Angeleyes - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Then a freighter bound insystem for Earth blew up. It was reported to be sabotage with a bomb on board that had managed to crack a bulkhead to the engines, wreck the controls, and let it run away. The ship actually melted, and the cargo had to be abandoned as contaminated and unretrievable. The crew got out by evac pod, except for one engine minder.

  The smiles and glances I saw made me think Mo and Roger had put that together. We’d delivered quite a bit of cargo. Had they built a bomb into one of them?

  Hell, the fab gear we’d gotten in the upgrade had made the pistols they used. I assumed we could have all kinds of weapons as quickly as we needed them.

  I know it’s not hard to make any item if you have the blueprints or code, and guns are very simple mechanical things. But they came up with several different ones depending on what we did.

  But that was days later.

  Right after the police attack, Roger took one of the acquired ID tags and went back out that night. As he passed a checkpoint, he left a small bomb. It blew a cop’s foot off. He tossed the ID and came back on a spare.

  After that, no one wanted to be near a checkpoint.

  In three days, this entire Jump Point transit station had been reduced to a panic, all shipments either way stopped, and everyone pissed off and scared. I realized that had a lot of military effect.

  Billions of tons of supplies would have to go around other routes to get insystem, and everyone in this station would miss resources. It wouldn’t be much. There was enough locally produced food and power. But it would get less comfortable.

  “Not only that,” Teresa said, “It won’t have any effect on Earth. It’s going to piss off everyone in habitats and alt-environments, and give them more social distance from Earth.”

  “Won’t they hate us for doing it?” I asked.

  “Some. But did you notice how many are claiming it’s all false flag by their own government? It’s easier to hate the big one. And they want Earth to fix it, who really can’t, and won’t anyway. They can’t get anything through their own bureaucracy.”

  I realized there was a lot more depth to blowing things up than I thought. It could be why I’m not good at chess or go. They were thinking months ahead here. I just wanted to know when I would eat and get laid. Which made me average.

  The next two weeks were boring. More than boring, tedious and aggravating. We were stuck in the cubby, cooking field rats over a tiny resistance heater. The troops kept one on watch at all times. I was a contractor, so I wasn’t assigned, but I did some anyway. There wasn’t much else to do. We played quiet word games and puzzles. I’m not good at chess, they were brilliant. I did okay at memory games, but they were perfect. We exercised standing up, doing isometrics with the bulkhead and the back of the transformer. The bulkhead had old access holes and some cable conduits we could hang from, and buzzed constantly. We had limited phone access, and sleep hurt, on bare plate with rolled clothing as a neck pillow. We had to sneak out for latrine use, but there was a bucket at one end for emergencies on waking.

  After three days of not finding us, the cops were in a complete panic. I guess someone told them to deliver. They started rousting homeless people and transients, going through cubbies one by one, checking occupants. It tied them all up. They went past several times but never tried to enter, and I was in a panic each time. Then there was a run of hobos trying to boost rides on any ship going anywhere. The ships reported this, but then got delayed for more searches, so they stopped reporting it. Then the customs and transit agency started visiting ships at random, then visiting all of them.

  Everyone was pissed off, everything moved slow. The cops were busy dealing with starving dropout families who didn’t have chips or papers and had to be placed in inflated shelters in park space or in empty cube wherever they could be stuffed. Those homeless people sometimes had mental issues or were low grade crims, and broke stuff.

  Every ship was delayed hours or days.

  I wasn’t as sure as Teresa. I figured they’d beat or kill us if they figured out we did it.

  I think Juan agreed with us. We stayed in our crawlspace, taking a few minutes twice a day to stretch upright in the passage. Mo charged our phones and comps at a terminal a distance away, and we used them on very narrow local only, burst loads. Teresa kept taking our phones, running ware through them to sanitize them and recode them.

  Three days in, I took Roger with me to shop for food.

  It was harder than I expected. They were requiring ID chips to get groceries. We were almost into a store when he suddenly took my arm and said, “Oh, wait, we need something from Climan’s first.”

