by Chris Lowry
"Neat trick," she said.
"You could make this easy," he told her out of the side of his mouth.
"Not on your life."
"Maybe on yours," he warned her.
He led her to an enclosed tube with a moving walkway and pushed her on in front of him.
Mona Lisa struggled for balance for a moment, then posed as the tube led under a dark mound of rock lit with pools of LED lights that cast a weak glow.
"What is this?"
"You came in on a shuttle," Bat didn't sound like a tour guide. "You saw the landing bay. This is how working joes get to the prison."
The walkway carried them five hundred yards into a small vast cavern. Mona Lisa let her eyes wander across the ceiling and after a moment, she realized it was a clear dome covered in red dust.
The conveyor deposited them onto a plain unadorned platform that ended next to a monorail track. She looked left and right to see another larger tunnel that entered the dome on one side and exited on the other.
"Are we going-"
"To Musk," Bat nodded.
She tried to suppress a grin and a jump for joy.
Musk was huge, the first colony on Mars and a hub for space bound activity. It didn't matter what the guard needed to do there or from there. Mona Lisa knew it would be a simple task to ditch Bat and get lost forever in the crowds and chaos a couple of dozen miles away.
CHAPTER FOUR
Musk.
It started as four domes bolted to the surface of Mars when an enterprising entrepreneur made a bet on humanity expanding beyond earth and onto the Red Planet.
The discovery of a rare metal in the asteroid belt orbiting between Mars and Jupiter turned the science experiment in colonization into a jumping off point for space miners and catapulted the domed city into one of the most populated places in the galaxy.
Domes popped up like pimples on a teenager, all shapes, sizes and dimensions. Some large enough to accommodate fifteen story skyscrapers, some barely bigger than an igloo housing moisture farmers and hermits.
Musk bustled.
Mona Lisa took it all in from the three-car elevated monorail and felt a hint of sadness. She had thought things might have changed since she went into prison, that the world stopped at the notice of her absence.
But nothing of that sort happened.
The people kept living, kept moving on in their lives even as hers was put in stasis for a planned five to ten years.
Out in three with good behavior.
Or just a couple of days with bad.
Bat was up before the shuttle car stopped and had her at the doors as they whisked open. She wondered why he didn't have her in handcuffs then realized he wouldn't need them.
She was never more than a half step away from him.
It was a weird dynamic, because even though she felt like she was leading, he was the one doing the steering.
Little touches on the elbow of her arm to indicate direction. A fist pressed into the small of her back if she slowed down too much.
Navigating between the roadblocks of people who stopped to stare at her, men who smiled and women who glared.
It was as if Bat anticipated their actions, and adjusted their movements to slip in front of or behind and avoid the knots of humanity altogether.
Part of her wanted to marvel at it.
There was an element of athletic artistry, an almost poetic way they moved through the crowd.
She wasn't sure how she knew, but if she bolted, he would catch her. She thought he might even grab her arm before she made it two steps, and that would draw more attention than she wanted.
Better to wait for the right moment.
Maybe in the shoulder to shoulder crowd in the bar he steered her into.
"You know someone in here?"
"I know lots of someone's in here."
His eyes scanned the crowd. She watched a few scowls, a couple of glares, and more than a few bodies creeping toward other exits.
"Mr. Popular."
He squinted at a corner of the dark room. Mona Lisa tried to make out what he saw, but there were too many bodies blocking the view.
The room was full of miners, workers, and assorted vendors selling drugs, sex or both.
She watched the room for how many might be working for Buster, but didn't recognize any faces. This far down the chain they would be so removed from him, they might not even know who they worked for.
Still it paid to be careful.
"Come on," Bat ordered.
He didn't wait for her to follow, just did that thing where he steered her forward just by his sheer presence, as if he displaced the air around her and moved her on the wake.
Bat stepped aside and slid her into the booth across from a soot streaked and tattered scarecrow of a man. He may have been handsome once, but a downhill slide into whatever liquid currently resided in a glass between his hands was turning him sour from the inside out.
His face was lined with crow's feet and creases at his lips from a thousand smiles, shaggy hair limp and oily framed a narrow face.
His eyes were ice blue and watched in hypnotic wonder at the creature who slid in the bench across from him.
"This must be my luckiest day."
"It is," Bat answered and snapped his attention off Mona Lisa.
The guard slid a communicator across the table top and swiped the screen open for the man to see.
"We're looking for a pilot," Bat told him.
The man sat up straighter in the booth and blinked his eyes three times at the glowing screen in front of him.
"That's a lot of credit for a pilot, Cop," he answered.
"I'm not a cop."
The pilot sniffed the air in an exaggerated fashion.
"Walks like a pig, talks like a pig, smells like bacon, I don't guess frog."
He sniffed again.
"Cop."
"Take my word on it."
The pilot guffawed and pounded the table with his fist, spilling his drink.
A barmaid shuffled up to the edge of the table and shouted over the noise of the crowd.
"What will it be?"
"We're leaving in a minute," Bat told her.
