by Joseph Lallo
The glove finished charging enough to be movable a moment later, and he surveyed his options. He probably couldn’t take out all four of the remaining guards, and even if he could, the doors were all locked and the finger was destroyed. Michella had said that authorities had been contacted, but even assuming the local law enforcement wasn’t under the thumb of VC, which was a long shot, Trent was obviously insane enough for a stand off, and they were on the seventieth floor of a veritable fortress. A breath of wind rushed in behind him. He turned.
“I can’t believe I’m about to do this again...” he moaned, dashing into the conference room and, before he could think long enough to talk himself out of it, hurling himself out the window.
The plan, what little of it there was, had been to dive into the bay. As the wind whipped past him on the way down, some key flaws began to reveal themselves. First, it struck him that a seventy story drop into the water might not be survivable. Second, that possibility may at this point be moot. Parts of the complex, it was previously stated, were directly overhanging the bay. This, it turns out, wasn’t quite one of those sections. There was a short outcrop of land, about a dozen feet, that looked like it was about to become his final destination.
While his brain queued up the customary “life flashing before the eyes,” an idea came to him. Again he cocked his fist, and again he punched at nothing, this time up and away. The device dumped its freshly recharged kinetic capacitors into an upward motion that canceled out a good deal of his downward momentum. As viewed from the outside, it would have looked like a perfect Shoryuken, except for all of the screaming and popping of joints. When it was through, the emptied capacitors slowed his fall to a drifting crawl as they hungrily drank in his inertia. For a few moments he was drifting slowly toward the ground with one fist raised, like a cartoon character holding a balloon.
The fall and dragon punch had taken him about half of the way down, and nearly over the water, but he was already accelerating again. Lex considered a repeat performance, but his very nearly dislocated right arm decided that it was time to give the left a try. He waited until he was in free fall again; the thought of what would happen to him if he fired off a punch with his left hand before his right was ready to move at full speed again was almost as scary as the thought of hitting the ground. When the time seemed right, he hurled a left hook that yanked him a good thirty feet toward the ocean, then slowed to a steady downward drift as it recharged, his body dangling below. He splashed down shortly after the gloves fully recharged... and immediately realized a final flaw in his plan, in the form of the ten kilo pack strapped very securely to his back.
He fumbled with the straps, but between the gloves, the murky water, and the hand-shaking adrenaline levels, he couldn’t manage the buckles. Finally he managed to snag the tag of a safety feature of most modern flight suits that pilots tended to scoff at, right up until they are forced to make a water landing. A quick tug inflated a pair of panels along the upper chest of his suit, dragging him back to the surface to take a much needed sputtering breath. The life vest patches were squeezed under the straps for the pack, crushing at shoulders that were already starting to swell after their sudden introduction to technologically enhanced martial arts. He managed to awkwardly snag his slidepad, which was fortunately waterproof (more or less) and punched in a few commands. He was evidently outside the wireless jamming window, because the transmission went through. A few minutes later, just as the people within the tower were beginning to gather at the windows to confirm that someone had indeed just gone past the window downwards, his ride arrived. Rising from below him, like some sort of sea turtle from the days of legend, came Son of Betsy. He popped the hatch, plopped wetly into the seat, and took it skyward. He pulled an emergency hammer from the compartment within the cockpit and punctured the floatation patches, strapped himself into the chair, and breathed a sigh of relief. The breath hadn’t even finished leaving his lungs when the ship’s sensors alerted him to approaching security vessels. He gritted his teeth.
“Sorry boys. I’m through playing,” he growled.
Pointing his ship straight up, he pushed the thrusters to the maximum speed he could manage without completely incinerating the hull. The ships fell into pursuit, unable to do anything but match speed and fire their weapons. He drifted smoothly left and right, up and down, evading the ordinance like they were hardly a concern. As their altitude increased, he slowly ticked the power level up, gaining speed. The more daring of the pursuit ships followed his lead. SOB’s nose was incandescent now, fire dancing around the shock front ahead of his shield, but he didn’t slow. His face was a mask of determination. He was going home, and his ship was going to hold together, because he was Trevor Alexander, and flying fast, steady, and true was what he did. That was all there was to it.
As they got into deep space, he continued to dial up the speed, pushing the engines up to one hundred percent, then further. One ten. One twenty. One fifty. One seventy. The points on his sensors slowly dropped away, unwilling or unable to keep up with him. When the coast was clear, he plotted a course and switched to FTL, not slowing to let the engine cool until he was halfway to his first destination. SOB didn’t seem to mind.
Epilogue
“What’ll it be, T?” asked the cook.
“The usual, Marv, and call me Lex, would you?”
“You look like hell.”
“I’ve been hanging out there for the last couple of weeks.”
“Smells like it.”
