Pelquin's Comet

by Ian Whates

  She was unsure what had happened after that, but whatever he’d given her hadn’t been worth putting out for. It hadn’t worked.

  Some people took drugs to forget. Leesa took them to remember, and the dreams hadn’t come that night.

  She crossed the abandoned freight yard, picking her way over rusted rails and sleepers turned brittle as balsa wood by age and exposure to the elements. She felt as broken and discarded as her surroundings. A few other shambling figures were to be seen, testament that she wasn’t the only unfortunate to claim this forgotten corner of the city as home. This was just temporary, though; she wasn’t staying. This wasn’t the dead-end of her life, merely a pause.

  Traffic noise rumbled in from a distance, otherwise the whole world might have been this wasteland.

  A small shack stood at the far edge of the yard, its door propped open. A plank had been nailed in place above the door, bearing the hand-scrawled legend ‘CAFE’ in bold red letters. Leesa had once overheard the owner, Sal, say, “Screw originality. I want a sign that’s gonna tell folk what we do here. Reckon this does the job.”

  The logic was hard to fault.

  Sal stood behind the counter, larger than life, his stained red and white candy-stripe apron looking to be no more than one deep breath away from bursting, as it struggled to encompass his corpulent girth. Sal greeted Leesa’s arrival with his customary snaggle-toothed grin, thumping a mug of coffee down on the counter and saying, as he said every morning, “Mornin’, hun’; black an’ strong, just how you like it!”

  Just how I like my women too, apparently, which wasn’t what she thought every morning.

  Somehow, Sal always managed to serve drinks piping hot, which was what Leesa most appreciated about his coffee. Otherwise, the brew was a little bitter for her taste and only moderately strong, despite Sal’s proud boast.

  She took a seat at an unoccupied table and sipped the drink immediately, savouring the sensation as liquid scalded the back of her throat to leave it raw and tingling.

  The shack was a little more than half full. Leesa glanced discreetly at those around her, not wanting to make eye contact, not wanting to be snared into a conversation. Derelicts, one and all. People who had given up on society, on themselves.

  I’m not like them, she told herself, while fearing all the while that she was. Leesa had a plan, though. She was going to get out. Soon. La Gossa was a trap. A sweet and seductive one baited with drugs and clubs and music and sex on tap, but it was a trap all the same. She’d given in to temptation and dallied here longer than intended. The more she stuck around the harder it was going to be to move on. Leaving required effort, and she’d been following the path of least resistance for far too long.

  Molly shuffled in through the door. Her rounded shoulders always seemed even more rounded in the mornings, her steady gait all the more stiff and laboured. Leesa averted her eyes, not wanting the older woman to come across and join her, not today. Molly had been the first person to accept Leesa when she’d arrived here, making sure she found a place to sleep and teaching her how things worked in the yard. Even then Leesa had sensed that Molly wasn’t quite right and soon made every effort to distance herself from the other woman.

  She owed Molly, no question; but she’d repaid the debt by degree in a dozen little ways: ensuring that Molly didn’t go hungry, making certain she had enough warm clothing when it turned cold. Little things, but they all added up.

  Leesa needn’t have worried; Molly didn’t even seem to register her presence. Instead she took a seat at the far side of the café. As she sat down, her body undulated in an inhuman fashion. A small whiskered snout protruded from beneath her grubby sweater, and Molly was soon cooing at the rodent and feeding it cake crumbs.

  This wasn’t the same rat Molly had kept when Leesa first arrived. She knew that for a fact. She’d witnessed the old woman kill that particular rat and eat it raw.

  Leesa looked away, disgusted with herself rather than Molly, ashamed that she had lingered here for so long. Babylon didn’t hold any answers, only distractions. It was high time she resumed her quest to piece the fragments of her life back together.

  Once the coffee mug had been drained, Leesa felt more alive and ready to wrestle with the world. She had resolved to move forward with her life; and this time she meant it.

