Back In Blue

by G R Matthews

  BACK IN BLUE

  CORIN HAYES

  BOOK 4

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  All characters and situations in these books are fictitious and have no resemblance to real people living, dead or Jiangshi. (A little ‘The Stone Road’ joke.)

  Copyright © 2019 G R Matthews

  All rights reserved.

  For you, the reader, because you’ve come this far with Corin and still wish to travel oceans with him.

  BACK IN BLUE – CORIN HAYES BOOK 4

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  I saw them first. Which just goes to prove my luck isn't always bad. Occasionally the gods smile upon me instead of spending their idle moments pissing on my parade.

  Two heavy set men wearing the dark blue uniform of the Navy. The boys in blue who put their lives on the line keeping us safe from the myriad threats which loomed in the dark ocean beyond the domes. That one or two, at least in my experience, enjoyed blowing the shit out of things and generally hurting people was often glossed over. In truth, if you ever went into battle, you'd be glad to have those bastards by your side. It would be a damn sight safer than fighting them.

  Right now, I wasn't so sure so I did a smart one-eighty and headed in the opposite direction. Handily, this was back towards Tom's bar and my two favourite things. Beer and whiskey. And quiet. Privacy. The simple pleasure of being alone. Actually, my five favourite things. Makes me wonder why I don't live there, though I reckon Tom, the barman and owner, has a no sleeping rule. If you're too drunk to stay awake, go home or collapse in a gutter somewhere. Just don't sleep in the bar. You might find your credit line is cut off.

  "Hayes." My name was shouted down the corridor in a tone that brooked no argument. I didn't argue, I ran. Always play to your strengths. That's my motto, if I had one that is. I didn’t but it would do for now.

  As is typical of the kind-hearted and generous people of the boxes they started shouting and pointing. Those ahead of me stepped aside, allowing my escape, but pointed and called out to those chasing me. Helping both sides but committing to none. By far the safest choice, to make no choice whatsoever. I could have cursed them, but I'd done the same. Amongst the crowd were a few people I knew. Not friends exactly, more like human beings I'd once nodded to in a corridor. Some even wore half-apologetic faces while they shouted to the Navy boys that I was, in fact, running away.

  I had a destination in mind, but I needed a few corners to lose my pursuers. Running in a box, the hastily built, leaking, and best of all, cheap residential additions to the domes of the early city, was never the best plan. I mean, sure if you wanted to get some distance between you and the thug with the knife, run. Generally, however, running just got you noticed and down here, on the less exclusive levels of the box, it was better to be anonymous and hidden.

  The Navy boys knew where I lived, so it didn't matter too much. Distance was my friend right now. I could slow and hide when I'd gained a few corridors, twists and turns on them. I could hear the heavy footfalls of my two chasers amongst the shouts. They weren't being subtle and I noticed the mood of the crowd turn against them. You don’t piss off a box crowd, they'll turn on you in a heartbeat. Once riled, they act as one and the results aren't pretty.

  Security did police the boxes but it was far simpler to shut the bulkheads and stop the oxygen. Lethargy and the sharp spike of a carbon dioxide headache usually quelled a nascent riot. Of course, by then, the one who had been the target of the crowd's displeasure was already dead and strangely the cameras never got a good look at the people responsible.

  A Fish-Suit demands a lot of lung power to operate. QxyQuid, the oxygen rich gel which kept me alive out in the deep, took one hell of an effort to drag down into my lungs and even more to expel it. I could run for years. Not fast, but stamina was not a problem. The small child who stepped out into my path was.

  The corridor's walls, ceiling and inhabitants all wheeled about in my vision as the floor handily broke my fall. I didn't stop to count the bruises, there'd be time enough for that later and another bruise was nothing new to me. Scrambling to my feet, I checked on the little lad.

  "You all right?"

  "Fuck you, mister," the scruffy little urchin responded without anger. The added exclamation mark of a raised middle finger was, in my opinion, not needed.

  "Yeah, you're fine." His parents must be so proud.

  I got moving again, hurrying through the crowd to the next corner. A glance over my shoulder and I saw the two buzz cuts forcing their way through the people. I'm not a big man, my shoulders aren't broad and my arms are not bulging with steroids, so moving through the people of the box, all of them doing their best to stay out of trouble, wasn't too hard. For the two mountains of men following it was tougher and the insults I heard being hurled against them were growing louder.

  Ahead, the shopping district of this box came into view. Here there would be camera's, bouncers and shoppers. Everyone going about their daily business of making a living and staying alive. The shop I wanted was at the back, down a side corridor which did not deserve that lofty status. It was dark, damp and the sickly odour of rot pervaded the air. If you came down here it was for reasons you kept to yourself.

  "Hi, Frank," I gasped as I staggered in through the door.

