by Jason LaPier
She let a moment of silence pass before she continued. “Moses Down saved my life,” she said. “Did he save your life?”
The lot of them whooped in agreement, dying quickly back into silence.
“We owed him for that.” Dava looked down at his body, the smile still on his face. “Owed. And we paid. We were loyal to the end of his days.”
She turned back to them and locked eyes with as many as she could. “The Space Waste that saved us,” she started, then pointed at the body. “His Space Waste … is no more.”
This generated a tense murmur, and she raised a hand to still it. “Moses had a purpose. And that purpose was to carve a place in this universe for the outcast. That purpose was to give the so-called perfect world a black eye. To remind them that though they tried to forget us, we’re still here.
“And we did that,” she said with a shout, and was answered by a short cheer of agreement. “Goddamn if we didn’t. But now we have to ask ourselves what Space Waste is for without him.”
She paused again, to gather her busy thoughts and to make sure she had their attention. “Jansen,” she said. “Is a traitor.”
This caused no small commotion and Dava raised her hand again. “I’m not asking you to believe me, because I don’t have the proof. But even if he wasn’t. Look at what he’s doing. Making a deal with the Misters, those pissants.”
She paused to let the jeers pass. “And worse, going after an ark.” She let a breath pass before continuing. “Innocent refugees from Earth. I was a refugee from Earth, and I came to Space Waste.” She pointed at herself and raised her voice. “But it was my fucking choice! Jansen doesn’t want to give these people a choice. He wants to pressgang them. To threaten. To exploit. Not to save! To enslave!”
An uncomfortable tension spread through the space. She left it to fester, to churn on its own. Some of the mumblings turned into shouting.
It was hard to make out where the emotions lay, until Johnny Eyeball’s voice boomed above all. “Fuck Jansen.”
Dava felt something open inside as the crowd shouted in agreement. She kept her face hard, but a new kind of joy was born in that moment. One of purpose.
“Tonight we say goodbye to Moses,” she shouted, taking back control. They quieted and waited for her to continue. She looked down at him one more time. “And we say goodbye to his Space Waste.”
Another moment of silence passed and when she was sure there was no disagreement, she continued. “I’m going after Jansen. I’m going to stop that bastard from hurting innocent people.” She pointed out at them. “And you, my friends, my family; I’m taking you with me.”
A murmur of agreement. She waited a few tense seconds to see if anyone might drift away, but all eyes remained on her. “We don’t go under Moses Down,” she said, putting a hand on the cold chest of the man she once would follow to the end of the universe. “We go under his shadow.”
After a pause, Freezer spoke up. “The Shadowdown.” He looked around, then to Dava. “We need a new name, right?”
“The Shadowdown,” she repeated. To remember him, but to be something new. She had to admit, it had a ring to it. “Alright, motherfuckers. The Shadowdown be coming.”
Chapter 16
Throwing a fit was one of Jax’s all-time favorite pastimes, but he was having a severely difficult time of it in the gravityless hold of the ModPol patroller.
“Stan, please!”
Runstom was ignoring him. He’d already declared that he wasn’t going to argue. Still, it burned Jax that there was no further discussion. Runstom busied himself with the preparation of a long flight with a few extra passengers in the cramped ship.
He was in the process of locking down a coffin-shaped receptacle. Jax floated to him and grabbed him by the forearm. “Stan! You can’t take me to ModPol!”
The green-skinned man’s arm tensed, causing Jax to reflexively release his grip. “I told you,” Runstom said. “We’re not going to a ModPol outpost. We’re going to Ipo.”
“To see your boss?” Jax said. “Aren’t they ModPol?”
Runstom sighed and turned with a weary face. “Jax. I can’t just drop you off somewhere. We’re in a ModPol patroller. Believe it or not, I can’t go where I please. If I try to land at a Terroneous shuttleport, there are all kinds of protocols. ModPol doesn’t have any jurisdiction there.”
“So?” Jax could feel his face burning. “Just land in the middle of the desert! That’s how McManus got me. He didn’t follow any fucking protocols.”
