by G R Matthews
“The evidence points to the contrary.” I gave him a smile, trying to ignore the pain in my back, the soreness in my shoulder and the warm trickle of blood coming from the semi-healed wound in my leg. Why do I do this to myself?
He charged forward, his friend a step behind. The beauty of eating out on expenses is the chance to visit establishments well off enough to have, and with clientele who appreciate, chairs that are not bolted to the floor. At that moment, I was one hundred percent in favour of chairs that could be picked up and swung. There is a nice weight to a chair and the gang leader, the just past his teenage years thug, learned that too. One leg caught him on the shoulder as he moved in, another clipped the top of his head.
The chair didn’t break. They don’t you know. I’ve watched a lot of clip shows, some dating to the years before we had to move below the ocean. The bad guy, or the good guy sometimes, gets hit with a chair and it smashes into pieces. This one didn’t and I brought it round for another swing.
I needn’t have bothered. Thug leader was down and out. His friend, the last one standing raised his hands and backed off, casting quick looks at the boy on the floor. The boyfriend was still engaged in his wrestling match with the other thug.
“Alex,” I called out. “Back away, let him go.”
It took a moment, but the boyfriend and the thug let each other go, both I’m sure, convinced they’d won the fight. Alex sported a shiner on his right eye that, come the morning, would be a lovely shade of purple. The thug’s nose was streaming with blood.
“Pick them up and get out,” I said to them, brandishing the chair once again. My shoulder was really painful and I wasn’t totally convinced I could swing the chair with any force.
They grabbed hurt-rib boy, dragging him upright to gasps of pain. Crushed testicles, fork in the leg thug was helped to his feet though he could only manage a lopsided, bow-legged stance. Lastly, they picked up their unconscious leader, slinging his arms over their shoulders, the boy’s head hanging down and a stream of dribble falling to the floor from his open mouth, and carried him out of the bar.
I let the chair come back down to the floor, the painful shoulder singing my praises, and sat. My legs and hands were shaking as I drew in a deep breath, held it for a long moment and let it out. Any second now the other patrons would be over to make sure we were all right and to thank us for clearing those thugs out of the way. I certainly heard the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of feet.
They were all heading for the exit, worried looks painted on their faces, except a few who’d dragged communicators out of their jackets, coats, purses or bags and were frantically demanding to be put through to the security forces.
I had the distinct impression I was not viewed as the hero in this.
Chapter 8
I’ve been in worse jails.
This one had a bed with clean sheets and a toilet that afforded a modicum of privacy. My military time was years behind me, but compared to the barracks this was luxury. Compared to my hotel room, which I would still get charged for, it was a definite fall down the ladder. The bright note was the lack of company. It was a work night, so I was the only guest.
Even after all this time beneath the ocean we still kept to a seven day week. Work for five, rest for two. It had worked, I’m told, for centuries and no one saw a good reason to change. Days and nights were signalled by clocks, those on computers, panels, clips channels and even, in my home city, on the outside of important buildings by some antiquated rotary clocks. The hands, two needles, moved round a dial and by reading them correctly you could tell the time. Why we had them is something I can’t quite fathom. Simple numbers on displays are more accurate and faster. We hold onto to our past, sometimes with fingers dug so deep into its flesh that we are part of it.
Every city had illumination. During the day, the city lights came on and bathed the citizens in the best approximation of sunlight the scientists could fabricate. At night, the lights went out and the city existed in a filmy grey twilight. There was never total darkness unless you were in your own room or apartment. And despite the night, city life carried on. Subs still docked, trade continued, people made deals for goods or services in dark corners and the security forces tried to catch them at it.
I slept the night on the comfy bed, in-between the clean sheets and woke up when the security officer opened the cell door. The smell of bacon, eggs, beans and grease wafted from the plate he carried to my nose. Nothing wakes you up like bacon. Just the smell does something to that primitive part of our brain. It starts awake, as if a wild beast was approaching our tribal camp on the grasslands of ancient Africa, and takes over control of your body and mind. It’s a reflex. You can’t control it.
