by Phil Rossi
A baby? This is good news, Donovan thought. But for some reason, the news terrified him. It terrified him because the part of him that was genuinely thrilled was the same deep-buried part of his mind that was making him feel sick and twitchy. Ina lingered; she studied his face closely. Donovan didn’t like the sound of her going off in search of Gerald but he acquiesced and waved her off. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
And he was fine.
(•••)
At least for the first forty-five minutes after she was gone, he was fine. He had managed to fall asleep. He dreamed of great, rocky landscapes. Of shallow seas and of tall, craggy mountains. A thin violet light clung to the scenery before him like luminous fog, skewing his perception as if he were a passenger traveling in bubble of purple glass. Then it came to him—he was seeing through another set of eyes. Donovan licked lips that were not his own; they were salty and cold. He looked down at the hands that were not his hands—they were gloved in, was it leather? This other self was moving fast. Not walking, not running either. Wheels spun below him. He flew across the landscape at high speed now. Control did not belong to Donovan. The other was in control. The purple view showed ground racing by. The view shifted up to a long flat building.
Movement halted when he reached the building. Donovan watched as he entered the structure through a sliding glass door. The door slid closed, Donovan caught a glimpse of the letters. Anrar III Outpost 13.
“Is it ready yet?” a voice asked. It was a voice of a woman—lightly accented and sweet sounding. The eyes through which Donovan watched swung to the left, to a short woman with cropped red hair—Donovan knew it was red, even though it looked dark grey in the violet haze.
I’m experiencing someone else’s memory, Donovan realized. I’m dreaming someone else’s life.
The woman blinked up into the eyes of the other. An object was held up in front of the lady’s face, a palm-sized carving—of what? A beetle? No. Not just an ordinary beetle. A scarab. Yes. It was a dagger shaped as a scarab.
“How did you manage to shape the sanguinite?” the woman asked. “That shit is harder than our diamond bits.”
“Surgical lasers. Took forever. But I think the key is ready.” This was the voice of the other. It was rough—the timbre of a smoker.
“Do you think that it will open her? First cut must be made with the stone.”
“I know it will,” the other said.
“So, then. It’s sharp?” the female asked. She took an eager step forward. “Sharp enough to cut through flesh?”
“Of course.”
The gloved hand holding the sanguinite scarab arced in a sudden path across the female’s throat. She took a step back, blinking in surprise, but she was okay. Donovan thought it a feigned attack, but then a necklace of dark beads appeared around her throat. She opened her mouth and blood poured down over her chin. She tottered backwards; her head fell back and a blaze of violet light spilled from the ear-to-ear gash.
Donovan sat up in the bed. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks from hair that was plastered to his scalp. A raging fever had turned his body into a furnace. The wall clock was flashing eights; the power had gone out at some point. How long had he been sleeping? It didn’t feel very long. A glance to his PDA told him it was 3:45 a.m. The apartment sounded empty. It felt empty. He called for Ina and there was no answer. Donovan got out of bed and started toward the bathroom, but instead he altered course and went to his dresser. There, he pulled open the underwear drawer and removed the palm-sized hunk of sanguinite. Donovan couldn’t help but laugh at the foolishness of storing it there.
This is no laughing matter.
“Who said that?” Donovan whirled around.
You did, you old fool.
Yes. The voice belonged to him.
The realization caused him to startle. He fumbled the piece of sanguinite and it sailed through the air. He snatched out for the stone but it fell through his hands, clattered to the floor, and slid under the dresser. Donovan cursed at the rock and then at the dresser. He got onto his hands and knees and squinted so that he could see beneath the big piece of furniture. It was dark in the small space, but he could see the shape of the strange rock. He thought he could reach it—sure, it wasn’t under there too far. It was just a question of whether or not he could get his hand into the tight space. Donovan wiggled his fingers into the thick carpet. The tips of his index and middle finger brushed against the cool, smooth stone. Almost got it.
