Lasertown Blues Page 5

  “Take it easy, Amber. We’ve done all we can.”

  She paced the office, her strides carrying her ceaselessly back and forth. “It’s been a month. He’s either dead or off planet.”

  “I think if he was dead, we’d know it. If it had been Rolf or anyone else taking revenge, the body would have been left where we could find it. You know that.”

  “Then he’s off planet.”

  “Where we can’t trace him.” The Purple looked at her impassively. “The same freedoms that Jack treasured—not being in the master system, not having a wrist chip for ID—they’re keeping us from tracing him now. There’s no record of Jack anywhere.”

  She spun to a halt. “He’s got to be somewhere! He wouldn’t just leave the suit behind. Would you?”

  “No,” answered the Purple slowly. “But neither of us really knows that much about Jack.”

  “I know that he’d tell me where he was if he could!” She felt a hot wetness spring up in her eyes. Dammit! She never cried. Now here she was, about ready to cry over Jack again, for the second time in weeks. She blinked fiercely. “He’s not dead. I’d know if he was.”

  The Purple locked gazes with her and she thought suddenly, he knows more than he’s told me. He broke the stare and looked down at his desk. Amber’s intuition flooded her. She knew Jack would not have discussed her abilities with the Purple and she licked her lips, suddenly apprehensive.

  The commander looked up then. “We think he’s been taken, Amber. Slave labor, maybe, by someone with an old grudge. It might be someone from our mercenary background, I’m not sure. That’s all I can tell you.” He rubbed at his temple with slim, elegant fingers. “I’ll call you if I can find out anything else.”

  Amber went to the door. “All right.” She left, without the slightest compunction over the severe headache she’d given the man by psychically encouraging him to talk to her. She’d do anything to find Jack.

  He dreamed of Claron. The planet was his, virgin and untamed, a world of lush green forests and plains, new jagged purple mountains and white untouched snowcaps. He could skim for weeks without sign of human habitation. He could sense the touch, taste and smell of the planet.

  Until he dreamed the firestorm. He felt the vibration and thrum, the eardrum beating noise of warships breaking into the stratosphere. He remembered leaving his quarters and seeing the sky burn. He remembered getting into his armor and finding the stargate, being knocked through by the bombs bursting around him, drifting for days on the other side, until he was finally found. And it was in the whirl of black velvet deep space that he lost himself. In a blast of fever, he lost what few memories he’d been left.

  ***

  “Jeeee-zus Christ. Doesn’t this guy ever do anything but moan?”

  “Some kind of allergic reaction to cold sleep. Quit your bitching and deal. You gonna ante up or what?”

  “If he’s that sick, they shoulda left him in sick bay.”

  “Ante up, Stash!”

  “All right, mate, all right.”

  He opened his eyes. The dull orange glow of night lighting met his sight. The vibration and thrum of his dreams still wrapped around him. Self-identity swam out of reach. He let it go, finding it easier to identify his surroundings. He was shipboard. He lay quietly. His hands were loosely strapped to his sides. The stale smell of too many bodies packed into close quarters and the smoke of drugsticks reached him. He turned his head. Most of the berths were occupied by forms, still and blanketed like himself. Soft snoring rumbled through the air. What was happening to him?

  The snap of cards punctuated the silence. The semblance of normality drew him like a magnet. He saw two figures hunched over a small table in the aisleway of the bay. The blue-gray smoke of drugsticks wavered over them. They wore nondescript, faded brown jumpsuits and both men looked like they’d seen better days. The young one faced him, but his attention was fixed on the bits of plastic clenched in his hands. His hair was butcher cut, any which way, and his eyes looked like hard flints in his sharp-planed face. He wasn’t beautiful and, as the sick man watched him palm a card, his playing partner momentarily distracted, he wasn’t honest, either.

  His playing partner made a disgusted noise. He threw his hand in, saying, “I’d have better luck with Thraks droppings.”

  The young man grinned, a vicious expression. “Shut up and deal.”