Farming was big business. There are whole cities given over to the raising of animals for meat and milk. True most of them are in the shallower water where sunlight can filter down to them. I’d seen some clips at school where they showed the farms, waxing lyrical about modern methods and scientific advances in animal husbandry. All I remember is row upon row, storey upon storey, of steel rail cages of unhappy looking animals being fed through tubes. Real meat was expensive and went to the richest of the corporation employees. The rest of us made do with flavoured and shaped algae or the lab grown meat.
I ate the bacon. It wasn’t real bacon as far as I could tell. They wouldn’t waste that much money on a prisoner, but it had that sweet, salty taste perfectly offset by the tartness of the sauce the beans swam in. All topped off by the creamy and luxurious eggs. They weren’t fake. Science hadn’t found a way to do that yet, but if anything was worse than the multi-storey pig farms it was the chicken farms. Three girls had broken down into tears during that class.
The breakfast came with a black coffee and apart from the lack of clean clothes there was only one other thing missing. I was not hung-over. I missed the blurred sense of self and morning, but the lack of a headache was a definite plus. One question remained. Would my body miss the painkillers I habitually swallowed upon waking? I hoped not.
“Come on, Sergeant Miller wants to see you,” the officer said when he collected the empty plates.
“Do I get my one call?” I asked as I clambered to my feet. The officer just turned and gave me a thorough once over with his eyes.
“We’ll see,” he answered.
I followed him because what else was I going to do. Happy to play the hero last night, but the morning after and my shoulder hadn’t stopped aching. My back was, no doubt, covered in bruises from the tumble over the table. Ever tried seeing your own back? Isn’t possible unless you want to dislocate your skull in the process. The officers who had turned up at the bar to escort me to this unintended hotel room had been decent enough to patch up my leg. It looked like I’d popped a stich or two. Nothing serious and a bit of tape over the hastily self-applied steri-strips had halted the bleeding. The stain on my trousers had dried to rust brown. I’d never get that out.
The officer escorted me to an interview room and told me to sit in the uncomfortable chair next to the grey metal table. I sat down, once again demonstrating I was happy to follow the orders of the duly employed law enforcement officer. He nodded, turned and left. A rapid series of clicks and clunks indicated that the door was being locked from the outside.
I waited. It wasn’t too bad. I’d been fed, left in peace for the night, given a drink, and being on my own wasn’t too much of a trial anymore. As long as I kept my thoughts away from certain subjects I could fool myself that there were times when I was actually happy. You have to learn to fool yourself before you can fool others.
“Well, Mr Hayes,” said Sergeant Miller as he swung open the door, “it seems you had an interesting night.”
“You have cameras in the jail cell?” I didn’t get up to greet him, it wasn’t that sort of meeting.
“The restaurant, Mr Hayes. I was referring to the restaurant, but as you’ve asked, yes we do have cameras in the jail cell. Believe me, the sight of you playi
ng with yourself is not something I wish to see.” The sergeant a tall, well-built man sat down in the seat opposite and put his tablet down on the table.
“Just coming to the defence of others,” I said.
“Or making a difficult situation much worse than it needed to be. You could have just called the security forces. They would have handled the situation.”
Fair point, but I wasn’t going to admit that. “I did what any good citizen would have done. I asked those boys to leave the young couple alone and they became violent. I am sure if you check the cameras in the restaurant, you’ll notice that they attacked me.”
“We did and we saw that. However, Mr Hayes, you find yourself in a difficult position.”
“I do?”
“You do.”
“How?”
“The owner of the bar has filed a claim for damages.”
“And?”
“He has filed it against you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
Miller smiled. “Mr Hayes, let’s move this conversation beyond the yes, no, back and forth. The bar owner is seeking damages from you for the events of last night. The camera feed does appear to show the boys starting the actual physical altercation.”