Dry, leathery fingers wrapped around his wrist. The grip was cold and vise-tight, and yanked him forward with such force that the fake wood base of the dresser splintered and dug into his arm. He cried out and tried to crawl backwards but he was jerked forward again. The dresser tottered unsteadily. The phantom hand let go and Donovan rolled out of the way just in time. The dresser fell forward and slammed down hard, right where he had been. The slate top snapped off with a loud pop and the contents of the drawers spilled across the carpeted floor. Donovan lay panting for what felt like an eternity. The fever had fully consumed him now and his heart raced. His arm was bloodied and bruised. I couldn’t have been grabbed, Donovan thought. No way. He had jammed his arm beneath the dresser out of eagerness. Or worse, maybe the spasm had been a seizure. He sat up as his breath returned to him and surveyed the scattered mess of trinkets and undergarments.
The small, black leather case containing his surgical implements sat amidst the disarray. He hadn’t opened the case in years—it was a souvenir from his other life and he had no use for the set any longer, but sentimentality made it impossible for him to get rid of it. He crawled over to the monogrammed box and picked it up. The weight of the case felt good and familiar. Now, holding the surgical tools, Donovan felt the sudden urge to operate. But operate on what? As if to answer, a corona of violet light spread around his hand, numbing it slightly. Whispers circled his head like gnats.
The voices wanted him to act. They drew his attention to the spilled dresser. To the mess beyond it. The liquid purple light flowed up from his palm like a glowing tentacle and snaked its way across the floor, through the debris, and over the dresser to the other side. There was a flash and then the light was gone.
Donovan went to where the light had pointed and picked up the sanguinite with his uninjured left hand. The weight of the stone had a peculiar familiarity to it, familiar as the weight of the surgical tools. Now he had something to operate on. Something to sculpt.
He worked on the stone in near darkness. His expertise manipulated the delicate lasers of his surgical tools, but another power guided them—he was only watching them work. Violet haze blanketed everything Donovan looked at. Unlike in his dream, this time his own being was the source. The Violet wrapped him up in a shimmering blanket of fog. It was insane, but it felt wonderful. Donovan had never felt such a sense of purpose as he did watching the tiny lances of light cut away small bits of the hard, red stone. With each pass of the lasers, a new bit of detail was revealed—the curve of a wing, a pincer.
As he worked, his eyelids started to feel heavy. Each time they dropped, the purple light flared and he felt the urge to vomit. The sensation was fleeting, always quickly replaced by a burst of energy. This went on all night, until every muscle save those in his hands and arms twitched with exhaustion. Now the bursts of light did not make him feel exhilaration, only illness. He ran his thumb over the thin edge of the sculpture; the action drew a drop of blood. The scarab was sharp. The work was complete. Donovan collapsed from his office chair onto the floor, and vomited for the next twenty minutes. When the sickness subsided, he felt himself drifting toward unconsciousness. He hoped Ina wouldn’t find him there. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to seem him prone and covered in his own biofluids; he didn’t want her to find the scarab.
(Part XVI)
Heathen’s was the last place Gerald wanted to be, and Albin Catlier and Jacob Raney were the last people that Gerald wanted to be there with. Gerald was still water-logged and fatigued from the go
od times in the rain on Anrar III. The whole experience was already becoming hazy—like the border line between an alcohol blackout and memory. Sure, the recollections were there, but the pictures were fuzzy around the edges and Gerald didn’t quite believe it had been him in the starring role. He couldn’t. The air had been bad down there on Anrar III. That was all there was to it. It had to be why Core Sec never attempted to colonize the place—it was just a shitty rock in a shitty part of space.
Gerald tapped the beer bottle. It was an absent and impatient gesture. He had been sitting with Catlier and Raney for more than thirty minutes, and neither man had said more than two words. Raney spat out black tobacco spit on the floor and Catlier chain-smoked and stared off into the crowd. They’re trying to make me uncomfortable, Gerald thought. Kendall sent them here to make me squirm. Gerald overcame the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he tipped the dark bottle to his lips and drained the contents. A group of teenagers dressed in black entered through the batwing doors. From behind the bar, Maerl yelled at them to leave, shouting that they weren’t old enough to come into the place. The kids tossed a stack of black flyers on one of the tables and ran out. Maerl shook his head and went back to tending bar. Gerald looked at his beer bottle.
