by Watson Davis
I pivoted, lowering my head and jamming my hands into my pockets, and stomped to the door.
"Dorothea?" Edmund called.
I peeked back. "I've gotta stretch my legs."
# # #
Sean sat on a stool behind the bar, wiping away at a mug, while a game played on the big screen with Sly and Moritz cheering for their teams. A few more of Edmund's team lounged at the round tables, slouching with an air of impending violence peculiar to warriors, be they police, military, or criminal. If Christal had not known most of these folks, she would have put her hand on her tase stick, and prepared for the worst that was sure to come.
But she did know most of these guys, except for a couple of new girls, and luckily there weren't many civilians in Sean's tonight.
Sean smiled at her, winking, and she winked back, smacking her gum, feeling kinda sexy dressed up like a tart from a prostitution sting she'd been working earlier in the evening. She strutted, expecting a happy reunion, sliding the fingertips of her left hand across the top of the bar. Her newly single cousin Darla followed along a couple of steps behind, hoping to meet Missy Malordo after seeing a picture with Edmund, Missy, and Christal.
Edmund sat sprawled out at a table near the bar, legs stretched out, staring at the glass between his forearms, at the army of glasses arrayed behind that one, staring at the glass like an old friend who had betrayed his trust, failing him after years and years of faithful service. Christal considered the others from his team: Kevin and his sour face; Callus slumped over the table; Lorber and Malordo at a table with a new girl, their eyes half shut, faces flushed, perspiring.
Christal hoped Tam, Landry, and Palson were taking a leak, but a chill swirled in her guts warning her they weren't around, and never would be again.
"Hey, gang," Christal said. "Bad mission?"
Edmund scrambled to his feet, his chair crashing to the ground, eyes open wide, like she'd caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, surprising him. "Christal."
Kevin stood. "Hey, Chris." Malordo and Lorber waved. "Christal."
One of the new girls, the one sitting beside Edmund—curly brown hair, pale skin, thick jaw—stood, her hand reaching out. "Hi!" she said. "I'm new to the team. Vanessa. Glad to meet you."
Christal studied her, not liking her proximity to Edmund. She put her hand out, but she didn't take Vanessa's, allowing the new girl to come and make the first move. "Yeah. You, too."
"And that's Dorothea." This Vanessa person gestured to Christal's right, back to the table with Lorber and Malordo, to the newbie who'd stood and stepped away from the table: a sturdy, well-muscled woman, dangerous-looking with her skin darker than all but a few station folk, and her black hair in cornrows with the ends tied off with black beads. She wore tight jeans and a sleeveless tee-shirt, a golden tattoo of a winged skull on her arm—just Darla's type. Vanessa said, "She's the other newbie."
Dorothea jerked, turning toward Christal, then ambled over and offered her hand. "Hey."
"Hey." Christal grasped the woman's hand, finding her palm warm, and gave her a perfunctory shake, but she moved back to Edmund immediately, sliding one hand to his back to rub across his shoulder blades, exploring the ferrocrete-hard muscles under his shirt, with her other palm on his chest. Christal surveyed the room one more time. "Hey, baby. Is this everyone?"
"Yeah." Edmund gulped, nodding, staring down at the table, his shrug almost imperceptible, like a sullen teenager. "Gang's all here."
"Oh, baby." Christal rested her forehead on his shoulder, sliding her head around so her cheek rested on his shoulder, her left hand massaging his back as she looked up at his tortured face. She touched his chin, trying to persuade him to look at her, to meet her eyes, knowing what pain she would find in them, knowing how he tormented himself whenever he lost anyone, but he refused to meet her eyes.
The new girl, Dorothea, stalked off toward the door, her shoulders rounding, her head bowed.
"Dorothea?" Edmund called.
Dorothea glared back over her shoulder, saying, "I've gotta stretch my legs." She crammed her hands into her pockets and fled out the door.