  “I’m tired. Let’s hit the bunks.”

  “Forget it! You owe me. All we’ve got tomorrow is orientation. Shit. You and I’ve mined before. What do they expect from us?” The man leaned forward. “I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to break contract. They ‘aven’t built a contract yet that can hold me.”

  The old man made a sucking noise through broken teeth. “You’d better watch your step, Stash. This place is different. You’re getting paid good money for your contract.”

  “Maybe.” Stash looked around briefly, overlooking the berths. “But there’s bodies here that didn’t volunteer to be here. I figure there’s money to be made getting them out.” He wove his hands together and turned them inside out to pop his knuckles. “I’m not one to avoid making money if I have to.”

  As the cards snapped in the deal, a fuzzy voice yelled out, “Hey, you two! It’s downtime, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Stash returned. He stood up. “You owe me, Boggs.” His gaze brushed over the berths again and this time, the watcher had the uneasy feeling his gaze was met. Stash turned away and climbed into one of the stacks of berths, pulled the freefall webbing and a blanket over him and was asleep in a matter of seconds.

  The sick man settled back onto his bunk. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and reality blended into hallucination. Where was he, and when? He anchored onto the name and face of Stash. A feeling tickled at the back of his mind. He felt a familiarity there. If he needed help getting out, Stash would be the name to remember. He clutched to it like a drowning man as he went under again.

  He awoke drenched with sweat, and with the feeling someone was watching him. He was right. The man named Stash squatted at the foot of the berth, intently reading the plasticard file stored there. He looked up. “Awake, eh, mate? We’re alone. Th’ others have gone to chow down. Want some help out? The nurse said your ropes could come off if you wanted, long as you acted sane.” The flint dark eyes twinkled sardonically. “But which of us ain’t a little crazy, eh?”

  He swallowed and weakly lifted his hands. “Please… take them off.”

  Stash moved quickly. “Good enough. You want to try eating?”

  He thought about it and then, quickly, shook his head.

  Stash took a ration card from the plasticard envelope, saying, “Then you don’t mind if I help myself. Payment, like, for untying you. A little extra tuck goes down good now and then.” The scarred eyebrow quirked. “What’s your name, mate?”

  He shook his head, mouth too dry to talk.

  Stash scrubbed a hand through his butcher-cut dark hair. “Hypothermia fever is what you had. It’s tough. I’ve seen it before. Fella didn’t even know his name when he woke up.” Stash fingered the envelope. “You got ration cards from last shift you’ll never catch up on. Make you a deal. I’ll read you your file for two of them.”

  He wet his chapped lips and croaked, “Deal.”

  Stash beamed triumphantly. He took the chits out. “Be back later, mate. Get your rest and mind you don’t fall out of the berth or th’ nurse’ll have my hide. I’ve got plans for her to have a part o’ me, but me hide’s not what I had in mind.”

  The sleeper closed his eyes, weary again.

  “Let’s see here. File says you’re Jack Storm, twenty-four. You signed on as construction or mining laborer. Single,” and Stash broke his concentration at this to put in, “ain’t we all, mate?”

  “Go on.” The name meant little, but he realized with a sinking heart what his situation was now. He was no more than a contracted slave. Jack. He rolled that around a little. He was somewhat com
fortable with it.

  Stash cleared his throat. “You ran an electronics store in the Outward Bounds. Went belly-up and sold out to pay off your debts. Standard education. That’s about it.”

  “Relatives?”

  “None living.” Stash dropped the plasticard file back into its envelope. “Utterly undistinguished, like the rest of us. You fit in, Jack me boy.”

  “Yes. I guess I do.” Jack closed his eyes wearily. He’d been rousted out for breakfast and an exercise period, his legs as wobbly under him as a newborn foal’s. He wondered blackly how he could know about contract labor and freight cruisers and newborn foals and still not quite grasp his own sense of self. Without opening an eye, he said, “Thanks, Stash. But put that ration card back. I paid you yesterday.”

