The Courier (San Angeles) (6 page)

The distant flickering neon glow of Chinatown, a pool of multicolored light in the Ambient-induced night, pulled me from my memories. The lights shone bright enough to reflect off the coarse Level 2 ceiling, bringing a sense of normality back to me, the feeling of being home and the world being right.

Well, as right as it had ever been.

I pulled my bike over just on the edge of the neon stream. I opened my visor and took a deep breath. The familiar sounds and smells of Chinatown washed over me in a warm wave, shutting the memories, both old and new, back in the locked box. Back to where I could at least pretend things were normal. My breathing slowed and I edged the bike back into traffic. Level 2 Chinatown. Home. I’d moved here as soon as I could scrape up enough cash, back to the neighborhood I’d lived in with my parents.

The markets were beginning to shut down around me for the night. Owners hosed down the sidewalk in front of their businesses, using too much water, pushing the day’s debris into the sewer system, and from there to the treatment plants on Level 1. The neon
never quit, but the flow of people moving from point A to point B crept deeper into their known world, away from potential outsiders. Chinatown closed down from the outside in.

I snapped the visor back down, shutting out Chinatown. Shit. With all the crap I had been through tonight, I forgot to contact Dispatch about the package. Hell, no one would be there, but the computers would log my attempt. That, combined with a bit of luck, and I might not get docked a couple days of pay. Taking packages home was breaking one of the cardinal rules. I connected to the Net and sent off a message to Dispatch telling her there was no one at the delivery site to accept the package, and I wasn’t riding all the way back to a locked building to try to drop the thing off either. I would leave the package on Dispatch’s desk in the morning, and another courier could deliver it.

I didn’t mention the gutted man or the too-well-dressed security guard, the amount of blood, or how the man’s insides glistened and steamed on the floor. None of that needed to be said. If someone found out I was there, they might try to get me to testify or something, and that was getting way too involved. The thought of the tortured man having a family entered my head. Was his wife keeping his supper warm? Did he have kids waiting to be tucked into bed? It didn’t matter . . . I couldn’t let it. Corporate killings were nasty stuff. And they never seemed to end well for the witnesses. I was suddenly glad I didn’t see a cop while I was racing away.

The bike’s motor cut out. Damn. The battery couldn’t last the ten more blocks till home? One more thing to mess up my night. I glanced around, feeling helpless without the ability to take off at any time. I noticed my hands still shook as I unzipped the charge cord from my jacket and plugged it into the bike. A few minutes later, the bike had just under one quarter charge and the jacket was empty. I pulled away from the curb as soon as the cord was packed away.

My stomach grumbled as I idled the bike down the street, looking for an opening in the foot traffic so I could pull it up onto the sidewalk. I didn’t think I was hungry. The thought of food actually made me feel nauseous, but I hadn’t had anything since breakfast—I glanced at the time on my visor—over twelve hours ago. I knew I had to eat something before my body shut down. I didn’t have anything at home, so ordering out it was. It would bite into the budget, but what the hell.

The chance of getting a shower tonight had gone completely out the window. Rule number one for the Lees was “no running water after nine o’clock.” It was their way of dealing with the water shortages. Maybe trying to make up for the excess they used on the fish.

The people separated for a second, and I pulled in, parking my bike as close to the big window as possible. I always liked to keep an eye on it. Then I locked the bike and walked around the corner and into my favorite delivery joint, Northern Dragon Chinese Cuisine. The place was a hole in the wall. One table with a couple of plastic chairs, a short counter, and plenty of woks on the stoves behind it. The sign outside had been broken for years; if you came here, it was because you already knew it existed. I liked it because the owner, Kai, refused to use MSG. The crap gave me migraines. Kai had known my parents before they died, but we never talked about that.

I paused just outside the door, rubbing my shoulder under the jacket, trying to put a happier look on my face. The shoulder didn’t feel too damaged, nothing a bit of rest wouldn’t heal. I pulled the door open with my left arm. “Hey, Kai, how’s the night going?” I thought I sounded pretty good. Normal, at least.