"Edmund?" Christal backed away from him and Darla retreated to the bar. Christal squeezed herself in front of Edmund, making him look at her, realizing how broken he must be inside, needing to share that pain with him, to help him, but an odd, cold distance separated them, a distance she'd never felt with him even when he'd lost others in his command. "What can I do to help?"
"Maybe..." He shook his head, dragging his pearly white teeth over his bottom lip. "Maybe we should go outside and talk."
Christal swallowed her gum. "Outside?"
"Yeah." He nodded, sliding out between Darla and Christal and trudging up the aisle between the bar and the tables to the door.
Christal glanced at Darla, whose fear filled her eyes, not knowing what to do with herself, not knowing anyone there, and Christal couldn't help her, not knowing what to do with herself either. "Sean, could you do me a favor and give Darla a drink? And introduce her to everyone for me?"
"Wait, what?" Darla yanked on Christal's arm.
Christal peeled Darla's fingers from her biceps. "I'll be right back."
Ignoring her cousin's gurgled protest, Christal swaggered down the aisle, fighting against the high heels, out the door to the sidewalk, and found herself beneath the twinkling stars and their glimmering FountainCorp sister station shining through the dome. A small, yippy dog led its owner past, its feet racing, but otherwise, the street was deserted.
Edmund waited on the corner with his arms crossed, his broad back to her.
"So?" Christal shoved her hands in her back pockets. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" He turned to her, his cheeks sparkling with tears reflecting the lights along the buildings, his voice throaty and rough. "What do you have to be sorry for?"
"I understand how much you love your teammates." She pulled her right hand out of her pocket to caress his cheek, sensing the wet tears but also the hard ridge of an ancient scar. "You feel like I do about my brothers and sisters on the force."
"Yeah." He snorted, pulling away and scratching his shaved head. "Listen. I told you when we first started dating, I've got issues with relationships."
Christal forgot to breathe, standing like a statue, her hand frozen in midair, her mouth hanging open with a hundred things begging to be said, but not a word passed her lips.
"You're the best," he said, his lower lip quivering, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "You're too good for me. I've got issues."
"You said that," she whispered. "But what the hell are you saying? You're having second thoughts about moving in? That's okay. You can take your time."
"No." He shook his head. "You need to move on from me. You need to find a guy worthy of you."
"What did I do?" she asked, her insides crumbling, breaking apart, ripping into tatters.
"No." He grabbed her arms, his hands so strong. "I need to work some things out. I can't ask you to wait around until I figure out how to become a decent human being. I won't. So I'm terminating this."
"Terminating?" Christal slapped him, the sting of his cheek against the palm of her hand somehow life-affirming, but not satisfying enough. "You're going to 'terminate' our relationship? And I don't rate any say? I don't deserve any input to the decision?"
"Exactly." He pushed her aside and strode back into Sean's Bar, one long step at a time, holding his head high.
Christal couldn't say how long she stood there, staring at the door, her mind paralyzed, dazed.
A man stumbled out through the door to the bar, a man smudged with dirt and grease. He placed his hand on her shoulder, saying, "What are you asking?"
Christal shook her head. "I'm so confused."
"So," he said. "What will 20 creds get me?"
Christal snatched his wrist, jerking his hand from her shoulder, twisting him around, whipping the cuffs out of her jacket. She slammed them on his wrists. "Arrested, t
hat's what 20 creds get you."
# # #
Gus shut the door to his office, his secretary long gone, the corridor outside dimmed in a nod to humanity's terrestrial origins, his stomach twisting into a burning knot of hunger. He touched his temple, accessing his on-board, opening a voice channel to his partner, Don, part of him hoping Don would pick up, another part hoping he'd already fallen asleep. No answer.
"A late night?" a woman's deep, throaty voice said.
Gus jerked around, his heart racing.
Provisional Recruit Dorothea Ohmie leaned against the corridor's wall, her thick arms crossed over her chest, the cords of muscle in her forearms standing out and her brow furrowed.
"You scared me." Gus exhaled a chuckle and shook his head, eyes blinking. "I didn't see you there."
She tipped her head to the side, expelling her breath like she was giving up or giving in. "I think I need to talk to you."
