He found her as he had left her, focused on her work, guiding the sonic loom in the intricate construction of another colandracel. At the farthest edge of her work-table he saw evidence that she had eaten a meal. Judging by the clothing in the 'fresher, she had changed into a clean outfit, possibly even showered or bathed. He checked the memory of the room's multi-purpose exercise device and found she had completed a mini-workout. All these things assured him that Antella'nestra continued to tend to the necessities of life, even if she allotted only the minimum time to them, even if she never spoke or showed interest in anything beyond the growing and shaping of her crystals.
“Daughter, the universe has changed,” he said stepping up behind her and placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. The touch was the merest contact, any more and she might perceive it as interfering with her work and shrug him off. He needed that contact, ephemeral as it might be.
“For the first time since we lost everything, I feel a possibility of hope. I can envision a day when I might play the colandracel again.”
His daughter said nothing,
“Mind you, I do not say that I can take up the instrument at this time, but the possibility is now in my mind and heart. So many things now seem possible, sweet one. Perhaps even, one day, you will be returned to me, whole and reborn. Another impossibility that today I am able to question.”
He turned from her. If the impossible was now possible, many new strategies and tactics likewise came into existence. Doubtless many — perhaps even most — would fail. But he could not know for sure until he explored them.
Al stepped into the pawnshop, and gazed with undisguised distaste at the intersection of cacophony, visual blight, and faint but unmistakeable blend of all the forms of stench humans were capable of producing. The Clusteran sensorium covered a wider range and possessed greater sensitivity than that enjoyed by Titan's majority population, whom he sometimes suspected were quite content to live in their own swill. Certainly that seemed to be the case of the pawnshop's proprietor, a self-important weasel of a man with whom he had recently and most unfortunately had to do business. This too was something that Cooper had caused.
The object of his contempt chose that moment to emerge from an entrance behind the shop's overflowing counter, his arms full of more secondhand merchandise which he was attempting to force on top of other worthless treasures on the counter. He spoke as he did this, still not looking up at his potential customer, only having been alerted that someone had entered the shop.
“What may I help you with today,” said Patel. “Be assured, my friend, I will offer top dollar on whatever you have to show me, or make you the best of possible bargains on anything in my stock that you wish to acquire.”
Al cleared his throat, causing the pawnbroker to look up. Patel blanched. The merchandise he'd carried in from the back room fell from his hands, causing other items to tumble from the countertop in turn.
“Al… how can I be of assistance to you?”
“You can begin by never mistaking to call me 'friend' ever again.”
“Of course, sir.”
The crime boss stared down at Patel, his gaze pinning the much smaller man like a hobbyist might pin a bug with a sharp implement driven through the abdomen.
“I am in need of a human appliance. I do not know what it is called.”
“An appliance?”
“Several, actually. They are programmable, semiautonomous cleaning devices for floors.”
Patel frowned, visibly struggling to make sense of the words.
“You mean… a Roomba?”
Al stepped to the counter and slammed it. “I already told you I do not know its name. Do you have such a thing in your stock? Bring it to me and I will know if we are talking about the same object.”
The pawnbroker took the instruction as a welcome excuse to flee into the back room.
Al sighed and examined his comm unit. Likely Patel would be a while. Fortunately, he was expert at multitasking. He made a call.
“Doug! Have you completed your task?”
“Yes, sir. I'm arriving at warehouse #3 now. It's taken a bit longer than I'd anticipated. There's a fierce dust storm hanging over the warehouse district making traffic between it and the spaceport kinda tricky. But I'd called ahead and a crew is waiting to empty the van once I arrive.”
“Very good. Delegate the completion of that task to someone else. I need you to go to warehouse #5 and locate some thermite for me.”
“Did you say 'thermite', boss?”
“Yes. I'd like fifteen shaped charges capable of being triggered by a simple electric signal. Each should have a fixative on the underside to permit it to be mounted on an otherwise slick surface”
“Copy that. I'm certain I can cobble something together. How soon do you need them?”
“Yesterday. Linear time is the least of my concerns. I intend to do the impossible.”
“I'll do my best. Anything else?”
“When you have them ready, bring them in through commercial transit gate seven.”
“You sure, boss? That's one of the entry points with a Box standing around scanning everyone who goes in or out.”
“Absolutely. I'll meet you inside the airlock and take delivery. You won't have to go near the Box.”
Patel came back into the shop's main room at that moment, carrying three variations of metallic discs, each roughly the diameter of a dinner plate and a hand or hand-and-a-half high. Al ended the call.
“Is this what you meant?”
Al nodded. “I believe so. And their movements are programmable?”
“Completely. A child could do it.”
The Clusteran glared but let the unintended slur pass. “I need fifteen of them, different makes and models are fine so long as they all are capable of predetermined locomotion.”
“I only have these three. but…” He flinched and quickly added, “Let me call around. I'm sure I can lay my hands on some more units. Maybe not another dozen, but I can probably come close.”