  The man cleared his throat and the plasticard file rustled a little. “So you did, so you did. And from the looks of you, you’ll be needing it. Get your rest, mate. You’ll be needing that, too.”

  “All right, you slag heaps. Hit the decks. I want a full turnout this morning.”

  Jack staggered up, the harsh tones of a D.I. ringing in his ears. He found fresh red marks on his wrists and, rubbing them, fell into line. His legs decided to hold him this time. He was unwashed and unshaven and the rough brown jumpsuit, not made to his size, bound him. General issue, he thought, shrugging uncomfortably. He rubbed shoulders as they lined up in the aisle.

  A short, squat bull of a man swaggered through. He held up a hand of chips. “I’m your foreman. I’ve got your labor contracts and past work records right here. I want you to know, we’ll put up with no slackers. You’re getting paid good money to work Lasertown. You’ll be rightside up when your contract’s done.”

  Uncomprehending, Jack listened. He rubbed his face once, as if clearing his sight could clear his hearing. The sights and sounds bled over, then faded away. He remembered hearing the hiss of gas…

  He straightened.

  “We’ll be hitting dirtside soon. I want you sorted into work groups, ready to go. As I call your name, fall out and follow me.”

  Jack clenched his jaw. He’d recognized the name of Lasertown with a jolt that hadn’t even come when Stash read him his. He was as good as enslaved, and as good as dead, for a dead moon mining community had its own laws of survival. Jack couldn’t work a job he didn’t remember being trained for. Fellow workers wouldn’t tolerate a man who couldn’t work… their existence depended on it. He’d be left alive for a short while but his shortcomings would be exposed soon enough. All someone had to do was cut his line and set him adrift, or bring a mountain of rock down on his head, or puncture the suit with a slow leak.

  The foreman looked around expectantly as if waiting to hear a protest. He got none. A voice from the back of the bay called out, “Come on, Bull, read the bad news.” He grinned and swaggered to the front of the bay and stood by the bulkhead. He took out a microfiche reader and squinted at the first contract.

  “Perez, John. Wiring and Cable. Fall in.”

  “Stockton, Marty. Wiring and Cable.” Jack stood, waiting for his name. He looked across the aisle and saw the sardonic expression of the man across from him. He frowned.

  “What you lookin’ at, pretty boy?” Stash jibed at him.

  Jack bared his teeth. “You.” He hadn’t seen his greedy benefactor for a day or so.

  Stash smiled back. They talked quietly so as not to disturb the bullhorn voice of the foreman. “You know you going to be that sick when you signed up?”

  Jack shook his head and countered, “What difference does it make to you? You wanna hold my hand?”

  Stash made a rude noise and Jack finished, “I didn’t think so. What I do is my business.”

  “Yeah? Well, if you want out, that’s my business.”

  “First things first,” Jack answered. “I’ve got to live that long.”

  “Oh, yeah? Memory bank still down?”

  “Maybe. And I’ve got a feeling it could be fatal.”

  “You could be right, mate. Follow my lead.” Stash shut up as abruptly as he’d spoken, and fastened his attention in the direction of the foreman.

  The line of workers thinned out, and they had to crowd closer to hear the foreman over the clamor of laborers gathering their belongings and moving out. The rumble of the ship as it moved into a disintegrating orbit grew louder.

  Stash grabbed his duffel. Jack found a limp, nearly empty duffel tucked at the foot of his berth and shouldered it. Stash eyed the bag.

  “Travel light.”

  “I’ve got all I need.”

  “Right. That’s what they all say.” Stash grinned again as the foreman called out, “Grue, Delman. Welding.”

  “That’s me,” he said, and shouldered past. He yelled out to the foreman, “Call me Stash.”

  “Just get in line.”

  The crowd was thinned down to a double handful of men. Jack felt uneasy.

  “Storm, Jack. Demolition.”

  The word jolted him. The most exacting and dangerous job in mining. He was as good as dead. A wiry and leathery old man next to him said, “Demolition? Never heard of you.”

  Jack looked at him. The veterans knew the men in their field. Words dried in his mouth.