The old man behind the counter looked up, a sudden smile making the crow’s feet around his eyes deepen into crevasses.

“Kris. Long time no, eh? You don’t come in here much anymore. Old Kai thought you had found another place to eat.”

I put my helmet on the counter and grinned, no longer trying to fake it. The old man always cheered me up. He was at least a tenth-generation local and still had an accent. His mannerisms and dress all spoke of the old country. Where he learned how to do that was anyone’s guess . . . maybe he actually went back for a visit one time. More likely, he watched one too many old kung fu movies. Level 2 people didn’t have the money to travel.

“You know I wouldn’t go anywhere else. You’ve got the best ginger chicken this side of Level 7.”

“You know I do! Now, what can old Kai get for you?”

“Whatever is hot and ready. I’m tired and I just want to go to bed.”

Kai’s face lost its smile and he leaned in close. “You work too hard. You need to learn to relax and go out once in a while. My grandson is about your age. You two should go out on a date.”

“I’m already seeing someone.” The lie felt wrong when I said it to him. I’d had boyfriends, of course. The last one got me into being a courier, even giving me my first bike. I replaced the bike at the same time I dumped him.

“Better than my grandson? I don’t think so. You come here tomorrow at supper and take a look at him. You’ll like what you see, I promise.”

A small chuckle bubbled from my chest. “I might just do that.”

“Good.” The smile came back. “Now, you sit and I bring out your food.”

“I don’t really have—”

“No excuses! You sit and relax and eat a good meal.” He gave me a gentle push to the table.

What the hell. There was nothing much to do at home anyway, except sleep. Last time Kai had insisted I stay, he had joined me at the table. The food and the company had combined to make a memorable evening. I sat down and picked up a pen lying on the table,
twirling it between my fingers as I waited. The sound of something hitting hot oil came from over the counter and my mouth started watering.

Kai’s talk of boyfriends made me think of Jake. He was the last in a string of bad guys. Older guys. Back when I thought I couldn’t get by without someone, a man, to help me. In some ways, he was the worst. In others, the best. When he wasn’t in a drug-induced rage, his guilt came through. He taught me how to ride, and when I turned sixteen, gave me a motorcycle and walked me into Internuncio. Dispatch gave me a job that day, delivering crap until I passed my security check. When I found out the bike was stolen, I got rid of it as fast as I could, selling it for enough money to pay for my current one. My current bike was older, but solid and legal.

Kai brought over plates of food, and we both dug in. By the time I left, with extra food in a takeaway container and a promise to not stay away so long next time, my mood had lifted. The night air had cooled, a byproduct of the Ambients being turned down. I shivered in the sudden change of temperature and zipped my jacket up right to my neck. Kai’s place was always warm. The package, still shoved down the front of my jacket, crinkled as I walked to my bike.

I unlocked the bike and started the motor. The ride home was short. The pedestrian traffic had slowed down, and I made a clean merge onto the street. Most of the bums and druggies had already found their little cubbyholes for the night, and those that weren’t able to just lay on the sidewalk in front of the local businesses. A young boy was just settling down for the night, pulling garbage over his legs to keep warm. I stopped and gave him my leftovers before continuing home.

I pulled the bike up to the Lee Fish Market, just outside the alley the trucks used to deliver fish, and chained it up for the night
against the steel barriers guarding the front windows and doors. The bike’s own locking mechanism was great for quick stops to complete deliveries, but for overnight, nothing beat a titanium and nanotube composite chain and lock. I plugged it into the socket hidden below the window ledge, the only one that actually worked. A small concession from the Lees.

The food in my stomach was making me sleepy, and I rubbed my eyes before slipping the helmet over my arm. I walked to the side service entrance in the alley, thinking of my warm bed. The sound of tires chirping on the street made me stop and look over my shoulder. A white van pulled up and stopped across from the Fish Market entrance.