  "Hi, Corin," the proprietor of the shadiest shop in the box greeted me.

  "I need," and had to pause to hawk out the globule of runners flem from my burning throat, "to hide."

  "Not here to buy?" Frank said.

  "I'll buy something later," I said, ducking my head out of the door and checking the corridor. The flicker of the sign above the door gave the whole scene a putrid green glow.

  "What are you after? Have a new lady friend?" Frank’s eyes darted to the other customer in the shop, a tall figure who shifted down the racks of manufactured goods picking up an item, a box, a can, a spray, examined at it for a moment and put it back.

  "Listen, Frank," I said, coming back into the shop and giving the man behind the counter my best smile, "I've been a good customer over the years. Any chance you can let me hide out in the ba
ck room for a few minutes."

  "Corin, you ran up debts and never paid on time. Remember when the boys had to visit, just to get a down payment on your tab?"

  I winced a little and rubbed my ribs. The fractures had healed nicely but working a Fish-Suit with broken ribs was anything but enjoyable. I'd had to work to pay Frank back, the other option was a painful death at the hands of Frank's boys. "My debt's cleared."

  "True," Frank said, "but I'm trying to keep you from sinking back into that sorry state of affairs. A public service, you might say."

  "And I appreciate it," I said, moving up to the counter and whispered, "but right now there's two big bruisers who want to have a chat with me."

  "Ain't my problem." Frank shrugged.

  "They'll be talking with their fists, Frank."

  "So what?"

  "You'll lose my custom and my winning smile might be damaged forever," I answered, showing him more of my teeth.

  "What did you do to them?"

  "I didn't do anything to them," I protested.

  "Then why are they after you, Corin? Did you open your big mouth again?"

  "I don't even know them."

  "Then how do you know they're after you?"

  "They shouted my name." I threw my hands in the air, turning around and checking the door again. "Come on, Frank. For all those times I saved your life."

  "Corin," Frank said, shaking his head, "helping me out of a moon-pool during our brief military service does not count as saving my life."

  "You'd never have made it out otherwise," I said, giving him the most honest stare I could manage.

  "It was your fault I broke my arm," Frank pointed out, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

  Sadly, that was true and if I recalled correctly, it might also have contributed to his scrubbing out of the Fish-Suit programme and military in general. Looking at cause and consequence logically, it could also be the reason he now owned and operated the "One Eyed Monster", a private shop offering the latest in lotions, potions, pills and outfits for the more discerning customer. The sex toys were legal, the drugs he sold under the counter weren't. They’d got me into debt and a lot of trouble.

  "Frank," I pleaded.

  "Who..." Frank began and stopped. We both heard the trudge of heavy feet and curses as someone came down the corridor. The stink and rubbish were a warning system which worked both ways. It kept the people who had no business here away, and it warned Frank that anyone coming into the shop was a determined soul. I saw his gaze flick down to the screen which undoubtedly showed the camera feed from outside. "The fucking Navy?"

  "Yeah," I confessed. "Sorry."

  "I should let them beat the living shit out of you," Frank snarled.

  "It'd make a mess of your shop," I helpfully pointed out.

  "Get in the back and don't touch anything," Frank said in exasperation.

  I had to turn sideways to squeeze through the little door he swung open into the back room. His boys were sat in chairs where the upholstery was frayed and the cushions sagged, both were focused on the screen in front of them. Holding tiny looking controllers in their big meaty hands they appeared to be playing an old video game which involved going around a track in a small cart. Watching them for a moment, I shook my head. The one on the left had missed the rocket pick-up, sacrificing firepower for speed. His brother was sure to get it and being behind would have the perfect shot. It was not a sound tactical move.

  Along the walls were shelves stacked with plastic boxes all mysteriously labelled in some sort of code which must have made sense to Frank and the boys but was nonsense to me. There were no other chairs and I settled for leaning against the wall. The room was sound-proofed, strange wedges of foam stuck out from the wall with the door. Probably to make sure that nothing in here was picked up outside, but it worked the other way too. I had no idea what was going on in the shop.

  "Got ya," the one on the right said in a deep voice which rumbled through the floor.

  "Bastard," replied the one on the left, in good humour, I thought. "Another game."

  "Might as well," said the one on the left.

  I stayed quiet and they seemed happy to ignore me. It was safer that way.

  On lap two of three in the next race, the door opened again and Frank stepped in.

  "You're in a world of trouble, Hayes," he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "You know there is a war on?" Frank said as he slammed the door.

  "Of course," I answered, casting a worried quick glance at the two muscle men. "I've seen the clips."

  "You'll be seeing it from a lot closer if those two get hold of you," Frank said. "Either that or prison."

  "Prison?" I squeaked, coughed and said the same word again but in a deeper voice.

  "Absent Without Leave."

  "AWOL?"