Lex had taken his time coming back to Golana. It wasn’t that he wasn’t eager to come back. It is just that spending a month terrified that someone is chasing you had a way of making you hesitant to lead them to places you are fond of. So instead he had been puttering around in his ship, flying in random loops and jukes until the MTE rations Ma had given him ran out. He left his slidepad off, watched his back constantly, and generally lived as though the government, a corporate syndicate, or the mob were after him, mostly because they probably were. Eventually, though, he decided that if they were going to find him, they might as well get it over with. There is only so long that a human being can stand washing with moist towelettes or in the no-tell motels of the cosmos.
A bowl of chili and a bag of corn chips were placed before him, and he shoveled them down with more enthusiasm than any meal he’d eaten in a long time.
“You gonna pay me? Or is this the beginning of a new tab?” Marv asked.
“Here,” he said, tossing the last chip of his advance on the table, “Keep it. You know something, Marv?”
“I know lots of things, T.”
“It is good to be alive,” Lex said, ignoring the quip and the stubborn refusal to adapt to his new nickname, “I’m heading home now, Marv.”
“I don’t see your bike anywhere.”
“I figure I’ll walk. I’m through flying for a few days.”
“Got some messages for you here.”
“Hang onto them. If I come back tomorrow, I’ll worry about them then.”
With that, he headed off for home. It was a long way, over sixty miles. Longer than he could realistically walk, but he spent as much of the time on foot as he could. He flipped the slidepad wireless on and began to sort though the messages he’d been too scared to look at before. Spam and the like were trashed. He had seventeen angry messages from his landlady, but hadn’t gotten one for the last three days. His boss at the livery garage left a sequence of messages in which he fired him and rehired him at least three times. He always was the most requested driver over there. The courier boss wasn’t quite so fickle, and had only gone so far as to warn that he was supposed to request sabbaticals, not just take them. Detective Barsky had left a few more vague warnings, threats that seemed almost quaint in comparison to what he’d been having to deal with.
Karter had sent him a pile of feedback forms to fill out regarding the performance of the various gadgets, a task which he managed to do while riding a mag-lev train until they ki
cked him off for not having a ticket. Ma had sent him a separate message with contact information. She was new to the idea of casual conversation, it seemed, since she’d included a numbered list of possible topics of discussion for him to choose. Evidently multiple choice was the AI equivalent of small talk. He sorted through the remaining messages, the sort of random debris that accumulates in your inbox that isn’t interesting enough to read but too useful to trash. Lots of things from lots of people. Nothing from Michella.
Next he poured through the news, half expecting to see his face and name plastered all over everything. Instead, he was practically absent. Here and there was a mention of “rumors of a masked stranger” or “an attempted suicide from the VC tower,” but little else. Not even a blurry picture of him wearing his fancy balaclava. There was plenty to read, watch, and hear in reference to his antics, though. William Trent was currently in custody, pending an investigation into his involvement and actions regarding the “Weaponized Wormhole” as the press had taken to calling it. Lex had managed to deliver the stolen file to Michella via a random computer terminal in a library on a planet he’d never been to before and never intended to go again. She’d put it to good use, picking names and places, finding people to interview. She spoke to residents of Operlo and ADC. Her name was everywhere, and her investigative skills told more of the story than the criminal investigation probably would ever have turned up. It had gotten her much praise, and caught the eye of some of the more prestigious journals and broadcast outlets. Police and press alike had asked where she’d gotten her information, but she only ever cited a “trusted source who wisely wishes to remain anonymous.” Finally he’d reached his door.
“Okay, let’s see. I was a half a month behind in my rent when I left. How long ago was that?” he muttered to himself, reflecting on what seemed like several lifetimes of events, “At least a month. So I’m a month and a half behind. That’s two decent paychecks, probably. So I’m going to be homeless for at least two weeks.”
He tapped the intercom.
“Mrs. Dunne,” he said, continuing as it negotiated a connection, “Hopefully I can convince her to let me get some of my clothes. Maybe I can get her to take my flatscreen in lieu of rent.”
The screen timed out with an error.
“What the hell,” he said with a shrug. In an act of blind optimism, decided to give his slidepad a try. He waved it across the door. It opened.
“What the hell?” he remarked, now in surprise, as he stepped inside.
He made his way to his apartment, and sure enough, his slidepad opened its door as well.
“What the HELL?!” he repeated upon seeing his home for the first time since this mess had begun.
It was clean. Not cleaned out, as in robbed, but cleaned up. Takeout boxes were removed, floors were mopped. His tiny little home was downright presentable. As he was admiring it, the clicking footsteps of high heels startled him. He looked up to see a statuesque, dark skinned goddess in a perfectly tailored business dress walk out of his bathroom.
“Welcome home, Mr. Alexander. You are late,” said Miss Misra, “I hope you don’t mind that I had the place straightened up.”
“Wha- What are you doing here?”
“I received your message,” she said, withdrawing a very lucky printout from its hiding place in her blouse pocket, “Let’s see now. ‘To: Miss Misra. From: That sunburned ass. Re: A word of warning. Dear Miss Misra, The password is where you had to touch up my skin cream.’” She grinned at him, tapping her left ear, “The contents of the attachment simply read, ‘Don’t let them activate it. Everyone will die.’”
