Pinning a picture-in-picture to Aurora’s position, just in case I’m wrong, I look away from her and roll my shoulders casually, using the guise of boredom to look around as the tram fills up.
A giant man comes in with a hovercart of luggage that towers almost as high as he does. Short, brown hair like my real hair. Green eyes, not glowing. Holoband across his forehead. But no name appears above his head. He’s hiding his identity. Why? He stops in the middle of the tram. Stands preternaturally still. That pricks my curiosity, but he doesn’t even glance at me or Omar. Not a threat, I decide.
Then a few more sets of glowing eyes like Aurora’s appear at the other end of the tram car. Red eyes and yellow; a Rat and a Snake. Both are mean-looking types, also not broadcasting names. These two give me the vibe that I’ve been looking for.
They’re definitely cyborgs, not bots—one has a ragged scar on his face that he’s kept for show, but there is metal shining through underneath, and the other has a cheap metal plate where part of his skull used to be. No skin, synthetic or otherwise to cover it up.
Scriggs. The best killers are the ones you never see coming, but these two stand out like warts on a crobbin’s ass.
The tram jolts into motion, picking up speed as it whooshes out of the garage and whistles along maglev tracks, cutting through the icy air between us and the main concourse. It only takes a moment for the cyborgs to spot me through the crowd. Being six-foot two is a definite disadvantage for stealth.
The tram is already slowing down, when they start elbowing through the sea of passengers to reach me. I don’t think they’ve spotted Omar yet. He only comes up to my chest.
I grab his arm just before the tram stops, and send him a text-only message via my neuralink. Can’t risk idle ears overhearing what I’m about to say.
Buy three tickets to Earth on the cheapest ship you can find. Then meet me at the gate for the most expensive one. I’ll meet you there with the tickets.
Omar nods quickly. The doors spring open. Rat and Snake have almost reached me.
Go!
Chapter 6
I linger inside the tram car for precious seconds, waiting to put at least six people between me and Omar’s family. One of those six is that other cyborg with the red hair. Aurora. I pretend to be distracted by her, staring after her like a lost puppy. What I’m actually doing is using one of the cameras in the edge of my holoband to keep an eye on the two cyborgs approaching from my left. Red-eyed Rat and Yellow-eyed Snake.
I disabled tracking on Mohinari’s car, so how did they find us so fast? Someone must have picked up our faces on security cameras in the garage, but that wouldn’t have left enough time for these goons to get here, which means they were already here. Waiting for us to arrive. Rajesh predicted we would try to escape. He practically owns the whole planet, so escaping is a predictable plan.
Rat and Snake are getting dangerously close. They’re not planning to kill me by any obvious means, or else they would have drawn their sidearms by now. No, they’ll bump into me on their way out. A lethal injection of Glo will give these two assassins and Mohinari plausible deniability. I’ll just be another tourist who didn’t make it home from a stim-vacation.
But to take me out like that, they have to get within spitting distance, and I’m not going to let that happen. I could draw my weapon and start a shootout. I’d get the first one before the second could get his weapon out of the holster. The second one would go down while he’s hunting for a clear shot.
Fast but messy. I’ll have spaceport security after me. And besides, there are too many innocent bystanders in the way who could get shot.
Scanning the remaining people between me and the cyborgs, I catch a glimpse of someone who could provide the necessary buffer. The giant of a man I spotted earlier. He’s shuffling out with a hovercart piled precariously high with heavy luggage. The cart slides between me and the two cyborgs. Rat and Snake have to stop and wait impatiently for the cart to pass. I pretend not to notice them, then bumble straight into the cart as I let an elderly woman by on my right. Falling into the stack of luggage with my shoulder, the cart tips and the stack of luggage falls over with a crash, landing all around the two cyborgs.
The giant whose luggage it is whirls around, looking for a target. His green eyes pinch into a scowl as he sees Rat and Snake grabbing his bags. They were probably going to put them back on the cart, but that’s not what it looks like. And they don’t have any bags of their own, so they definitely look the part of opportunistic thieves.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the giant booms.
