Sour Notes

by Todd C Wilson

  “Emergency Services, how can I help?” a hopeful voice said on the other end.

  “Yes, I…” have a hole in my heart, I wanted to say. I’m partially blinded, my brain is overheating, and I have a hole in my heart. I cleared my throat and started over. “Multiple casualties at Channel 99 News. Three dead, one critically wounded. Injured species classified as Yognum, Sepherious Cluster.” A weak cough reminded me there was still one person left alive, one that needed to be taken care of if things were going to be set right. “Make that four dead,” I amended.

  I dropped the phone, ignoring the operator demanding more information and the pounding behind my eyes. Drawing Roosevelt, I aimed and fired one-handed, the hammer dropping down onto an empty chamber. Cursing, I fumbled to eject the magazine while still holding onto Bob, trying to juggle three things at once. Dh’oug seized his chance and stumbled away, clutching his battered case. I braced Roosevelt between my feet, ramming a fresh magazine inside. Grabbing the gun, I brought it up to firing position but Dh’oug was already gone, leaving a wobbly trail of yellow powder behind.

  I holstered Roosevelt, fuming. My head was pounding, pressure just behind my eyes. I held onto Bob, swearing that I would track Dh’oug down the first chance I got. As far as I was concerned, the reporter was a done deal, he just didn’t know it yet. All the Wicked Yellow in the universe wasn’t gonna change that.

  Emergency Services finally showed up, taking over and bustling about. A paramedic cracked open a medical cooler, shooting something liquid and glowing into Bob’s body. Her color immediately improved, going from a dull gray to a faint blue. Satisfied she would survive the trip, Emergency Services bundled her and the remains of my coat onto a specialized gurney, telling me my quick thinking had saved her life. Some hero. I was the one that got Bob hurt in the first place, dragging her into the line of fire when all she wanted to do was help.

  Paramedics approached, all smiling faces and soothing words. I batted their hands and claws away, not wanting to be touched. I was poison, I could see that now. Simply being in the same room as me was tantamount to inviting death. Yarrow, Moh’na, and now quite possibly, Bob. Dh’oug and I were cut from the same cloth, the only difference one of degree. I ignored all attempts at assistance and walked away, following the exit signs showing the way.

  Onlookers crowded the street outside, pressing against the barricade thrown up to keep them back. I walked through it, ignoring demands for answers. Someone made the mistake of pushing a microphone in my face and I lashed out, fist connecting with something soft and yelpy. I kept walking, the pain in my hand matching the one in my head, my heart.

  I rubbed my bare arms, skin cold without my coat to protect them. A chill breeze blew past, my short haircut rippling in sympathy. I could smell rain in the air, a distant storm drawing closer. A trio of revelers stumbled by, drunk and happy. Not a care in the world. I envied them, hated them, wanted to be them.

  I touched Roosevelt, nestled in his home, high and tight on my chest.

  The only friend I truly deserved.

  I kept walking.

  Chapter 21

  I

  sat in darkness, my best friend Roosevelt comfortably resting in one hand. The two of us sat there, not moving, just waiting, listening to the hum of a motor somewhere and the sounds of the street outside.

  It had taken me five days, but I had finally tracked my quarry down to a shabby walkup on Eighth Street. Based on the voices outside the door, the information leading me here was solid. It better be. I had certainly paid enough for it.

  The door opened, two silhouettes blocking the outside light, one tall, one short. With the door no longer blocking the road, their conversation became clear.

  “...it’s okay baby, you’ll like it. A little smack of yellow and you’ll be seeing rainbows in no time,” a male voice said, smarmy and sure of himself. Overtones of lust and excitement gave his voice an oily tinge, one that set my teeth on edge. I had to force myself not to twist Roosevelt up into firing position and put a hole right where it would do the most good.

  “I don’t know,” the other whined, female and younger. The outline looked Aven, undeveloped wings folded tight around her body. A built-in coat, handy for rainy days and cold nights. Pain to fix if it got shot up, however. In more ways than one.

  “How about a little taste first?” the male voice said encouragingly, pulling the Aven out of the light and closing the door, dropping the room back into darkness. A fumbling sound and then the soft click of a switch, the room bathed in cheap flurolight, humming in their fixtures.

