by Jason Mather
Grant didn’t answer his door. A quick search inside revealed an unmade bunk and not much else. Grit sent Gino to question Fortune while she examined the room more thoroughly. There was no sign of any personal effects, though that in itself wasn’t abnormal in a place like this. Grit placed a hand on the bunk to feel for any residual body heat. The bunk was cold. Not a sign of guilt, but suspicious. She sat down on the bunk to collect her thoughts.
Two missing bodies, and one possibly missing soldier, though she hoped he had just stepped out for a meal and a smoke.
“Grit?”
“Yeah, Gino.”
“Questioned Private Fortune. He doesn’t seem to know any more than the other two. “
“Meet me in Grant’s room.”
“Gotcha.”
“Network access request, ID Greta Ricker.”
“Go ahead, Commander,” said a virtual voice through her comm.
“What is the current location of Private Grant?”
There was short moment of silence, then “Private Grant is no longer on location, Commander.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“When?”
“I have no record of him leaving, Commander.”
“None at all?”
“No, sorry, Commander.”
“What is the last record you have of Private Grant?”
“He was last recorded in the basement.”
“Where did he go after that?”
“I am sorry, Commander, I have no record of…” The voice cut off suddenly, replaced by a soft hiss.
“Commander Ricker, I strongly suggest you rescind your current line of questioning.” The voice was similar to the other mystery voice, smooth and fluid, yet still sounding synthesized, though this one did not sound anywhere near as polite.
“Who is this?”
“The business you are sticking your nose is likely to be lethal. Your best course of action would be to terminate any further inquest.”
“Whoever you are, you should know that the ‘business’ you refer to has resulted in the deaths of two of my men. It is my business. Who am I speaking to?”
“This is the only warning you will receive, Commander.”
“Listen, fucko…”
Her head was abruptly filled with a loud electronic shriek. It vibrated the bones in her jaw and skull, filled her whole being. Pain was emanating from her lower right jaw, where her comm sat against the bone. It quickly increased in intensity, seizing the muscles in her face. She bit down hard on her tongue. Fire, copper, blood, shrieking. She tried to stand, equilibrium suffering, went down on a knee.
Gino came in then, saw her crouched on the floor, struggling to rise, blood dripping from her mouth. He crouched and turned her face to his. The lower part of her jaw seemed to be reddening and blistering on the right side. Her comm was killing her.
He lifted her on to the bed and slapped her once. Her eyes opened, face seizing unnaturally. She reached down, placed a hand on his belt knife, and looked in his eyes with determination.
Gino understood, didn’t question. He put his knees on her shoulders to keep her from struggling and grabbed her underneath her chin. Heat was emanating from the comm beneath the skin. He moved as quickly as he could, knowing he had to be clean. Knife at her lower chin. A sharp jerk, and blood flowed. His hand moved, found the device, seared his fingertips. Moved the tip of the knife beneath, against bone. Gino pushed down until he heard a sharp crack. He hoped it was metal and not bone. The device came out whole, still burning his hand. He threw it to the floor and watched as it softened and melted. Greta stopped jerking, but was still alive, face covered in blood, hand over the wound. His own comm was chirping.
“Captain, is the commander ok?”
“Send a medic immediately.”
A stolen kiss. “Don’t you die on me, lady.”
— «» —
The g-force readout slowly increased on the screen at the front of the cabin. Currently it sat at 1.9. Hans was glad for the chair. Acceleration pushed him back into soft gelatin, the seat hugging every curve. Turning his head was an effort. Onyx appeared to be sleeping.
The meter continued its slow rise, now sitting at 2.2. Hans estimated he weighed about 420 pounds. What if the mooring on the chairs came loose? Would the crash into the wall behind him be lethal?
“Relax your breathing,” Onyx said, clearly not sleeping, then. “Hyperventilation is no fun in two Gs.”
“How many times have you done this?” His eyes felt like they were resting on the front of his cerebellum, nose pressing back toward his throat, joining his teeth there. She wasn’t affected at all.
“Plenty. We’re in the worst of the G’s now. Keep your head forward and still or you’ll strain your neck. Let the chair absorb all the extra weight. They’re rated for a thousand pounds. They’re not going anywhere.”
“How long does this keep up?” He let the chair cradle his head, cringing as it crawled around his skull.
“Another twenty minutes, then we get a brief respite before the deceleration. Close your eyes and stop staring at the meter.”
“I’m not.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“How fast will we get going?”
“On a short trip like this not much more than about twenty-five hundred, I imagine.”
Two thousand five hundred miles per hour. In a capsule that was held only millimeters from the sides of the tube by electromagnets. He was not enjoying this as much as he thought.
“What happens if the magnets fail?”
“You wouldn’t even have time to scream. For a man who walked so boldly into my office expecting to be killed, you sure sound worked up, Hans.”
“Walking I can control, this is something else…”
“This train has a sparkling safety record, no accidents in ten years.”
“Only takes one.”
“True, but not today.”