“It fell...” Rat stammers, holding out the bag in his hands.
“Get your hands off my stuff, scrigg!”
I’m already ten feet from the scene of the crime, passing through the doors of the tram, but watching the confrontation, picture-in-picture on one of my two rear-view holocams that are built into the tips of the band that sit above my ears.
The giant is easily six-foot-seven. Green eyes, not glowing, and with arms as thick as trees and fists that could punch straight through a hovertank. He looks human, but he’s actually a fully-fledged bot, and that’s one better than these half-assed cyborgs.
“Just take it, we don’t want any trouble,” Rat says.
“Graaah!” Giant roars as he swings a fist. Rat ducks. The fist hits Snake in the metal side of his head with a resounding clang.
Snake cries out as the metal edges of the plate press hard into actual flesh and bone. He goes down with the momentum of the blow.
Rat draws his gun.
And the stragglers in the tram start to scream as they flee. They start running by me. I paste a frightened look on my face as I run away with them.
A laser pistol firing makes a sharp, cracking report. The giant bot gives another roar, and I hear an agonized human scream as poor little Rat gets bent backward over Giant’s knee.
Can’t see it, but I can imagine it. A smile curves my lips as I run down a rolling ramp with the rest of the fleeing passengers.
That giant was probably human before he went through the gradual transition to become a machine so he could live forever. How do I know? Because an AI wouldn’t be traveling alone, with luggage. And unless he’s a sexbot, he wouldn’t be trying so hard to look human. His eyes weren’t even glowing. He was wearing a holoband instead. And he had the requisite number of defects on his skin, not like Aurora who clearly embraced synthetic perfection. The only thing that gave Giant away was the way he never fidgeted. I saw him standing in the tram earlier. The meatbags were all shifting their weight from foot to foot. Stuffing hands into pockets. Fiddling with their bags.
Humans fidget, bots don’t, and Giant didn’t. He wasn’t broadcasting his name and personal details like most people either, which means he has something to hide.
But he’s not hiding the fact that he’s an assassin. He’s hiding the fact that he’s a bot, and he doesn’t want to be treated like one.
Immortals. Who gets ‘em? Maybe bots don’t get as much nooky as us meatbags.
Chapter 7
At the bottom of the rolling ramps, I run across a short, carpeted-blue hallway lined with elevators. In a few quick strides, I join a throng of people at the ticket counters. They split off in groups, lining up to buy passage on the various starlines operating out of Liberty City.
A group of four armed and uniformed officers from spaceport security goes running by, heading for the ramps, their hands on their sidearms.
I stare wide-eyed at them for a moment along with everyone else who just ran down the ramps from the tram. One of them spots the DX-22 on my hip. Gray eyes linger. I make my gaze appropriately wide and staring. Shocked. The officer looks away with imagery from his holoband flickering in front of his face. He’s back on target. All four officers go tearing up the ramp and out of sight.
And then I’m on to my own business, frowning as I scan the glowing names of starlines that appear to jump off the signs above the ticke
t counters and float like graffiti in front of my face.
Holobands are an advertiser’s dream. Look away—nope still looking at the damn sign because your brain had the questionable impulse to focus on it just long enough to trigger a sticky ad. It takes a mental effort to minimize those stickers, and then new ones get stuck to that spot in the top center of my field of view. Rather than try to fight it, I work with the system, focusing on the name of each starline for an equitable second and a half each.
Stylized logos flash before my eyes: Centauri Starlines. Nebula Cruises. Singularity Express. Fringe Runners. Sirius. Luxor Starlines.
Bingo. That’s the expensive one. Luxor.
Walking as fast as I can without looking obviously rushed, I head straight through the maze of glowing green lasers that’s supposed to get people to worm around like snakes. Only five people wait at the Luxor ticket counter, besides the two already weighing and checking luggage. I’m not going to zigzag like an idiot to reach the front of the line.
