Even the vacant eyes of the guards were identical. He moved through the mountain of forms and signatures required to post bail. The only thought that kept Buton moving forward was that, at least this time, Jarod was not to blame. The crew must have done terrible things in their past lives to deserve this kind of karma.
Buton moved beyond the nearly catatonic guard, passing by rows of cells filled with the dregs of humanity. Drunks, thieves, and prostitutes…all were lumped together here in their holding cages. What Buton could not determine was whether this represented law and order or some kind of macabre zoo.
Buton studied his own sour observations and determined that the crew’s last encounter with Gil had shifted something deep inside. Buton had always considered himself a realistic optimist. And while he was still very much a realist, the optimism part of the equation had taken a turn for the worse.
When they arrived at where Jarod was being held, Buton glanced at the team leader’s cellmates. On one side was what appeared to be a transvestite woman…man?…of the evening, in a garish dress and even more garish makeup. Above, on the top bunk, was the hairiest man Buton had ever seen. It was impossible to determine where the man’s beard ended and his chest hair began. The ever-present smell of urine had increased as well. Buton shuddered.
The guard in front of Buton growled, “Haster…out!”
Jarod sprang to his feet. The first words out of his mouth were, “How’s Simon?”
And there was the reason Buton would travel to the depths of a place like this. Much as Jarod might try to hide it, he cared about his team. And once you were on his team, you were never off.
“He’s stable,” Buton responded. “They’re transferring him to Earth tomorrow.” Buton finished signing the documents that would release Jarod into his care. Jarod pushed his face against the bars and whispered.
“What the hell is going on?”
Buton shook his head. “Not here.” Buton could see that Jarod wanted to say more, but the expression on the scientist’s face must have stopped him cold.
Truth be told, it wouldn’t be much better where they were going.
* * *
Jarod’s evening had been…interesting. To put the horror of his experience into perspective, sharing a bunk with a cross-dressing hooker had been the highlight of his day. He was so relieved to be out of prison and back to a place that was fit for human habitation. Jarod stepped into the hotel room and took a deep breath.
That was a mistake.
How could it smell worse in their hotel room than it did in the drunk tank? It didn’t seem like it was possible, but it was true. Smaller, shabbier, and smellier than any of their previous hotel rooms back on Earth…and this one didn’t even give an attempt at décor. The walls were bare drywall and plaster, the bedspreads were a drab beige and the carpets somehow managed to match both.
Jarod was sick and tired and didn’t feel like taking it anymore. He paced back and forth like a caged animal and tripped over a snag in the rug. Okay. This hotel was built as part of the Moon Rush. Meaning it was less than a year old. How could the carpet possibly be this worn?
“Jarod, you better sit down.” Cleo sounded even more tired than she looked.
Visions of a certain balding man’s face turning purple under Jarod’s hands danced behind his eyes. “I’m going to find Gil and—”
Buton’s sharp and matter-of-fact tone cut into Jarod’s revenge fantasies. “Caution might be your wisest choice.”
Jarod thought that if he heard one more person say “caution” or “careful” or “wisdom,” he was going to lose it. “No, that bastard is going to pay—”
“He is immune.” The certainty of Buton’s voice cooled Jarod’s rage more than volume ever would. “To confront him now would be suicide.”
Cooled, but not doused. “Immune? He’s the criminal. Let him sit in a damn cell…And smell like urine.” He moved toward the door to find Cleo blocking his exit.
“Listen to Buton,” the marine biologist urged. “Then decide.”
Jarod looked around the room. He caught Rob’s eye as the teenage boy nodded his agreement. Jarod sighed and sank into a chair. This must be serious if even Rob was urging him to listen.
Jarod glared at Buton, needing to take his aggression out on someone. “Tell me something useful already!”
Everyone left standing in the room shifted from foot to foot, clearly not wanting to answer but needing to respond. Buton cleared his throat and began. “We’re all under investigation for the space station bombing.”
