Solar Kill

by Charles Ingrid

  His eyes of washed-out blue looked a lot older than he did, but who could tell behind the suit he wore? Amber shrugged as he lifted his weight off her shoulders.

  “You all right, dude? You’ve been limping.”

  “Not hurt,” he answered. “I’ve got money stuffed in my boot. Just … my face.”

  She could tell he fought to keep from touching his face with the heavy gauntlets of his suit. “Money? Coin? Plastic?”

  “Dominion credits.”

  The best, most passable currency on Malthen, as of the moment. Amber felt one of her worries leave, and another settle in. How, if she was going to help this stray, could she rob him as well? She flipped her head, tossing her unruly mass of ash brown hair away from her face. She could feel her brow begin frowning and promptly relaxed the muscles. An unlined face, Rolf had beat into her, can act any age. Wrinkles are a lot easier to add than subtract. She was sixteen, nearly seventeen, and could play an age five years in either direction convincingly.

  The man looked at her. He was deeply tanned, but a gray pallor had settled in, except for the sweeping laser burn. “The suit’s about powered down,” he said. “I’ve got to get somewhere to rest and recharge.”

  Amber shook her head. “The way I see it, that’s not your first problem, mister. You’re in trouble—and your first problem is to get off the streets. I can take you.”

  He held his helmet under his left arm. It was like watching a man carry around his own head, she thought, her gaze flicking briefly toward it. If worse came to worse, she could always have him put the helmet on to hide the laser wound.

  It was a brief enough moment that he looked back, but she knew he was judging her. Irritation flickered through Amber. She disliked judgmental people and yet she knew and worked with the weaknesses of human judgment every day. It was the easiest way to pull a scam … simply present your target with an image and let them make the decision. Amber twitched impatiently. “Come on,” she snapped. “I’m a thief, not an assassin. We’ve both got to get out of here.”

  “Right,” the man said. He moved forward. “That’s consoling,” his irony-tinged voice drifted after her as Amber pivoted and headed off, her charge in tow once more. She remained aware that the lumbering movement of the suit grew more and more awkward.

  She stopped again. “Can’t you shed that thing and carry it?”

  “Too heavy. Unless you’re volunteering? No? In that case, I suggest you find me shelter. I’ll pay the going price.”

  “Two hundred credits. And I’ll need another hundred to get stuff for your face, unless you figure to look like that for the rest of your life.”

  “A-hundred and fifty for the shelter, and fifty for the cream … which you probably already have on a shelf at home.”

  Amber’s lips tightened. She looked away from the man, weighing the interest of the now crowded streets. To get to his money, she’d have to shell him first. Too hard to do now … not that she would have any trouble on the street … on the contrary, she’d probably have too much help and end up getting ripped off herself, as soon as she got his boot off. And she didn’t like the faint amusement in his eyes as she answered, “All right. A hundred and fifty for the room, but seventy-five for the cream. You’re right … I’ve got it at home, but we’re not going home. I can’t take you there.” No way. Rolf would gut him and disposed the remains. Not that the dude had ever done her any great favors, but this way she knew she’d get her cut.

  “Done. Now let’s get out of here. When the suit goes down, we’re both in trouble.”

  Amber sneered and jogged away from him. She turned the corner, down a shadowed alleyway and ran right into Plasto-man. The punk leered, and ran the palm of his hand over his bushed hair. He looked mean and pleased.

  “Thought you could outrun me, eh, Amber?” He pointed his sharp chin at the dude. “He’s mine. I’m going to salvage him.”

  “You lost him, Plasto. Forget it.” But Amber felt her pulse race, and began to sweat behind her knees. Plasto was as bad as Rolf—worse, for Rolf at least telegraphed his moves. Plasto was unpredictable and as psychotic as they came. Worse, he knew Rolf. Even if she shook him off here, sooner or later, he’d be talking to Rolf. He’d be telling her no-necked, hard-eyed boss that she’d been seen working a prime dude, and Rolf would know what she’d done. That is—if Plasto didn’t just kill the two of them first. Amber shied a glance about them. They were deep in the alley. The high walls rising about them were uncaring concrete bunkers. She’d seen Plasto work. If he made a move, it was doubtful that either of them would get a scream off.