The G’s skittered briefly between 2.3 and 2.4. Hans’ organs were trying to make hasty exit out his backside. He concentrated on breathing slower, ignoring the elephant on his chest. Time stretched out as he stared obsessively at the readout. 2.2 – 2.1 – 1.9. He could feel normality beginning to return to his limbs. 1.5. The strain on his neck disappeared. 1.3. He could feel himself sliding forward in the chair again. 1.0. The cabin speaker dinged. The mini bar slid back out from its alcove in the wall. Onyx rose, stretched.
“You should try to get up and walk around a bit. It will help.”
After the increased G’s Hans felt nearly weightless, every movement about to launch him across the room. He stood carefully and stretched his back. Onyx bent at the waist to the point where her head went between her knees.
“You made out of rubber or something?”
“Dancer’s limbs.”
“Learn that from your mom?”
“Yes.” It was the first time he’d asked her about her past that she’d not seemed upset. She moved over to the mini bar. “Drink?”
“No, but I’ll take a cigarette if you got it.”
“No smoking on the trains.”
“Who’d know?”
“The train would know. Emergency stop and we’d be put off at the next terminal. You don’t want to experience an emergency stop. Sure, you don’t want a drink?”
“No thanks.”
Onyx poured herself some vodka, took a sip, grimaced, returned the glass to the tray. Hans smirked at her. “Not up to your standards?”
“Chinese. I don’t drink Chinese vodka.”
“I didn’t realize the Chinese made vodka.”
“The Chinese make a bit of everything, none of it well.”
“Not even international criminals?”
She looked at him for a moment, arms crossed. “No, not even that, though I would not reach even their standards.”
“Why’s that?”
“They would say I am not ambitious enough.”
“Because you
don’t sell drugs or whores?”
“That, and that it is part of my inherently inferior makeup.”
“The Russian half?”
“Half Russian and female.”
“I don’t know about the Russian part, but I know plenty of women your friends in China wouldn’t enjoy crossing.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah, Grit would hand them their asses in a plastic bag.”
“I don’t disagree, your sister is a formidable woman.”
“She’s hell on wheels.”
“Another way to put it.”
Hans took a moment to walk around the small cabin, just pacing to get the blood flowing. Onyx returned to her chair. The speaker chimed again, instructing them to return to their seats. Hans sat gingerly, unsure what to expect. The chairs turned to face the back of the cabin, the readout switching walls.
“You don’t like your Chinese half, do you?” he asked impulsively. The g-meter had begun its rise, disorienting in its similarity even though he knew they were slowing.
“It’s part of me. Like or dislike means little.”
“But you still don’t like it.”
“Why do you insist on goading me?”
“It angers you when I call you Ms. Li. I imagine it would even more-so if I were to call you Kaori.”
“You’re treading very thinly, Mr. Ricker.” The G’s were now back to 1.9 and climbing. Hans didn’t want to smile, not sure if he could get his lips back together.
“What about Illiyana?
“You call me Onyx.”
“But Illiyana’s what you call yourself, isn’t it?”
“Onyx will do.” She didn’t sound angry.
— «» —
Gino was standing at the windows when Grit came to. The sun was going down behind the mountains, backlighting him and the cloud of smoke around his head. Nice view. She tried to speak but realized her jaw wouldn’t move. She clanged a hand against the bed railing. He turned and came back to stand beside her.
“They’ve temporarily immobilized your jaw, shouldn’t be for more than about forty-eight hours. The doctor said they didn’t want to risk you tearing open any weakened blood vessels.” He sat down and offered her the mobile in his hand. “You can type on this if you want. I know it’s not ideal.”
Grit took the mobile, reached up to feel her jaw. Something tight and smooth covered the lower right side of her face. No pain though.
How long have I been out?
“About twelve hours, the medic said there was surprisingly little damage.”
Maybe you should have been a surgeon.
Gino laughed a bit at that. “Most of the damage was cauterized by the heat from your comm.”
We need to start removing internals from the soldiers, you first.
“Already on it,” Gino turned his head to show her the bandage on his own jaw. “Medical’s removing them as we speak. What happened, Grit? Was it a fault?”
No, she paused to think a minute, whatever is in our systems is able to use our tech against us.
“Jesus.” Gino stood up and paced. “It deletes files practically as were looking at them, makes bodies disappear, almost kills you with your own communicator. How the fuck does it do that?”
Grit shrugged.
The medic came in then, looking exhausted. He took a scan of her jaw, pronounced it well protected, and made a very cursory interrogation before Gino shooed him out.
We need to see Onyx, she typed.
“Huh uh, lady, you’re staying here. With you compromised I’m the commander in charge. You’re on medical leave until I get an OK from the doctor. You can’t lead a squad with no voice, anyway.”
She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him down toward her. He didn’t know where her strength came from, but he certainly didn’t have the ability to resist. She jabbed at the message on her portable, then pointed at herself and Gino, indicated the building around her, shook her head.
“Just us?”
Grit nodded, still staring in his eyes.
“Jesus, Grit, you want two people to go after this lady when she seems to have the drop on our entire organization?”