“My beer is done. If you boys have nothing to say, I’m done here, too. Not much in the socializing mood.” Gerald started to get to his feet. Catlier reached out and grabbed his wrist with a dry, calloused hand.
“We’re not done here just yet, Mr. Evans.” Albin flashed his teeth. Jacob Raney smiled as if on cue. Raney would still have been an ugly son of a bitch, even if his teeth weren’t stained shit brown from all the tobacco chewing. Gerald slumped back into his seat. What was it with Kendall and ugly employees?
“In that case, I hope you’re buying.” Gerald signaled to the server for another beer.
Albin snorted and shrugged.
“The tab is on our good mayor,” he said.
“Whatever you say, hombre.” Gerald took one of Catlier’s cigarettes and lit it casually.
“Kendall has work for you,” Raney said at last. It was apparent that Raney’s announcement had irritated his partner. Two small circles of red flared on Catlier’s pale cheeks.
“Yeah? Been a little while,” Gerald said. “I was starting to think I was fired.”
“Well,” Albin said. “That all depends.”
“Depends on what?” Gerald raised a brow.
“Depends on what you told that Core Sec piggie,” Raney said, and laughed. A trickle of tobacco spit ran down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
“I had nothing to tell that guy,” Gerald said. These two were boneheads. So long as Gerald kept his cool, they wouldn’t be able to tell truth from lie and back around to the other side. His feet ached. He wanted to get out of his boots. That was his primary concern.
“You sure?” Catlier leaned forward, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “You real sure?”
“I’m real sure. I told him that I didn’t know shit, which, really, is the truth. I want to pick up my paycheck at the end of the day, just like everyone else. I’m not going to rock the boat,” Gerald said and wiggled his toes in his boots. Catlier looked over to Raney. Raney shrugged.
“Raney, there, he isn’t the brightest globe in the chandelier, but he’s got a sense about him. Like a human lie detector. Ain’t that right, Raney?” Albin asked.
“Yep.”
“He can sniff out a lie. What do you say about Gerald? He lyin’, Jacob?”
“I don’t think so, Albin. He’s bein’ straight with us,” Raney hawked another glistening, brown glob of tobacco spit.
“Straight as can be, pal,” Gerald affirmed.
Catlier’s hand disappeared into the bulky, feathered jacket he wore; the ridiculous garment made him look like a big, black turkey. The hand returned with a data wafer which he slid across the table. Gerald placed his hand atop the wafer, palm down, and slid it the rest of the way across the tabletop and into his breast pocket. Things have become awfully cloak and dagger, Gerald mused.
“There are coordinates on that wafer. Upload’m to your ship’s computer. Do this job and you’re done. Kendall has decided you are a liability, but he’s in a bind. And lucky for you, he can’t kill you while Core Sec is here,” Albin said, and winked. “Go to those coordinates and await further instruction. Once you finish the job, he wants you off Crescent in forty-eight hours. That is, unless you’re spotted talking to the Core Sec auditor again. If that’s the case, you’ll be off the station when Raney and I find you.”
Gerald patted his pocket and smiled. He would show up on time and as instructed. Bean’s cameras would be rolling and the DVR would be recording. If proof was what Swaren needed to take Kendall out, Gerald would gladly hand over an optical disc chock full of evidence. Gerald would be flying free by that night, no doubt.
“All right, then.” Catlier stood and dropped his eyes to his companion. Raney stood and spat a glistening wad of nastiness close to the toe of Gerald’s boot.
“Tomorrow night, Mr. Evans. Seventeen-hundred hours. You be at those coordinates. Fuck it up and the next time Kendall sends us to you, it won’t be a data wafer you’ll be receiving.”
“I’m sure not.” Gerald said and tapped his pocket again. “Seventeen-hundred hours. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Raney’s brow creased. He looked confused. Albin gestured to the exit with a cock of his head and Raney started obediently in that direction. Catlier followed, pausing briefly to add, “Thanks for the beers.”