"It's really late," he said, imagining Don waiting in their kitchen in his white fluffy bathrobe, tapping his foot, with a steaming cup of Old World tea in his hands. Gus rapped his knuckle on the door and turned to face her, pulling at his vest to stretch out any wrinkles. "I've locked up for the night. Is this something that can wait until tomorrow?"
"Yeah, sure." She straightened up, pushing herself from the wall and waving her hand for him to go on, a shadow in her eyes as she pivoted away from him. "Tomorrow."
Gus realized that if he let her walk away, he would lose all hope of ever getting into her head and learning what drove her, what motivated her; he would lose all hope of being able to help her heal, any chance of liberating her from her anger. He reached out, touching her shoulder. "Why don't you escort me to my apartment? We can talk on the way, and you can protect me from all sorts of FountainCorp rascals and cutthroats roaming the halls this late. Like my boss, for example."
She stared down the corridor as though assessing threats and risks in a mission, then took a deep breath and let it back out nice and slow. "I don't think that's necessary. I can wait."
"I was joking about the cutthroats," he said, appraising her reaction, making sure she understood him and that he had not offended her. He had not worked with her long enough to read her.
Her eyes bored into him, one eyebrow rising. "But not the rascals?"
"Please. I can make a sandwich for you when we arrive at my place." Gus kept himself from wincing at the expression he imagined on Don's face if Gus showed up with a member of one of his teams in tow. He patted his belly. "I'm starving."
Looking down at the deck, she nodded. "If you're sure."
"Come on." Gus gestured for her to follow, trying not to rush. "I thought the team was going out for a drink tonight."
"Yeah." She followed, lengthening her stride and catching up before he'd gone two steps, hands clasped behind her back, head hanging low.
Gus examined her as they strolled along side by side, waiting for some continuation, for her to tell him what was on her mind. They walked down the darkened corridor, where the offices stood closed for the evening shift to allow the janitorial staff to clean up.
He hesitated, opening and closing his mouth twice before asking, "Is this about you and Edmund?"
"What?" Her head snapped around toward him, her eyes wild and angry, her hands squeezing into fists. "What about Edmund and me?"
Gus swallowed, easing away from her, not wanting to divulge what Edmund and he had discussed in private, but dying to learn how the two of them were dealing with the situation, and to discover Dorothea's take on the events. "You were a major in an elite fighting force. I can't imagine how hard it is to come here and take orders from someone less trained and less experienced."
Her forehead wrinkled, eyes studying him, questioning him. She blinked. "Oh. That."
"He was upset with how you ignored the orders he gave to Kevin, and I'm sure he's concerned for the future," Gus said. He stopped, pointing down an intersecting corridor. "This way."
"Yeah, no." She plodded along beside Gus. "We'll work the chain of command and iron out our issues. I do not have a problem taking orders. Doesn't matter what your rank is, you're always taking orders."
"That is a truth, that is." Gus laughed, sensing her barriers crumbling. He jumped in, concerned for only a moment that he was attempting too much before establishing enough of a relation between them. "So what did you need to talk to me about?"
"Santina," she said.
"Santina?" He slowed his walk, pursing his lips as he opened the door to the lift, and bowed for her to enter. "Is there something I should know about Santina? Something wrong?"
"No," she said, sliding into the lift and settling her back against the far wall. "Yes. Maybe."
"Well, thanks for clearing that up." Gus trailed along behind her, pressing the button to his floor and sector. "I feel much better."
"I just think we should be doing something to stop the abductions and hostage-taking from happening to other people, to people who can't defend themselves," she said, her breathing growing heavier, her hands now unclasped and dangling loose by her sides in fists she clenched and released, clenched and released.
"I think you've made your position clear in the group meetings," Gus said, smiling, hoping she'd take the cue and lighten up herself. "But we are not a solar police force; we're FountainCorp Security."
Her head bowed again, and she glared down at the floor. Her hands grabbed the guardrail, her knuckles lightening from the pressure of her grip.
