Time Siege (10 page)

“James,” Grace's voice popped into his head. “Any luck with the Festa Triad's salvager?”

“No.” That one word must have conveyed how defeated he felt.

Grace, however, did not coddle people. “I can tell you're moping, so stop it. I think I have something. Sending the information to you now.”

A message appeared in his AI band, pointing to an address in a run-down, industrial lower section on the fringe of the colony. He pulled up the data: Roft Hess-Mimas. Supposedly a Tier-4.

“I've never heard of this guy,” he thought to Grace. “Where did you come by this information? Who is he?”

“I was brokering a batch of tach blades when one of my partners asked if you were looking for a cheap salvager. Said he heard secondhand of a man dropping in for a week to pick up a miasma regimen shipment. Said he's hard up for work and willing to operate on the low.”

James stopped in the middle of the hallway and stared at the message floating inside his head. “Have you verified the information?”

“Not much to verify. The man is due to depart on a shuttle first thing tomorrow. That I did check out.”

James cursed. He hated going in blind. He was a long-lived chronman exactly because he didn't jump into situations without vetting every detail. However, if this ex-chronman really was willing to work for cheap and was leaving the next day, then he had to risk it.

“I'm on my way.” James turned down a side hallway and made his way toward the main stairwells leading to the lower levels. He checked his bands, noting that his exo was powered just under 50 percent. That should be sufficient if a problem arose.

Bulk's Head's constabulary was surprisingly professional and efficient, considering they were policing a pirates' den. Perhaps especially because they were policing a pirates' den.

Firearms were illegal in all of the Wreck colonies. Discharging a weapon in a hundreds-years-old spaceship was extremely dangerous. An unlucky shot could cause a terrible explosion or leak precious air, water, or some other life-sustaining resource. This made melee weapons—knives, clubs, and other undetectable weapons—popular choices. James himself carried an old-fashioned retractable baton in his back pocket.

The crowds became sparser the lower he got, until he was the only person continuing down a dimly-lit stairwell. He continued down a narrow hallway that became so dark, many of the tributary corridors faded to black. Only a few lonely flickering white lights kept the complete blackness at bay.

The air was thinning, too. He must be reaching the edge of the colony. James activated his atmos and took a full breath. He had to be careful. One wrong turn, one mistakenly opened door, and he could be sucked into space.

The address to the residence was a run-down respiratory chamber, one of the many complex automated courier systems used throughout the ship. The Core Planets had liked to model their ship terminology after human physiology for some reason. That practice had begun and died with them. The room was long and narrow, with just enough space for two people to stand back-to-back to work and long enough he couldn't see the wall on the other end. There were two dozen small orange lights scattered on both walls, illuminating the room like candles. He took a step inside.

“State your name.” The voice came from the far end of the room.

“James Griffin-Mars. You're Roft Hess-Mimas, a Tier-4? What year at the Academy? Where were you stationed?”

There were fewer than four thousand chronmen in the solar system. James didn't know all of them, especially the newer ones, but it was a small community.

“I'm asking the questions here. You need me. I don't need you. What job are you after?”

“That's not what I heard,” James said. He took a step forward. “Let's discuss this. It's a series of jobs—”

“Stay right there. Release your bands and we'll talk. You can put them back on after we're done here.

James hesitated. No chronman worth his salt, former or not, would ever tell another to release his bands unless they were fighting. Before he could activate his exo, a flash and a shock struck him, binding a reddish string of energy around his waist. James found himself unable to activate his exo.

The exo-chain's glow illuminated the rest of the room, revealing three figures on the far end—one sitting in a chair, and two standing to his side. One of the three figures charged and clocked him across the side of the face with a hard object. Fortunately, James had a split second to react and rolled with the hit. It spun him around, and he crashed to the floor.

“Release your bands or I'll bash your head in,” she snarled, swinging a metal pipe downward.

“Don't kill him,” a voice said behind her. “We can't get the bands then.”