“Sergeant, I sense a ‘but’ coming my way. Do I need a lawyer?”
“You want a lawyer?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do you think you need one?”
“Do you?”
The sergeant took a deep breath. I watched his thick chest rise and fall. A red flush of anger swept up his neck, but the man’s control was impressive as it never reached his face.
“Believe it or not, Mr Hayes, I am trying to help. The bar owner’s case will not succeed, not given the camera footage which we now have in our possession. However, a court case will ensure you are caught up in legal proceedings for a considerable length of time at not inconsiderable cost.”
“Then why do it?”
“The boys you intervened with.”
“What about them?”
“They all come from some of the wealthier families in the city. Just boys out for a good time, meant no harm, all teenagers push the boundaries, are some of the phrases I have heard from those families and their lawyers this morning. To be honest, Mr Hayes, it has given me something of a headache.” The sergeant tapped at his screen for a moment. Ordering some analgesics, maybe. “I see you are here on a work permit, to fix one of the city power turbines. The work order states that the work should have been finished yesterday. So, you’re leaving today?”
“I was, but they extended the work another day. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Can I ask why you are not leaving tonight?” he asked.
“The sub goes tomorrow. There isn’t another one going my way until then. Why is this a problem, Sergeant? The bar owner can’t win his case and I gather you are not going to press charges. After all, you have footage of the boys attacking me first. I was just defending myself. What about the couple, where are they?”
“At home. I spoke to them last night. They were scared, but they said you had been polite and asked the boys to stop. They confirmed, as did the security video, that you were attacked and defended yourself. No charges are being brought by the city or the boys’ fathers.”
“Then I am free to go?” I asked, sliding the chair back.
“Mr Hayes,” the sergeant flicked the switch on his tablet, powering it down, “these rich families did not get to be rich by playing by the rules. We’ve never been able to prove anything, but there are enough stories and rumours. If you’re determined to stay in the city tonight, stay in your room and lock the door. In the morning, be on the sub early and stay on it.”
“Sergeant,” I fluttered my eyelashes at him, “I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” he said, standing up, “particularly, but there is a lady in your home city who seems to. She’s made it clear that nothing better happen to you whilst you’re here.”
“Or?” I was interested.
“Mr Hayes, I didn’t ask for an ‘or’. I didn’t need to.”
Chapter 9
They came at night.
I’d followed as much of the sergeant’s advice as much as I could. From the jail, I went straight to work. The foreman had given me a look when I came into the site office. It said, ‘did you sleep in those clothes?’ and I favoured him with a nod.
Construction crews could be a wild bunch, a law unto themselves, but they were fiercely loyal and protective of each other. A good crew could wreck a bar, get into a fight, spend the night in a jail cell and turn up for work the next morning none the worse for wear. I wasn’t in their league anymore, but it is important to maintain traditions.
The Fish-Suit had gone on and the normal sense of fear and panic as the Oxyquid filled the suit hadn’t been dulled by the alcohol remaining in my system or the calming effect of painkillers. It wasn’t the worst I’d had. The warm, gloopy liquid poured down my throat as I finally gave in and let the last air I would breathe for the next few hours explode from my lungs.
Reflexes kicked in and the muscles in my throat constricted. They fought a battle with my lungs which were demanding more life-giving air. My brain was saying breathe it down. The three way battle went on for a lifetime, an age, an eternity, a few seconds of real time. In the end, as always, my diaphragm made the decision. It spasmed, dragging at the base of my lungs, sucking the Oxyquid down into the small alveoli, tiny sacks of thin flesh that drew the oxygen into my blood.
I gagged as my lungs, rib and muscles all reacted to the presence of the liquid by trying to push it straight back out. Of course, there wasn’t any air to breathe. All they succeeded in doing was dragging more of the stuff into my lungs.
