by Apex Authors
"In the German language there is a word: opfer. It can mean either victim or sacrifice. Fitting, isn't it?"
"I didn't know you spoke German, Nolana."
"Just because my parents jerked me out of fourth grade doesn't mean I'm stupid, Doc. Has anyone else found out about our ship's plague?"
"Nope, I told my patients it was flu."
"If we are declared a plague ship, it's all over but the dying."
"Don't blow it out of proportion, Nolana. We'll be quarantined off New Dearborn Polis for a year. Who knows, the Trade Commission might be able to afford treatment for us."
"I'm not concerned about the disease. It's the reaction of the rest of the charity circuit that scares me. The slaughter of the 219 was no accident,” said Delta.
"There's no proof a crime took place. Tugs accidentally ram ships all the time. The lanes are crowded."
"Ask Cap Fulton to run her computer simulation for you. It's impossible for an unmanned tug to rip open every hold on a grainship. Two, four, even six holds could be punctured, but the impact should have caused the tug to recoil, not open up the 219 from stem to stern. The grainship was gutted deliberately. They were doomed the instant they announced the plague aboard their ship. You mention Zebra Fever, and people stop thinking logically. Nobody wants a plague ship docking near their home."
Doctor Fields shook his head and whispered, “How much of the serum culture can we afford?"
"My source will sell us a liter of culture for the money the cannibals give us. As long as it's fed well, the engineered E. coli will double the amount of serum they produce every week."
"I, I'm not confident about distilling the serum."
"What the hell? It's too late to be having doubts. You said you could do this,” Delta snapped.
"Don't strut that attitude with me, Nolana. Purity control is always a problem, but none of the contaminants should harm our patients."
"But you can do it."
"Yes, I can, but once the fever starts speckling and striping skin, people are going to know about the fever. And once their flesh starts peeling—"
"I want a list of the other victims."
"Why?” The doctor lifted Nolana's eyelid, tsking as he studied her pupil. “How high is your fever?"
"If your patients turn into zebras, I have ways of keeping them quiet.” She laughed at his grimace. “I'm not a killer. The mayor is buying a crate of summer sausages. We'll distribute them to the victims in exchange for them hiding and keeping their mouths shut."
"Sausage bribery? May I have one?” He checked her pulse. “Not bad, only two hundred."
"Why not? It's Mayor Bobby's dime."
"This cover-up won't work. I had my first case fifteen days ago, my second eight days ago, my third and fourth six days ago, the fifth through ninth three days ago, and eight today. Do the math. They've probably infected a dozen people each. By the end of the month, we're talking hundreds of patients. We can't hide this epidemic."
"We've only got four more days here at Taylor. Then our ship will swing out to Mars. That'll give us six weeks of travel to stop this epidemic,” said Delta.
"The serum works slowly. We can't keep the outbreak secret."
"As long as we're gone from L-5 when the news leaks. There's no other option."
"The Trade Commission—"
Delta growled. “Lookit, we have to try. The good citizens in their tidy homes already hate us. Do we need to give them a reason that singles out the 474? Do you want a tug accidentally ramming us?” She bit her tongue to stop the diatribe.
"Paranoia is a symptom of Zebra Fever."
"I was paranoid before I got sick. I need more spray."
"No. The mercury compounds you've been inhaling only slow the replication of the virus. You're already showing signs of liver failure. Mercury is more toxic than the fever at this point. Killing yourself helps no one.” He pulled open her jumpsuit, shifting a breast to stare at the darkening of the skin on her rib cage. “You're already beginning to stripe. Bet that's going to need a skin graft. In another week, you're going to be too sick to walk."
"I only need a few more days. But I can't spread the disease, right?"
"Would I allow you to walk around infectious? That's one good thing about poisoning you with mercury. It cleansed your lungs of the virus. As long as you refrain from sex, don't bleed on anyone, and are careful about your toilet habits, your infection will be contained within this splendid body. And for heaven's sake, don't serve yourself for dinner."
"I'll be okay. We'll have the serum in a few days."