  “Cold vacuum and space!” the male said, recoiling at the sight of me sitting in a chair next to a dirty suitcase, Roosevelt in my lap and a new hat on my head. The Aven shrieked and unfolded her wings, fluttering them ineffectively and showing off a tiny halter top pretending it had something to hide.

  “Hey there Dh’oug,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately calm. “Or should I say Fh’ife? Since that is your real name from before you changed it. How’s tricks? I guess you took my advice and found a plastic surgeon after all. Like the nose. The ears could use some work.” Dh’oug’s face was bruised and puffy, freshly doctored up by whatever fly-by-night cutter the former news reporter had found. If I was lucky Dh’oug would get a nice bacterial infection to go along with his new looks, provided he lived that long.

  “You!” Fh’ife, aka Dh’oug, snarled, reaching behind his back. I raised Roosevelt and pulled the hammer back, the metallic click of the weapon getting ready to fire loud in the dingy room. It had the desired effect, freezing Dh’oug in place, hand halfway past his left hip. Good to see his memory of last week’s fun and games was still intact.

  “Yup, me. So, reach behind you and take that popgun out and toss it over here, nice and slow. That’s a good boy.” Dh’oug followed orders, his eyes never leaving the business end of Roosevelt, the opening dark and ominous.

  “What’s your name, kiddo?” I asked the Aven, who kept trying to fly more than a millimeter off the ground.

  “Sa – Sa – Sarloy,” she said, taking a few tries to get it right.

  “Okay, Sarloy. What are you, twelve, thirteen?” I asked, popping the battery pack out the plasma thrower one-handed and tossing the deactivated weapon across the room. The plastic toy clattered away, out of sight and out of mind. I didn’t like the things, too unreliable and had a nasty tendency to blow up when you least expected.

  “Twel – seventeen,” Sarloy said, finally finding her voice. “I’m small for my age.”

  “Sure, you are. Pro tip, one former dumb-ass kid to another, don’t hang around with strange men after dark. It doesn’t make you cool or grown up or smart. It only makes you hurt in places you didn’t know you had. Men like Dh’oug here don’t have your best interest in heart, no matter what they tell you. Isn’t that right, Dh’ougy boy?” I said, keeping Roosevelt trained on the former news anchor. Dh’oug didn’t bother to answer.

  “In any case. Me and Dh’oug here have some unfinished business to take care of. Business that doesn’t involve you. So, Sarloy. Why don’t you head on home and think about your life choices and where you want to be in five years. I’m sure your parental units, all six of them, are worried sick about you.”

  I waited until twelve-going-on-seventeen Sarloy had fled, halter top and undeveloped wings and all. Dh’oug looked like he wanted to join her, but the threat of Roosevelt telling him otherwise kept him firmly rooted in place. My eyesight had recovered since last week, but at this distance even half-blind Professor Chiezis couldn’t miss.

  “How did you find me?” Dh’oug finally got out, curiosity winning over fear.

  “This,” I said, holding up a packet of Wicked Yellow. “Have to admit, it wasn’t easy, shalla. As you can probably guess, drug dealers are reluctant to give up their supply chain, no matter how nicely you ask.” I hefted Roosevelt, enjoying the way Dh’oug moved in response. “Unfortunately for you, I didn’t ask very nicely.” I patted the dirt
y suitcase next to me. “Also, unfortunately for you, you don’t hide things very well. Behind the refrigerator, really? First place I looked.”

  I got up out of my chair and moved behind it, keeping Roosevelt trained on Dh’oug. I learned my lesson the hard way, the news reporter turned drug dealer quick to take advantage. This time I wasn’t going to give him any.

  “Sit down,” I ordered. Dh’oug reluctantly complied. Once he was seated, I jerked his arms back and pulled a quick-tie around them, ignoring his complaints and making sure it was extra tight. As an added measure I threaded another set around the struts of the chair back, looping them through the first. Even if Dh’oug felt like leaving, he’d be bringing a new friend along with him.

  I walked back in front of Dh’oug, looking down at him. Even trussed up he was defiant. It was time to take him down a notch.