Runstom took a measured breath. “McManus’s stunt got the whole moon on high alert. If we try to land without permission, we’re likely to get shot.”
“You can tell them you’re bringing me,” Jax tried, thinking back to the news transmission Phonson had tortured him with. “They’ll let you land if they know I’m with you.”
Runstom stared at him quietly, then nodded briefly, then shook his head. “I can’t risk it. We have to go to Ipo.” He put a hand out and caught Jax, who had been slowly drifting away, and pulled him back in close. “It’s Ipo. It’s another moon of B-5. You can catch a civilian shuttle – they run between the moons all the time.”
Jax looked away, letting himself go limp. He was tired. Strung out. Beaten down, physically and mentally. “A shuttle,” he said quietly.
Runstom shook his arm lightly so that he would look up. “I’ll do what I can, Jax. If I can, I’ll get you there myself. Give you a ride from Ipo to Terroneous.”
“If you can.”
“Yes, if I can.” Runstom let go with a small sigh. “I’m still bound by the rules. But trust me. I have more wiggle room than you think.”
“Okay,” Jax said. He reminded himself that his friend risked everything to come out to that hurtling death comet and rescue him from torture, and likely worse. He couldn’t imagine anyone risking so much as Runstom had. And on top of that, to patiently wait out Jax’s selfish tantrum. Jax allowed himself a half a smile. “Thanks, Stan. For everything.”
Runstom smiled back, then looked away. His drifting foot touched the floor, causing a small twitch.
“What did you do to your leg?”
Runstom frowned, and Jax read a distant anger on his face. Perhaps a frustration, not at Jax for asking, but at himself for this newly acquired weakness. “It got caught in a door,” he said.
Jax swallowed. “You mean … is it … was it … crushed by a door?”
“It’s not so bad when there’s no gravity,” he said. It was a weak attempt at humor, which just made Jax feel bad for him.
“I’m sorry, Stan.”
Runstom waved it off and nodded at the coffin-bed. “This one is for McManus. But there’s another one on the other side that you’re going into.”
Jax looked at it and felt himself flinch. “What, really? Can’t I ride in the bridge?”
“No. First of all, the control center of this patroller only seats three. Me and the pilot and the gunner from McManus’s ship.”
As if on cue, Ayliff and Granny floated into the bay. They were in their suits still, mainly for the microjets that made maneuvering in zero gravity easier. Even with Phonson under the watchful eye of that psycho woman, and the rest of his crew on lockdown throughout the comet-base, Runstom couldn’t be sure the threat of the bomb on McManus’s interstellar patroller was negated. He didn’t want to leave it behind either, of course. So Ayliff had set it up with a pre-programmed flight plan. Soon the ghost ship would set itself on a course for the nearest ModPol outpost. Maybe it would make it, maybe not. In any case, the pilot and the gunner had suited up and ferried what supplies they could from the larger ship to Runstom’s smaller planet-hopper.
The last of their load was McManus himself, barely kept alive by an emergency kit they had onboard. Runstom pushed away from the wall, pulling Jax with him, to the opposite side. They watched as Granny and Ayliff maneuvered their sergeant into position on the bed. McManus was out cold from the kit’s sedation, and they proceeded to
strap him in.
“Second,” Runstom said, tapping at some buttons on the wall. Jax slid to one side slightly as another coffin-bed began to unfold from out of nowhere. “You’re beat to shit. Not much better off than McManus over there. And I know this doesn’t look comfortable,” he said, tapping at the stiff plastic form. “But it’s functional. It’s going to feed you and accelerate cell repair. And get you the sleep you need.”
The words were like a drug, flushing through Jax’s entire system with a wash of exhaustion. There was only so much fighting he could do before his body just collapsed and left him hanging adrift in the null grav. A massive yawn rose up and hijacked his body. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Runstom continued to fiddle with the bed, which was looking less like an uninviting plastic coffin and more like a plush cloud of cushiony happiness. “Besides, I need you back at one hundred percent,” he said.