  Plasto stretched his lips further in a smile and moved a step forward.

  The man put a gauntlet palm out. “We can work something out.”

  Plasto came unglued. “Shut up, dude! I want your hide! And when I’m done with this alley whore, I’m going to come get it!”

  Amber never saw it coming, but the suit moved past her, and was in front of her when Plasto struck, and the power knife buzzed deep into the dude’s chest, its wielder laughing maniacally.

  She stuffed a hand into her mouth, and turned heel to run, before the suit slumped over, and her scant shield of protection was gone.

  But the dude straightened up, and she caught the smell of a burned out motor and Plasto stood up in shock, his smoked knife in his hands. His face turned white under the garish paint as the dude cocked his finger, and blasted him.

  Amber’s mouth dropped open. She let out a tiny squeak as gray ashes drifted down, feather-like, to fill Plasto’s boots. She felt herself sag, and the suit pivoted, its owner catching her by the elbows.

  The dude’s face was grim, but he said, “Don’t give out on me now. Let’s get where we’re going.”

  Amber made a soundless answer and stumbled away, steering wide around the cremation that had been Plasto-man, his boots and his smoked power knife all that remained in a pile of ashes. Too bad. She could have used the knife.

  Jack popped the seams and peeled the suit off. He was down to his parachute pants, sweaty and begrimed, the only remnant of his calling as a Ranger on Claron. As he shook himself, he felt a lump in one of the multi-pockets and fished it out. The odd green stone Scarface had spit out for him surfaced in his fingers, nestled in lint. He dropped it back into the pocket grimly. He could smell last night’s booze and today’s fear oozing out of his pores. He watched the kid sitting on the bed across the room. Her face was just now regaining its color, and the cocky tilt was coming back to her too-thin, triangular face, absent since he’d burned the street punk right under her nose. He’d used too much power for that, but he felt he had a point to make, as much to the living as to the dead.

  The girl, Amber, she called herself, whistled. “You always wear that thing half-bare?”

  “Yes.” He let it fall into itself, after first looking inside. Nothing there. Never was. Yet … he couldn’t help the prickling between his shoulders he always felt when he wore the suit now. He couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t not trust it either.

  The girl watched as he collected his bootful of winnings. The corner of her mouth curled as she realized she could have stung him for a lot more money, if only she’d been a little more canny.

  Jack picked up the tube of ointment and smoothed it over the fiery ache of his face. “Name’s Jack. Jack Storm.”

  “Already told you my name,” she said warily.

  He felt the shaking begin. The adrenalin surge had long gone, and now, deprived of the circuitry of the suit, he was at the end of his power. Jack sat down quickly on the plastic hotel desk to disguise his weakness. “Where can I get a dry shower?”

  Amber shrugged. She wore a spandex skirt, and tank top that emphasized her breasts and thinness. Her shoulders were pointy. Jack found himself wondering just how young/old she was. A funny expression flickered over her face. “I’m not part of the bargain,” she snapped.

  “I never thought you were,” he said back, but, eerily he had, just for the brief
est moment, wondered. “If I can’t get a shower, what about a meal? Juice, steak, salad.”

  She was hungry too, and she nodded. “Let me take care of it. You spread around too much hush money, and they’ll know you’re in hiding. Another hundred should do it.”

  That made it one of the most expensive meals he’d ever eaten, but he peeled the credit note off and gave it to her.

  As the door sealed, Jack staggered to the bed and collapsed, stretching out. For a little bit of a thing, there was a nice warm hollow where she’d been sitting. The niche was mostly concrete and plastic. It wasn’t meant to be comfortable. It was meant for little more than survival.