  Standing up, she waved a vague farewell in Sal’s direction and left the shack, heading behind it to squeeze through the hole in the wire fence, ready to trot along the short alley that formed the yard’s umbilical to the city proper.

  Head bowed, hands stuck deep in pockets and her thoughts still firmly focused on the excesses of the night before, she stepped into the alley, just as another memory from the previous evening dripped into her consciousness. Leesa stopped dead in her tracks, horrified. It seemed she hadn’t accepted Jamiel’s groping as passively as usual, or at least she hadn’t for long. Already high from the previous score and the fast-fading buzz of some glorious sex, her inhibitions must have been low enough to let her loathing come to the surface. She’d lost control, suffering his pawing for a while but then pulling away.

  She recalled saying, “That’s enough!” The words came to her now as if she’d heard them spoken by someone else, but it was her voice saying them all right.

  Being Jamiel, the cocky little dealer hadn’t taken her seriously, reaching out to slip his hand back inside her top, saying, “Hey, baby, I’m the one who decides when it’s enough, not you.” The smile never left his face.

  Until she slapped his hand away and hit him. Really hit him. A straight jab to the jaw. No wonder the back of her hand had felt sore this morning. Jamiel had gone down without even crying out. Shit! She hadn’t killed him, had she? No, even stoned she wouldn’t be stupid enough to hit him that hard. Unconscious, that was all. Mind you, that was enough.

  Gabon, the great bull of a minder who was never far from Jamiel’s side, had lunged at her, trying to wrap his tree-trunk arms around her torso. A kick to the knee, punch to the stomach and chop to the back of his solid neck had sent the big man collapsing beside his boss.

  And then she’d just gone on with her life as if nothing had happened!

  Dear God. Why had memory waited until now to reveal this little gem? If she didn’t set about some world-class grovelling immediately her life here was over whether she wanted it to be or not. It might not be much of a life but it was all she currently had.

  Only then did Leesa sense the two figures emerging from the shadows.

  One on either side, approaching together, faces artificially darkened to a near-grey hue by manipulation of the skin’s melanin. Leesa wasn’t impressed: she’d seen better skin scrubs on podium dancers at the Green Gecko – more imaginative ones, at any rate. A quick chemical wash and the melanin ‘fix’ would break down, the induced colour fading away to normality. She knew the significance of those grey faces, though, and of the stylised downward-pointing dagger currently emblazoned in gold on each of the pair’s foreheads, the tip of the blade just bisecting the eyebrows. It marked them as Cellothan, a theoretically banned warrior-elite sect specialising in the sadistic; the source of many an urban legend and reputedly the nastiest bastards on the whole of Babylon.

  Jamiel had turned to them? Damn! He wasn’t messing around.

  Leesa had one thing going for her. They were bound to underestimate her. Men always did. No matter if Jamiel had told them how she’d handled herself the previous evening. They would still see before them a scrawny no-hope girl and dismiss Jamiel’s claims as either exaggeration or a reflection of his own ineptitude rather than of her skills. Or so she hoped. Right now the two were busy behaving like the professionals they were. As Leesa stepped carefully backward, one of the grey-faced men angled his approach to move behind her, the other circling so that he was in front, the pair always keeping her between them while edging ever closer.

  What was their intent, murder or just a serious beating? No weapons in sight, so presumably the latter, w
hich gave her a little more manoeuvring room.

  When Leesa acted it was quick and decisive. She feinted to go forward and to her left – one step and a convincing shift of body weight, the merest suggestion of a sway which the two Cellothans instantly responded to. Her actual movement was in the opposite direction. She sprang backwards so that both of the bastards were in front of her. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t give them a chance to revise their perception of her and respond. A sweep of her hand as her foot landed and she grasped the concealed knife, drawing the weapon from its boot sheath and flinging it in one smooth motion. She aimed for the body; the head presented too uncertain a target for such an improvised throw. The whole move was concealed within the flail of limbs and jerk of body caused by her backward hop. The Cellothan she was aiming for couldn’t have seen it coming, couldn’t have anticipated the attack. Yet, impossibly, he somehow managed to react, twisting and turning out of the way in the split second the knife was in the air, so that the blade tore into his upper arm rather than his torso.