Jax cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“We’re not done.” He held out a steadying hand. “I’ll make sure you get to Terroneous, as soon as possible. I promise. But I still need your help.”
As much as Jax wanted to disappear from the galaxy altogether, the debt he owed to his friend was something he could not ignore. “This whole mess with Basil Roy.”
“Tim Cazos.”
“Right.” Runstom had mentioned Roy’s true identity, with a promise to fill in more details during the trip. “Whatever his name is. And I suppose whatever connection he had with Jansen.”
Runstom nodded, glancing over his shoulder. “We’ll talk more later,” he said in a low voice. “After you get some rest.”
*
Runstom wasn’t much for fashion or decoration, but even he could tell that the furnishings in the temporary office were out of place. Most things on Ipo were made out of mudbrick and metal alloys. The small moon was little more than a single metropolitan dome surrounded by dozens of ore refineries, those in turn surrounded by docks, both on-ground and anchored above. For the Defense Services Trial, ModPol had been given open access to all docks, so he’d landed at the nearest. Then it was a tram ride that passed several refinery stops until arriving in Ipolopolis. The locals called it Shinerock City when they were feeling generous. Rocktown when less so.
“A missed opportunity,” Jax had quipped during the rail ride in. “Should’ve called it Ipolopi – then it would be a palindrome.”
It was some kind of earworm, a useless, stupid thought that Runstom couldn’t get out of his head. He tried to distract himself by examining the out-of-place furniture. All of it, plastic with wood highlights. High-end fashion, imported from Terroneous. That was an assumption, he realized. Or was it a deduction? No plant life grew on Ipo. Nor was there any material production that wasn’t metallic or mineral. Trees were fairly abundant on Terroneous. Plastic manufacturing was prevalent there. A deduction then. Based on observation. Bright-red plastic, molded into curving seats and tables, rimmed by marbled wood strips.
He sighed, closing his eyes to the sights of the room. They could not distract him from recent events. The facts. That he’d fled the scene of a terrible attack on a ModPol institution. That he’d facilitated the escape of a convicted murderer. That he’d failed to bring this same murderer back. That he instead allowed her to serve out some twisted vigilante justice. Her victim deserved what was coming to him. And clearly was immune to the proper kind of justice. So it was the only option.
He hated that option. Hated it because he couldn’t disagree with it. Hated it because there was a time when he believed in something better.
He opened his eyes and scowled at the room once more. The decoration was the work of Victoria Horus, Director of Market Strategy Management for ModPol’s Defense division and his direct supervisor. He’d come to understand that she spared nothing when it came to the appearances of her department. Despite the fact that he needed to rush to get there to make up for time lost on his excursion to Comet X – which included a stop on the way back to put McManus on an emergency shuttle to ModPol Outpost Gamma – Runstom had taken a detour to a shopping center to pick up clothes. It was better to be late and well-dressed than timely and wearing the tattered uniform of a penitentiary officer or one of the spare monochromatic jumpsuits stashed in the recesses of the patroller’s meager storage bay. He’d left an entire wardrobe on the OrbitBurner, as the prisoner transport barge had allowed him only a single bag.
Thankfully a young sales clerk was all too delighted to dress him up in what she swore were the latest fashions. A spotted gray shirt. Brown slacks and jacket, but not a drab brown; more vibrant in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. She’d insisted that it was the pairing with his “lovely olive skin” that made the outfit work so well. He was relieved to find that his line of company credit was still alive and fiercely kicking in the face of the minor extravagance.
The clerk had also noted the location of a nearby barber. The hint was not lost on Runstom, and so he’d dallied another hour for a shave and a cut.
“Stanford!”
He turned to Victoria Horus arriving only a few minutes late for the appointment he’d secured as soon as he’d landed. “Ms. Horus,” he said with a nod.
She beamed at him with a genuine smile. “I told you to call me Big Vicky, like everyone else!” She reached out to shake his hand in a single, warm, up-and-down motion. She leaned back. “You look absolutely fantastic, Stanford.”
