Bodyguard

by William C. Dietz

  I frowned to demonstrate my disapproval of her unladylike analogy and gave thanks for the human sex drive. Assuming that our pursuers had called ahead, this pair had been too busy to notice. “I heard a shot.”

  “Oh, that,” Sasha said nonchalantly. “I fired a round to get their attention.”

  Sasha seemed to be of the opinion that ammo grew on trees. I scowled at the guards and gestured towards a cargo module. “Climb to the top and sit on your hands.”

  The man hurried to obey. The woman followed, and so did my eyes. My lust was rather short-lived, however, since the corpies chose that particular moment to arrive, firing as they came. The fact that they were shooting at Sasha, and not at me, should have set some thoughts in motion but didn’t.

  Sasha brought her cannon up and squeezed the trigger. A rent-a-cop was plucked off his feet and thrown backwards into the crowd. I grabbed the girl’s wrist with my left hand and towed her towards the far end of the jetty. The .38 bucked and corpies dove for cover.

  A man, hidden until now, appeared from our right. He wore mechanic’s overalls and held a wrench in his hand. Sasha swung the .44 in his direction and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty casing. I shot the man through the thigh and lectured Sasha as he fell. “This ain’t no movie, kid…you gotta count your rounds.”

  She looked ashamed, and it was then that I noticed the bloody footprints. Sasha had come down who knows how many stairs in her bare feet and cut them to shreds. All without a whimper. I felt like the biggest sonofabitch in the world and wished I could take the comment back. Her attention was elsewhere. “Maxon, look!”

  I looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The boat appeared to be about twenty-five feet long, had lots of lights, and, judging from the shape of its hull, had been designed for speed rather than cargo capacity. Just the thing for harried executives or fugitives like ourselves. I shoved Sasha in that direction. “Jump! I’ll cast off.”

  “You know how to drive one of these things?”

  “Of course,” I lied. “Now jump.” She jumped. The boat bobbed slightly as she landed.

  I ran to the point where the forward line had been wrapped around a bollard, found that someone had used a double-reverse-something-or-other-knot to secure it, and swore as my fingers strained to undo it. A rent-a-cop opened up with a submachine gun, and Sasha’s words were nearly inaudible. “I dumped the other line! Come on!”

  Bullets whipped past Sasha’s head as I ran towards the boat, jumped the ever-widening gap, and tumbled into the cockpit. I was still sorting myself out when the starter whined, the engine caught, and the boat surged forward. The bow hit the jetty a glancing blow, bounced off, and roared away. Corpies ran the length of the jetty. Fire flickered from the muzzles of their guns as empty casings arced through the air. A piece of side glass shattered, tiny bits of fiberglass peppered my face, and an invisible hand tugged at my sleeve.

  I fought my way forward, shouldered Sasha out of the way, and assumed control in time to avoid a head-on collision with a support column. She seemed happy to relinquish command.

  Someone fired a scope-mounted rifle. The windscreen shattered, and miniature geysers erupted all around us as he or she emptied a clip.

  I didn’t think of it then, but would eventually realize that the sniper could have hit me had he or she really wanted to, and had missed on purpose. Then we were gone, beyond the range of the rifle, and hidden by almost total darkness. My heart beat a mile a minute as I remembered the columns that held everything up, searched for the right pictograph, and flicked the appropriate switch.

  The spotlights were mounted on a bar over the flying bridge. Some had been shot out, but a dozen or so remained. They illuminated a row of concrete pillars that marched off into the distance and disturbed hundreds of bats. The miserable little bastards swooped down, sailed through the lights, and flapped away. An unexpected waterfall poured from above, spattered across the bow, and ran the length of the boat. Drainage from the spaceport? A broken pipe? There was no way to know.

  I looked back to where our wake broke white against concrete columns and the lights from the jetty seemed to wink off and on. I glanced at Sasha as I turned towards the bow. Her hair blew straight back, and she reminded me of someone else, though I didn’t know who. Had that thought passed through my mind before? I strained but couldn’t remember. “Did you see another boat?”

  She shook her head. “Just the one that had been hauled out for repairs.”