  "What I said." Frank shook his head and stepped around me, heading to the small coffee machine which sat at the end of one shelf.

  "But I'm not even in the navy," I protested.

  "You tell them that?" Frank snorted. The machine spluttered to life and dribble of dark liquid fell from the spout into the cracked plastic mug he stuck under it.

  "Well," I said.

  "Corin," Frank said, tapping the side of the coffee machine in an attempt to get the liquid to pour faster. "I was discharged from the navy."

  "Yeah," I answered. Dishonourably, if I recalled correctly. Even if the navy was all in favour of steroids and other performance enhancing drugs, they drew the line somewhere. And that line had neatly bisected the business Frank had been operating alongside his training regime.

  "Means they can't call me back up," Frank said, slapping the side of the coffee machine. "You, on the other hand..."

  "Reserve status," I sighed.

  "Which is why you can carry around that multi-million credit Fish-Suit," Frank said, putting his own large hand on the coffee machine and giving it a shake. "They told me to tell you, if I ever saw you, that is, that they can disable the suit whenever they want. Even if you're out in the ocean."

  "That makes it sound like a threat," I protested.

  Frank turned from his battle with the machine and favoured me with a raised eyebrow. "It was a threat, you idiot. You've been ignoring their messages and calls. Whether you like it or not you're back in blue, Hayes. Out in the ocean or behind bars, the only difference is going to be the shade of uniform they put you in."

  "Great," I sighed.

  "Yes," came the triumphant shout from the big man on the right.

  "You little fucker," the one on the left said. "Thought I had you beat there."

  "One each. Play a decider," the one on the right offered.

  "Sure."

  Frank lifted the half-full mug of coffee from the machine and took a sip. Without expression he poured the remaining liquid down the sink, took hold of the machine and ripped its cord from the wall, throwing the whole thing in the bin. "I need a new coffee machine and you need to piss off, Corin."

  "Thanks, Frank," I said.

  "Good luck, Hayes," he muttered as I made it to the door. "You're going to need it."

  I had no answer to that. None that wouldn't sound forced or trite. All I did was nod and close the door behind me. The shop was empty, the furtive customer having left and I let myself out. I pulled the hood of my top up, covering my head and obscuring my face. No one walked out of here in pride. Most stumbled, high on whatever Frank had sold them, or tottered, hunched over, trying to hide the bulge in their trousers. I'm not proud, but neither appealed to me. Not anymore. Perhaps, I was growing up.

  The streets were busy and I joined the flow of people going about their daily business. I couldn't go home, they knew where I lived and, no doubt, had someone watching the door. There weren't many troops capable of using the Fish-Suit, even back in my day barely one out of twenty made it through the selection process. I'd scraped through on stubbornness not skill. A lot of my classmates had sucked up one lungful too m
any of QxyQuid and for over half it was the first lungful which met that criteria. Others, like Frank, had chosen to medicate themselves through it all. They'd been caught, Frank last, and sent back to their units or mustered out.

  At the end it had been something of a shock to look back and realise I was the only one still standing. In those days, my heart swelled with pride. Now it was an empty vessel.

  I paid little attention to the path of my wanderings and without surprise I sauntered in Tom's bar. It was quiet, only a few regulars sat in their allotted seats and no one spoke. It was the atmosphere I came for.

  "Beer," I told Tom as he came to a halt in front of the dark mock-wood bar which the owner and bartender spent most of his hours wiping down.

  "Chaser?"

  "Not this round," I said and saw the flicker of surprise light up his eyes. "Got some thinking to do."

  "Not what people come here for," Tom answered, lifting the glass of golden liquid onto the bar. A centimetre or two of foam head capped the drink and beads of condensation already meandered their way down the side of the glass.

  "I'll do my thinking quietly," I assured him.

  The barman's mouth opened as if he were going to say something else but he stayed silent. A single nod was all he managed before he turned away to stack the used glasses into the washer.

  I carried my drink, sipping a little of it off the top to reduce the chance of spillage, back to my table. It was my table. I had earned it. A dead daughter, a wife long gone, and a waste of a life. My resume laid out in a simple sentence. I'd be lying to myself if I said I'd come to terms with it. I hadn't and the folded, faded picture of Tyler was heavy in my back pocket.

  The fabric of the chair enveloped me as I settled down. Over the years I'd sat here, the chair had come to know my shape, to conform to my lumps and bumps. The other regulars were the same. We all had seats which bore witness to our drinking and sorrows. They were our best substitute for the enfolding arms and warmth we would never feel again. The drink was the memory of soft kisses and whispered words long gone.

  The glass of beer was half-empty when a shadow fell over me. I didn't need to look up to see who it was. Only one person broke the rules of privacy in Tom's bar with such frequency and impunity. Her delicate perfume had preceded her and the soft sighs of the other patrons had announced her presence.