  Once past the entrance he said, “Find a quiet corner now. We need to camo.”

  He actually found it before I did. A jog into a passage that had some sweepers and spare rollers for the walk.

  “Take this,” he said, as soon as we were behind a shelf and out of view of any fixed cameras. He slipped the tags into my hand while pulling me in close and kissing. I got my hands around his neck and his tag went on as I did.

  He was such a gentleman, mashing lips but keeping his tongue back. It was a kiss. I wasn’t having any of that halfway act. I clutched him and probed his tongue and raised a leg over his hip.

  Whew. That was better, and even worse for frustration. I coaxed his hand to my tunic collar, wiggled until he was feeling me up, then reached up gently pulled his hands out. Damn.

  I giggled a bit, and straightened my collar while looping the tag around my neck. It was a guest tag, not an implant, but it would work in this area of the station. Get into the habitat area and they expected implants and would start scanning and questioning visitors.

  The poor man was obviously tense after that, and straightened his collar. He should have straightened his crotch.

  But we looked like a couple having a quick tease, and were out of there in thirty seconds. We both had the tags we needed, and could shop this area until someone flagged them, which might or might not happen.

  Food was rationed. We followed the signs, bought as much protein as we could, and some of it was canned chicken. I was amazed there was any left, I don’t know why there was. Fish was on stock. The rest we filled out with starches and reconstitutes.

  The checkout scanned his cart and flashed. The supervisor came over.

  “Sir, that’s more than you’re allowed I’m afraid.” His English was good. There wasn’t much of an accent. It wasn’t his first language, though.

  “We’re both shopping,” I said.

  “Oh, then please scan your ID, too.”

  I did. The machine was happy. Then it pinged something else.

  “Are you recently arrived?” he asked.

  Roger nodded. “Yeah, not long ago.”

  “Okay. Our system doesn’t show a record of you.”

  “We haven’t shopped yet.”

  “In two weeks?” The man looked suspicious.

  “We had a lot of stuff aboard. I travel with foods. Religious issue,” he said.

  “Ah, okay.”

  I was glad that worked. He could have asked which religion and checked against data. They have freedom of religion in the UN, but only certain religions are recognized. The rest are free to operate within regular law but aren’t tax exempt and don’t get protected speech. I sort-of belonged to two churches, and neither was recognized by the UN.

  It wasn’t much food. It was adequate for two people, but we had ten, and four of them couldn’t risk being seen.

  I said, “We’ll need to dumpster dive for some.”

  “Safely?”

  “Yeah, it won’t be very nutritious, but it will be filling.”

  “Okay.”

  We dropped off the stuff we had, then with a couple of satchels, went down the access behind Breadbar and Kenniwick’s.

  Behind Breadbar I found several loaves set out on a rack for homeless people to take. Some had faint mold rings. Others were just stale enough to use as clubs. I grabbed a handful.
There was also a box of beignets.

  Kenniwick’s had some bags of tuna salad and some fruit. We could rinse the fruit off. I still wasn’t keen on it, but this was war and we had to eat. Two of the tuna bags were definitely off. I had Roger sniff the other.

  “I think it’s still passable,” he said. “Barely.”

  “We’ll eat as soon as we’re back.” I figured it hit toss temp and they tossed it. It would be okay for a couple of hours longer.

  Hopefully we wouldn’t wind up with screaming shits and nowhere to go.

  Back in the nest, we scraped off the surface mold, spooned tuna on the spread, and ate. Jack rinsed off the fruit and I made myself eat an apple. We passed around the packaged stuff for later.

  Then it was back to standing watch, keeping hidden, and waiting for some set of actions Juan wanted before we moved. I had goggles without sound, or ears without vid. I couldn’t shut everything out. So I listened to music and wished I could dance. We took turns with one peeking out, another ready to move, and everyone’s bags slung to go.

