The Paradox Initiative (2 page)

“I’m sorry I’m late
,” Kestrel said before the door shut behind her. “They put in a fifth security gate and it held everybody up.”

Her boss, a
black-haired, middle-aged woman in a blue suit, glanced up from behind the counter at the other end of the room.

“You forgot to put the M68’s back on the rack after you
polished them last night,” her boss said before returning her attention to the portable screen before her. Kestrel winced.

“Sorry.
I’ll program a reminder.” Kestrel hurriedly checked the rest of the shop, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything else. All of the weaponry, both small and large
Blitz
technology guns, and hunting staves and knives, hung in neat, gleaming rows to her right—pristine and sharp against the white walls. On her left, all the thermal bags, travel bottles and coolers lay stacked or hung, and behind the counter, all of the non-perishable food packages and ammunition remained locked in their clear cases. Kestrel’s heels clicked on the white tile floor as she quickly maneuvered around the counter—and her boss—and entered the more dimly-lit back room, which was stuffed with black boxes of merchandise.

“
Good morning, Kestrel Evans
,” the time-clock computer acknowledged.

“Hi, Diva
.”

“You are late this morning, Kestrel Evans.”

“I
know
, Diva,” Kestrel sighed. “I have a clock, too.”

“Perhaps you need a new one, Kestrel Evans,” Diva replied.

“Oh, ha ha,” Kestrel shot an ugly look up at the lights. “So now you’ve grown a humor chip?”

“I do not understand the question,” Diva stated.

“Good,” Kestrel muttered, set her satchel down on the narrow table and went back out into the shop.

“I am going up to the office to order more ammunition for the 85X’s, since we’re running low,”
her boss stated as Kestrel entered, still studying the screen of her computer. “If you could stock the non-perishable green-beans and the prunes, that would be good—though I have no idea why we’re low on those. They’re disgusting.”

“I guess they last the longest,” Kestrel
assumed as her boss stepped past her and headed toward the elevator to their right.

“That’s probably why they’re disgusting,”
the boss replied. “But if people want to buy them, I’ll stock them. Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Kestrel nodded as
the other woman entered the lift and the door shut behind her. Kestrel sighed, glanced down at the food rack, then at the guns.

“Cheap guns
or disgusting space food first?” she murmured—and her heart sank. She took a deep breath, swallowed, and drew herself up. “Okay, okay. Guns first.”

“So which one is more efficient
, energy-wise?”

Kestrel folded her arms and looked up and down the wall of guns, then glanced at the middle-aged tourist who stood beside her, dressed in too-tight pants and a too-loose white shirt
, both made out of fine material. He had all the marks of a businessman, freshly retired, who was out trying adventurous things for the first time but didn’t have a clue what he was shopping for.

“
Well, the K95 is pretty good about conserving
blitz
volts,” Kestrel said. “But aren’t you going hunting?”

The graying man nodded.

“Yeah, on Yeshin, in the mountains. Just a group of friends.”

Kestrel’s eyebrows went up.

“So you’re hunting bear and wildcat and stuff like that.”

He grinned at her.

“You bet.”

“Then the K95 is not what you want. That’s for a hand weapon, self
defense stuff. You want the C12 up there.”

“The long one up there?” he pointed.

“Well, it’s long
er
,” Kestrel shrugged. “Longer than the K95 but shorter range than the C10. The C10 is
really
long, and built for hunting on the flatlands. The C12 is designed specifically for hunting large game in the mountains. There are three regular scopes, plus an infrared scope and an internal conditioner that keeps your power source from freezing or creating condensation.”

“
How much is it?” the customer asked.

“Four hundred.
And the ammunition is fifty.”

He winced.

“That eats up a third of what I’d decided to spend on this stuff.”

Kestrel shrugged.

“That’s the gun you’ve got to have. And I promise, you won’t find it cheaper in this spaceport.”

He let out a puff of air.

