by Joe Ollinger
No. Not the elevators; he’s walking toward me.
I step aside defensively as he nears, and he glances at me like I’m crazy and simply moves on. Stop being paranoid, Taryn. Think clearly.
As I watch him call the elevator and wait for it with a couple of others, I take a deep breath and follow. I’ve only made it a few steps when a deafening crack pierces the air. A sudden force throws me to the ground.
My ears ringing, I scramble back to my feet, stunned. The Law Offices of Troy Sales have been completely destroyed, the wall blown out and collapsed into rubble. A chemical smell fills the air. People scream and panic and run for the elevators.
The elevators.
I spin back around, searching among the sparse but terrified crowd for the courier. Where is he? I scan the dozens gathering at the elevator banks, unable to find him among the gathering crowd. He was wearing all gray and a blue cap. Where is he?
The cap lies on the ground, a few meters away from the doors. The courier must have ditched it, knowing that someone might key in on it. Scanning back, I see him, amidst the crowd. I sprint toward him.
Just as I’m getting close, he glances over his shoulder. As if expecting my attack, he turns and stands firm, watching me with focused eyes, waiting for me to hit him.
I stop myself. Something’s wrong.
I had planned to tackle and restrain him, but I stop in my tracks, raising my fists to fight. “Collections Agent,” I tell him, my voice wavering slightly with uncertainty. “Get on the ground.”
He takes a silent step back. One of the elevators finally opens, and as people crowd inside in a panic, he merely glances over his shoulder. Why isn’t he trying to run?
He shuffles forward and lunges. As he reaches for me, something on his hand reflects the smallest glint of light. He’s armed. I leap backward just before he can touch me but can’t keep my balance and fall to the hard floor. I manage to roll through it and jump to my feet as the courier springs forward again, scrambling at me. Off keel, he swipes at my face with an open left hand, but I strike at his forearm out of instinct, barely knocking the blow aside. He sets his feet and swings again, harder this time, and I grab his wrist with both hands, twisting it and forcing him to move sideways with the pressure. He stretches his fingers, trying to get the weapon to touch my skin. Unable to make it reach, he throws a couple of punches with his other arm. He’s not close enough to get much power behind them, but they still knock some of the wind from my lungs, weakening me and my grip on him as he strains to pull free.
This is a stalemate. He’s short but stocky and clearly stronger than me, and he’s the one with the weapon. I have no way of winning this fight from here, and if I don’t make a move soon I’ll be too worn down to even have a chance. I wrench him hard at the wrist, trying to break it or at least sprain or numb it, then take my right hand off and wrap it around the top of his knuckles, trying to force his hand closed.
Realizing what I’m doing, he lets out a shout and with all his strength turns and throws a hard left cross, catching me in the side of neck. Choking, I lose my grip, and he hits me again, this time just above my ear. Disoriented but knowing that one touch from his hand might kill, I plant the heel of my right foot in his belly and kick as hard as I can, sending him stumbling back, doubling over.
People flood past us, into the elevator, shouting and calling out. A loud snap is followed by a crumbling sound from the direction of the destroyed wall. It must be collapsing further. Could the whole building come down? These places are supposed to be built to withstand extreme punishment, but who knows what shortcuts the construction crew took.
The courier takes a long step back, reaches inside his vest, and draws out a gun.
Shit.
I sprint in the opposite direction, zigging and zagging a couple of times to throw off his aim. I can hear small bullets zipping through the air past me, popping viciously when they hit the walls ahead. He’s using compact, self-propelling, explosive ammo; tiny projectiles fueled by an electronically-fed chemical high explosive, the remainder of which burns off in a burst when the shells come to a stop. Nasty stuff, and illegal. His clip probably holds two hundred or so, they’re so small.