  I nodded. “Do us both a favor. Go below and look for holes.”

  Sasha frowned, as if disappointed that she hadn’t thought of that, and backed down a short ladder. I basked in my moment of brilliance, edged towards the exact center of the channel, and wondered where the hell we were going. Well, we’d get there pretty damned fast, that was for sure. The wind pressed against my face, and the pillars whipped by like pylons in a race. Sasha reappeared at my elbow. “You were right, Maxon.”

  “The name’s Max.”

  She looked impatient. “Max, schmax. We’re taking water. Lots of it.”

  “How fast is it coming in? Could we plug the holes?”

  Sasha looked doubtful. “I don’t think so. It’s half a foot deep and rising fast.”

  I swore under my breath. It would be just my luck to escape a hail of gunfire only to drown a few minutes later. “Can you swim?”

  Sasha shook her head. “Swimming pools are in short supply on Europa Station. How ‘bout you?”

  “Not a lick. Not that I can remember, anyway.”

  Her eyes left mine and darted away. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were silent for a moment. A pillar flashed by. She looked my way. “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “The column had words on it.”

  “So?”

  “So, slow down. If that column had words on it, the next one might have them too.”

  It made sense, although the practical value of reading the words escaped me. I eased the throttle back and took a look at the speedometer or the nautical equivalent thereof. The needle dropped as our speed fell off. The boat bobbed up and down as its wake caught up with it. Sasha pointed at the next pillar. “Look!”

  I looked. The column bore the likeness of a skull and cross-bones with words underneath. The boat had drifted close. I slipped the engine into reverse and goosed the throttle. “What does it say? Your eyes are younger than mine.”

  “It says, ‘Death to corpies. Proceed at your own risk.’“

  I nodded agreeably. “A noble sentiment indeed. It’s time to haul ass.”

  Sasha nodded. I moved the transmission lever into the “forward” position, brought the throttle up, and felt the boat surge forward. It took longer than before, and the wheel felt sluggish. A hand darted in to flip one of the many switches that lined the control panel. There was a humming sound, and water gushed from the boat’s side.

  “Jeez, Maxon. It says ‘Bilge Pump.’ What hell were you waiting for?”

  I felt blood rush to my face. “Sorry…”

  She looked angry. “Sorry isn’t good enough! A mistake like that could get us killed.”

  I kept my eyes straight ahead. What could I say? The girl was right. I did make mistakes, and one could get us killed. A hand touched my arm. I looked in her face and saw the anger had disappeared. Something else had taken its place. Something I couldn’t quite name.

  “I’m sorry, Max. That was a stupid thing to say. You came after me, and that took guts. I won’t forget it.”

  I couldn’t remember anyone saying something that nice to me. A whole host of emotions bubbled up from deep inside. I wanted to say something suave but knew I’d cry instead. So I settled for a nod and tried to look impassive. I couldn’t tell if she bought it or not.

  We continued that way for another forty-five minutes or so, water gushing out of the boat’s side while it sank lower and lower in the water. That’s when the floaters roared out of the dark
ness. Their small, sledlike boats wove in and out of the pillars like shuttles on a loom. There were ten or fifteen of the speedy little craft, and each boasted a two-person crew. The drivers hunched behind their control panels while their gunners stood within cagelike structures and aimed their pintle-mounted weapons in our general direction. They wore black scuba suits and enough armament to embarrass a marine. I hit the throttle and the boat surged forward, but it was too late.

  Four or five of the sleds turned inwards, pulled alongside, and bumped our hull. Four of their neoprene-clad gunners were aboard a half-second later and aimed some rather ugly-looking machine pistols in our direction. I considered the .38 but rejected it as a bad idea. A member of the assault team gestured with his weapon. “Throttle back. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I looked at Sasha. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. I pulled the throttle back. The boat nose-dived, regained its equilibrium, and wallowed in the waves the sleds had made.

  The man spoke again. “Good. Place your hands behind your head and step away from the controls.” He pointed the machine pistol towards Sasha. “You too.”