"Too late," she said. "You've already attracted too much attention."
She pointed toward the far side of the bar.
Mona Lisa yelped as she finally recognized someone.
Not just any someone either, but one of Buster's top hired guns. She knew him as the Iceman, but not for any sinister reason, the man just liked to watch Top Gun and rooted for the wrong hero.
"The Iceman cometh," she said in a soft voice.
"He's not the only one," the pilot leered at her.
The Iceman began shoving his way through the crowd.
"This is trouble," Mona Lisa said to Bat.
He grunted and slid the communicator back across the table. The pilot made a halfhearted swipe for it, missed and tipped his drink all over the floor in a puddle that spread in front of the table.
"Momma never told me bout nothing like you," he slurred and stood up, avoiding the puddle and giving Bat a little space. "What's the job cop?"
"He's not a cop," Mona Lisa said before Bat could answer. "Trust me."
"I'd trust you with my life," the pilot smiled. "And my heart too, if you want it. I'll even throw in all the body you can handle for free."
He wiggled it, just a little bit and Mona Lisa bit back a sneer.
Bat let Mona Lisa out of the booth and corralled her over the puddle, putting it between him and the approaching muscle man.
"Your fiancé hires guy's with very bad reputations."
"Ex-," she corrected. "And yes. He's not a very nice man."
Iceman overheard this last comment as he got closer and pretended to pout.
"Mona Lisa, love you hurt my feelings. I've always been nice to you."
"This doesn't concern you," Bat warned him. "Move along."
Iceman fixed a look on him and wrinkled his nose.
"I'm not a cop," Bat corrected.
"He's not a cop," the pilot added.
"Tinker? I thought you were a pole," Iceman noticed the square crow man for the first time. "How do you know?"
"Because he told me," the pilot said. "Cops have to identify themselves if you ask. It's the law."
"That true copper?" Iceman glared at Bat. "You supposed to identify yourself if someone asks you."
"I don't know the law."
"That sounds like a cop lie to me. Cops do lie, you know. All the time. Mona Lisa, how do you know if a cop is lying to you?"
He tilted his head and peered at her.
"Their lips are moving."
Iceman whipped a blocky black pistol out of his waistband and lifted it to aim. Bat reached out, grabbed the hand with the gun in it and in one smooth motion yanked the man forward, and twisted the pistol out of his grip.
The hired gun stumbled into the spilled liquid on the floor. His feet slid out to either side in one slick motion and plopped him ass deep in alcohol.
Before anyone could move, before they could breath, Bat slipped a taser pistol from a holster and shot the prongs into Iceman's chest.
No one touched him as his body twitched and twanged in the puddle, the white color turning a pale shade of yellow as Bat made the bad man pee himself.
"Gross," Tinker said stepping back as the puddle spread. "How much did you drink?"
Bat holstered the taser hidden under his shirt and secreted the pistol next to it.
"Aren't projectile weapon's illegal on Mars?" Tinker followed them as Bat led Mona Lisa from the bar. "A real cop would have arrested him."
"Or shot him," Mona Lisa struggled to keep up.
"Yeah. You know who that was, right?"
Mona Lisa nodded as they reached the walkway outside of the bar.
"And since you let him live, they're going to think I'm with you," Tinker mused.
He did not look happy about his musing.
"How much were you offering again? I'm suddenly finding myself in need of being elsewhere."
"Show us your ship," said Bat.
"Show me the money."
But Bat didn't blink and after a minute, Tinker led them away from the bar, muttering under his breath.
"It gets worse," Mona Lisa said to the side of Bat's face. "Now Buster knows I'm out."
CHAPTER FIVE
The door to the hold trundled open with a swishing sound.
"Ta-da," Tinker presented the inside with a wave of his hands.
"What a piece of shit," Mona Lisa tried not to gag.
"Trust me, she's got it where it counts."
He brushed past her and went to the blocky shuttle that looked like an elongated beetle. Carbon streaks scarred its flanks from previous encounters with rockets. It wasn't an overly large ship. A hold in front of engines, a bulbous cockpit on the front end. Rounded on the corners instead of being blocky.
The hull was streaked and scored with pits and dings. Soot, grime, and what looked like mud covered it in streaks.
Strategically across identifying numbers Bat noted.
Metal patches of varied colors were welded to the hull.
Tinker worked a panel that opened the hold door and started the engines at the same time. A roar filled the port dock and settled into a coughing rumble.
Mona Lisa was used to luxury space yachts, not rehabilitated garbage scows. Engines that purred instead of puttered.
Smoke poured from the wide stern portals almost faster than the air scrubbers could keep up with.
"Are you seeing this?" she asked Bat.
"My only job is to watch you."
"We're going to die in this thing."
"Probably not," Tinker called from the misty cloud clinging to the bottom of the loading ramp like a fog.
"I've made this run hundreds of times."
"It shows," she sneered. "This isn't going to work. I've changed my mind. Take me back to my cell."
"Alright," Bat snaked out a hand and snagged her wrist. he spun her around and zip tied one hand before she could draw a breath to protest.