I leap and roll behind a parked forklift. Ducking low behind cover, I hear a spray of shots burst against the opposite side of the vehicle. What the hell do I do now? Where do I go? My hand keeps reaching instinctively to my hip for a sidearm that’s not there. The wall behind me cracks again, and cement slides in rocky chunks off its reinforcing metal beams. Smoke pours through, and the overhead sprinkler system turns on, showering the entire hallway in water.
Long seconds have passed since I got behind cover. The courier is obviously a professional, well-trained in combat, so I assume he’ll be flanking me at a reasonable distance for the kill, not too close, not too far. If I don’t move, he’s got me. Staying low, I creep around to the side of the forklift and peek out, just for a split second. No fire comes, and I don’t see my attacker. Maybe he finally ran, but I can’t take that chance.
I crawl up into the cab, staying crouched. I shift it into reverse, and as bullets whizz over my head and pop in the distance, I grab the wheel with one hand and press the accelerator with the other.
The forklift zips backward, surprisingly fast, swerving as I struggle to control it without a clear view. Bullets burst against the opposite side for a second or two until I clear the building’s central column, and my attacker no longer has an angle on me.
I ease off the pedal, and the machine stops. I have a choice. Try to escape, or take a chance on the element of surprise. The courier can’t see me, so he doesn’t know which direction I’ve gone. It’s clear now that he’s hunting me. For some reason, he won’t leave here until I’m dead.
I get off the forklift and run toward the far wall. Trying the door of one of the businesses—a hermetic sealant company—I find it open, just as a few bullets snap into it next to me, blinding me briefly with hot sparks from the little explosions against the metal. I duck inside, then through the swinging doors of the lobby, and onto the wide-open factory floor. All the machinery has stopped mid-movement. It’s quiet except for the steady buzzing of the fire alarm, the noise from the big hallway kept out by thick walls. The sprinkler system has not turned on in here, and water drips from my soaked clothing.
I duck down behind a conveyor belt with unfilled canisters of crease sealant still sitting on it. Seconds later I hear the doors open and some shots fired. Tiny concussive explosions somewhere near the entrance. The courier is here, though I cannot hear him moving. He’s wearing soft-soled shoes and is probably matching the pace of his footsteps with the fire alarm, judging by his skill level.
I hear some movement nearby, and I glance over to see him creeping ahead onto the floor, searching for me. Somehow he hasn’t spotted the drops of water on the floor yet. I roll aside, desperate to stay out of his field of view, but I hear the door open again, and the courier spins around, raising his weapon. His face focused and tense, he moves back toward the entrance. Now’s my chance.
I jump to my feet and rush him. He hears me and turns, but I’m already diving at him. Chem-prop bullets thrush wildly past my head as I take him to the ground. The impact jars the gun out of his grip, and it goes clattering away. His right arm shoots out for it instinctively, and I grab his left forearm, digging my nails into his skin. He groans with effort, reaching for the pistol. This is it, this is my chance. I force his left hand toward his head. Realizing what I’m doing, he thrashes against me, kicking and resisting. His arm shakes as he stops my progress. Again, we’re at a stalemate, and I feel my arms growing weak.
Taking a risk, I pull my right hand away from his forearm and clasp it over his knuckles. He twists and tries to turn it, but as hard as I can I dig my left thumb into the middle of his wrist where the tendons run close together. He yelps in sudden pain, and I squeeze his hand closed.
His eyes fill with terror.
Desperate, he thrashes at me wildly, his movements suddenly not so crisp and disciplined. Giving him a hard shove with all the strength I’ve got left, I roll away and jump to my feet, breathing hard and fast as I back away. He scrambles at me, trying to get to his feet, but can’t. He clutches at his chest, wheezing, until he finally collapses back to the floor, face down and still.
I lean over, sore, catching my breath. The factory is quiet but for the droning of the fire alarm.
Thank god someone came in and distracted the guy.
Who came in? And why?
Keeping an eye on the door, I step across the factory floor to the courier’s gun and pick it up. The display on the clip reads 40/200. Plenty of shots left. I stalk to the swinging doors, stand to the side, and kick one open, ready to fire.