He shook his head slowly, sadly. His eyes returned to the planet overhead. “So blue. So dead."
Delta refused to look at Earth. As if it were a lover who had betrayed her, she never wanted to see the planet again.
Down she climbed from the chamber, more depressed than ever. Her cyanotic fingertips made her wonder how much longer mercury poisoning would protect her from the fever's relentless advance.
She wanted to return home and sleep for days. However, thoughts of home brought to mind her handcuffed guest, further depressing her.
A vaguely familiar woman grabbed her forearm. “Hey, you in the ozone or something?"
"Just thinking,” replied Delta. Did all monsters feel this dizzy, this weak? she wondered.
"That's a bad habit. Too much thinking and the airlock starts looking good.” She was as tall as Delta, having lived her life under the .7 standard gravity of the ship. A handful of brown tufts dangled from her tattooed scalp.
"What do you need?” Delta could almost feel the mode shift. Nolana the Gray Marketeer assumed the helm. The fever and the depression retreated. Her hand slipped around the strap of her poke, pulling the bag around her body.
"I was wondering about this.” The woman produced a ring. “My mother died last week. I inherited her coffin and this."
Delta removed her multimeter from its holster. A quick scan showed the two carat emerald was poorly cut, but only slightly flawed. The gold weighed eleven grams at eighty-two percent purity. Antique or esthetic value, there was none.
She shared the data. “Hang onto the ring until we reach the Mars Circuit. They're more into jewelry than the Earther Circuit. If you're really desperate, you might try the dock. Never can tell when you'll run into someone with more money than sense. Don't take less than five grand."
"I-I don't want to leave the ship. You can't tell what will happen out there. How much will you give me?"
"I don't have that kind of cash. What do you need the money for?"
Her brown eyes glowed and then her gaze darted toward the deck. “I want to double my coffin, but the neighbors won't cooperate."
Delta nodded. “I can find a couple that is splitting and wants two separate coffins in exchange for their double. If I were you, I'd keep that ring. You never know when an asset like that will buy you the medicine that will save you from the epidemic du jour."
The customer looked dubious. On a ship of cons it behooved her to be skeptical.
Delta pulled out her chip-plate and banged into her deal directory. “What's your name and address?” She logged it. “I'll see what's on the market and talk to you tomorrow.” She checked her schedule. “Make that the day after tomorrow. You can wait a few days, can't you?"
"I guess."
They parted company. Coffin configurations removed Delta's neural traffic jams. Housing swaps had been her bread and butter during that long business lull marking the last Martian/L-5 Cold War. That had been a pain, stuck halfway to Earth orbit in a herd of grainships shepherded by a pair of trigger-happy customs’ cutters for months.
Delta was in Chicago Hold before she knew it. As her exhausted calves turned down Gold Lane, she felt like the old Nolana: gray marketeer extraordinaire. She slowly went to her knees and punched her code into the lock, then thumbed the sensorpad. The hatch clicked open.
"Wait a min, didn't I double-lock?"
Her coffin was empty.
Gagging, Delta jerked to life. Her reeling senses told her this wasn't the grainship. The air was too fresh, too warm. A pair of hands tore the burlap poke off her shoulder; its strap nearly ripped off her ear. Her sharpened screwdriver flew across the room. Delta feared her retching would never stop.
"Nothing in here but junk."
Delta's bag banged against her head. She seized it, curling around its cargo of barter goodies. It gave her something to focus upon other than her misery.
"We'll take it nice and easy, grainer. We're Confed Internal Bureau—CIB. You know what that means?” The woman wore an aqua suit. Short and stout, the way she moved hinted at muscle, not fat. Her head was shaved except for two long blonde strips.
Delta grabbed an oxygen mask when the woman offered it. Cool, crisp air cleansed her lungs, easing the stomach cramps. She answered as soon as her throat cleared. “Of course, CIB hunts spies and revolutionaries."
Aqua Suit said, “And assorted scum. You are far away from the garbage scow you call home."
"Why?” Delta barely had the courage to ask. Who had betrayed her? Who had allowed CIB agents aboard her ship?