  Leesa didn’t pause to watch but was already taking the fight to the other man, swivelling to kick him hard in the solar plexus. The Cellothan wasn’t wearing body armour. She’d heard they never did; too much machismo, presumably, too tough for such wimpish self-concern. Her kick found its mark, partially paralysing the man’s diaphragm to leave him struggling for breath. She had no idea how she knew to do these things when so much else eluded her – evidently her body remembered how to fight even if her consciousness didn’t, as if violence had seeped indelibly into the cells and synapses that formed her to become an integral part of her being. She didn’t have to think about what she was doing, she simply did.

  Despite being hampered, her opponent still managed to block the next blow, which had been aimed at his kidneys, but he was too slow to avoid the follow-up, a chop to the throat with the side of her hand. Something gave – larynx, trachea, she couldn’t be sure, but it was enough to send him collapsing to the floor, clutching at his throat and gasping noisily for breath as if his very life depended on it, as indeed it might.

  The other one had pulled the knife out of his arm, displaying reckless indifference to the damage that might be caused in the process. His right arm now hung awkwardly by his side and blood dripped from the dangling fingertips, but he adopted a fighter’s wide stance, oblivious to the pain, her knife now brandished in his left hand. She closed in, conscious of the weapon but watching his eyes. When the attack came she was ready for it, dodging, swaying and arching her back so that her body was outside the reach of his thrust. The blade passed a hair’s breadth from her midriff. She grabbed his arm with both hands as he started to bend the elbow and bring the weapon back. Putting all her body weight behind the action, she twisted his wrist and used the instinctive retraction, forcing the blade around to stab into his stomach.

  For a frozen instant they stared into each other’s eyes – his brown orbs flecked with gold. Leesa watched as the realisation of death dawned in those eyes and then the light of life drained from them. She stepped away, allowing his body to collapse to the ground.

  She held the knife tightly clutched in her fist. Crouching, she wiped it clean on the dead man’s clothing before quickly cleaning her hand.

  Then she stood up, breathing hard as adrenaline receded enough for reason to put in an appearance.

  Shit! She’d just killed one of the Cellothan. Only one, thank goodness; the second looked fit to survive. The man was now on all fours throwing up, but at least he was still breathing.

  On impulse she strode across and crouched, holding the knife to his throat. The man froze.

  “I could have killed you as well. Remember that,” she hissed, before whipping the knife away and swivelling around to leave him there.

  Not that it would make a scrap of difference. They’d still be after her and wouldn’t rest until she was dead. After all, she’d just kicked them straight in their precious machismo.

  She hurried along the alleyway, mind racing as the realisation of what she’d just done hit home. Shit! Shit! Shit! If she’d needed something to kick her arse into action, this ought to do the trick. Her old pal procrastination was going to have to find a new best friend, because she was getting the hell out of here while she still could.

  Leesa ran a quick inventory in her head. Virtually all her possessions she carried with her. The two men, whether muggers or assassins, had been lying in wait at the mouth of the alley, and that meant they knew where she slept. The only things back in the carriage were the old sleeping blanket and a few changes of clothing; certainly nothing worth the risk of going back for.

  Once word was out that the Cellothan were after her, she wouldn’t have a friend in the world. She might have been able to smooth things out with Jamiel, though he would doubtless have demanded his pound of flesh, but this… This was something else entirely. Eye for an eye, life for a life; it was a maxim she understood only too well.

  She headed for the spaceport, distracted, annoyed at herself for losing control like that and oblivious to the strident blare of horns as she dodged between taxis, bikes, and tin-topped vans, pausing as a tram glided across her path and swearing at the phut-phutting motorbikes that weaved through the traffic and always seemed to be in the way wherever she wanted to go next.

