by J. N. Chaney
"You learn to live without being seen when you're homeless," he said, and I sensed at least partial truth in his words.
"Sure," I said. "But why don't you tell me the rest of it?”
He leaned closer, showing his earnestness. "I have Union training, but only at a basic level. You have to believe me. I can fix almost anything that's mechanical, because that's what I do. It's the way I think. All of my spare time is spent learning about things like that."
I kept my eyes focused on him, giving him nothing back.
"Your Reaper hardware can do more than you realize,” he continued. “I can see its potential but don't have the skill or the tools to make those types of modifications, at least not yet. As for the rest, your eye and other things, I don't know what to do with those."
"Okay," I said. He probably expected a long list of questions and cross examination. Knowing him as well as I did now, I decided to let him stew for a while. If he was planning to act against me, he would give himself away before long.
"There’s something else," Tom said. "I don't just read instruction manuals—other things interest me, like history books and news reports. Thesis papers. I’ve found things related to the Reaper program in some of the stranger academic side tunnels I’ve wandered down."
"Like what?" I asked, only mildly interested. This wasn't his dark secret. I could feel him relaxing like this was familiar and safe territory. I wasn't about to learn something about his past or his motivations. Still, the Reaper angle was intriguing, so I let him keep going.
"I found mentions of Reaper facilities. It took a lot of work, but these were plans for facilities, if you get my meaning."
"I don't," I said, even though I knew exactly where he was going with this.
"I have some ideas about where they might have to situate this type of facility, at least to slip tunnels they would take to get there. Maybe if Jelly and X-37 could help me, we could find a place where I could really help you. A true laboratory with all of the tools and materials needed to not only fix your Reaper gear but improve upon it—with Jelly and X-37’s help. Or better yet, a real engineer. I’m good with tools, but the cybernetic stuff takes actual training. Can’t learn that from books—unless you want me to practice on you a lot."
“Calm down, Tom. No need to be nervous.” I poured Tom another shot of whisky, then went back to my chair and sat down. There was a lot to think about and there were decisions to be made.
3
Grigori Paavo. That was the name X-37 gave me before I left the Jellybird with Elise and Tom. This wasn’t the person who would fix my shit, but he could get me to someone who could. Apparently, a guide was needed to navigate the station.
Roxo III had been under martial law for the last standard month, but the local government couldn’t afford to maintain the mandate without appealing to the Union for help. Local militias had sprung up, gangs had made alliances, and opportunists looted when they could, burning shit for no reason. But what made the situation strange was that many citizens continued with their lives as best they could.
Chaos ruled, but people didn't give up. Travel advisories warned visitors to just get back on their ships and leave, or better yet not to land at all.
Very few Roxo citizens, including the highest officials, wanted anything from the Union no matter how bad the alternative became. The consensus was that it was better to watch society purge itself than submit to the Union. I didn’t altogether disagree.
This had been one of the worst regions of the Deadlands, even before the degeneration of law and order, not surprising in a poorly designed world inhabited by opportunists, adventurers, and fugitives.
As a result, it was impossible to travel on Roxo without a professional guide like Grigori Paavo, who went by “Path” for reasons unknown.
"Is there a lucrative market for ocular engineering on Roxo III?" I asked.
"The market is small, restricted to a few wealthy individuals," X-37 answered. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I just imagined some guy in a dirty little workshop. I didn't expect him to send us a guide," I said. “Make sure he hasn’t added that to the contract price.”
James Henshaw, the engineer who would be working on my Reaper tech, had sent over a contract for service prior to our leaving the ship. I’d given it only a cursory glance, then left it for X to scan over.
“Already done, Reaper Cain.” X-37’s prompt professionalism reminded me why I suffered an LAI that could monitor my every move.
“I can’t get over how weird this feels. A scientist with money? I thought they were all poor. That’s why they teach and work themselves to death. This guy must be running a scam,” I said, only half joking.
"Perhaps you should refrain from making assumptions in the future," X-37 said.
"I'll make a note, " I said, hoping my LAI could detect my sarcasm.
Roxo III was a station like no other. Significantly larger than Dreadmax, it was a giant cylinder that had been terraformed along its insides. The old, terribly flawed design sucked in about every way there was to suck.
It maintained the Lagrange point between the second and fourth planets of the Roxo system, smack in the middle of the green zone. So that was good. Score one point for the armpit of humanity. The only reason the place thrived was its location in a region that was comparatively free of asteroids. Not too hot, not too cold, the first residents of the gigantic gravity tube had probably been full of hopes and dreams.
The exterior was all shielding and solar panels—except where it was busted and falling apart. It was open at each end with weak environmental shields. The interior surface contained greenhouses, factories, and residential neighborhoods under domes painted sky blue. In several places repairs had left them clear enough to see the ships landing at the spaceports high “above” the general populace.
In the center, right down the middle of the tube that was open at both ends, were thousands of spaceports and dry-docks. Spokes radiated down to the surface where the rotational force imitated planetary gravity and the shields at the end of the tube world held in the atmosphere.