"Can you see this?” The woman squatted, showing Delta a lump of clay the size of a pea. She smashed it on the table and touched it with a stunstick. Current zapped. The explosion blew a hole through the table.
Oxygen mask in one hand, the poke in the other, Delta wheezed and nodded. CIB agents were one of the most divisive issues among the Lunar/L-5 Confederacy. Any institution beyond the law was a problem, however well it protected the government.
Delta recoiled as the woman squashed another lump into one of her nostrils.
"A gram of explosives probably won't kill you when it blows your face off. Do you have a cosmetic surgeon aboard your flying compost heap?"
"You win,” Delta blurted. Sweat streamed from every pore. “I'll cooperate fully with the Bureau.” Delta's voice sounded distorted, courtesy of the explosives.
"The topic is cannibalism."
"I only dealt with one person—an old man with liver spots on his hands and a saggy face. He stood one-point-seven meters tall, maybe ninety kilos. He wore a huge silver ring in the shape of an eagle with its wings wrapped around his finger. He was balding with a dirty gray fringe. I'd be happy to point him out in a line-up."
"Where is the victim?"
"I left her handcuffed inside my coffin. She was gone when I was captured."
"Who is she?"
"Miriam Carr. She tried to suicide and failed. She volunteered."
"The penalty for cannibalism, voluntary or nay, is airlocking. However, I'm in a merciful mood so I'll give you a choice—airlocking, or I detonate the charge. Well? I haven't got all day."
Delta looked up, wanting one moment of eye contact with her torturer. Instead, she saw a camera in the corner pointed at her. The torturer punched a remote and a TV emerged from the wall. A talking news head explained the technique of the inquisitor while the Delta on the screen bounced her head from the camera to the screen. Delta's voice came from the TV, describing Buyer as a tall, blond grainer from another ship. Delta gaped. The computer-generated mockery sounded more real than her own voice.
"Is it sweeps week?"
"You're a lesson to other grainers. We're tired of you parasites.” The slap rocked Delta.
"We're tired of having your mobile crime waves docked with our homes.” The second slap hurt more since Delta had anticipated it.
"My God, you people are debased enough to sell your teenagers to cannibals. Now the entire solar system will know what scum you people are.” The third slap struck numb flesh. “I can think of no punishment worse than sending you back to your ship. Excrement deserves its sewer."
A hand seized her hair, another grabbed her ankles. In a trice she was dragged from the chamber. Delta sneezed the explosive from her nostril. A door hissed open. Noise rolled over her, an avalanche of sound.
"We thought you'd like to spend some quality time with your fans,” yelled the uniformed thug who surrendered a handful of Delta's hair in order to latch onto her arms. They swung her twice before tossing her into the crowd.
Delta bowled over three people. The mob redoubled their decibels and surged toward her as she rolled, scrambled, and slammed into the closed door. With the clarity of impending death, Delta calmly ignored the kicks and spits and curses. Hopeless as a grainer.
She regained consciousness at the bottom of a garbage chute. Delta swallowed her outrage at being alive and scrambled to her feet. Instinctively, she shouldered her burlap poke. That way she could use both of her hands to clutch her oft-kicked belly and kidneys as she fled.
She'd never been inside Taylor Polis, even back in the days when grainers roamed free. However, a polis was a polis—a series of doughnut-shaped halls stacked in a tube, varying only in the arrangement of the residential and business halls. She found a sign pointing to the train station connecting the doughnuts. Once there, she lurched into a bathroom and hid in a stall.
Her jumpsuit betrayed her as a grainer. Ripping the Velcro clasps apart, Delta discovered a broken knife blade embedded in her money belt. Fist-sized bruises dotted her flesh for a leopard look. It was hard to discern the bruises from the disease's stripes.
As shredded and bloodstained as her jumpsuit was, she might be mistaken for one of those trendy-wendys she'd seen on CNN. Withdrawing the broken knife blade, she hacked off sleeves and legs, which she used to wrap her head in a ragged version of a turban. She then sliced the back out of the jumpsuit. The mirror over the sink showed a battered wendy looking for a trendy to finish beating the crap out of her.