  I needed an orgasm like you wouldn’t believe. But I wasn’t alone, it wouldn’t be fair to tease them with the show, and I couldn’t use them. The dynamic was all wrong. I was contractor, not staff, not contracted for sex, and unless I did them all, it would cause tension. Even if I did do them all, and by that point I would have, even both chicks, I wasn’t a professional. That would mess up the separation we had.

  So I gritted my teeth, sweated in the dust and dark, and tried not to clench my legs and grind. I managed an occasional rub in a stall when we went out to wipe down in lieu of real bathing. My hair was nasty. I was sweaty and slimy.

  The station was effectively shut down. I assumed they were searching in detail, and eventually they’d find the hideys.

  I spent a lot of time listening to trance and staring at the inside of the brim of a hat I’d acquired. It blocked the light and I had nothing else to do. It was almost worse than being shot at. We barely talked in case we were overheard. We used whispers in ears when we did. The transformer hum was driving me crazy.

  After two weeks we got out. It was only two Earth weeks, not ten-day Freehold weeks, but it felt like being released from prison. I guess in a way it was.

  We cleaned up with bleach wipes and Roger handed us fresh coveralls that said we were crew of the Copperly.

  CHAPTER 30

  We walked directly from our hide, to the main passage, to a mid-price hotel—the Ƃаспана, I think. I kept a frozen calm expression on my face. We didn’t have chips and I was waiting for the monitors to jump us at any moment.

  Nothing happened. We checked into an econo suite with four private berths and a common room. Jack ran some kind of sensor around, thumbed up, and said, “Nice place.” He flicked on a device I figured was some sort of counter scrambler and said, “We’re clear in here.”

  “Even without Ident chips?” I asked.

  “I masked us from the sensors. I can’t do it often or they’ll see the hole in the grid, but it got us here and we’re going to fake it from here.”

  Juan said, “Everyone take a couple of divs to unwind, shower, eat, and grab a medicinal drink if you need to. Next stage starts then.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Stealing our bonded ship back from System Security monitors.”

  I was sure they could do it.

  He said, “To bring you up to date, we left the ship unattended. They’re not positive we’re connected to anything, but we are ‘persons of interest’ and they are holding it. So we’re going to break it out and tie them up more. Go clean up and get ready.”

  I wasn’t able to do much in the shower. I got clean fast, and hot water beating on aching muscles felt so good. I followed that with a cool mist and dim light. I felt a lot better when it was over. It was five minutes. I wanted fifty.

  After that, I had crabcakes and rice from the pile of delivered food, and a drink of a cane sugar rum. It was stronger than beer or spritzers, but it was drinkable and did help calm me slightly.

  It wasn’t enough. Juan, Mo, Bast and Roger were the biggest four. They came back in with large rollerlockers.

  Mo said, “We have chips. The rest of you will pile in these, and we’ll head for Bounder. If an altercation actually starts, you can bail out with the lever here.” He pointed at a pull loop mounted inside. “Yanking that pops the hinges and you’re out. Don’t do it without a real fight or you’ll blow our cover.”

  “How will we know?”

  “Gunfire, case getting slammed around, One of us yells.”

  That wasn’t a thrilling idea. Claustrophobia and a firefight.

  It was tight in the case. I was in a half-squat with my knees up and head down. I spread out as much as I could, and tried to find a squat that didn’t put all my weight on my ankles.

  “Ready?” Mo asked.

  “No.”

  “Good!” he said, and sealed me in.

  It wasn’t totally sealed. There was a small vent at top and bottom so there was circulation. I hoped it was enough. CO2 asphyxiation isn’t fun.

  It was worse than the dolly I’d been strapped into when arrested.

  I tried desperately not to panic. I didn’t want to get everyone else killed. When we started rolling, I started crying, as quietly as I could, tears dripping down my nose and lashes where I couldn’t touch them.

  It could be an hour or more, and I had no way to track time. I was squashed, and my feet started cramping and aching with the position.

  I was rolled along. I couldn’t tell exactly what route we took, but I felt the joints, the changing G, and the surface as we neared entry control for the dock. We stopped, there were voices I could barely hear, and shuffling. I tried hard to breathe while not making a lot of noise. I had to suck air through the case shell, then exhale down and hope the vent at the bottom was enough.