Two men vaulted out of the van and ran toward the closed front doors of the Fish Market. I ducked into the darker shadows near the wall, breathing hard against the cold, wet concrete. Even the persistent neon glow of Chinatown didn’t reach here. They hadn’t seen me, they hadn’t seen me, they . . . I repeated the words, a constant litany trying to convince myself, trying to make them true. I recognized one of the men as the butcher from the delivery site.

I felt my hands start shaking again, and the food in my gut had turned into rock. It was a face I wasn’t ever going to forget. His complexion was lighter than I remembered, and he had cleaned off the spattered blood, but the narrow face matched, with its well-groomed mustache, the nose that looked like it had been broken once too often. And the eyes. Dark as Level 1 during a blackout. They glittered with an intensity that scared the bejesus out of me. I could still feel them boring into me.

His name popped into my head—Quincy.

I crept backward through the shadows to the side entrance.

Christ, once they found the front door locked, they were bound to try and come around the back way. There weren’t too many places to hide. Two soft voices came from just around the corner.

“Hey, let’s see that image. This looks like her bike. She’s here.”

“You head down that way, I’ll wait here and check if the other guys have seen her.”

I crouched lower in the shadows and slid behind two green dumpsters used to hold the Fish Market’s cast off garbage. A huge rat ran between my feet into the alley, dragging its fleshy tail through years of built up fish guts, scales, and oil, scared by the intruder into its domain.

I understood it.

The dumpsters were standard issue refuse containers, pretty much like any others you find around the city. Their huge metal lids squealed in anger every time they were opened or closed. I moved deeper behind the bins until I came to the gap between two of them. I slid between the bins, jumping to catch the top edge, and maneuvered my feet onto a small ledge. Another rat scurried out from under the dumpster.

Light flashed into the alley, moving quickly from the entrance to the bins where I hid. The flashlight shone behind the dumpsters, a quick check before moving back to the shadowed side door of the market. I heard the handle being twisted and shaken.

“The door is locked.” The voice was soft, trying to keep up the pretense of being secretive. The asshole was traipsing around a dark alley with a flashlight. Who did he think he was fooling? “I’ll move further down the back.”

A quiet hiss of electronic static was the only answer I could hear.

The stench from the rotting fish in the dumpster was making me
gag. I took a deep breath through my mouth and held it, coating my tongue in a slimy glaze of oily fish residue that permeated the air.

The flashlight shone behind the dumpsters again. A slower, more lingering examination than had been given before. I thought of dropping to the ground and sliding back behind the bins when the flashlight moved off and pointed down the alley. If he looked in between the bins, I was toast. Fear froze me to my spot. I pulled myself closer in instead, trying to reduce my silhouette.

And then I remembered. I had a damn Taser! I’d forgotten about it again, but it had been sitting in the small of my back since the day I bought the jacket. Would it still be charged after draining the coat into the motorcycle’s batteries? Carefully, slowly, I moved one hand off the lip of the dumpster. My weight shifted, and my right foot popped off its tenuous toehold. My body pivoted, gravity forcing it toward the wall of the market. I grasped for the top of the dumpster again, stopping my slow fall. Blood pounded in my veins, blocking the sound from the alley. I balanced on one foot and tried again, forcing my torso to stay where it was. I wiped my hand on my pants and reached behind to grab the Taser, each movement as slow as I could make it. The sound of the coarse jacket material slipping against itself was a loud thrumming in my ears. How could he not hear me? My hand wrapped around the Taser’s handle, ready to rip it off the Velcro holding it in place.

“I think I heard something further in. I’m gonna go check it out.” More static hiss was the only response.

The flashlight, followed by the outline of a pudgy looking man, continued past the bins, moving farther into the alley. As soon as the light passed by the second bin, I started breathing again. Dropping silently to the ground, I waited, watching the light recede down the alley before leaving my hiding spot. I half crept, half ran along the edge of the building, looking over my shoulder at every step. The flashlight
was still making its way down the alley. I kept my hand wrapped around the Taser, afraid to pull it off and make any noise.

Suddenly, the flickering neon light coming from the alley’s entrance dimmed. I stumbled and looked up. The alley entrance was blocked by a figure. Momentum carried me forward, and I slammed into the man’s chest before I could stop.