  Jack had no illusions about Malthen, or its darker side. He’d seen the cameras overlooking every street corner … and seen the lens caps, blackened out eyes, or mirrors, to thwart the security. There were no rose-colored buildings here. All was dirt-tan except for the territory markings. He felt uneasy and knew he’d have to jury rig the room’s circuits to recharge what he could on the suit, and then expose the solars for the rest as soon as he could. Drugs and such he’d worry about later. The important thing was to get the suit up and then repaired so that he could concentrate on his own survival. Once he got his feet under him, then he could afford to ask questions. It would be a long road back to the Emperor’s palace. His tight smile pulled at his face.

  He touched his cheek carefully. The ointment had immediately calmed down the burn and now he’d have to face the healing and peeling. It shouldn’t scar though, as he’d just caught the glance of the beam. He felt a brief mourning for the captain of the Montreal as incomprehensible as the little man had been to him. Jack had felt sure that the man had thought he was a veteran … but a vigilante?

  Storm sighed and turned his thoughts to more pressing matters, like the girl who’d gone after his lunch. He was pretty sure she’d come back … if nothing else, to see how many more hundred credit notes she could peel off him before she was done. Jack sighed and let the lumpy mattress enfold him. A thief, not an assassin. Wryly counting his blessings, he closed his eyes in sleep.

  Amber sat hugging her knees, watching her charge wolf down the steak she’d brought back. She’d eaten hers already, but it had been a much smaller piece, and she felt more full than she had in a long time. It was a pleasant, warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she knew she’d feel sluggish if she ate any more. The man she watched appeared to have no such qualms.

  She’d thought he’d been asleep when she’d returned, and had laid the food out quietly on the pock-marked table, but when she’d turned, he’d been sitting up watching her. Amber had let out a shaky breath.

  “You sleep light.”

  “If at all,” he’d answered shortly, before sitting down to eat. And now she watched him, thinking that when the laser burn peeled off, he’d be kind of good looking, in a spooky way.

  Spooky because she felt that he was in hiding somehow. The age of his eyes didn’t match the age of his face. Or maybe that was because of her knowing there was more to him than he would tell or she could guess. She wondered briefly what she would get if she patched into the master program and pulled up his chip number. Probably nothing, or something so blocked by security she’d never be able to access it. Maybe he was a master criminal or spy.

  Amber discounted that after a fleeting look at the suit. Whatever the hell it was, it was far from inconspicuous. If Rolf had only taught her one thing, he’d taught her the grace of a chameleon-like existence.

  She smiled briefly as she thought of Plasto-man’s demise. Maybe he was a galactic hero, instead.

  Jack looked up. “Want some more?”

  She shook her head. She’d cleaned her face somewhere and looked more childlike, and her wide, golden brown eyes appraised him frankly.

  Then she glanced at the juice. “I’d like some more of that, though.”

  He poured her a mug and she sipped the sunset-colored juice, savoring the pulp and biting flavors. It had been his money, she hadn’t spared it. So what if her stomach sloshed around the rest of the day. She wasn’t anticipating outrunning any marks.

  Jack watched her drink the juice. He could tell she was enjoying it like a rare privilege. He speared the last piece of meat and chewed it quickly.

  “Like the city,” Amber said.

  The nonsequitur stopped him. “What is?”

  “The city. It chews you up and keeps on chewing, but it never spits you out. You’ve got to claw your way out if you want out.”

  Jack swallowed the bite a little prematurely and felt the coarse lump strain as it went down. He dropped his utensils. The salad looked a little brown and wilted, and he couldn’t identify all the vegetables. He decided to pass on it and pushed the container away.

  Amber’s eyes widened. “Those are sunchokes in there.”

  He smiled. “Be my guest.”

  She fought the impulse to look around before pinching out a dark, fleshy green leaf and finishing it.

  Jack got up and walked over to the suit. He’d straightened it up so that the Flexalinks could lock, bearing their own weight. He examined the shoulder seam. Frayed wires met his examination. He sucked his front teeth in absorption.

  They’d be easy to strip and reconnect. He was lucky. All he had to worry about was powering it up.