  This was ridiculous and dangerous and no one sane would do it.

  Which was exactly the point.

  Then I was tilted over and there was grunting as the case slapped down on a table hard enough to knock wind out of me.

  The seal popped, glaring light and cool, fresh air hit me, and a voice said, “What the shit?”

  “Portable dishwasher,” I said. He looked at me funny.

  I couldn’t stand or do anything complicated, but I could reach his throat, and did. His body armor meant I didn’t get much of a grip, but I held on tight.

  Mo hit him from behind with something. It might have been a lock pin. Whatever it was, the guy’s head whiplashed, his eyes rolled up, and I heard the sound of a cracking egg.

  Near me, Mira had swarmed out of her case and was beating someone savagely with a small baton.

  Mo pulled me to my feet and half-dragged me.

  “We want to get under faster than they can see us, move, then come back up somewhere else, doesn’t matter where. In the dock. Can you lead?”

  “I think so. That strut fan should have an access.” I pointed.

  “Go.”

  Behind me I heard more shouts, more screams, and stunner fire. The team was breaking people with mostly bare hands.

  Then I heard what sounded like grenades. Three shockwaves passed me one after another.

  I didn’t look behind me because it would slow me and I trusted them. I cleared the nearest strut and skidded around, even with grip shoes on textured deck. I made a note to replace them if they were getting that slick.

  The hatch was locked and sealed. I had no code and no idea how to open it.

  Jack came around and started poking at it. The rest ran block, and I mean “ran.” They went in four directions, came back, crossed on the far side of the struts, and generally kept monitors busy. There were only three monitors anyway. Sorry, I mean two, or apparently, one. Bast clobbered him and he went down. It was a savage beating. That man could hit.

  Jack ripped the lock and I hit the ladder. I’d expected that. This should go straight down to the under
deck.

  I gripped my insteps around the outside of the ladder and slid, using friction as brakes. I hit the bottom and it tingled the leftover pins and needles until they stung.

  From here we could go hubward or out. I chose out.

  “Is the ship docked close?” I asked.

  Jack said, “No, it’s anchored out. We’re taking a shuttle again, if we can find one.”

  “Shuttle at the Dockmaster’s office. A six-boat.”

  “Crowded, but doable.”

  I said, “As long as someone is there with it.” I was making it up as I went along, because I’d never been in this design of station, nor in this part of this one. I just figured there would be a power conduit to the Dockmaster’s office, and it would be walkable.

  I found it near the inner hull skin. It was mostly walkable. I had to hunch down. Teresa was smaller, everyone else was larger. I heard quiet grunts and hisses behind me, as we scrambled over bolted section joint and bends in the conduits. It was only notionally a passage. Over the years, pipe and conduits had been run through and across. We had to weave and squirn in spots. I ached in my back by the time we reached a ladder going up.

  “Locked and probably sealed,” I said.

  Bast said, “That’s me,” and squeezed past. Really squeezed. This section was manhole tight. “Fire in the hole now. Move back.”

  I scooted back with the others behind me. I heard him futzing with something, then he suddenly dropped down and fell flat. He clapped hands over his ears, so I did, too.

  The bang was really sharp and loud, and bits of stuff pinged and rattled down behind him.

  I got stepped on.

  Bast threw himself upright from a pushup, grabbed the ladder and jumped. Mo went over me, almost stepping on my fingers. I yanked everything in close to my body, as Roger said, “Excuse me!” and followed.

  The three techs were last, and I brought up the rear.

  I climbed up, still a bit dizzy from the blast, and my ears rang. I threw my arms out of the hatch and pulled myself up.

  I was in a power cabinet, and that hatch was off its hinges, too.

  The office was a bunch of small rooms along a passage, with an airlock at one end with the boat. The inner end had an emergency lock in case of pressure failure. The surviving Dock crew, all eight, had been stuffed in there, and barricaded. I wasn’t sure how, but they weren’t getting out and were beating on the port.