  We did as instructed. Another member of the assault team, a woman this time, patted me down. She found the .38 and held it beneath a light. “Nice, very nice, but not the sort of heat that corpies carry.”

  My voice came as a croak. “We aren’t corpies.”

  She grinned. Rubber framed an average face. Her skin was unnaturally white. “No shit. That would explain why you look like hell and the boat’s full of holes. What happened to your head, anyway?”

  “A guy blew my brains out and the medics stuffed them back in. They couldn’t find the top of my skull, so they installed a metal plate instead.”

  The woman thought I was joking and laughed appreciatively. “I like your sense of humor. Now, explain how you got the boat and what you’re doing in our territory.”

  That’s when Sasha jumped in. She was concerned that I’d screw things up, and I couldn’t really blame her.

  “We found a hole in Trans-Solar’s security, tried to hijack some proprietary information, and were caught in the act. We headed downwards, wound up on a jetty, and stole this boat. Finding you was chance and nothing more. End of story.”

  The woman nodded slowly. There was a smile on her face. “And quite a story it is. Parts of it could even be true! Well, never mind. You really pissed ’em off, that’s obvious from the condition of the boat, and that makes you okay with us. Here, take your cannon back.”

  I accepted the .38 and stuck it down the back of my pants. Sasha’s .44 had been confiscated as well. A man handed it back. The woman offered her hand. It was strong but cold. “My name’s Murphy. What’s yours?”

  There wasn’t enough time to think of a good lie, not for me anyway, so I told the truth. “I’m Max Maxon…and this is Sasha Casad.”

  “Max…Sasha…glad to meet you. Now stand by while we bring some pumps aboard.”

  Sleds bumped the hull, pumps were handed up, and two of the floaters headed below. Within minutes the hoses were connected, the pumps were started, and water gushed over the side. It was all done with a minimum of motion and conversation, as though they’d done similar things many times before.

  Murphy looked over the side and nodded her satisfaction. “That should do it. I’ll take the wheel if you have no objection.”

  Neither of us had been all that excited about steering to begin with. We shook our heads in unison. Murphy smiled, waved the sleds off, and inched the throttle forward. The bow came up in one smooth motion, steadied, and hung there as if suspended from above. The sleds roared along to either side, dashing back and forth across our wake, narrowly avoiding the pillars. It looked like fun. Murphy yelled over the sound of the engine, “What will you do now?”

  Sasha was unaware of our travel arrangements, so I took over. “We need to get topside as soon as possible.”

  Murphy nodded thoughtfully. “You owe my family for the cost of our fuel, and the use of our pumps, but the boat is yours. By our laws, anyway. What will you do with it?”

  I was about to give it to her gratis when Sasha took over.

  “We plan to sell it, pay our debts, and keep the balance. Would you like to make an offer?”

  Murphy flicked the wheel to the right, skidded the boat around some floating debris, and straightened it out again. “Boats like this are hard to come by. We use them to run contraband in from the ocean. The corpies try to stop us, but we usually outrun them. My father will give you a good price.”

  Sasha looked skeptical. “No offense, but others might offer us a good price as well, and we owe it to ourselves to listen.”

  Murphy nodded, as if Sasha’s comment was not only appropriate but expected. “True, but that would take time, and Max says you’re in a hurry.”

  I wanted to say something agreeable, but Sasha sent a scowl in my direction. “We’ll listen to any reasonable offer.”

  These people had saved our bacon, but when it came to business the girl didn’t have a sentimental bone in her body. A little gift from her corpie-type parents, perhaps? But it didn’t bother Murphy. She nodded and pointed towards the bow. “That’s Floater Town. We’ll be there in five minutes or so.”

  I looked and saw a collection of lights that seemed to hover just off the water. Reflections zigzagged across the surface and shattered as the water undulated up and down. The engine noise dropped to a rumble as Murphy eased the throttle back and allowed the boat to settle in the water.

  There was a single approach to Floater Town, and it carried us through a maze of mines. Some were submerged while others bobbed near the surface. How Murphy was able to pilot our boat through the maze was a mystery. Perhaps she had memorized the route, or maybe the small earplug she wore had something to do with it. Whatever the method, she proceeded slowly, as did the sleds, which formed a single line behind us.

