He wears a tan jacket with a large black E on the back. Has an orange mohawk.”

      
Sonlin’s grin faded. “What he do?”

       “
Nothing. I just need to talk to him, for a client of mine.” She handed him another bill.

      
Sonlin hesitated before taking the money, a wrinkle forming above his brow. “Does this have anything to do with a tram?”

      
A jolt cascaded down Molly’s spine.

       “
Percy, who you’re looking for,” Sonlin continued. “He only one with mohawk. He scared, Ms. Molly. Something’s after him.”

       “
This kid’s for real? You’ve talked to him?”

       “
Yes. He say two men on tram in bloody coats. Sickly man melt on tram. Percy get off tram and run.”

       “
Just how Banger had described it,” Molly whispered. “Who is after Percy?”

       “
More funny little men. All have orange hair and dress like Edgly Gang.”

       “
Edgly gang?”

       “
Percy’s gang. But little men don’t know Edgly Gang meeting sign, so gang know they not real thing and shoot them before they get too close.”

       “
They killed some?”

       “
Yes, then little men turn to dust, blow away. Some just get shot, get real mad, throw things.”

      
Molly took a long breath and reached for another bill. She felt like she had eaten live snakes that now slithered up her throat. “Where do I find Percy?”

      
Sonlin chuckled, declining the bill with a wave of his hand. “On Edgly Avenue. Where else?”

      
She stuffed the bill back into her pocket.

       “
Ms. Molly,” Sonlin added. “Gang scared. One shot by little man and melt into alley. Nothing left of him.”

      
She turned to go, swallowing hard as she faced the callous stare of Sonlin’s doorman, who opened the door for her. She scurried down the steps and onto the street toward Edgly Avenue.

      
A clump of orange-haired hoods on Edgly Avenue stood out like kings and queens among beggars. Seven of them, but none had a mohawk. She shivered in the rain’s aftermath and approached the Edgly Gang.

Molly returned to the precinct with good and bad news for Banger. The Edgly Gang verified the tram incident, but she didn’t find the mohawk kid, Percy. Banger was released on bail and then took the tram to the abysmal ‘drudge’ to find the kid, without whom the law would think he was insane.

      
The stink of decay in the drudge reminded Banger to make tight fists. Wearing a polyester warm-up suit and running shoes, his skinny ass screamed
assault me
to any hood seeking fun. He wished he still wore the bloodstained overcoat and black boots the precinct held for evidence. One look at him dressed like that would keep away any thug.

      
He kicked through wet litter, his feet burning where Farber’s guts had dribbled onto them, and the snug fit of the damp canvas shoes exacerbated the pain.

      
Peering between the cars that sped past, he scanned the hoods standing beneath a brown tattered awning over a diner across the street. None wore a tan jacket, or anything with an ‘E’ on it. No orange hair.