Serengati 2: Dark And Stars

by J. B. Rockwell

  Watery blood runs along the grill. He swipes it with the spatula. Few more minutes.

  “We’re worried about you, Jack.”

  He grunts without looking back at her, in no mood for this conversation.

  “I’m serious, buddy. You alright?”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look a little drunk.”

  “I’m fine. And a little drunk.”

  She comes around the grill, slides next to him and looks into his face. If he pulls away, she’ll just harp on him worse. Nothing escapes those blue eyes. They torment young boys.

  “Talk to me, Cap.”

  He sighs. “Later.”

  “We’re not idiots. We know what you’re gonna say.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s stupid. We’re sticking together.”

  “You don’t speak for everyone.”

  “No. But I know them. Whatever comes next, we face it together.”

  “We’re not talking about an obstacle course here. We’re talking about Jim Dandy. Plus the buyer. We’ll have a bounty on our heads in a matter of days.”

  “So we’re just supposed to call it quits?” Her mouth hangs open, jaw offset. He knows better than to argue with her. She’s been with him from the start, longer than any others. Before he took her as his pilot, she moved from system to system hotwiring ships at port, bringing them to dealers still packed with cargo. She was a pro, but it was messy and dangerous. Black market transport is a cakewalk by comparison. At least with her onboard.

  “This might be our last trip to Earth,” he says. “You know what that means for me?”

  She thinks a moment. Her features soften. “Aw, shit.”

  “It’s my own fault.”

  “You don’t know what’s gonna happen. The buyer might go after Dandy.”

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Okay. Maybe not,” she says.

  “Like I said, my own fault.”

  “Well, I don’t know. But we’re here. You’ll have time to see him.”

  He says nothing, playing the scenarios out in his mind. Hey there, son. Haven’t seen you in more than a year. If you thought that was a long time, just you wait! And wait, and wait, and wait…

  “We’re not dead yet, buddy boy.”

  He just shakes his head.

  “Hey Jack.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The steaks are burning.”

  *

  Sitting around the table, nobody says a word or touches the food. They look into their laps, except for Hunter. She glares at him. She never was one for the subtle approach. He wanted to wait until after the meal. Oh well.

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll make it quick. We were planning a two-week stay on Earth, but things have changed. The buyer expects us to bring his shipment 24 hours after touchdown at the latest. I’ll be taking Belinda back out by hour 23. I won’t ask anyone here to come along. I’ll pay what was agreed upon when I hired you. As of now, all contracts are dissolved.”

  There’s a palpable sense of discomfort around the table.

  Dino speaks first. “I’m not leaving ‘cause of some shithead pirates.”

  His response is no surprise. He’s been Jack’s personal security guard for a little over eight years. They met at a dive bar on Earth after Jack had gotten maybe just a little too drunk, and maybe had fallen toward some guy and accidentally spilled his beer, or maybe was looking for a fight and intentionally smacked it out of the guy’s hand. Either way, as the guy reared back to swing at Jack, his elbow connected with the back of Dino’s head where he was in the middle of sipping a rather expensive glass of amber fluid, and when the fluid splashed down the front of his shirt and the crotch of his pants, Dino turned around and laid the guy out with one punch. And when the guy’s two big friends stood up and charged him, he laid them out too. Jack had been looking for some muscle and offered him a job on the spot, but he was out of prison on parole and couldn’t leave Earth for another six months. Jack told him to get in touch the day his parole ended, and that’s what he did. Since then, he’s been nothing but loyal.

  Hunter leans back, crosses her arms. “You already know where I stand.”

  Stetson just shrugs. “Won’t be the first time I’ve had a bounty on my head.”

  Hunter slaps him hard on the back of the head. “Atta boy.”

  He rubs the spot. “Quit it!”

  Hunter grins.

  That’s three out of five so far. Maybe Hunter was right, Jack thinks.