  As she walked and dodged Leesa reflected on the irony of it – what the mind-wipe had taken from her and what the process had left her with. Fundamental things such as who she was or how she came to be on Babylon remained frustratingly elusive, but she knew that she liked steak – rare and not too much or it quickly filled her up – and she knew she liked fish and loved fruit but hated creamy desserts and loathed root vegetables. Most importantly, she remembered her skill sets, such as fighting and mechanics. And therein lay her hope.

  Eventually she made it across the commercial district and into the quieter backstreets that bordered the landing field. Here, away from the bustle and commotion, she moved swiftly but cautiously, every sense straining, acutely aware of the shitstorm she had just stirred up, which would be coming her way sooner rather than later.

  Leesa had to get off world. Head down but eyes now scanning every shadow, she made her way to the Rusty Rivet. Standing directly opposite the main entrance to the space port, the Rivet might not have been the most salubrious of the several bars that clustered around the area, but it was certainly the most obvious.

  No flashing neon signs or fancy holo-displays to attract punters into the Rivet, just an open door, a homely atmosphere and cheap local beer; well, cheaper than any of its nearest competitors at any rate. Drinks still needed paying for, though, a realisation that caused Leesa to pause at the door, slipping fingers into tight pockets to fish around. Thankfully, her questing fingertips found enough coins to buy at least a couple of drinks, which could be eked out for a good few hours if she was careful.

  It was nearly lunchtime and the place was already starting to fill up. Leesa nodded to a couple of familiar faces as she made her way to the bar. Being recognised had both an up and a down side. One or two of these acquaintances might be able to point her in the direction of a job if there were any going. On the other hand, some of them undoubtedly knew Jamiel and wouldn’t hesitate to sell her out for the price of a beer.

  Shipees – non-permanent crew – were constantly hired and fired, taken on for a single trip and subsequently released. It was just a question of being in the right place at the right time. Leesa could only pray that, on this occasion, she was.

  This wasn’t the first time she had staked out a portside bar in the hope of latching onto an outbound crew, but it was the first time she’d ever been this desperate.

  SEVEN

  Pelquin studied the monitors intently as the ship breached Babylon’s upper atmosphere and dropped towards the planet’s thick cloud layer. The hull – that thin shell of layered metal and insulation that surrounded and protected them – was increasingly buffeted by turbulence, but there had been no recurr
ence of the alarming stutter the ship had suffered in transit. He remained on edge, though, expecting one, and the orange warning light only stopped winking once Anna had deactivated it on his instruction. He knew there was a problem and didn’t need to be constantly reminded of the fact.

  As if that wasn’t enough pressure for any man to handle, Drake had wandered back onto the bridge as they began their approach.

  The banker’s presence made him uneasy, so he did his best to ignore the grey-suited figure and get on with his job, concentrating on the monitors, watching intently as they passed through the clouds and the world of Babylon was unveiled. This really was his first time here and he always enjoyed the anticipation of a new world. It wouldn’t be Nate’s first time on Babylon, perhaps, but there was nothing in the ship’s memory to betray that fact.

  As they dropped lower, zeroing in on their destination and quickly reaching the point where individual features were visible, the thing that most drew Pelquin’s eye was the broad river that wound its way through the centre of the city. This was La Gossa, the largest city on Babylon’s only significant continent, and the river was flagged as the Kusbah, which meant in the local language ‘brown artery’. The name couldn’t have been more apt. The Kusbah’s waters were dark with minerals and silt, while in places its surface was choked with enormous barges and cargo vessels, suggesting that the river was a major commercial thoroughfare.

  Docks and factories clustered around the river’s banks, hemming the water in at every turn as it wriggled a serpentine course through the heart of the city. Vast bridges spanned the Kusbah’s expanse at irregular intervals – seeming from this vantage to be crude stitches across an open wound, holding the two halves of the city together.

  As they dropped lower he lost sight of the river, which was replaced by the concrete sprawl of human habitation interspersed with an erratic grid of myriad roads.