“Can I try it out in a simulator?”

“
Sure. Training Mode C12 to ground level,” Kestrel called. The C12, a glimmering silver and black shoulder gun, ejected from its spot at the very top, and the robotic arm holding it extended down with a hum, passed over the other guns, and handed the weapon to Kestrel. She took the gun down and flipped it around, its light weight clicking in her hands. She lifted her chin and faced the customer, holding it out to him with a smile.

“The target screens are straight through there,” she pointed to a black door to her right. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thanks,” he nodded, and took the gun from her as if it might break. Kestrel put her hands on her hips as she watched him head through the door, then faced the wall of countless guns. She patted the nearest one, then headed back behind the counter to sit down and work on inventory while she waited.

Not ten minutes later, the man emerged.

“Well, how did you like it?” she asked brightly, looking up from her list.

He shook his head.

“I didn’t. I want the K95.”

Kestrel frowned.

“But—”

“I
don’t enjoy long guns, and I can’t afford this one, anyway.” He set it down on the counter in front of her. It clacked loudly.

“Oh
. Okay,” Kestrel managed, got up from her stool, walked back out and called down the operational K95. She hefted the much-smaller in both hands, checked it quickly, and then came back to the counter. She hesitated, then glanced up at him.

“You want to try this in the simulator too, or—”

“No,” he looked down at the time-piece on his wrist. “I don’t have time. Thank you.”

“
All right. There’s a security device I have to remove,” she said, turning around to the workbench. “And then I can check your ID and license and take your card.”

“You seem to know a lot about this stuff,” the customer commented
.

“I’ve worked here
on and off for two years,” Kestrel answered, picking up the small deactivator and running it three times across the butt of the gun. It beeped.

“
How old are you? You go to school?”

“
I’m twenty-four. And I graduated.”

“From where?”

“Missouri University for Linguistics and Literature,” Kestrel answered, snapping the gun into its case, turning back to him and holding out his purchase. The man chuckled and assessed the room.

“And you’re working
here?”

Kestrel froze. Then, she
looked down and activated the register. She pulled in a tight breath and forced a smile.

“Yep. Working in the hometown for a while, making some money, building up the bank account.”

“Sure, sure,” he nodded, picking up the gun. “That’s good.”

He handed her his card. She took it and swiped it across the reader. Then she
checked to make sure he had the right ammo, exchanged parting pleasantries, and watched his back as he strolled out of the shop and into the port. The door clicked shut, and Kestrel was left alone. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Finally, she leaned her hands on the counter and closed her eyes.

The floor
trembled. The cases rattled.

Her
eyes flew open.

The
walls heaved. Guns clattered to the floor.

Kestrel whirled around.

A deafening
BASH
crashed through the back room. Kestrel grabbed hold of the counter and held on.

It stopped.

Her muscles froze. The shop fell silent.

She waited
.

But nothing else happened.

She started breathing again.

Her heel squeaked as she took one step
toward the door of the back room. Another. Then another. She bit her cheek, and crossed the threshold.

Diva said not
hing. The whole room sat in darkness. Kestrel stopped.

Sparks
snapped across the room.

S
he flinched. Everything went black again.

A sound
.

A low, steady hiss. Like pressure releasing.

“Hello?” she called.

No one answered. She bent down and felt for
the small cabinet to her right. Her fingers bumped it. She tapped the door. It slid open. She groped inside. Her fingers closed around the rubber handle of a small flashlight. Straightening, she clicked it on.

She gasped
.

In the middle of her wrecked storage room, boxes crushed and sundered all
around it, stood an eight-foot-tall silver cylinder. Steam simmered out from under it, covering the floor.

She snatched her
Gramcom out of her pocket and lifted it to her mouth.

The cylinder clicked.

She jumped.

W
ith a grating grind, a formerly-invisible door eased open. White light spilled out.