James swung his head to the side just as the pipe thunked against the floor. He kicked out, taking one of her legs from under her, and rolled to his feet. He was immediately tackled by another individual—this time a scrawny man with powered gauntlets. A punch to the gut sucked the wind out of him, and he doubled over. Another strike to his chin almost knocked him out. James fell backward until his back slammed against the wall panel. A second later, Scrawny's shoulder rammed into his gut.

“Release your bands, asshole, and we'll let you live.”

James's consciousness ebbed in and out. He took another glancing hit to the side of the face, managing to partially dodge the blow. He raised both hands and slapped Scrawny in the ears and then put him in a headlock. James threw his free elbow down on Scrawny's back until he forced the guy to his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman fly at him again. He caught her arm as she swung the club. James spun to the left and threw both of his assailants onto the ground.

“Who do you think you're dealing with?” he snarled, his anger boiling over. His frustrations from the past weeks overcame him as he turned on the figure holding onto his exo-chain. The man pulled out a pistol and fired. The beam of light went wide left, but seared James's left arm, spinning him around. James continued charging, ducking underneath another shot before he pounced on top of the man. Two quick looping punches on the crown of his head folded the man in a crumpled heap. The handle to the exo-chain dropped to the ground and powered off.

James powered on his exo and shot coils from his body, wrapping them around his assailants and lifting them up into the air. Two of them were unconscious; one moaned softy. The three of them looked like nothing more than thieves.

“Please,” the one still conscious, the woman, begged. “Don't kill us. We're just trying hock some gear for food and air. We'll leave the colony. We won't bother anyone anymore. I promise!”

James was unsure what to do with them. A quick squeeze of the coils would end them. They deserved it. Who knew how many people they had entrapped with this scheme. Still, he was tired of all this killing. These shits were young, barely in their twenties, probably getting by the only way they could. They got their hands on the exo-chain and decided it was going to pave their way. He saw a lot of himself in them.

He looked at the exo-chain lying on the ground, and for a second considered confiscating it to sell. He picked it up and examined its condition. It was a moderately valuable piece of tech. Then he noticed how worn it looked and wondered how many people this gang had entrapped with it. There was blood on this thing. He created an additional coil and smashed it.

“I'm sending your prints and images to the Puck Pirates,” he said. “I don't know what they're going to do with this information once they receive it. I'm sure you don't either. You might want to reconsider your scheme at Bulk's Head.”

James dropped the broken fragments of the exo-chain on the ground and stormed out of the room. He made the long walk back up the main stairwell in silence. His face ached in several places, and the laser burn on his shoulder stung. It had been a closer call than he cared to admit. Anyone semi-competent would have been able to finish him off three-versus-one once he got caught in the exo-chain.

He was angry at himself. He should have known better. The old James would have for sure. He had gotten desperate. These three punks had probably scouted him out, knowing that he was making the rounds. They probably sent the information to Grace right after his last rejection to entrap him. If he had been anyone else, a Tier-3 or lower, they would have succeeded. Probably forced him to give up his bands and then jettisoned him out into space, never to be seen again.

Deflated, James dragged his exhausted and hurt body back up to the main levels and made his way to the residence. He had been up nearly twenty hours now, working fervently to find solutions to his many problems before hitting that dead end. Well, it seemed the end was in sight now, and he had still made no headway. It was over. He had failed.

The longer he was away from Earth, the likelier it was that something was going to happen to Elise and Sasha. He just needed to go home. It made him feel slightly guilty that the fight with the three hooligans had felt good. He was so frustrated recently that he had been itching to break something. Break someone.

He passed the now-familiar hallway leading to the Drink Anomaly, and the neon sign blinking pink, bathing the area in its sugary glow. He stopped and stared. Of all the times he had needed a drink and forced himself to keep walking, this was the time he might actually deserve one.

“The past is already dead,” a soft voice whispered.

He stood there and watched the patrons walk in and out. The alcohol inside beckoned him. He felt his body pulled toward the bar as if there were a powerful magnet in there, and his skin had turned to metal. James almost felt himself lifted off his feet as he stumbled forward.