I scanned the area. "So where is this mysterious guide?"
"Access to the concourse is extremely limited. I suggest we look for him on the lower levels," X37 advised me.
"Fantastic. We're already off to a bad start," I complained.
“There are lifts down to and up from the surface once an hour. Each spoke has a different transport schedule to reduce stress on the infrastructure and provide options for travelers. If all the lifts moved at the same time, there could be a problematic effect on the inertia-generated gravity of Roxo III,” X-37 explained. “If you do not catch this lift, you will have to wait at least an hour, and that will put you in the middle of rush-hour traffic.”
“I get it, X. We’re going.” I strode down the concourse, not waiting for my companions.
Tom had the most trouble keeping up, being neither young nor enhanced. Elise seemed ready to run ahead or disappear into one of the shops or restaurants between every landing platform. I didn’t comment because that would have been preferable.
Lift 27A opened and people filed out. Several dozen workers and travelers lined up to get on. I stepped in ahead of them, turned, and convinced them this one was full.
Elise and Tom glared at me when the doors closed.
“All those people are going to be an hour late to wherever they’re going,” Elise chided. “We could’ve just stood in the back. It would’ve been less conspicuous.”
“I don’t feel like being around people right now,” I said.
“I hate to cause drama, but I think Elise is correct. If we are trying to go unnoticed, this wasn’t a good first step,” Tom said.
The man looked far healthier than when we first met. Unshaven and long-haired back on Greendale, he was now clean-cut with neat hair and a crisp jumpsuit. He was fit, but not muscular.
They were right, so I chose to ignore them because I was an asshole w
ho didn’t deserve friends.
The ride to the surface was noisy. I smelled exhaust fumes and wondered what exactly powered the lifts. “Do these have individual motors, or are they linked into the station power network?”
“The station network is unreliable with all of its power reserved for vital life-support and utilities directly connected to the spaceport. The records I’m able to access show there are about two dozen types of power cores used on the lifts. There is also a persistent rumor that more than a few are made of stairs and ladders,” X-37 added.
“It would take days to climb to the surface,” Elise said in wonderment.
“The current record is ninety-six hours and thirteen minutes standard,” X-37 said. “This was accomplished by a team of professional athletes during a government-sanctioned event.”
Tom moved about the large platform. It was very plain, basically a reinforced disc about twenty-five meters across with signs limiting its lift capacity to twenty-five tons. I found a crash chair off to one side and made myself comfortable.
Elise stood over me, arms crossed as she stared down disapprovingly.
“What?” I asked her.
“This lift would’ve been less than half-full if you had let those people on,” she said.
“I never said they couldn’t ride this one,” I said.
“You gave them that look,” she said. “I wish you could know what it feels like to get that look.”
I closed my eyes and got comfortable. “Life is full of little disappointments, kid.”
“You’re just going to sleep?” she asked incredulously.
I answered without opening my eyes. “Yep. You should learn to do the same.”
“It’s an old soldier’s trick,” Tom said.
I peeked to be sure she was gone and saw her take a chair near Tom. He was reading. Before long, they were engaged in thoughtful conversation, Elise asking earnest questions about the tablet book and Tom giving detailed answers.
I made sure I was standing in the doorway when the lift opened. A crowd of people argued and pushed and talked on communication devices. It was more organized than it appeared. X-37 had referred to it as rush-hour. These people were heading up to work in the spaceport or travelling to destinations unknown.
Silence spread through the crowd. One by one, and then in twos and threes, the people of Roxo III stared at me. No one moved.
Lighter in one hand and the other shielding it from wind that didn't exist, I nursed my cigar to life and strode forward. Elise and Tom followed.
The nearly silent crowd parted as we passed. Seconds later, they were loudly crowding into the lift. Some complained of a long day at work. Others railed against the Roxo government’s inability to deal with increasingly frequent riots. No one mentioned a Reaper and his two companions, but a lot of people glared at me when they thought I wasn’t paying attention.
“You see,” Elise said, “you have that effect on people. I’m not sure how you ever completed a covert mission with your bad attitude.”
“I didn’t always have a bad attitude,” I said, looking around for Grigori Paavo. He was supposed to be waiting for us.
“Would you like me to locate evidence to confirm or deny that statement about your attitude?” X-37 asked.
“No need. She knows I’m right,” I muttered, concentrating on the crowd.
“Whatever,” Elise grumbled.
“Then I will assist you in scanning the waiting area for your guide,” X-37 said. “Would you like me to bring Elise and Tom into our conversation?”
“Why not?” I stepped to one side of the waiting area and watched the crowd. There were rows and rows of chairs that had seen better days, but also people sitting with their backs to walls and their feet stretched out into the street like hallway. “I didn’t remember there being so many people.”
“Recent events have displaced many citizens and travelers on Roxo III,” X-37 provided. “Elise and Tom are now part of our conversation. Greetings, everyone.”
“Hi, X,” Elise said cheerily.
“Reading you loud and clear,” Tom said. “It seems the connection is holding.”