Kestrel dove for
a broken box. She shoved the lid off, dropped her Gramcom and grabbed the heavy handgun inside. She straightened up and leveled the gun at the machine. Her hand shook.

A figure stood inside.

A tall black silhouette, cut sharply against the shining white.

Broad-shouldered.
Windblown hair.

He stood very still.

An ember breathed to life near his face. Smoke curled against his shadow and rose into the air.

And then, the white light glinted against the barrel of some sort of weapon.

Kestrel’s gut clenched.

“What are you doing with that?”

He had spoken. His voice rasped low, deep—and sounded as if he held something between his lips. Kestrel’s cold fingers shivered.

“Who are you
?” she demanded. “What happened? How did you get in here?”

“Put that down,” he said, his tone
deathly calm, like ice frozen to the depths. “You don’t know how to use it, anyway.”

“You think I don’t?” Kestrel snapped, lifting it higher. “Want to put money on that?”

“It’s not loaded.”

Kestrel stopped. Slowly,
his shadowed head tilted. The ember glowed to life again, then faded. He reached up with his left hand and took whatever-it-was out of his mouth, and sighed. A gust of smoke clouded around his hair.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” he said. “But I will if you keep pointing that
thing at me.”

Kestrel’s body shuddered.

His whole bearing turned hard.

“Put it down.”

Kestrel’s mouth went dry. Slowly, she lowered the gun, and set it on top of the cabinet. It clicked against the surface. She let go of it.

He moved.

He strode right toward her—she leaped to the side, crashing noisily into a fallen box and barely catching herself.

He stepped into the
light of the doorway, then halted, gazing out into the shop.

He loomed over her
—taller than her father. He wore a beaten black leather jacket and scorched jeans. His light-brown, unkempt hair gave him a sharp, wild profile, and barely hid a long scar on his forehead. He was young—just a few years older than her. Handsome even. Stubble marked his jaw and upper lip, as if he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. Strong features—rugged and intent—a set mouth and a scowling brow.

He lifted his left hand and brought a short white stick to his lips. He pulled in a
long breath—the ember glowed. He sighed again, and gray fume issued with his breath. It smelled like poison. He lowered the white stick, and turned his head toward her.

Gray eyes. Striking
, shadowed gray eyes, like the sky over the prairie before a storm. His knitted brow eased—dark eyebrows raised in a softer, wry expression. He studied her face.

“It
wasn’t
loaded, was it?” he said.

Kestrel stared at him. She swallowed.

He almost smiled, then gave her a look.

“You’ve got to work on that
poker face, Brown Eyes.”

Kestrel’s lips parted—she couldn’t say anything.

And then she twitched back when he hefted his weapon.

He hooked the
long, metal barrel over his right elbow, stuck the white stick in his mouth again and, frowning, snapped the barrel open and stared down the tubes. He pulled two little cylinders out of the tubes, glanced at them, then rammed them into his coat pocket.

“What…”
Kestrel choked. “What kind of gun is that?”

He didn’t answer. He snapped the barrel shut, took one last pull on the white stick, then dropped it on the hard floor and stepped on it.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Uh…” Kestrel stammered. “The…
The KCSP.”

“The
city
would be helpful,” he muttered, stepping heavily down out of the back room and into the shop. His attention caught on the wall of weapons, and he slowed down.

“Kansas City
…Space Port,” Kestrel managed. “What—Where did you come from?”

“Transmission sent and received. System failure. Self-destruct initiated.”

Kestrel spun around. A computer had spoken. And it
wasn’t
Diva.

The cylinder’s door sl
id shut. And all at once, the air turned hot.

A shoulder
thudded against hers. Kestrel staggered sideways.

The
stranger leaped through the door, his gun in one hand. He skidded to a stop and stared at the cylinder. For an instant, neither of them moved.

The cylinder
quivered.

He barked one word in another language.

He threw down his gun—it clattered on the floor. He grabbed Kestrel’s arm and yanked her out of the back room. She tripped. He jerked her up.