  Darius, the ship’s medic and newest member, places his hands on the table. He takes a breath. “I know I’m odd man out, and I’ve enjoyed working with you all. But I’ve got a family. I want to see them again.” His gaze falls on Jack.

  It might be a sidelong insult, but it’s understandable. Darius never meshed right. This was his first time on a freighter. Months or longer from the ones you love. It changes things.

  Jack says, “Okay.”

  This is more what he expected from the others. It’s the smart choice. Self-preservation.

  Last of all is Justin, Jack’s nephew. At 21 years old, he’s been with them a year and a half as an extra hand. Mostly he just follows Dino around. Something about their similar backgrounds. Living with his parents—Jack’s brother and sister-in-law—on Atwood Station over Neptune, he was on course to become a delinquent. Theft, dealing HOP, some other minor run-ins with the law. He contacted Jack about two years ago wondering if there was a space on his crew. Jack said no. A year after that, the kid showed up at a nearby delivery point alone, saying he was wanted by a local gang and if Jack didn’t hire him he would sneak aboard the next cargo ship to Earth. One of two things would happen in that case. He’d either fail to find an available grav tank and be crushed to death when the ship jumped, or he’d be found out and arrested. Jack contacted his brother, Justin’s father, whose response was, “I couldn’t give two tons of shit what happens that boy.” It was all the same to Jack. The kid promised to work cheap and stay out of the way, and he has followed up on that for the most part. They don’t have much of a relationship otherwise, a common theme in the Kind family.

  When Justin realizes everyone is waiting for his decision, he shrugs and says, “I’m up for whatever, man.”

  So that’s it. They won’t disband, but they’ll need a new medical technician. That shouldn’t be too difficult on Earth, and Jack already has someone in mind.

  An automated voice drones over the loudspeakers: “Attention crew of B-class freighter Belinda. You are confirmed for docking at 1600 hours SST. Please confirm your reception of this message.”

  “That was quick,” Stetson says.

  “Eat up,” Jack says. “And if you’ve got shit to do planetside, make arrangements fast.”

  He’s talking more to himself than anyone.

  *

  Belinda has two airlocks. The first is in her bow. The second below the cargo bay. An enclosed loading tunnel connected to this airlock peels away from her belly and attaches to another ship’s dock, a bit like a giant straw. To move cargo, Jack’s crew operates bulky machines called shovers, which do exactly what the name implies. About the size of a compact car, they work just like any extravehicular maneuvering pack (EM-pack), spurting compressed air to move them through Zero-G. The four front forks clamp the end of a shipping container and away it goes. They’re slow moving and difficult to steer, and Jack only has two of them for the time being, but it’s better than cracking the ship open and using a crane. Dino has been training Justin how to operate them, so it takes a bit longer than usual. Nearly three hours after they began to unload, they strap the shovers back into the rear airlock chamber and prep for reentrance to Earth’s atmosphere.

  Their regular landing zone is an Upstate New York nowhere town nobody’s ever heard of. It’s winter in the Northern Hemisphere. They come down in a field where the snow is three feet deep, exit through the loading tunnel with their hands held against the wind. The air sh
ocks them, cold and refreshing and somehow full. To Jack, arriving on Earth always feels a bit like coming home, and that makes him edgy.

  There’s a hypertram stop two hundred yards to the west, a tram already idling.

  They clamor inside and take their seats, leaving gaps between themselves. Strangers on a bus. The world zips by at 600 miles an hour, a white blur. The car rattles and groans.

  In 20 minutes they reach the Rockwall tramport. It’s crammed full of pedestrians with suitcases. Parents dragging children along the moving sidewalks. Color and noise and blaring advertisements. Holograms calling you by name. One image repeats on all the screens—a generic video feed of deep space. Field of steady pinpricks.

  They agree to meet back in exactly 22 hours. That will give them a window of two hours before the buyer knows for certain that something is wrong, and will come looking.