Gerald heard Raney asking the tall man, “bells?” as the pair stepped through the batwings.
“Ah shit,” Gerald said, realizing that the drinks had been on his dime all along. If I continue to be this sharp, I’m gonna find it harder to stay alive.
A job, or a trap—either way, Gerald was getting tired of feeling out of control. If he was flying into a trap, at least it was his goddamn decision. Gerald approached the batwing doors and took one of the flyers the teens had left behind on his way. It said Believe in the power of prayer. A change is coming! An email address was printed on the back of the flyer, and that was it. The religious freaks seemed to be everywhere lately. Just the other day, Gerald had caught them trying to leave the flyers on Bean’s viewports. A cult seemed to fit the times quite nicely. Par for the fuckin’ course, Gerald thought.
(•••)
“I’m not even going to try and guess what you said to Kendall that got him so crazy. He wanted me to fire you, Griffin. I finally convinced him that taking you off active duty was a better idea. I told him there was too much going on here lately and that we might need you. He still wasn’t happy, but he gave in.” Captain Benedict frowned as they made their way down the corridor. He tapped the glowing screen of his data pad. “But, Marisa, it’s your lucky day. Dock security is understaffed. Everyone is getting goddamned sick on me. I need to reinstate you in the same breath where I said I’d bench you.”
Marisa didn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say about any of it. She knew there had been an altercation with Kendall, but the how and why of it remained a mystery to her. One minute, the mayor had been in her apartment; the next, he had been hurrying out the door and cursing her name. Taylor’s face was bruised and bloodied. Both his eyes had been swollen shut. Did she hurt Taylor? She didn’t know. The only clear memory Marisa had was of waking up on the floor to the sound of the wall terminal ringing. It had been HQ calling to let her know she was in deep shit. After that, she hadn’t been able to make any outgoing calls or even leave her apartment. She was locked in. Her attempts to contact Nigel via PDA had been equally useless. It took Captain Benedict’s housecall to prove to her that her door still opened.
“I know you’re hot-blooded, Mari,” Benedict said in his most fatherly of voices as they walked to security HQ side by side, “and I know Kendall can be a bit hands-on with the ladies.” They stopped outside the bulkhead that led into HQ. Benedict crossed his
arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at her. “I know for a fact that he has taken a fancy to you. I have no doubt you set him straight.” Benedict smiled his approval, even though he couldn’t flat out say it. “But, that kind of behavior can’t be encouraged. It’ll be my head next.” Benedict paused. “Have you been sleeping better lately?”
“Yes. Quite a bit, actually,” she said, but she could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe her. He shrugged as they stepped inside. Marisa followed Captain Benedict into the monitor station-turned-office.
“Report to the docks at fifteen-hundred hours. I’ve informed Captain Swaren that you will no longer be able to assist him, due to our staffing difficulties. You’re all mine again, Mari.”
“Really?”
“Captain Swaren had some very nice things to say about you. And because of your hard work, Marisa, I haven’t had to have more than a single meeting with the man. Unfortunately, that’s going to have to change,” Benedict said.
“Do you think that Kendall didn’t like the fact that someone who knows Crescent’s idiosyncrasies was working with Swaren—that someone being me?” She suddenly wanted to tell Captain Benedict everything—Kendall’s blackmail, the carthine habit, and all the other crazy shit. But her mouth stayed shut.
Benedict grunted. He stepped to the monitor displays and began to cycle through the various security feeds.
“Countless lives are on this station—residents and transients alike. They depend on us, Core Security, to make this a safe place. Kendall wants nothing more than to keep his record clean and keep his station running smoothly. Sure, some of his methods may be questionable—draconian, even—and yes, they may not follow Core Sec’s standard operating procedures to a tee. But Crescent has been without major incident for more than fifteen years. And with the level of traffic that comes through here, that is a big accomplishment. Especially on the frontier. Kendall is old school, but the ship he runs is a tight one. He’s got nothing to hide from Swaren and last I checked, womanizing wasn’t a crime under Core Sec law.”