  “So Dh’oug. Or Fh’ife, or whatever name you go by these days. It took some digging and a few late nights, but I finally figured it out. Let me know if I get anything wrong,” I said. I kept Roosevelt in one hand, held loosely at my side, eyes fixed on Dh’oug, praying for him to make a move and give me a reason to shoot him.

  “So, a friend of mine – two actually – likes to collect stuff. Old news clippings, random bits of tech, you name it. Best part is, these guys – and I use that term loosely, because hey, you never know – each have an absolutely amazing card catalog, going back years. Decades, even. Old tech, pre-The Event. Survive anything.” I stopped talking and looked hard at Dh’oug. “Even a massive explosion at the Science Facility.”

  No reaction, no denial. But then again, I didn’t expect any. I kept talking.

  “See, I already figured out Moh’na came from Inez-5 and knew her biochem. Or at least she did, once upon a time. But what had me puzzled was why she switched majors? Then I went back and looked at immigration reports from right around that time, courtesy of my friend and his card catalog, and guess what popped out?” Dh’oug shifted in his seat, but still didn’t say anything.

  “Yeah, that’s right. You. You popped out. Not six months after the fiasco on Inzae-5. The one you caused.” That finally got a reaction.

  “I had nothing to do with that!” Dh’oug declared, thrusting his jaw out at me. Obviously, a sore spot. I leaned on it.

  “That’s not how I see it,” I said. “Officially, sure. But unofficially, from all the reports my friend collected before The Event cut him and the rest of us off from the universe, one name kept coming up. Fh’ife, a minor Inez-5 localnet celebrity. Maker of crappy holovids on all sorts of topics, like how to scam nutrient trucks for free food among other things. Always skirting the law, never quite going over the edge. At least until you decided it would be funny to egg your followers into doing something so blatantly stupid researchers actually wrote a paper on it. No idea what became of the poor slobs you left behind, but I doubt it was anything good. Permanent brain damage, from what I’ve been told. Locals must’ve been up in arms, so I can understand why you wanted to leave.”

  I pulled up a chair in front of Dh’oug one-handed, legs screeching over the cheap plastic flooring. Spinning it around I sat down spread-legged and draped myself over the back. I crossed my arms and let Roosevelt dangle loosely, my eyes never leaving Dh’oug’s.

  “I guess news of what you did on the home planet followed, causing Moh'na to re-evaluate her career choices. I know you did, at least for a while, keeping your head down and out of the public eye. But eventually you gave in, the desire to be seen and adored by the public simply too much to resist. Some credits splashed around and poof, Dh’oug the reporter is born, Fh’ife erased from the public records. Working with Moh'na must have been a nice bonus, even more so when the two of you finally fell into bed together.”

  Dh’oug opened his mouth to reply and then closed it with a snap. His eyes glared at me, two hateful dots burning in his otherwise perfect face. Once the bruises healed up, that is. And he really should get those ears looked at.

  “Then Kaheck happened. Turns out Yarrow the station manager you killed was telling the truth, at least as far as he knew it. I found the unaired video, the one where you did the interview. Kaheck bragging about how he could make any compound given the right formula. By this time, you and Moh'na were practically living out of each other’s pocket, so it’s no big stretch to imagine you looking through her old biochem notes and recognizing a gold mine when you saw one. Have to admit, for a scumbag, Kaheck delivered.”

  “That vacuum-headed sack of phurra,” Dh’oug bit out. “Kaheck was only supposed to finish Moh'na’s work, make a product we could sell. But he couldn’t help himself, he had to improve it. Space-brained scientist,” he spat.

  I nodded. “And so, you panicked, telling Moh'na what you had been up to. Inez-5 all over again, but even worse because this time you could be directly tied to the drugs. And not just you, you and Moh'na and Yarrow. So, the three of you hatched a plan, a way to cover your ass while at the same time reap the rewards. But it all got out of control, didn’t it?” I snarled, my hand snapping upwards to point Roosevelt at Dh’oug, my finger whitening on the trigger. “Hundreds dead, thousands injured. Including my friends. Research into figuring out The Event and how to fix it, gone, wiped off the map in a heartbeat. All because you were greedy and couldn’t stop feeding that massive ego of yours.”