  Stash leaned over the foreman and bumped the microfiche reader. “Hey, Bull. That says welder. You got lint on your lenses. C’mon, Jack.”

  The foreman looked up and set his long jowls. “All right, Stash. Get him out of here.”

  Jack shouldered his way through, feeling sweat trickling down his ribs, and a faint reprieve. Stash gave him a look as they ducked to go through the bulkhead. “You owe me,” he said softly.

  Jack had no doubt that he did and that Stash wouldn’t hesitate about collecting.

  Chapter Five

  Amber had not figured to be back on the streets again. She sat in the corner of the commuter car as it three-wheeled across the border that separated Malthen proper from the underbelly of Malthen—the part of the world system that operated outside the law and under laws of its own. She stretched a leg out to check the power blade sheathed along the outside of her right ankle. A visor at the front of the car reflected her image back at her: collected, unremarkable, professional. She could have gone as she did when she followed Jack, but she wanted no attention or trouble here. Dressed as she was now, with weapons discreetly blurring the outlines of her jumpsuit, no one was likely to bother her. Professional assassins weren’t hassled, even on the lawless side.

  She wouldn’t even be noticed, if she played the part well, staying outside the security camera angles that panned the street for the Sweeps and drawing no attention to herself. And, within her costuming, there was no reason to remember her even if she should be encountered. She needed that now, more than ever, because the person she sought, if she was right, would turn and run the moment he knew she was back in South Malthen.

  It hadn’t been that many months since she’d been found by Jack, but it was the same as a lifetime ago to her. She’d shed her old life like a worn-out garment. Even cleaned and patched up, it felt slimy to pick up and wear again. She intended to return home as soon as possible.

  If she still had a home. Home, by Amber’s definition, wasn’t so much a place as a state of being. Jack’s disappearance had seriously disrupted all of that for her. For herself, as well as Jack, she had to find him.

  The commuter car braked. She leaned forward and, with a little fine-tuning, convinced the car’s circuitry to carry her around the block to a different, unstored, destination. She got out and looked around. She leaned back in long enough to log a fake destination call and the car lurched away from the curb as soon as she pulled the probe away. With a grim smile, Amber put away her tool and stored it. Another pat to be sure the blade was where she could pull it quickly. Ordinary assassin she was not, but she would have been stupid to have been unafraid.

  She couldn’t remember not being on the streets. Rolf had given her free rein, teaching her how to steal and letting
her keep the rewards until she was good enough to steal more than fruits or toys. He’d educated her and treated her well enough—she was lucky, she knew, that he’d never abused her, for most of the children on the streets were used for a multitude of purposes. Now she knew it was not because of any goodness on Rolf’s behalf. Buried in her memories was a moment when he had tried and she’d struck back, mentally, disabling her guardian for days. When he’d regained all his faculties, he set out not to punish her but to mine the unexpected gold he’d found.

  He’d sold her abilities to an unknown purchaser and then set about teaching her, honing her, to be a weapon the likes of which few could ever hope to own. He’d taught her meditation, to increase her concentration and control. He’d sublimated her ability almost immediately so that Amber herself was unaware of what he was teaching her to do. She only knew that she had it a little easier as a thief on the streets than most did—and that prostitution was not required of her, only the dry hustle, entreating a John and then robbing rather than submitting.

  Twice, such scams had gone wrong. Both times, she’d remembered little of what happened—only waking next to a corpse. Rolf had told her she’d killed the John, but she had doubted that, knowing that any time Rolf could sink a hook into her, he would do so. She privately thought that Rolf had killed the unruly clients, then arranged the evidence so that it would appear she had done so… to mire her ever deeper in his debt. So she continued to think until Jack found her, and she’d been forced to throw in her lot with the injured man. He’d had enemies of his own and then Rolf had turned on her and she’d been forced to run. It was then she’d found out the truth: she could kill—and had killed—with her mind.

  And a future target was sublimated somewhere deep within, awaiting the right buzzword to set it off.