She nodded again, and dug her fingers into Gino’s shoulder for a second before releasing him and typing for a few moments.
Not putting my soldiers at risk. Just the two of us. Two of my men are dead. My brother is missing. Something that can access and subvert our systems at will is after us. She’s the only one who may know what’s going on, and she may have Hans.
“And if she’s the culprit?”
I’ll take her down. I’ll do this by myself if I have to. You in or not?
Gino stared at her.
She grabbed his shoulder again, wouldn’t let him turn away, dared him to turn her down.
“OK. I’m in. When do we leave?”
She sat up and climbed off the bed.
— «» —
Hans’ first impression of Salt Lake was the smell, the odor of too many people in too close quarters, like animals packed in crates. Sweat and salt and breath and manure, humanity’s myriad of exhausts melding, forming, fighting for dominance in the enclosed structure of the depot.
They’d come up through the tube systems in a gallery so identical that it was like they’d never left. Another disconcertingly long elevator ride, this one with positive Gs, and the doors had opened not on Denver’s efficient, computerized people funnel, but a massive gothic structure more akin to the great train depots of a few hundred years before. People packed in nearly wall-to-wall. An ocean of smiling white conformity. Men all dressed in black slacks and white button-ups, the relatively few women in floor-length skirts and modestly colored tops, with the occasional sprinkling of a plaid sweater vest for sparkle. Hair brown or blonde, cut just to the ears for men, middle of the back for women, adornments minimal.
It was terrifying, made more so by the surprising lack of noise. There was a deep and persistent roar of feet milling about, luggage rolling, a crying child. But he could not see a single person engaged in conversation. Thousands of people were resisting their natural urge to chatter incessantly.
Onyx didn’t seem to notice, and led them across a suspended walkway over the silent sea. Hans was concerned what the massive organism would make of the pair of them, her in tight black slacks and matching shirt and jacket, two-inch heels clicking loudly on the tiled walkway, him in the suit she had provided this morning, also primarily black, its one concession a blue-gray shirt. Not exactly cheerful, not exactly blending in. No one seemed to notice.
The checkout station was manned by real people, more of the same from the floor below. Their attendant gave them a smile that barely made it up her cheeks, let alone to her eyes.
“Reason for visit?”
“Business.” Onyx continued to look completely nonchalant.
“What kind of business?” The voice contained so little emotion Hans thought she could have been animatronic.
“The kind I keep to myself, are you done with my bags?” If the woman was taken aback by Onyx’s abruptness she showed no sign.
“Of course, please avail yourself of one of our brochures in the lobby. It contains important guidelines for visitors.” The way she said “visitors” did not sound very welcoming.
“Been here before, no need, bags please?”
“We strongly encourage you to…”
“Yes, I know, stay out of your churches and restricted restaurants and any place else you don’t want infidels to see. Give me my bags.”
The woman ran out of words. She handed across the Onyx’s two small bags. Hans stepped forward and took them for her, old habits running deep. The woman’s smile stayed affixed.
They continued toward the exit, the number of people around them increasing rapidly, though Hans and Onyx moved in their own little pocket
“This place is a nightmare,” Hans said.
“It only gets worse.”
“Nice handling of the baggage lady.�
��
“She expected you to speak, wasn’t enjoying me taking charge. Also, they’re trained to delay as much as possible.”
“What for?”
“Better luggage inspection. Often things are removed… or added.”
The doors opened on a mass of people the likes of which Hans had never imagined. Every corner, every sidewalk, every doorway and entrance mobbed by the similarly clothed masses. Even the street was partially covered, the crowds parting for large, slow-moving buses and private conveyances, closing up on the other side. The smell increased tenfold; it was like being trapped in a closet with a hippopotamus.
Still, it was impossible not to notice that, despite everywhere he could see being crammed with people nearly shoulder to shoulder, the pocket around them continued, an imperfect sphere of empty sidewalk. No one would even look at them. They were a pocket of strangeness in the ocean of conformity, to be ignored and avoided.
“What happens if I reach out and flick one of their ears or something?”
Onyx actually laughed a little at that.
“Are we getting a cab or something, or did you bring a surfboard?”
“There’s supposed to be transportation waiting.”
They moved toward the street, the sea of humanity continuing to part around them, the path opening onto a sleek black limo, windows tinted to midnight. Two men stood waiting, standard dress slightly altered by the black suit jackets and smart black caps. Onyx strode up to them.
“You Brigham’s men?”
The man looked at her in surprise, glared over at Hans.
“Don’t ignore me, little boy, and stop looking at my assistant.”
The man turned back to Onyx, avoided her eyes.
“Brigham?”
“Yes… ma’am.”
“Good… take me to him.” She turned to Hans, “Put the luggage in the trunk.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hans was suppressing his smile. He made a show of putting the baggage in the back and then returning to open the door for Onyx, climbing in after her. Through the thick partition separating the back and front he could hear the front doors open and shut. It was a somewhat Spartan interior, windows tinted so it was nearly impossible to see outside. Probably in a place like this private space was the ultimate in luxury, with little else needed.