He detected pride in her compliment. The tiny cluster of braincells that was catching onto the ways of marketing and sales struggled to take over. “You look well too.” After a hesitation, he glanced around the office. “Did you decorate this office?”
Again he was rewarded with a genuine, prideful smile. “I certainly did,” she said with a knowing nod.
“It’s quite,” Runstom started, then faltered. He scanned his brain for words that rarely came into his vocabulary. “Striking.”
She jabbed at him with a playful poke. “Thank you! I really love it. It’s very authentic,” she said as she shuffled past him, heading to a chair on the other side of a red plastic and deep brown wood table that he realized functioned as her desk.
“Authentic?” he said, then wished he hadn’t. He hadn’t wanted to challenge her, he was actually lost on her meaning.
“Well, not for Ipo, of course,” she said with a dismissive wave. “No one on Ipo wants to be on Ipo. They all want to be on Terroneous.”
“I see,” Runstom said. He debated on whether to overtly agree with her, or whether to wait and let her dispense further insights. But he was tired. Weary. And this hastily fashionable office was a few light-years from her real office on Sirius-5. “What are you—”
“Oh, I forgot,” she said. Her face crinkled with concern. “How is your foot?”
Runstom winced, though he couldn’t feel the pain any more. The Onsite Rapid Defense Unit stationed on Ipo had a medic who gave him some kind of field dressing. An implant that regulated pain suppressant to the local area. And a special boot to keep what was left from moving around. “It’s fine.”
“I heard you’ll need surgery.”
“Yes.” He’d been trying not to think about it. “To replace parts of it.”
She frowned sympathetically. “We’ll make sure you get some paid time off for that. And for vacation, not just for surgery. You’ll have earned some time off.”
Her tone told him this time off wasn’t coming immediately. That there were other things to deal with first.
“So,” he said, looking at his hands, then back at her. “What brings you to Ipo, uh, Vicky?”
She dropped into the chair with a satisfied sigh. “God I love the gravity here.” After situating a few items on the surface of her desk, she looked at him again. “You’re doing a fantastic job, Stanford,” she said. “I want you to know I’m not here to check up on you.”
“Uh.” There were too many questions in his head. Hadn’t been room to wonder if his boss was checking up on
him. But the question was planted. “You asked me about my foot, but you didn’t ask me about the riot.”
She smirked. “Or why you were even at that prison,” she said. She waved and smiled. “I’m not much for micro-management, Stanford. I like it when my people take initiative. It’s true: I expected you to stay on EE-3 until the next interstellar flight back to Barnard. But I figure someone like you has some contacts in Justice. It’s only natural to find ways to keep those intact. Networking is a big part of your job.”
Runstom stared at her silently, waiting for a reprimand that would never come. He forced a smile. “I thought it would be a shorter trip. I wasn’t expecting to get caught in a riot.”
She laughed, loud and short. “I’m just glad you made it out in one piece. And you made it here.”
He had a hard time keeping the smile going. “Yeah. Here.”
“There are a number of pieces moving in an organization like ours, Stanford.” She leaned forward and motioned for him to sit. “This part of the galaxy is critically important to the success of ModPol.”
“Terroneous,” he said by way of acknowledgement as he sat down. The tiny mining colonies of Ipo had value as potential customers, but more value in the proximity to their neighbor-moon. It was Horus’s strategy: if ModPol Defense impressed Ipo, it would improve future talks with governments on Terroneous. And Terroneous was a major prize. Fractured into many disparate city-states. Many individual contracts to negotiate.
She watched him for a moment, as though waiting to see if he had more to add. He didn’t. “What’s your opinion of ModPol as an organization, overall?” she asked.
Runstom blinked, surprised by the question. “It’s necessary.” When put on the spot, he found himself falling back to long-ingrained values. “Modern societies shouldn’t have to manage judicial and defensive services themselves.” Listening to himself, he thought he sounded like an advertisement.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “But from the inside, Stanford: how well does the ModPol operate, would you say?”