Rather than wait for the group of five, who look like a family heading home after vacation, I walk straight up to the man who is standing at the front of the family and say, “Hey, ombay. Mind if I go first? My wife and I got into a bit of blaze last night, and she’s gonna leave without me if I don’t catch her in time. I didn’t even have time to pack my bags.”
A sympathetic story for a tired old husband like this guy. He offers a flat-lipped smile and his chin dips in a nod. His wife is looking on with a frown. Crosses her arms with a scowl, like maybe I deserve to fly back on my own. But she’s too late. I’ve already got the husband’s approval.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Thanks, brother.”
I slip past him and step up to the ticket counter. A stunning woman with glowing lilac eyes smiles prettily at me. The name above her head reads Vara Arliss. “What can I do for you, Mr. Arovitch?”
She’s a bot, and not the immortal, transcended-human type. She’s the unwittingly enslaved, non-sentient AI version.
“Four tickets to Earth on the next flight out.”
“Of course, sir. Will that be one family cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Tier one or tier two?”
“Tier two.”
“Very good. And the IDs for the rest of your family, sir?”
“Friends, not family. They’re meeting me at the gate. The tickets are for them.”
A glance at my rear-view picture-in-picture shows the family behind me grinding their teeth. The husband and wife are arguing, and she’s gesturing at me. Too late now.
“That is somewhat irregular... What are their names, sir?”
“Sienna, Damaris, and Omar Trevos.”
“Okay... I see them here in our system. Looks like they’re going through security now. That will be five thousand nine hundred and sixty-two credits.”
The number flashes up in the sticky center focal area of my display. I accept the transaction and the sum automatically gets deducted from my default wallet. It’s a dummy one that I had set up in Roman Arovitch’s name, and the credits are mostly saved from the salary that Mohinari has been paying me.
Still slags my jets to be walking away from this job empty-handed, but maybe Omar will pay me back when he gets to Earth.
Vara-the-bot is glancing around my shoulders with a quizzical tilt to one eyebrow. “Do you have any bags you would like to check?”
“No.”
Buying tickets for a family cabin but the family is nowhere in sight. A four-day trip to Earth, but I’ve got no bags to check, not even a carry-on. The rest of my party didn’t check bags either, couldn’t have, because they bought tickets from a much cheaper starline. A human would flag that behavior as suspicious.
I wait for the bot to pick up on it.
“Have a nice flight!” Vara says instead.
“Thank you,” I reply, and turn away from the ticket counter with a smile.
The blue knapsack icon for my digital inventory flashes with the number 4 as the tickets enter my virtual possession.
“Hey!” family man calls to me as I’m walking away. “You lied to us! You’re not catching up with your wife. You’re not even married!”
“Yeah, sorry about that. It was urgent. Figured the truth wouldn’t get me very far.”
“Do something, Asher!” his wife cries. “He’s getting away with it!”
“I cut a line, not your throat,” I point out. “Just get on with your day.”
“Fuck you!” the woman cries.
I’m tempted to reply in kind, but instead, I just walk off, heading for the security checkpoint. No point getting my blood pressure up for an entitled civvie like her. Let it go. I take a deep breath. Hold for a count of three. Then let it out.
Feeling better already.
My therapist taught me that while I was locked away on Mars in that Coalition Prison. ARCmax.
The therapists there had their work cut out for them.
Chapter 8
The line for security is snarled with meatbags, bots, and cyborgs. No way to cut this line. I have to have eyes everywhere to see a threat coming. My holoband makes that easier, but not by much. Watching four different PIP windows and what’s in front of me at the same time is quite a chore. Any guy who bumps my shoulder or brushes my arm could be the next assassin with me in his sights, so I can’t relax my guard. Not until I’m able to take off this disguise.
I manage to let a few people behind me go ahead and thereby squiggle my way between too innocuous-looking groups: a middle-aged woman with her adult daughter, and a pair of young women who look like newlyweds going on their honeymoon.