“What?” Jarod couldn’t have heard that right.
Cleo stepped in. “My warning to the authorities before the place blew, remember? They’re taking that as some kind of admission of guilt.” Jarod started to protest, but Cleo talked over him. “Much as it sucks, I get it. I’d probably suspect us, too.”
“Out of the vessels that survived the explosion, we are one of only two ships that made it to the moon,” Buton continued.
“So? So did Gil!” Jarod wanted to punch something. He settled for leaping out of his chair and pacing once more.
Rob chimed in, “Makes you wonder, huh?”
Just as fast as he had jumped up, Jarod felt himself deflate, this time on top of the bed. He looked at Rob. “You don’t really think…How many people must’ve died in that…? Not even Gil…”
Buton answered the not-quite-asked question. “The design of the explosive was one that I recognized. My hypothesis is that the perpetrator did not understand the lethal nature of the device utilized. I believe the intent was to disable the station, not destroy it,” he said.
Apparently this is all the crew had been discussing while he was in the slammer. Cleo put in her two cents. “But with all that said, someone wanted the moon, and everything on it, to themselves.”
“Sound like anybody we know?” Rob asked.
Jarod sat up on the edge of the bed. “Then why isn’t Gil’s ass in jail?”
Buton waved his hand over his laptop, activating the holographic display. “That was the postulate I investigated.” Names and numbers scrolled down the empty air between Buton and Jarod. “Gil possesses diverse backing. One of Gil’s main investors is Nickel Products…”
Rob stepped in, clearly too agitated to let Buton do all the talking. He stabbed his finger at a name in the air. “And look at what they own. American Justice. The contractors for Moonbase’s police force!”
“So, you see…” Cleo began.
“We’re screwed!” Rob finished for her.
“Actually we’re…okay,” Cleo countered with caution. “At least we have enough money to get back home. From there, we can—”
Jarod stepped in. “Is there any chance the Eureka can still get us to the dark side?” He looked around the room. The entire team seemed struck all at once by how fascinating their shoes were.
After trading looks with one another and their footwear, Cleo was the first to speak up. “It was totally trashed, so we…Well, we sold it for scrap to raise your bail.” Jarod felt something bubble up inside of him, bursting out in bitter laughter. Cleo looked askance at him. “Jarod, this isn’t funny.”
Jarod waved his agreement at her. It took him a moment to control the laughter, which was threatening to turn into a full-blown psychotic episode. When he had himself back under control, he pounded his fist on the bed.
“I swear, Gil is the Antichrist.” He looked around the room, locking eyes with each crew member before continuing. “We can’t let him get away with this.”
Rob threw up his hands in disgust. “We don’t have any other—”
“Buton, how much money do we have left?” Jarod stood up from the bed, facing the East Indian scientist straight on.
Buton made a wry face. “Not enough to do what I believe you are planning.”
Jarod whirled around to the entire group. He spoke to each one in turn, pulling out all the stops. “Come on. We can still do this. We’re on the moon, for God’s sake
!” He held Rob’s gaze. “We’re just a few miles from the diamond fields!”
Cleo stepped between Jarod and Rob. “It’s not just the ship. We need supplies and—”
Buton joined in, adding what he probably thought was the nail in the coffin. “After we’re outfitted, there will be no funds left to get home.”
Jarod heard the defeat in Buton’s voice, but he refused to accept that as the final word. “Then I guess we’ll just have to find us some diamonds! Won’t we?” Jarod looked at Rob, his go-to guy, but even Rob refused to meet his gaze.
This could not be happening.
Cleo spoke into the quiet. “Jarod, please, we’ve got to admit that we’re outmatched.”
“Outmatched? By Gil?” Jarod turned his appeal back to Rob. “Do you really believe that?”
Buton reiterated, “He has the police force under his control.”