“There is less interference than there was on Greendale,” X-37 said. “It is counterintuitive. Roxo is a station relying on large amounts of digital interconnectivity. One would expect that they lacked bandwidth.”
“It’s because it’s a more complex spaceport. Those are always over engineered,” I explained.
“Of course,” X-37 said. “I was merely making conversation with our guests.”
“It’s good to be off the ship,” Elise said. “No offense, Jelly. Can you hear me?” She put one hand to her ear as though it would help the earbud function.
“I will be able to maintain contact,” Jelly said. “However, I have a list of tasks that must be completed while I am in port. Please advise me if you have a request that should take priority over my updates and upgrades.”
“Okay, Jelly. Thanks,” Elise said. “I like the earbuds. X-37 and Jelly are more polite than you two.”
I ignored her comment and moved toward the man I believed was Path. The hilt of a sword protruded above his shoulder, fixed in place by a scabbard on his back. He sat near a decorative fountain on one side of the thoroughfare. Signs warned that drinking, bathing, swimming, and all other imaginable activities in the fountain were prohibited—which was probably easier to enforce because it was dry.
Graffiti covered the bowl of the fountain and the robed woman forever pouring a pitcher of… nothing. This place was just another urban desert where survival went to the strong and the well-prepared.
Elise, Tom, and X-37 went silent as we advanced on our guide.
Stopping, looking down on the man who was still sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, I put away my cigar—taking the time to secure it in the pocket case Tom had made for me.
The man had lots of dark hair—flat braids threaded with silver wire, gems, and neon glow strips. His ears, eyebrows, and lower lip were pierced by an exotic blue metal. A tunic-like robe and flowing pants were plain and austere in comparison to his ornamentation. His sandals were simple but well-made with soles like tactical hiking boots.
“What do you think about the blade, X?” I asked, timing my approach to give me a few more seconds of private time with my LAI.
“Rare. Dangerous if he knows how to use it, and he probably does. By his hair, body piercings, and tattoos, I can say with a high degree of accuracy he associates with the Sword Saint clan,” X-37 asked.
“Who is the sword saint?” I asked, thinking I knew the answer but wanting to be sure.
“You misunderstand, Reaper Cain. There is no person or entity they worship. The etymology of the term is impossible to confirm but may derive from the word kensei, which originally meant saint of the sword or sword master. The Order of the Sword Saint is merely a group of highly skilled swordsmen and women,” X-37 explained.
I stopped near the exotically dressed man. “Are you Grigori Paavo?”
He finished releasing a meditative breath, then opened his eyes and stood up in one motion. Physically, he wasn’t impressive. Slightly under height and very lean, I would’ve thought him a natural born victim if not for the sword strapped across his back.
“Greetings, traveler. You may call me Path,” Grigori Paavo said. “Mr. James Henshaw has sent me to guide you to his mansion."
"Path," I said, recalling previous mission briefings. I’d been to worlds where sword saints were a thing. Fortunately, I’d never had to fight a real one. "That's an interesting nickname."
"As with all things, there is a reason for it," he said, standing relaxed and ready.
"I've made a note to see clues about this nickname in case it is relevant to our mission," X-37 said.
No response was required, so I maintained the staring contest with our guide.
I leaned out to one side so that I could examine the hilt of the weapon better.
X-37 gave me one
beep before speaking, indicating this was a private statement. “That is interesting. Swords are rare in most societies, but that single-edged, folded steel design is nearly unheard of.”
I nodded in agreement. Since X-37 was housed in my nerve-ware, he could interpret my body language as easily as my words. This wasn’t the time to have a discussion about the weapon of Grigori Paavo. For now, we both knew it wasn’t something he had picked up at a pawn shop.
“Are you a sword saint?” I asked, not because I cared about someone too proud to use a firearm, but because I needed something to talk about while X-37 scanned him thoroughly. In a few more seconds, my Reaper limited AI would have started a file on the man, including a three-dimensional mugshot.
“I have been called many things,” Path said.
“Can you face to the right?” I asked, mildly annoyed but not surprised at his answer.
“What the hell?” Elise said, struck by the extreme awkwardness of the question. “Again with the inappropriate rudeness!”
“Of course,” Path said, complying immediately, ignoring the girl who had come to his defense.
“Profile recorded,” X-37 advised.
“Keep turning, slowly,” I instructed. “Okay, stop.”
Facing us once more, Path’s movements—being precise and efficient—were faster than they appeared. To an untrained eye, he would appear sleepy or excessively casual. As a martial artist, I had to admire the way he exuded calmness, ready to fight if necessary but apparently unconcerned. This raised my opinion of the man. A fake sword saint would have become defensive. I still thought about forgoing all weapons, but the blade was foolish.
“Well?” I asked again.
“I didn't answer because your question was false,” Path said. “You don’t care whether I am truly called to the blade or a charlatan of violence. What matters to you is contacting James Henshaw, the ocular engineer. He was much sought after by Reapers and others who rely on cybernetic vision.”
“Have there been a lot of Reapers recently?” I asked.
“Not a one,” Path said without hesitation.