"Wait! Wait! Wait!" she squirmed. "he said probably not, right? You did say probably not."
Her eyes searched for Tinker in the fog and smoke.
"I did say probably." his disembodied voice answered.
"See," she explained. "Probably. That means we've got a chance. But if Buster blows up that power station, then we'll all definitely die. That's what the Warden said."
Bat didn't answer her, but he did let her go.
She held up her wrist to expose the still attached zip tie.
Bat reached out and snipped off the end with a platinum multitool.
"You clipped the wrong part," she winked at him.
Still nothing.
"That's a reminder," he told her. "In case you decide to run."
"All aboard," Tinker called out.
Mona Lisa glared at Bat and climbed aboard the small ship.
"Run?" she huffed. "We're in space. Where am I gonna go?"
CHAPTER SIX
"Let me give you the grand tour," Tinker ushered them into the hold of the ship. "This is it."
Bat let his eyes rove over the interior. It was a mess. The rear wall had one long bench, covered in discarded clothing, papers, books and empty food containers.
There was a closed door at the rear and a second pass through at the front that was open to the cockpit.
Mona Lisa strutted to the front and tried to hold back a gag as she sniffed the air.
"What's back there?" Bat pointed to the closed door.
"Captain's quarters."
"Let me see."
"A man is entitled to his privacy," said Tinker.
Bat slipped a communicator out of his pocket.
"What you got there?" the pilot asked.
"Credit slip for the job."
"For me?" he held out his hand, palm up.
The universal sign for gimme.
"Open that door."
Tinker dropped his hand and scowled.
"That wasn't part of the deal."
"I made the deal," said Bat. "I can break it."
"Let's not rush to a decision now," Tinker backpedaled.
His voice moved through octaves, from scratchy low to an almost feminine high pitch depending on his sentences. Bat noted the twitches.
Twitching hands that never stayed still.
Nervous shifting from foot to foot. Eyes that moved over him, to Mona Lisa, to the door at the back and did the circuit again in a loop.
A man with something to hide.
"Door."
"Do you think the whole tough guy act is gonna work on me?"
It would be bravery from another man. It sounded brave from the pilot. Voice pitched low, aggressive and cocky.
The feet gave him away. Still shifting. The eyes gave him away. Still roving.
A serious man would be itching for a fight, and preparing. Going still, eyes wide to take in more of the surroundings. Maybe a move to put his back against the hull of the hold so there were no worries about an attack from that direction.
Feet planted, one slightly behind the other to prepare for a rush or a swivel, depending on the aggressor’s approach.
Like Bat was now.
"The silent treatment doesn't scare me," Tinker continued.
Still talking. Wasting breath, chest falling and rising faster.
Not good with tension, with stress, thought Bat.
Then why was he a pilot, a smuggler no less. The runs weren't well patrolled, but there was always a risk.
Getting caught meant a prison cell on Mars, and Tinker did not seem like a man who would do well in prison.
The twitching would bother someone, and they would make him stop.
Permanently.
Bat stared at him. Waiting. Tinkers head swiveled, making the loop again and stopping to rest on Mona Lisa who watched them with a calculated
look on her features.
"Does he scare you gorgeous?"
The pilot's swiveling eyes travelled up and down her trim form in the tight jumpsuit. On most people, it would be shapeless, formless, but on her, it was skintight, like some fashion designer created it specifically for her shape.
It wasn't possible, but Bat supposed some people were like that.
She used it as a distraction. He knew it. She knew it. The pilot didn't.
She shrugged.
"He doesn't scare me," Tinker kept talking. His tongue joining the circus now, traveling across his lips, hands twitching. "The quiet tough guy stuff may work in prison, but out here in the real world-"
"Let's go Inmate."
The pilot jumped. Mona Lisa jumped. Bat's voice startled both of them. But she growled.
"Move," he ordered.
She sulked toward the still open air lock hatchway.
"Blood-Y Hell!"
Tinker stomped across the decking. The bottoms of his magnetized boots click clacked along the way. He keyed a code on the panel next to the hatch and the tiny door at the rear of the compartment slid open.
"Satisfied?" he stepped back and shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his grimy coveralls.
Bat leaned in the doorway.
"It's a swamp."
"I like it."
The small cubbyhole had a bunk, a metal desk and looked like a trash heap exploded in the cramped interior. Every space was covered with debris, the leavings of a man who thrived in chaos.
"I've got a system," Tinker said over his shoulder.
"Is that a-"
"And a still," the pilot interrupted the guard. "Anyone fancy a drink?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mona Lisa tried to escape the stench, the smell of sweat and hooch and sour odor of alcohol seeping through someone's pores. There were supposed to be air scrubbers inside the ship too, all required by codes and standards.
Laws. Rules.
Which this pilot didn't seem to give a damn about.
She snorted.
The exact reason they picked him. An outlaw, someone who slid under the radar and flouted rules.
Like her, she thought as she peered into the shallow lower level of the cockpit.
The guard was the only one who followed rules. A stickler.