"Tell me, why is this such an important issue for you?" Gus raised his hands, palms toward her, adding, "Not that this shouldn't be an important issue, not saying these abductions aren't something that needs to be taken care of, but why is this particular issue so important to you?"
The door slid open and Gus backed out, watching the struggle on her face as she followed him through the door.
"Kids"—her eyes darted up, capturing his—"are too important to be thrown away, and they're too inexperienced to realize when they're making a huge mistake."
Gus stood in the hall, his hands resting on his hips as he considered her words, contemplating the tensions playing out. "What mistake did Santina make?"
"She wanted to be a dancer," Dorothea said, breathing faster and faster. "She signed up with the wrong crew. Someone blew smoke up her ass, and before she could count to ten, she was a guinea pig for some fucks who need to get their asses reamed out with explosive rounds."
"She wanted to be a dancer?" Gus asked. "How did you find that out?"
"She told me," Dorothea said.
"What mistake did you make?" he asked, keeping his voice a whisper, scrutinizing her for a response to validate his hunch.
Dorothea stopped moving, holding herself still, except for her face; her face seemed to age by a century, her jaw going slack, her eyes filling with tears, looking at nothing in the corridor, driven to some memory. She whispered, "I thought I loved him."
Gus recognized the signs; he had to draw her back to now, back from whatever precipice her mind was balancing on. "We tracked down where she was picked up. We've pieced together information from the Unity database we got from the station, along with some other law enforcement queries we've made."
Dorothea shook her head, gulping, looking at him with wide, almost innocent eyes. "What?"
"Unity used—or uses, I guess I should say—a sort of contractor to 'find' people for experiments like this." Gus watched her as he spoke, making sure she was back, knowing now he had a bead on what made her tick.
"A contractor?" She spat the words out, her natural strength returning. "Who?"
"We're not sure, but that's none of your concern." He placed his hand on her shoulder, peering into her eyes, seeking her confidence. "I want you to trust that I'm not going to let this issue drop. I am calling in every favor I've got in the company and outside the company to gather more intelligence on this, because you're right. This is an evil that moral people can't tolerate and shouldn't permit to cont
inue."
"You just tell me who these people are and where they live"—she lifted her hands as though she were holding a blaster, aiming at a target—"and pow."
That's exactly the problem. Gus licked his lips. "I'll put your team at the tip of the spear that takes these people out, if I can."
She poked her finger into Gus's chest, knocking him back. "You do that."
Mr. Satele
"I give up." Santina collapsed to her knees, the muscles in her arms no longer responding to her desire to swing, the muscles in her legs no longer willing to keep her standing. Sweat rolled down her nose, dripping from the tip, stinging the insides of her nostrils with each heaving breath she took. The loose-fitting shirt Dorothea had given her clung to her body, soaking up the sweat until it weighed a ton, more sweat puddling up beneath her on the mat. "I can't go any more."
Vanessa patted Santina's back. "Catch your breath. You’re doing great."
Santina shook her head, lungs burning.
Dorothea loomed over Santina, round pads on her hands and no expression on her face. "Stand up," she said. "We've still got five more minutes in this session."
"Hero?" Vanessa said. "She's still building up her stamina. Give her a second."
"No excuses," Dorothea said, her voice harsh, angry. She crouched before Santina, swatting at Santina's head with her padded hand, knocking her to the side and making the girl hold her body up with her quivering arms.
Dorothea shook her head, standing back up. "A fight is not just about strength and skill. A fight is a test of will and desire."
"My arms won't move," Santina gasped, her whole body aflame, a stitch in her side, her lungs struggling to find enough air.
"Pick her up." Dorothea motioned to Vanessa, who slid her hands under Santina's arms and hoisted the girl back to her feet.
Santina staggered, trying to balance, afraid to fall and unsure she would be able to stand back up.
Dorothea's hand looped around, a wide, slow arc, so slow that even Santina tracked it with ease, watching without reacting as it ended with a pat, a swat to Santina's ear, toppling her to one knee.