I recognize the man I draw aim on. Brady Kearns.
“You?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I followed you.”
His presence here could not have been coincidental. “You followed me?”
“What’s happening?” he asks, trembling a bit with fear as I keep the gun trained on him. “Why was that man trying to kill you?”
“You tell me.”
“What?” he asks, nervous. “What, do you think I’m involved in this somehow? I just saved you.”
“Saved me? That’s what you call it?”
“I phoned the police. They’re on the way.”
Either he’s confused and terrified, or he’s the best actor I’ve ever seen. I lower my gun. “Come on. I want to check some things before the cops get here.”
I go back to the factory floor, irrationally afraid that the courier’s body won’t be there. But there he is, still dead. Brady stays back a few meters as I kneel down, check to make sure there’s no pulse, and search the body.
“Shouldn’t you leave that for the police?”
“I should,” I admit. He’s right, but I’m concerned that unless I do my own search, I won’t get the info I need for weeks, if ever.
I find nothing except a tiny transponder, a little gray tube. I return it to the pocket I found it in. I open the dead man’s hand, which is already growing cold. A red prick marks the palm where the tiny needle broke the skin.
“Poison promise,” I say aloud for Kearns’s benefit, “popular weapon on Earth, I’ve read. Small, concealed, electronically triggered syringe, delivers a lethal dose of quick poison on contact. Brush past someone on a crowded public street or in a train, a few seconds later they drop dead, and you’re already gone.”
“Did he deliver the bomb?”
I nod, standing. “He came in with a package. The transponder must be set to range, so that the bomb would blow when he got a safe distance away.”
“And you attacked him after the explosion?”
If Kearns is playing dumb, he’s good at it. How much did he see? “He attacked me. Chased me in here.”
The auditor blinks a few times, lost, and seemingly still shaken. “Why wouldn’t he just leave with everyone else?”
A good question. “You got me.”
The doors burst open, and a uniformed Oasis City police officer leans in, sweeping with his pistol. His aim stops at me. “Police! Put the weapon down!”
I hold the pistol by the barrel, far away from my body. With slow, demonstrative movements, I crouch low and place it on the floor in front of me. “We’ve got one dead here, officer. Watch the right hand.”
9
Knowles leans back in his chair in the conference room, mouth creased in a deep frown, gnarled fingers drumming on the false wood of the table. He hasn’t said a word since I came in, which was probably a full minute ago.
“So,” he says finally, his voice calm in a simmering, about-to-explode way, “you visited an attorney connected to the Marvin Chan case somehow, and immediately after you left, the office blew up, and as everyone fled for the exits, the courier who delivered the bomb attacked you with a concealed poison weapon and an illegal firearm, but you got the upper hand when the Commerce Board auditor, who followed you there, distracted him and you ended up killing him. I got all that right?”
“That’s the short story, Captain.”
“What’s wrong with this picture, Dare?”
“Captain, I—”
“No, no,” he interrupts, raising his voice. “No. I do not want to hear it. You should not have been there.”
“I was on leave. No uniform, no sidearm. I can’t do what I want?”
“Not if it wrecks up an investigation.”
“I didn’t wreck up anything. If anything we’ve got more leads now.”
“Leads? More like problems.”
“What do we have on the bomber, anyhow?” I ask, hoping to distract Knowles by steering the conversation in a different direction.
“Squat,” he huffs. “We know he’s an off-worlder. That’s about it.”
I pause for a second, digesting what that might mean. “An off-worlder. From where?”
“He matches the description of a passenger on a SCAPE transit vessel who missed his connecting ship two days ago. Name listed was Gerald Novaczek, but on closer inspection that looks fabricated.”
This changes the game. If off-world governments are involved, this thing could go dangerously deep. “Where was he headed?”
“Farraway. From Kerwin’s Drop. This is all top secret, by the way. I’m only telling you because it might implicate your safety.”