  Amber said softly behind him, “Gonna strip it?” He whirled. He hadn’t heard her come up. She stepped backward quickly in response to whatever it was she read on his face, and he blanked his expression, thinking that she was like the boomrats … scrawny, flighty, ready to flee or scrap, whichever was most expedient. He said carefully, “No, I intend to repair it.”

  She flopped down on the far corner of the bed to watch, disapproval all over her face.

  Jack reached inside the suit to the sealed side pocket containing a probe and a few delicate tools. As he pulled them out, he looked at her. A faint line of concentration was drawn between her brows, as though she listened to something very far away. It was a change from the disapproval,

  “What?”

  She looked startled. “What what?”

  “What are you listening to?”

  “I … don’t know. What is that thing, anyway? You’d be better off without it. Walking through the undercity with that thing on is like driving a Thrakian tank through the palace and wondering if anybody might notice you.”

  A neat analogy, Jack thought, as he snipped a wire, stripped the fried end and mated it with its connection. “It’s the battle armor of a Dominion Knight.”

  A blankness replaced the air of concentration.

  Jack smiled wryly as he realized she didn’t know what he was talking about. She hadn’t even been born until after the Sand Wars. Then something dawned. “A Knight. Like those bodyguards the Emperor is forming?”

  “Something like that. They used to be the elite infantrymen … the front line.”

  “Yeah? How’d they ever move fast enough to keep from getting blasted? You walked around like a pregnant sloth.”

  He laughed, in spite of himself. “Wait until you see the suit powered up. I can leap tall buildings in a single bound—or something like that.”

  She picked up the limp gauntlet, examining the fingers. “And your weapons are built in. All you’ve got to do is cock your fingers.”

  “Right. And I wouldn’t point that at your face, if I were you. I don’t have it totally disarmed.”

  Thinking of Plasto-man, she dropped the sleeve quickly. “How old is this thing?”

  “About twenty-one years, give or take a year. Why?”

  She whistled. “Ob-so-lete.”

  A queer feeling went up the back of his bare torso, but he forced himself to acknowledge that she was probably right. Battle armor had probably been refined by several more generations since he’d gotten the suit. How much better had it gotten?

  As he worked, Amber stood up on the bed to peer inside. She giggled at the catheter tubing and catch bag, and sneered at the toggle switch
es.

  “Old-fashioned but convenient,” Jack said, his voice edged with irritation. The girl was making him and the suit feel antiquated.

  She brushed her hand across the back of the suit, touching the chamois. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing really. It’s easier to wear the connections if you stay bare, but then the back of the suit, especially if you’re wearing a field pack, chafes you. So most of the guys patch in a chamois … a soft piece of leather or cloth … back there. It keeps you from sweating so much and from irritating your skin.”

  “Most of the guys?” she echoed softly, pulling her hand out.

  “Ah … guys who used to wear these things.” He pinched together another connection. “Are you supposed to be somewhere?”

  Her eyes fluttered. “No. No, I’ll take care of that later.”

  That confirmed Jack’s suspicion that she had a pimp somewhere to placate. He set the tools aside. It was warm in the little room and he mopped the back of his hand across his forehead. “How much?”

  “I usually make six hundred a day.”

  “Working or thieving?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him.

  “I can’t have you leaving.”

  “I know. Don’t worry about it. Think you’ll be all set up by tomorrow morning?”

  “I will if I can get the helmet out in the light. My solars are drained, too.”

  Amber weighed something mentally, then said, “I’ll take care of that.”

  “And then I’m gone?”

  “Right. I’ll escort you to the city limits. Getting beyond there is your problem.”

  Jack had a feeling it would prove a considerable problem, or Amber herself would have pulled out long ago. But he couldn’t fault her. She’d done all she’d promised and then some. He said, “That’ll be worth six or seven hundred credits to me.”

  She bristled. “I’m no charity case.”

  Jack sighed. “Look … would I be alive now if it weren’t for you?”