“Then that will have to suffice. But I strongly encourage you to make every effort. Acquire as many as you can over the next hour, then deliver them to commercial transit gate seven. I'll take receipt of them there. And Patel, do not fail me in this.”
“Of course not, Al. You know you can depend on me.”
“Can I? Hmm, I would not have thought so, but the impossible has become possible today.”
Patel shook his head. “I don't understand.”
“Then let me phrase it in a manner that has more meaning for you. You recall that your family owes me a large debt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My need for these things is so great that if you can succeed at this task, get me what I need when I need it, I will erase that debt like it never existed. The impossible made possible.”
Patel's eyes went wide. He set the three Roombas on the floor, nodding frantically. “Excuse me, Al. I'll get on this immediately.”
Alhiz’khlo’tam, one of three crime bosses who had divided up all questionable activity on Titan between them, turned and exited the pawnshop. Behind him, Patel was already on the comm reaching out in search of another twelve devices.
Chapter 18
Jessica’s eyes opened, but only under duress. She needed to wake up and at some level she knew it. There were… things, surely, that she needed to be doing, though in this moment she couldn't remember what they might be and, more importantly didn't want to remember. Just the thought of moving or standing, even breathing, made her head hurt. And she'd had enough pain for two lifetimes. She didn’t want to feel that kind of torment ever again. But she continued to breathe anyway. Fortunately, the agony didn’t arrive as anticipated. Its specter lingered in her mind, taunting her until she felt like she had no choice but to face it down. She forced herself up into a sitting position.
She was on the bed-turned-examination table in her makeshift lab in their hotel suite. That was good. It was important to know
where you were, to be grounded like that. But… Everything else seemed… wrong. Her body felt weird. Things looked different, like they were… off, somehow. And when she tried to stand, the whole world swam. Nothing moved like it should. Everything seemed out of place. As if she lived in a room full of fun-house mirrors, without the fun.
“Whoa, whoa, are you okay, Miss?”
A kindly-looking older man in a cardigan and worn denim jeans appeared in the doorway. His face was a map of wrinkles including deep set laugh lines. He wore a bow tie. The ends of a stethoscope dangled over his sweater on either side of his neck.
“It's doctor, doctor.”
“Sorry?”
“I'm Dr. Acorns. And you are?”
“Most people just call me Eddy. I'm the hotel's physician, though mostly all I tend to are folks in need of hangover cures. Not you though, they tell me you've been in a coma. For months. Hard to credit though the way you're moving around,”
Coma? Months? What was he talking about?
Eddy advanced into the room, settling his stethoscope into place as he came closer. “How about we get a listen to your ticker, little lady, and go from there?”
She pushed past him, a bit steadier on her feet. The world still felt off, but the ageism and sexism were familiar. Lurching into the foyer she saw that someone had hauled away the damaged Box avatar that Mr. Cooper had killed. But someone else had left a trail of bloody footprints coming from one of the other bedrooms.
Jessica froze.
That was the bedroom where she'd left Tycho!
Still far from steady, she staggered across the foyer to the bedroom door, dimly aware of the house physician trailing behind.
Peering into the bedroom she gasped and gaped at the destruction.
“What the hell happened? And how did I miss it?”
She wracked her brain. Glass littered the floor. Bullet holes decorated one wall, and the smell of smoke – which explained the scorch marks – still hung around. A massive hole in the opposite wall provided a view into the bathroom beyond, which also looked to have been shot up. As she soaked in the extent of the destruction, it started to come back to her.
“Oh shit, the Box!”
Memories burst into her awareness. Doos had returned. Two of it. With… what had Dyrk called it, a fear gun?
She turned and saw the empty bed. “Tycho! No! And where’s Potato? Oh, no. No, no, no…”
Jessica searched for her tablet. Scanning her surroundings, she found it on the floor nearby. She crossed to it, bent down and reached for it. But she missed it by an inch.
What the hell? Did I take a hit to the head?
“Please, Miss. Why don't you sit down before you hurt yourself?”
The elderly doctor had followed her into the room. Jessica glared at him and shooed him back into the foyer. Again she regarded her tablet, trying not to think why she'd missed it. She grabbed for it again. Once she had it in her hands, she punched up the comms link for Mr. Cooper. A moment later his cocky voice came out of the speaker, tinny and annoying.
“Hey, honey…”
“Shut up and listen, Mr. Cooper.”
“Ooookay.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re on our way back. We just left the ticketing terminal about five minutes ago. Everything's set. What's up?”
“I don’t know exactly what happened, but a pair of Doos came here. And… and Tycho and Potato are gone. I was unconscious and I just woke up. Her bedroom is demolished. It looks like a war zone.” She sent him a picture from her tablet, showing a view of the bedroom and its new post-apocalyptic aesthetic.
“Whoa.”
“Whoa is right. Wait, hold on. There’s an emergency notice coming in.”
Jessica tapped on the red box flashing at the top of her screen and an alert jumped to the fore.
WARNING – AVOID THE PASSENGER TERMINAL – TERRORIST ATTACK IN PROGRESS – WARNING
The message scrolled repeatedly across the screen and then an alert for a video feed popped up. She opened to get a glimpse of the emergency and gasped.