“And…” Rob began, looking up through his eyebrows at Jarod. “He sprays his scalp black under his comb-over. It would be embarrassing to be defeated by that.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Jarod looked around for any other cracks in the armor. Jarod could tell the comb-over comment had gotten to them. “He’s got the connections, but we’ve got the skills.” He paused for effect. “Anybody going to argue with me on that?” There was no answer. “Anybody at all?” Still nothing. “I’m willing to compromise…If I can’t find a ship by the time you round up a ride home, I’ll head back with you…No complaints.”
Cleo’s tone was as wary as her expression. “But?”
“If I find a way to get to the diamond fields, we go for it.”
Cleo started ramping up again. “Jarod…This isn’t—”
“What do we have to look forward to on Earth?” No. Jarod raised a finger. There would be no arguments here. He pulled out the big guns. “Scrounging up day jobs until we can scare up some financing for a new ship? If we ever can!”
He looked at the faces of his crew. His family. He knew them. He could tell from their reactions just how they would feel if they had to go back. Buton’s forehead was creased into those tiny folds he got when he was thinking about something unpleasant. Cleo’s nostrils flared, and the corners of her mouth were pulled tight. She did not like where her thoughts had taken her. And Rob? Rob looked like he had just smelled a gym bag with clothes inside that hadn’t been washed in a year.
“You guys willing to work in an office? Eight hours a day?” Jarod faced off with Rob first…the easiest target. “Flippin’ burgers sound like fun? Constantly worrying whether the splashing grease from the fryers is gonna melt your legs off?” Rob flinched. Yeah. That got him.
One down, two to go.
“And Buton. So very anxious to get back to your undergraduate students—with their texting grammar, and lame excuses for late papers? ‘Dude, professor…like, I totally didn’t know that when you said Monday you meant this Monday.’ I can see where you would really miss that.” Buton somehow managed to add to the number of creases on his forehead. No mean feat, that.
Two down.
“Cleo.” By the set of her jaw, Jarod could see that Cleo was not going down without a fight. All right, then. Game on.
“Cleo, Cleo, Cleo. I know how much you’ve missed nursing. Getting to use that marine biology degree every day while you clean out the pans of the incontinent.” Cleo didn’t move a single muscle in her face, but Jarod was pretty sure he saw a glimmer of something in her eyes.
“Listening to the know-it-all doctors who have no idea of what they’re doing.” Ah…there was a twitch. Jarod had definitely seen a twitch.
“Getting pinched by the dirty old men pretending to be so far gone you can’t get mad at them.” Cleo dropped her eyes to the floor. Victory. “Didn’t think so.”
And now it was time for his patent-pending Jarod charm. He held out his arms to his crew like he was asking for a group hug and plastered his best smile on his face. “We can do this. I know we can. You know we can.” He amped up the wattage on his smile, angling his head back just slightly for his teeth to catch whatever light these bulbs were putting out. “I’ll tell you what. If we come back empty-handed from the diamond fields…” He leaned back. Jarod knew how well he had worked this room. It was time to let them come to him. “I’ll sell my body until we get enough to get home.”
“So basically,” Cleo snorted, “we’d be stuck here forever.”
* * *
Dr. Weigner had thought that the whole getting-blindfolded-to-be-taken-to-a-secret-location thing only happened in movies. Apparently, he’d been wrong.
After hours of traveling without being able to see where he was going, he finally had the offending cover removed. He was gratified to note that the general was still at his side. The doctor looked around, finding himself in one of the largest underground spaces he had ever seen. He had thought his own secret laboratory quite spacious. At a rough estimate, Weigner figured that his lab would fit within this space at least a hundred times.
And their journey was not over yet. They were greeted by an unsmiling, unblinking, and possibly not-quite-human escort in a hovercraft that zipped them across the underground cavern at something approaching 95 miles per hour, according to the digital display floating above the dashboard.