“Understood,” I answer, absentmindedly. Kerwin’s Drop. A moon of about nine-eighths the mass of Earth, orbiting a cool helium giant slightly off the path between Farraway and Ryland. We don’t get many ships from those parts, but the fact that the courier was from a high-grav world explains why he was so light on his feet. And short—he wasn’t quite my height.
“Let’s focus, Dare. Now’s the time for you to enter protective custody.”
I snap out of it, annoyed. “What? No.”
“You survived this time, Dare. Let’s not push our luck.”
“I need the money, Captain. And I’m getting closer by the minute.”
“Absolutely not.”
Of course Knowles would take this away from me. If the book says anything about it, and it probably does, that’s the way he’ll play it. I can’t afford to be thrown off this, but I can feel my grip on it slipping away. “I was right about the doctor,” I plead, suddenly struggling not to sound desperate, “and you know it.”
“You were,” he nods, “and I apologize for doubting you.”
“So play fucking ball.”
Ignoring my demand, Knowles walks to the door. He steps past two big agents lumbering in. “Have a good weekend, Dare. Make sure and take some time for yourself, will you?”
Dammit.
I lie in bed, brooding and paying half attention to some “new” Hollywood TV show that aired a year and a half ago on Earth. It’s an ad-supported feed, and by now the software is pretty good at guessing what products I might be interested in: lowest-price essentials and goods and services related to space travel. “SCAPE Long Haul,” says a voiceover woman with an exotic off-world lilt I assume to be from somewhere on Earth as glorious exterior footage of interstellar flights plays—a through-the-window angle of a gas giant flyby, an exterior of FTL distortion, panning from back to front of the gleaming hull of a massive starcruiser, only pure black night behind, stars bending in bright long streaks in front. “Specially formulated for nutrition, flavor, and ideal variety for flights of three months or more. Ensure your health and comfort. Request SCAPE Long Haul. Because the voyage is too long for anything less than the best.”
They never seem to show the actual food in those ads. It’s probably not pretty, preserved and prepacked and engineered for efficient digestion and minimization of volume. I wonder what it’s like eating it for two years or longer.
The next ad is a bit less classy. “You are losing money, and you don’t even know it!” announces a m
ale Brinker voice as graphs flash across the screen. Of course it won’t say so directly, but it’s shilling a toilet chem tank. “Invest in Pruden-Chem, the most efficient and cost-effective mineral recapture system on the market. Just seventy units could save you thousands. Order today!” The sad part is, the ad is effective on me; I’m thinking maybe I should buy a more efficient add-on.
The show cuts back in. A glamorous drama set in the top floors of a famous luxury arcology in a place called Ventura, California, it follows the lives of several wealthy and extremely good-looking characters struggling for control of a divided drug company. The first season had me hooked, and a plot twist just happened at the end of the first episode of the second season, but right now it’s not holding my interest. I keep dwelling on the possibility of some conspiracy behind Marvin Chan’s weevils and that Knowles might be complicit in it, or at least taking his cues from someone who is. Does he want me off the case because I’m gunning for the payoff too hard?
Be sensible, Taryn. He’s just following protocol. You’re a loose fucking cannon, and you know it.
The tight walls of my tiny apartment are starting to irritate me. I’d open a window, but the view would be worse, nothing visible but the dirty, dark gray lattice-brick of the building across the street. A heavy was posted outside my door. I wonder if he’s still there. He obviously wasn’t happy about being here, maybe he’s off on an unauthorized break. I wonder when they change shifts. I wonder when Knowles will let me go back to work. I wonder if I’ll be questioned about the prints I left on that proximity detonator. I shouldn’t have searched the body of that courier without gloves.
Maybe I should get drunk. At least it would pass the time. I get up and stretch, unable to extend my arms all the way because of the low ceiling. As I step toward the fridge, a chime rings and the monitor flashes “Door: Brady Kearns.” Changing direction, I hit the control, opening it.