“Well, it’s nice to see you again.” His voice was as smooth as the Level 5 concrete, and just as hard. “Where is the package?”

I squinted up at the silhouette. A scream rose into my throat. Black eyes stared back at me.

He clapped his hand over my mouth, partially covering my nose with his giant paw. “I don’t think that would be a good idea just now, do you?” His hand pushed tighter against my face, blocking the air.

The scream died in my chest. I tried to jerk out of his grasp. His grip loosened and he slammed me up against the side of the Fish Market. The impact knocked the breath out of me. I sucked in a huge breath through my open mouth, forcing air through Quincy’s fingers. It tasted like soap. The back of my head scraped the rough exterior of the building and he stepped in closer, pressing his arm against my throat, his body against mine, pinning me to the wall. This couldn’t be happening. I closed my eyes, pushing tears down my cheeks.

“You are a fighter then, eh? Good!” Quincy leaned down and whispered into my ear. “I like fighters. They make my job so much more . . . entertaining.”

He reached into his pocket for his comm unit. Holding it to his mouth, he thumbed the key. “I’ve got the girl.”

“Team Two, roger.”

“Team Three, roger.”

I tightened my grip on the Taser. Using the comm unit had distracted him, and he had released a slight amount of the pressure
holding me against the wall. It was the only chance I would get. I yanked, pulling the Taser away from its Velcro holding. It came off surprisingly easy, and I almost dropped it. The tearing sound of the Velcro was muffled through the jacket and the concrete wall. I plunged the Taser against his stomach, jabbing as hard as I could. Quincy looked down and took a small step back, a smile spreading across his narrow face.

“I was right, you are a fighter!”

The bastard actually sounded happy.

Quincy spasmed when I pressed the trigger, shooting 50,000 volts of pulsing electricity into his body. He stumbled back, still on his feet. His grin had turned ghastly, his lips pulled tightly over his teeth.

I stepped forward and pressed the Taser into his stomach again. This time, his body convulsed and dropped to the ground, twitching even after I’d stopped the retaliatory attack.

I noticed my hands had stopped shaking. I still felt like someone had hollowed out my insides . . . like the gutted man on the floor. But I was back in control. I had given myself another chance.

I bolted around the corner onto the front street. Back into the meager pedestrian traffic that had either ignored, or not seen, what was happening in the alley. I ran for my bike, struggling to get the keys out of my pocket. Cold panic swelled in my chest, filling the hole inside me, slowly creeping out to my hands and feet. I tripped and fell to the ground, the keys flying out of my hand, past the bike. My helmet crashed to the concrete, scraping the back. I scrambled toward the locked-up machine. A figure emerged from the alley on the other side of the Fish Market and turned toward me. I froze, terror mixing with the panic. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get the chain off in time.

Forcing myself to my feet, I ran toward the white van parked
across the street. Maybe they had left it empty. Maybe it was still running. Maybe it could get me out of here.

The driver’s door opened and a man got out. I angled back, racing to the alley across the street instead. He was closer. His left hand was wrapped in a bandage, and he ran with a definite limp. Even with that, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. When he was three meters away, I cut back toward the van. It had to be empty. God, please make it empty!

I waved my Taser at him, and he slowed down just enough to give me time to pull open the driver’s door and jump in.

The engine was powered up. I had the van moving before the door was closed. I could see the driver in the mirror. He had fled back to the sidewalk. His comm unit was pressed to his mouth. Chances were they had the damn van tracked, but it was still the fastest way out of this place. I would get rid of it the first chance I got. But first I had to make it out of here. I pulled into a narrow Chinatown side street and disappeared from the main strip.

The truck itself had no comm device and no nav units. It looked like a throwaway vehicle. Something that could be used to do just about anything and not worry about having it traced back to you.

I raced out of the narrow street and onto a secondary, heading for a Level 3 up-ramp. I stood on the accelerator, weaving around the slower traffic on the almost empty streets. If the truck was monitored, I had to dump it before they caught up with me. If they had motorcycles, I was already
fucked.