They passed through a doorway wide enough to accommodate an entire army without anyone falling into rank and file. The ceiling opened up, and a graceful curve of stunning aerodynamics confronted Dr. Weigner. He traced the curve up, the first curve joining with another and yet another, swirling up to meet close to the ceiling, which looked to be at least five stories high. Where many ships merely lurked in their place until launched, this beauty was poised and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. The color of the craft appeared to be stark white at first view, but upon closer inspection, pulses and flashes of color surged under the surface. Was this some kind of new cloaking technology?
This was not a shuttle Weigner was seeing. This was a city with wings. And the largest, sleekest, meanest looking city with wings he had ever laid eyes on. Weapons bristled from its sides like some kind of techno-porcupine, somehow without losing any of its smooth aerodynamic feel. This was a craft designed to move fast and blast any obstacles out of its way.
Dr. Weigner was, to put it in the vernacular, royally pissed off.
Why had he not been called in to consult on this project? Any sense of wanting to keep the military at arm’s length to allow him to work in peace vanished as he soaked in every detail of this culmination of creativity and technology. It was magnificent.
It would have been better if Weigner had worked on it.
In spite of his awe, Weigner began mentally ticking off flaws. The slope leading to the doorway could have been integrated more fully, allowing for even less disruption of its aerodynamic flow. The creator clearly valued aesthetics above sound design principles. Weigner could easily have achieved both. Oh, and the logo on the side was tacky.
He admitted to himself that the last criticism might have been petty.
“She’s a beauty,” the general remarked. “Quite the engineering feat. This shuttle does away with the staged flight models completely. Notice any tanks?”
That had been one of the first details Weigner had noticed. One that, despite his superior intellect, he had been unable to explain to his own satisfaction. He kept all admiration out of his voice as he queried the general.
“How did you overcome the weight issues?”
“Well, it’s all geek talk to me, but basically, this sucker’s made from a new alloy that’s lighter than balsa wood and stronger than titanium. I’m afraid your clearance isn’t high enough for me to even tell you its name.”
Weigner’s eyebrows competed in trying to climb up and off his forehead. He had never heard of a clearance higher than what he held. He cleared his throat.
“I see.”
“What this means to you is, you don’t have to stop at the space station. The Eclipse can get you there in o
ne uninterrupted flight. Actually,” the general leaned in close enough for Weigner to catch a whiff of cigar and peppermints, “she can get there and back on one fueling.”
Weigner’s eyes dilated. He did not deign to respond to the general as the man leaned back and chuckled at the doctor’s stoic response.
The hovercraft drifted to a stop just steps away from the walkway that led into the depths of the shuttle. At the entrance to the catwalk, a stoic man in a pressed uniform was saluting his superior officer. “We’re ready to launch, General.”
“Very well, Captain Stavros. Meet Dr. Weigner.”
The two men faced off, each sizing the other up in a brief glance. Stavros extended his hand to shake Weigner’s. Weigner winced at the strength the captain put into his grip, but did not drop his gaze.
“Captain. What a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am gratified to add my acumen and prowess to this endeavor.” The captain’s nostrils flared slightly. Whether at the profusion of multisyllabic words or the implied insult, Weigner neither knew nor cared. The moment stretched out until the general stepped forward and clapped his hands on each of their shoulders.
“Now, you two. Go find me my ‘peacemaker.’ “
Perhaps up until now this had all been an exercise in intellectual curiosity for him, but Weigner now found he was quite anxious to get into the shuttle. It was time to go diamond hunting.
* * *
Finding a ship to get him and his crew to the dark side of the moon was proving to be not quite as simple as Jarod hoped. He had started off in a completely reputable company, discussing deals in well-lit establishments. Somehow, that always seemed to lead to him ending up in a strip club.
Not that Jarod would normally mind. He’d seen, and even enjoyed, his fair share of seedy clubs. But this? The scene playing out on stage right now would make the Marquis de Sade blush. He had seen snakes used in strip routines, but never in such a way that made him want to call PETA. If this wasn’t cruelty to animals, he had no idea what would be. And how exactly had she managed to get her leg up behind her head with the snake still…?
Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection) Page 35