This part of the process could go well. My body would accept the Oxyquid, recognise that would provide the oxygen I needed to survive, and there would be no problems. On the other hand, it could go badly. I’d vomited into my helmet more than once, relying on the suit filters to clean out the chunks of food before they found their way in to my lungs. This time was somewhere in-between the two. If this wasn’t the only way I could make a living, I’d have quit years ago.
Out of the airlock and into the ocean. My ribs and lungs working hard to drag in, then expel the Oxyquid that kept me alive by providing the oxygen and protecting me from the crushing pressure. A very neat system that I could, if needed, strip down, service and put back together again inside a day. Let’s be honest, I wasn’t going to trust it to anyone else. I’d had that drummed into me during my training. The suit was my responsibility. My life depended on it, so I had to know how to work it and fix it. The science behind it all I didn’t understand at all.
The actual job wasn’t difficult. My HUD overlaid a computer generated image of the seascape, all fuzzy contour lines and icons, on the darkness that surrounded me. A kick from the engines and I moved the Fish-Suit over to the turbine.
Some folks will tell you that, out in the ocean, they come alive. They can hear the very heartbeat of the earth, of the oceans. They’ll say that the ocean speaks to them. A few religious nuts will tell you the words they hear are God’s. I just like the solitude, but I much prefer being able to breathe proper air, to move around without lugging the weight of Oxyquid, to be able to eat and drink when I wanted.
It still took the best part of the day to get the turbine up and running, but when the message appeared on my visor I was tempted to give a cheer. Impossible in the Oxyquid of course. When you’re drowning, no one can here you scream.
The suit motors took me back to the city airlock. Once I’d coughed and spat the liquid out of my lungs, cleaned myself up, and chewed on a mint to remove the taste from my mouth, I went straight back to my hotel room and ordered room service. On expenses. The clip shows sent me to sleep.
It was the rough hand covering my mouth and pushing me down into the mattress that woke me up. In
the dark, all I could see was the shadow above me.
“Don’t m...” a voice whispered.
Your first instinct is to grab the hand that pins you down. Don’t trust it. I punched upwards, following the line of the arm that held me, twisting to the side as I did so. It had the combined bonus of confusing my attacker, who was no doubt expecting to me to grab his arm, inflicting some damage, my knuckles struck flesh, and changing the leverage my attacker used to keep me pinned.
Once you’ve confused your attacker, break free. My military unarmed combat instructor had been a sadistic bastard who enjoyed inflicting bruises and pain upon the cadets. His demonstrations had caused me more damage than any I’d incurred on active duty. Mind you, considering my active duty was at the end of the war and consisted, mainly, of providing security scans of potential meeting places and attending the functions that occurred there, the actual chance I’d be involved in any unarmed combat were not high. That isn’t to say I haven’t been involved in the odd bar fight or friendly inter-service altercation.
The pressure on my mouth lessened a little and now I grabbed the hand, pulling upwards. Luckily, I like my bed covers loose, not all tucked in. I left the womb a long time ago and have no hidden desire to return. My right knee, jerked upwards as hard and quick as I could, caught my attacker in what I hoped was the ribs. The gust of bad breath across my face was a damn good indication that I’d succeeded. With my free arm I struck at the place I guessed his, or her, elbow would be. Not with my hand but with the length of my forearm, ensuring I would hit something. My attacker’s arm bent, his or her balance was disrupted. So much weight had pushed down on the arm, one part of the tripod that kept him, or her, upright, and now it was gone. The hand slipped from my mouth. I snapped my head forward, off the comfortable pillow. There was a crack and my face was covered in a warm, wet fluid. It took a moment to be sure the blood wasn’t mine.
Now I could reverse the move. My forearm came back around and caught the attacker around the head as my other hand lifted and twisted the arm it held. The attacker fell to the side of the bed and I went with them, driving my knee up and into any soft bits of flesh I could find. I brought my elbows into play to, striking and hitting out wherever and whenever I could.