The hallucination of Sasha stood next to the entrance and folded her arms in front of her chest. She seethed. James avoided looking at her. If he couldn't see her, she didn't exist, right? She didn't exist anyway. The real Sasha was on Earth. Alive. As he entered the Drink Anomaly, he saw Sasha leave her post and stomp around the corner.

“The past is already dead.”

That damn voice. Where was it coming from? James entered the main room of the bar, and the sounds of the crowd drowned out the whisper in his head. It was packed. Brightly-garbed pleasure boys and girls were sprinkled among dozens of surly-looking patrons. James felt energized and alive again as every step took him closer to what his body needed.

The bartender walked by James a few times as he waited at the counter. The first few passes, the bartender must have appraised James's clothing and decided he wasn't worth paying too much attention to. Then he proceeded to ignore him for the next twenty minutes. James felt an itch crawling up his neck as he tried to stave off the shaking in his hands. Finally, the bartender, taking his time wiping the counter, looked his way. “What will it be, my friend?”

That once-familiar phrase, something he often heard in his head while on jobs, stunned James as if he were splashed by a bucket of cold water. Waves of grief long-suppressed washed over him, and he felt stabbing pain rend his chest. He hadn't realized how much he had missed hearing those words until someone else spoke them. The bartender had to be from Proteus, the same moon colony that Smitt came from.

James's vision blurred and he wiped his eyes. “Whiskey. Make it a good year.”

One drink. That's all it would be. One drink to wipe away all of today's rejections and failures. Tomorrow, he would start anew. Let this one drink clear his mind. He promised. That's all he would be here for.

“I knew you couldn't survive without me.” That voice again.

A tin cup appeared almost instantaneously, and then the bartender was gone, moving over to serve another patron. James stared at the cup sitting on the counter. He felt his throat dry in anticipation. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pick it up and inhale the alcohol inside. He put both hands on the cup and pressed down, forcing it to stay on the counter. He was squeezing so hard its sides began to dent. He felt the urge to lift it again and throw its contents back in one smooth motion. Just one wouldn't hurt, would it?

He looked back at the bartender chatting with another patron and stopped. The man's face had changed. Perhaps it was the light reflecting off his complexion. Perhaps it was his slightly familiar-sounding accent. Then the man's features seemed to wash off his face, as if it were a paint mod erasing itself, except what was hidden behind it was someone familiar. He forced himself to look away and scan the crowd, trying to keep his shaking hands from being noticed.

“You all right there, my friend?” the bartender returned and asked. He even sounded familiar.

James inhaled and turned back toward the counter. The bartender's face was normal again, unfamiliar. James picked up the whiskey and lifted it to his mouth. His hands were shaking so badly he had slopped half of it out of the cup. He felt himself lean toward the left, almost falling off the stool. He was just tired. The stress. Problems stacking on top of problems.

“I shouldn't be here,” he muttered desperately over and over again. “Shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be here. Need to get out of here.”

The voice whispered, “We're both right here, where we're supposed to be.”

James slammed the cup down on the counter and stormed out. Pushing his way through the crowd, he headed straight for the residence, knocking aside anyone who got in his way. All the voices nearby sounded like insects buzzing, and the room swayed at an odd angle, the right corners turning into parallelograms. He stumbled into the residence and collapsed onto the bed. Fortunately, Grace wasn't there at the moment. He wouldn't have been able to explain what was going on right now.

“I just need to get some sleep,” he mumbled.

He had been under a lot of stress lately. It had been a while since he had felt this sort of pressure. Sleep would do some good. He crawled under the sheets. His body shook uncontrollably, and he felt chilled to the bone as he huddled in a fetal position under the blankets. A few seconds later, a drowsiness washed over him. James wiped his brow; it was wet. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and a cool breeze brushed his cheek. That shouldn't be possible. Then, he closed his eyes and suddenly felt very cold.