I feel safer surrounded by women. It’s a stereotype, but statistically they’re a lot less likely to be contract killers.
As I wind my way along, I keep a hand close to my gun. It would be suicide to use it in here, but I could probably still make it to my ship, the Cloven Hammer. It’s landed here on pad nine. Security might not catch me in time to keep me from blasting off, but the Alliance interceptors I’d have on my six after that would be another story.
I hope it doesn’t come to that. The Hammer has seen enough repairs as it is. It’s starting to look like a patchwork quilt.
Inching along the line, my mind wanders. What am I going to say to Mr. M’s wife? Rina hired me to kill the guy, and she paid half up front, at almost twice my usual rate. The Syndicate will expel me from the guild if I try back out now. Members like me get the benefit of their protection and their infamy for a steady supply of work, but we also have to abide by their rules. Once you accept payment for a job, you either do it or you die trying. Failure means immediate revocation of membership. The only other option is to come to new terms with the client, and Rina Mohinari has already warned me that she would never do that. Her life is on the line, so I guess it’s only fair.
Fortunately, I talked her down from her two-month deadline and got her to agree to six, so I still have another two left. I’ll figure something out. I always do.
The mother and daughter ahead of me reach the security checkpoint and hand over their weapons—a compact XNR “Sentinel”—a kinetic pistol with six 9mm tracking rounds and two stun darts in a second barrel below the primary. I’m actually surprised they have a gun. They looked too innocent for that. I need to be careful not to cut the fairer sex too much slack. They’re not all angels, after all.
My turn. The security bots who stand flanking the scanning tunnel between me and the safety of the weapons-free zone on the other side both glare at me with glowing blue eyes. Their faces are bare metal with a few malleable parts for basic expressions. Both are wearing LPD uniforms and sporting bare terantium armor, blue-white, with a brushed and textured finish. There is a big grav chute next to the one on my right that’ll take whatever weapons I have and spirit them away to secure storage aboard the ship that I bought tickets for. Since I’m not actually planning to board that ship, it means I’m about to lose my stuff. Yet another tab for Oma
r to square away later. But maybe I’ll be able to get to Earth before my stuff goes to the recycler.
“Weapons?” the bot on the right asks in a deep, echoing mechanical voice that’s designed to intimidate. He and his partner each have two tracking AIM6 stun cannons deployed above their shoulders. One wrong move and they’ll fry me like a bug caught in a buzz shield.
I draw my DX-22, nice and slow, and hand it to the bot grip first. Then I reach down to my right boot and pull out the hilt of a plasma sword. I’m really sore about handing over that one. The flat five-inch silver handle looks like a piece of kitchen cutlery, but it can project a two-foot-long focused blade of plasma that’ll cut through just about anything. I hand it over, too. The bot opens the grav chute and pops both weapons in while I reach for my left boot, pull up my pantleg, and produce a tiny XR-1 stun gun with four darts in the clip.
“That’s it,” I say.
“Very well, sir.” The grav chute activates and I watch my weapons go floating up toward the ceiling and disappear. “Please place both hands on the scanner and look into the camera.” The bot gestures vaguely to a biometrics scanner on the left, standing opposite the grav chute.
I do as I’m asked, placing my hands on a clear black pad at waist height and staring into the glaring blue eye of a retinal scanner that automatically extends upward an extra foot to get to eye-level with me. I smile blandly for the camera, secure in the knowledge that with my biomask, retinal implants, and the configurable synthetic skin on my hands, my biometrics will register as those of Roman Arovitch, not Cade Korbin.
Sure enough, the scanner chimes pleasantly and both the scanning pad and glaring eye of the camera glow green.
“Very good, sir. Please, proceed to the scanning tunnel,” the bot beside me intones in that intimidating baritone.
I hurry into the scanning tunnel. The walls hum with scanning tech and pulse with waves of red and blue light—both infrared and ultraviolet in order to sterilize me and my clothes of any microbes native to this world.
The Bounty Hunter (Cade Korbin Chronicles Book 1) Page 4