  Darius and Jack split off from the main group. The others are, according to Dino, “Going to find some fit young men to fuck.”

  “You can have all the men you want,” Stetson says. “It’s holo ladies for me. STD free electricit-y.”

  Darius does not say goodbye. Just disappears into the crowd.

  Jack doesn’t linger, either. He leaves the others to their vices, finds a rental place and reserves an autocar, the domed kind usually reserved for couples. Best not to search between the seats. It waits in the pickup area of the parking garage. It pops the door for him and he slides inside, crinkles his nose at the chemical stink of new-car spray over the tang of cigarettes and alcohol. He lowers the window half an inch.

  “Hello and thank you for choosing Autocar Supertime Transport!” a voice from the speakers says. “Where are we—”

  He states his destination.

  “Great,” the car says, then repeats it back and tells him to buckle up so they can get moving. “If you’d like to purchase refreshments for an additional—”

  “No.”

  “Great.”

  They pull out of their spot.

  “Are you interested in watching a film for an additional—”

  “No.”

  “Great. How about the news? You’ll get all the breaking stories. Did you hear the latest out of the Kuiper Belt? Some are saying—”

  “No.”

  “Very good. For an additional fee, you can use the touchscreen to select—”

  “Will you please let me sleep.”

  “Great. I’ll let you sleep. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Families stand at crosswalks. Holding hands. They watch Jack and Jack watches back. Strangers going about their lives. Here and there a face he recognizes. His heart swells and then he shudders. Dead men, ghosts. He blinks them away, rubs his eyes. Just strangers.

  He rolls the window fully down, inhales deep. He’s been feeling a bit spookier than usual. That run-in with the pirates may have jarred something loose. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so trapped.

  Anijira lives with her new husband in Nulleport, a city too small for hypertrams to pass through. He sets his arm on the window frame and lays his head.

  He jolts awake a moment later as the seatback screen trumpets out an ad. “Jack Kind, isn’t it time to smell like a real man?”

  He can’t find the volume.

  “Jack,” the car says, “you seem to be searching for something. How can I help?”

  “The fucking volume. Turn the screen off.”

  “I’m sorry. Video advertisements are just one way Autocar Supertime Transport earns important revenue that helps keep your transportation experience super. Would you like to pay an additional fee for an ad-free experience?”

  “For shit’s sake. Yes.”

  “Great. I’ll fix that for you.”

  The screen goes blank.

  This is what so many men and women fought and died to preserve. An ad-free experience. For a fee.

  Chapter 3

  The portable buzzes against his chest and when he hits the holodisplay Jim Dandy’s face appears in the middle of the car, a still image. Orange-blonde hair, rosy high cheekbones. Lips puckered slightly and accented pink. All for effect. The first time Jack met the Dandy was on Juno Station over Jupiter. The man had been wearing a blue dress with a fan of peacock feathers stuck in the top of his head like an insane Geisha. Jack was unloading munitions with his crew, eyeing this odd figure vaping and muttering to a lackey. He knew who he was based on his fashion. Yet there are plenty of other reasons to know the Dandy. Turns out there was some kind of religious uprising in Jupiter’s system. Dandy was buying the munitions from a third party and selling them to both sides, making a fortune. That was his idea of a good time. He’s the kind of guy who’d have no problem cutting the throat of a thief. Say, a smuggler arriving on Earth and failing to meet the buyer.

  The call goes to voicemail.

  Dandy leaves no message.

  Jack looks out the window. He’s nearing Nulleport. Defunct roadside diners and charging stations, dilapidated houses with chicken coops frozen in the snow. The Space Boom was especially rough on small towns. He has a theory why Ani’s new husband built his mansion out here. He’s a world-renowned lawyer. Travels the country defending famous athletes and politicians and actors. Ani stays here, watches the kid and drinks her wine while he slips between hotel sheets with “enhanced” blondes. Jack knows this because it is what he used to do.