Miriam would love this, she thought.
She slipped from the bathroom. The station was empty. The sounds of distant sirens wafted down the ramp. Carefully studying the ceiling, Delta figured where the surveillance cameras were hidden. It wasn't difficult to avoid them as she read the map and purchased a ticket to Panikow Hall—the last stop before the dock—from the automatic vendor. She would sneak the rest of the way via maintenance tunnels.
The clock showed she had a thirteen-minute wait for the next train. Swigging the hot tea she'd bought from a machine calmed her cramping stomach. The fresh bloodstain spreading slowly down her thigh hinted at internal injuries. The benches were in the path of the cameras, so she leaned against a wall and prayed she wouldn't collapse.
The big board suddenly flashed: SCHEDULED TRAINS WILL BE DELAYED DUE TO TERRORIST ACTIVITY IN GOVERNMENT HALL. CHARTERS WILL NOT BE AFFECTED.
Delta slid to the cool deck. There would be no escape. Why hadn't she died back there? It would have been so much easier.
A prim-looking man stepped onto the platform. He stared at Delta with gold-dyed eyes. His austere suit could be a uniform. He kicked Delta's ankle once, softly, then a second time with power.
"How much do you charge?” Suit glanced with slit eyes, communicating how embarrassed he'd be should anyone see them together.
"I'm new at this,” Delta sputtered.
He grabbed an ear and pulled Delta to her feet. “Somebody did you good."
"It was my first. It went too far. Give me a place to stay tonight, and I'm free. Anything you desire."
"I'll be gentler than your first beast,” he promised, pupils dilating. “But you have to take money. That's part of the fun."
Suit walked over to the vending machine and inserted a bank card. Punching the buttons, he cocked his head toward Delta. “I've ordered a charter."
Twin doors opened. Delta stumbled into a cramped car. Suit squeezed in beside her, one hand exploring her body while the other punched the confirmation. The doors closed, then the car hissed down its tube.
"I always had this fantasy, but I didn't dare,” Delta cozened. “My friend and I came here on vacation.
We met a couple and—I can't go back to the hotel like this."
The trendy's hand snaked around Delta's neck. A finger pressed against the base of her windpipe, cutting off her breath. “I don't want to know your life's story.” He shoved currency into her mouth. “If you're a good little wendy, I'll send you back to your hotel in a nice, new outfit. A little paint will hide your bruises.” His hand vanished inside her tattered jumpsuit to stuff currency elsewhere.
Delta feigned a passionate moan and rubbed against the pervert. I'm as bad as Miriam, she thought. Withal, a night out of circulation would improve her chance of sneaking back aboard the 474.
"Please teach me how to be a good wendy,” she begged.
"I'll teach you everything,” he promised, biting Delta's broad shoulder. “You are so wicked."
"I will be,” Delta promised.
She culled her memory for dialogue from the movie WENDY that had swept the Oscars a few years back. She cursed herself for falling asleep during the tale of a librarian's journey through the S&M subculture. Still, how hard could it be?
Suit's home was the size of Chicago Hold. He guided Delta into a bathroom with a tub larger than her coffin. A long, scalding bath eased her aches. Suit sported a full-torso tattoo of ivy. They split the contents of a crystal decanter of red wine made bitter with narcotics. That stilled the rest of her physical woes.
Staggering into the bedroom, they collapsed onto an orgy-sized bed. Suit had a quick cry and a longer mewl about his pressure-filled life in the CEO lane. Delta cuddled and commiserated, hiding her contempt for such wimpy miseries.
Suit ordered Delta to lick the tears from his face. He lurched off and returned with another decanter, commanding Delta to chug it. Golden-dyed eyes stayed on her the whole time, providing her with no opportunity to pour the swill anywhere but down her throat. Suit slapped derms on his neck, and became increasingly energetic as the chems dissolved his self-pity.
By the time the handcuffs appeared, Delta was too loaded to move. It puzzled her that Suit would numb her out before the whips emerged. Wasn't pain as much a part of the game as submission?