“I can’t believe you believed me,” he said, “I sent one to some random guy at that asteroid, but I don’t think he figured out the riddle I used for the password. Or he just thought I was a weirdo.”
“A short delay seemed like a reasonable precaution. Mr. Patel was extremely grateful. He ruminated for a time on how best to illustrate his appreciation. Let me begin by saying that any disrespect you may have shown him through your past words or actions has been thoroughly forgiven.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
“Nice, perhaps, but in his eyes and mine, insufficient. We reasoned that your actions may have put you in a rather precarious position with VectorCorp, as well as being the source of considerable publicity that would make your life... difficult. Suppressing unwanted media attention and smoothing corporate and legal tensions are something of an essential skill in our field, so we set about wiping your slate, as it were.”
“So that’s why I’m not running for my life anymore and staring at my face on every news report.”
“Yes and no. It turned out there was little for us to do. Something to do with the Security Chief acting alone, and playing his cards quite close to his chest. We tugged a few strings to see to it that you were left alone by some of the stragglers, but it still seemed an inadequate showing of our gratitude, so we looked into your life, and found that you had been evicted.”
“Yeah...” he said, the direction of the conversation making him nervous.
“Well, Uncle had been toying with the idea of expanding his real estate holdings for some time now, so he purchased your building. Mrs. Dunne, it seems, was happy to be rid of it. I came here to oversee the transition. Things were only finalized yesterday.”
“Diamond Nick Patel is my landlord now?”
“He thought it would be an excellent way to keep in touch with you, on those occasions when he is in need of the services of a reliable and skilled pilot. The apartment is yours to live in, rent free, for as long as you like. One less thing to worry about. Won’t that be nice?”
“Oh, yeah, this will be a huge load off of my mind,” he said flatly. He shook his head, sincerity returning to his voice. “Thank you, though. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Alexander. You earned it and more.”
There was a buzz from the intercom. He tapped the “peep” button. The face looking back at him managed to make his heart skip a beat. After all of these years, after all of this time, it still managed to do that. He quickly answered.
“Michella!” he said, a bit more excitement making to his voice than he’d intended.
“Trev. Can I come in?” she asked, a smile that was almost nervous and shy warming her expression.
Lex turned to his guest/superintendent, touching the mute button.
“By all means. I must be going. I only remained so that I could explain the situation personally, and give you my gratitude.”
“Yeah. Yeah, come on up,” he replied, releasing the mute and tapping the entry buzzer.
He turned back to Miss Misra.
“I do hope you’ll consider working with my Uncle, if he requests it,” she said, stepping toward the door, “We have plenty of legitimate pursuits that could benefit from your skills. And a handful that are less legitimate, if you are feeling adventurous.”
“Right now I think it might be a good idea to lie low for a while.”
“A wise decision. And Lex?” she said.
“Yes?”
She removed her glasses, leaning forward to plant a slow, tender kiss on his lips. When they parted, she looked him in the eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Uh...” he replied. It was the best he could manage.
The smirk came to her lips again as she replaced her glasses. She opened the door and stepped into the hall, encountering Michella on the way out.
“Miss Modane, congratulations on all of your success, and my compliments to your exceptional investigative work. I have great respect for what you’ve done.”
“Oh, uh, well thank you,” Michella replied, offering her hand.
Miss Misra shook it gracefully, and continued on her way. Lex, in an act nearly as difficult as the rest of his adventure combined, managed to keep from watching her go.
“Who was that?” Michella asked, as Lex closed the door behind her.
“She seems nice. But that dress was a bit much,” she said, turning back to the door.
Lex took the opportunity to glance at his reflection in the flat screen to make sure that there wasn’t any lingering evidence of Miss Misra’s gratitude. On his face, at least.
“How did you know I’d be here? I only just got back.”
“I asked Marv to give me a call if you showed up. He said you’d be walking home, so I waited a few hours.”
“That was thorough.”
“Investigative reporter, remember?”
“Heh, Yeah. … So, Michella. It’s been a while,” he said, dumbly.
“It has,” she said, looking away.
She definitely seemed nervous. There was a tension in the air, the kind of feeling you get when you go on a first date with an old friend who you hope can be something more. A fear of losing something good in the pursuit of making it better.
“Congratulations on all of the coverage.”
“Thank you. And thank you for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I... I’ve only really glanced at the news. A lot on my mind lately. What ended up happening?”
“Plenty. It turns out Trent tried to cover his tracks after you escaped. He erased everything. The Gemini information that you’d given me a copy of, video footage from that day, recordings, conversations. Every piece of surveillance for the last three months was wiped clean, and there are missing records dating back over three years. It turns out VectorCorp as a whole was legitimately unaware of his plans. It was entirely financed by their black budget, security funds. We can’t turn up anything to suggest there had been authorization, or even consultation, by VectorCorp proper. Their stock price took a hit, but VC is coming out of this looking like the victim. This was Trent’s baby, and had it not been for you, all of those people would have died. And if it hadn’t been for the information you gave me, Trent might still have walked for lack of evidence.”