  He considers again what he might say to his son. Nothing feels right. Last time he saw him, his cheekbones seemed more defined than ever, the baby fat melting away. Somewhere in there was a budding young man, just a few years away. The thought stings now. He feels ill.

  The house could be a restaurant. Jack’s been inside once or twice, but stayed by the front door for fear of getting lost. It’s set back from the road at the end of a winding driveway, blocked off from the street by a security gate. The car lets him out there. He keeps the meter running.

  He stares into the green eye of the security camera until something goes click and the gate squeaks open.

  He heads up the drive toward dimly lit windows, careful not to slip on black ice.

  She leans in the doorway wearing a pink bathrobe cut high above the knee. It’s been years since he’s seen those brown legs. She holds a wine glass in one hand. The other is cocked on her hip. She sneers. “He’s not here.”

  “Nice seeing you too.”

  “I’ll say it again. Kip is not here.” She shifts her shoulder and slips off the doorframe and stumbles onto the porch, righting herself and spilling wine on her toes and the snow. “Fuck.” She backs inside and wipes her feet on the hallway carpet.

  “Where is he?”

  “Where everybody else is, Jack Kind.” His name sounds like a curse when she says it. “Up their own asses. Taking your lead.”

  She’s not usually this bad. Most visits, she shows only her best self. A trophy wife at the company mixer, all quips and materialism, trying to impress him. Look at all you lost.

  This is sad drunken Anijira, depressed millionaire. She’s no better off than before she left him. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

  “Ani, are you alright?”

  There are right and wrong things to say at times like this. This is the wrong thing.

  “Like you care.”

  “Is Kip inside? Let me talk to him.”

  She swallows hard, stares into the sky and juts her jaw. “I told you. He’s not here.”

  “Okay. So. Where?”

  “This is just like you. Drop by expecting people to be waiting.”

  “Will you please just tell me.”

  “He’s at a fucking friend’s house for the week. Christ fucking hell.”

  “What friend?”

  “How should I know?”

  “How should—What do you mean how should you know? You’re his mother. He’s a nine-year-old boy.”

  “And where the fuck are you? Oh, right. You’re getting STDs and shipping HOP.”

  “Keep your voice d
own. I don’t ship HOP.”

  “No comment on the STDs?”

  “It’s a school week.”

  “Is it? I thought it was summer.”

  “Ani.”

  “The kid’s parents drive them to school, okay? He asked to stay and I said yes.”

  A wind rips through Jack. His only coat is a busted leather jacket. A rage rises in him. He just wanted to see Kip one last goddamn time. And here’s his drunken ex-wife standing in his way, toying with him, no idea where the kid is. He should keep his mouth closed. She’s miserable enough. And she could do a hell of a lot better, but has chosen not to. She is alone and knows it. Always has been. But he is mad like a little boy and he says it anyway.

  “You know why a family would take in someone else’s kid for a week, Ani? They do it because they feel bad. Because they can’t stand the thought of what he must come home to. For example, just off the top of my head, a scumbag lawyer and a drunken bitch who can’t keep track of her own son.”

  The glass wizzes past his head. Red wine splashes like blood over snow.

  She slams the door.

  He stands with his shoulders hunched, chin tucked against the cold.

  Idiot.

  He could have turned the conversation around, been patient, even kind. He might have slipped inside, checked Kip’s room for a friend’s name or number.

  He knocks and waits, knocks and waits. Calls out apologies. A light in the front of the house goes out. He walks around the front and finds a window, taps on the glass. He could break in, but what then? Ani’s already on the verge of calling the cops. That could seriously disrupt the timeline, not to mention alert the buyer that Jack has been planetside for several hours. He waddles back down the drive.

  He has the car drive him around town in aimless circles. He glares into the bitter darkness. All these houses and their anonymous residents, dusky in the moonlight reflecting off the snow. This may be the closest he ever gets to his son again. And there is nothing left to do but leave.

  Deathform is available from Amazon here