  Dh’oug’s mouth flapped open, words trying to come out but failing. I wanted to shoot him; I really did. A bit more pressure and the action would break, gunpowder igniting to deliver a swift and final justice. No lawyers, no trial, no conviction. Just a quick and bloody death at my hands. I had done it before. I could do it again.

  Then I thought of Bob and Moh'na and Araimer and Uavoo and all the wounded and dead and I realized something.

  I had lied to Bob.

  Killing isn’t hard.

  Killing is easy.

  It’s living that’s hard.

  I holstered Roosevelt and stood up, Dh’oug looking relieved. Maybe he was thinking of life with a possibility of parole, or how he could get a smart lawyer to spin things in his favor. Work out a book deal or even a holo special, come out the whole thing ahead. I didn’t know, but whatever he was thinking I had something else in mind.

  I bypassed Dh’oug and went over to the suitcase I had found in his hidey hole, unzipping it. Flipping it open I stared down at the stacks of credits and glassy envelopes, each one filled with a fortune in yellow powder. I picked one up and shook it, crystals glittering in the light. I slit the opening with my fingernail, a small amount spilling onto my fingers. I rubbed them together, spreading the drug around. It looked and smelled like citrus juice; the kind Mom used to make for me when we visited Human-dense worlds. Lemonade, I think they called it. I took a taste and spit it out. Not enough sugar.

  “You know, Dh’oug, I get the impression you haven’t had the chance to sample your own merchandise yet. Why don’t we rectify that?” I said, grabbing his head with one hand and smearing his face with the other, yellow powder staining his skin. Dh’oug struggled and tried to get away, clenching his jaw and holding his breath. I punched him in the gut, hard, making him gasp. I took the packet of Wicked Yellow and shoved it into his mouth before he could close it. The bastard tried to bite me, so I forced his jaws open, thumb and forefinger applying pressure on each side of his head. Dh’oug choked and gagged, struggling in my grasp as I made him take his medicine. I tore open packet after packet, force-feeding him the contents, making sure he got every last little bit of Kaheck’s batch fifty-one.

  Eventually the job was done and Dh’oug sat there, twitching as the Holmium-laced Wicked Yellow took effect, eyes darting left and right. The dingy room was quiet, the only sounds the humming flurolights providing illumination and my heavy breathing. I could hear a distant echo of Emergency Services responding to yet another call, Xeno City refusing to sleep. The noise reminded me of Bob, wounded and bleeding honey-scented syrup onto the studio floor at Channel 99 News, and Araimer, waiting f
or someone to fix his missing limbs. Even Binettun and her drones, servicing the dead.

  I leaned down next to Dh’oug’s head and spoke directly into his ear, making sure he heard me.

  “I want you to keep right on living, Dh’oug. Live for a good long time. Every day I want you to remember what you did, all the people you killed, all the misery you caused. No matter how hard you try to forget, I want you to remember, imagine what it must feel like for their family and friends. To know their loved ones will never come home, walk through their doors again, ask them what’s for dinner and how their day was. I want you to imagine it when you go to sleep. When you wake up. When they wash your stinking body after you’ve fouled yourself, unable to move, unable to speak. Just remembering and imagining. Every. Single. Day.”

  Dh’oug’s eyes focused on mine and he jerked, his mouth working. For a long moment I thought he had forgotten how to breathe and then the screaming started.

  It was music to my ears.

  Chapter 22

  “D

  o you have any moons?”

  I snarled and handed over the cards, Lieutenant Araimer chuckling. I don’t know how he was doing it, but I was convinced he was cheating somehow.

  “How about a satellite?”

  Hah! Not today, you old fraud. “Go fish,” I said smugly.

  A knock at the door made me turn. A nurse pushed a trolley in, Bob perched on top in her recovery tank. A tentacle popped up and a hazy eye looked around as the nurse set the brakes and left.

  “They said I could come to visit for a few minutes. Hi, Araimer. How are your new legs coming?”

  “Hey Bob,” Araimer said in his shrill voice, rearranging his cards. “You just missed Uavoo. They’re still working on the nerve interfaces, so I’m stuck here a while longer. How about you?”