  Floater Town boasted other defenses as well, including a number of heavily armored barges, attack sleds, and automated weapons blisters that clung to the ceiling like concrete limpets. And later, as we cleared the mines, I saw four sixty-or seventy-foot submarines, all moored side by side and painted to resemble sea monsters.

  Murphy maneuvered the boat alongside the dock with nary a bump. A burst of reverse power was sufficient to neutralize our forward motion. A gang of cheerful-looking children, as sleek as seals in their rubber suits, ran to handle our lines. Murphy slipped the gearshift to neutral, switched the bilge pump to shore power, and killed the engine. Water continued to spill from the hoses. “The pumps will hold her for now.”

  Sasha nodded impassively and followed Murphy over the side. She winced as her feet hit the surface of the dock. Murphy saw that and frowned. She gestured towards a gear locker. “Sit on the box. Hold your feet up one at a time.”

  Sasha shrugged but did as she was told. The bleeding had stopped, but the lacerations were easy to see. They were red towards the center and edged with blue. Shame swept over me like a wave. I had meant to remember her feet, I really had, but my memory, fickle as always, had betrayed me once more.

  Murphy called for help. A pair of muscular young men appeared, swept Sasha off the locker, and carried her down the dock. Standards had been placed every twenty feet or so and cast interlocking circles of light. A wave rolled in out of the darkness and the dock shifted beneath our feet. The rest of Floater Town did likewise, undulating up and down before settling down.

  None of the buildings were more than two stories tall, and all rested on some sort of flotation system. Some were built on barges, some squatted on rafts made from fifty-gallon oil drums, and others rode homemade pontoons. Most were rather dilapidated, having the appearance of well-maintained shacks rather than formal dwellings. Still, there was lots of elbow room, and that was attractive, in spite of the unending darkness and the press of a barely seen concrete sky.

  The men carried Sasha into one of the more prosperous-looking structures, and we foll
owed. I barely had time to see the hand-lettered sign that said “Murphy Enterprises,” and the metal booster tanks that held the place up, before I was ushered into a combination living room and warehouse.

  Coils of nylon line hung next to all manner of floats, fishing gear, spear guns, nets and other less identifiable items. And there was furniture too, shabby-looking stuff for the most part, but solid and comfortable. Everything was in shades of gray, as if the external darkness had managed to reach in and leach the color out of the walls, furniture, and fittings.

  Sasha was receiving better care than I could provide. People ran hither and yon and yelled insults at each other as they gathered medical supplies and worked on her feet. I used the time to examine what seemed like an anomaly. A large, rather splashy painting, blue the way the ocean is supposed to be, and full of tropical fish.

  “Do you like it?”

  I turned to find Murphy at my side. The rubber hood hung between her shoulders. Her hair was so short that it was little more than brown fuzz. She wore gold studs in both earlobes.

  “Yes, I do. Is it yours?”

  She smiled. “If you like it, then yes, it is. Come. My father wants to see you.”

  I turned and saw Sasha trying on a pair of black, high-topped sneakers. They were more practical than the high heels had been, and would be good for shipboard use. Or so I assumed, because in spite of the fact that I had spent several years in space, I couldn’t remember a thing about it.

  It was then that I noticed that the two young men still hovered in the background, and realized that Sasha was more than a girl; she was an attractive young woman. An urge to separate her from her male admirers bubbled to the surface. “Sasha…Murphy’s father wants to see us.”

  Sasha said, “Be right there,” turned to her fan club, and said something I couldn’t hear. They laughed and headed for the door. I wondered what she’d said but didn’t dare ask.

  Murphy led us in the direction I least expected to go, downwards. A short flight of stairs carried us down into an underwater room. It hung between the massive booster tanks that provided the building with buoyancy. Armored glass enclosed three of the four walls, and underwater floods illuminated the surrounding area. I watched in open-mouthed amazement as a big ugly fish swam through the brightly lit water, flicked its tail, and disappeared into the surrounding gloom.