There was Tycho, an alien weapon in each hand, firing on the Box. Potato was perched on her shoulder, clinging to her lithe neck. The Box were shooting back, but seemed to be aiming exclusively for her legs. Most of their shots missed, but with so many rounds a few managed to strike home, doing savage amounts of damage. As Jessica watched, Tycho fell. When she did, the Doos extensions stopped firing, presumably for fear of striking Potato.
But that was all the time Tycho needed. As Jessica watched, the teen rose up, perfectly healed, and resumed her side of the firefight.
Jess returned to her conversation with Mr. Cooper. “It’s Tycho. She’s awake. Her virus is working. Double overtime! And she’s shooting it out with Doos at the main passenger terminal.”
“That’s great. It would also explain all the screaming people running past us from that direction.”
“Great? I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s had no real brain function for months. And from the look of her, at least what I can see on my tablet, the lights are on but nobody’s home.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How could she be holding her own against the Box?”
“War movies,” said Jess.
Mr. Cooper looked shocked. “Oh, crap. Okay, I’m on my way. Dyrk and I will handle this. Stay put.”
“Like hell I will.”
Chapter 19
Coop had just left ticketing. He pushed forward, attempting to force his way toward the main passenger terminal. It was like swimming upstream, a lone heroic salmon fighting a tide of humanity. And aliens. Worse, it was a tide of panicked sapience, doing everything it could to get away from whatever was happening back at the terminal. There was screaming and shoving. This portion of the terminal was lined with shops as well as vendor kiosks scattered in the middle of the thoroughfare. The sheer press of bodies had knocked several of the kiosks down. The people were too frightened to do any looting, but the added obstacles caused a lot of cursing and at least a few punches to be thrown. Amidst it all, Coop did his best to advance.
«I'm gonna guess… Fear gun.»
Coop snorted. “You think?”
His shoulders were getting sore from all the jostling. Dyrk whisked away the pain as soon as it manifested, but even so it was pissing him off. “Move, dammit,” Coop growled as he shoved his way past one particularly slow and stupid man who had gotten in his way. The guy’s cow-like eyes simply added to the perception of slowness that exuded from him like sludge.
«Coop, maybe I should take over.»
“No, not yet. As bad as this is, whatever is happening at the terminal is probably worse. And if Doos is painting the crowd with infrasonic terror, you'll need to take over once we get in range. But you can’t be tiring yourself out now. Besides, I need to put my new body to the test.”
«Are you sure?»
“Yeah, Dyrk. I’m sure. Now give me a second to think.”
Coop pressed up against a kiosk and did his best to let people surge past him. He looked around for an alternative to wading through the crushing throng. He found it ten feet up.
A series of conduit pipes ran the length of the corridor. Four of them were packed together, held aloft by what he devoutly hoped would prove to be strong braces. They ran the length of the terminal and could deliver him to his destination. He just needed a way up.
Looking around, he pushed a crazed-looking xenon away from him, and then ran four steps to his left. He jumped up on a robotic cart that had been turned on its side.
Step one, he thought.
Then Coop leapt up and grabbed the metal support of an awning that hung over a consignment shop before doing three-quarters of a pull-up.
“Ha! I still got it!”
«More like you've got it again. You haven't been able to do a move like that in more than twenty years.»
Coop opted to ignore Dyrk, focusing on the
task at hand.
Step two. One left.
Finally, the actor pulled his knees up, planted them on the bar he’d used to leverage himself above the awning, and jumped straight up and out over the crowd. He easily reached the pipes. In fact, he overshot, and slammed his chest against them.
“Ouch.” He pulled the rest of his body up and onto the conduits.
Coop looked down and saw a small, blue-skinned alien staring back at him. The little xenon mastered its fear sufficiently to clap politely. Then it got trampled as another wave of people came rushing down the hall.
“Ouch again” Coop shrugged and pulled himself to his feet. He couldn’t stand upright, but he got straight enough to manage a slow, half-hunched jog toward the other end of the terminal. The pipes provided an excellent track for him to follow. In a short time, the business-end of the spaceport where passengers boarded shuttles came into view.
It was also about that time that he began to hear gunshots, a lot of them.
“That’s not good. It's got to be Doos. No one else would be stupid enough to use projectile weapons in the spaceport, not even the sorry excuse for a police force here.”
«We've already seen the Box don't understand tactics. It's going to kill someone, maybe a lot of someones. Can’t you move this thing any faster?»
“This thing is me. It is my body. But, maybe I can. I haven’t really tried.”
Coop pushed his legs harder and was pleased to find he did in fact have a higher gear, even bent over as he was.
His personal runway came to an end at the intersection where new arrivals could turn right in pursuit of their luggage, or left to arrange for ground transportation to the growing collection of buildings outside the spaceport proper. Coop didn’t waste time. He looked, he jumped, he grabbed onto a lower pipe and swung himself to a cleared area right behind a mass of milling police officers. He landed with a proud, self-satisfied smile on his face.
Anger Management Page 9