Lasertown Blues Read online

  She needed Jack to protect her from herself. She had to find him.

  Not that Jack’s enemies would be any easier to deal with. He told her little, operating on the assumption that the less she knew, the less danger she would be exposed to by associating with him. Amber understood the logic and though she argued with it from time to time, those arguments were rare. She’d gleaned more from Jack than he knew, anyhow. Storm came from a different culture and background. Dissembling brought a faint blush to his plain, high-boned face, and a pained look to his light blue eyes. An out and out lie nearly broke his tongue.

  Amber looked up at the bar’s entrance. She entered diffidently, on the fine edges of the camera’s eyeview of the place. Any image she left behind would be fleeting, blurred, shadowy. She’d not be recognized. She slipped into the corner quickly, threw her head up and looked around. She’d no hope of catching Ballard before he saw her—but she had every hope of getting him before he could get out of the bar, and he’d bolt, she’d stake everything on it!

  There was a scuffling in the far corner. Amber hurtled over a table, ran across the chair and booth backs, and leaped, colliding with the man making a run for the back door. They hit with a grunt and rolled onto the floor. She dug her fingers into his scalp and hung on as he shook and gave a dull roar of anger. Wrapping herself around his torso she hissed into his ear, “I’m dressed as an assassin and there won’t be anyone in here too surprised if I stick a knife in your eye, so don’t tempt me!”

  Ballard growled and threw her off. Amber rolled as she hit the floor and threw a psychic bolt at him, her eyes narrowing and temple throbbing as she fought to contain her power.

  The spacer, on his feet and halfway out the rear exit, reeled back. He sank to his knees and cradled his head in his hands. He forced out, “Stop it!”

  Amber sat up. “Talk to me.”

  Ballard pulled himself into an empty booth. She slid in opposite him. The man looked up—one eye bloodshot, the other an empty golden grill. His dark ringlets of hair showed flecks of gray. He was sweating. She passed along a napkin.

  “What do you want? I thought you were off the streets.”

  “I am.” She felt her chin go up and out.

  “What the hell did you do to me?”

  She shrugged. “A little trick. A dart in the right place. You’ll be all right in an hour or so.” Let him think she’d needled him. She didn’t need Ballard knowing any of her secrets. Jack was the only person she trusted with those. “I’m not here for old times’ sake. What do you know about Jack?”

  The tan Ballard liked to affect blanched. He blinked, but the gold screen replacing his other eye continued to observe her. “I don’t know anything.”

  “You know he was a survivor of the Sand Wars.”

  Ballard hissed her silent. He massaged the back of his neck. “That’s enough to get us all killed. He survived and I deserted. We’re both on borrowed time.”

  Amber flexed her wrist and brought out a paper thin throwing blade. “What’s happened to him?”

  The spacer looked at her, his one good eye wild. “What do you mean?”

  She aimed the knife and he said, “He was picked up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was supposed to have been killed, but he was chilled and shipped out instead. The original shipper was killed for his error. I don’t know where he went. Rumor is, he won’t be coming back anyway.”

  Amber felt cold inside herself. “Contract labor?”

  “Probably.” Ballard crumbled the paper napkin in his hand, then opened it up and wiped his sweating forehead a second time. “Some free advice. Stay out of this, Amber.”

  “Was it Rolf?”

  “Your pimp’s got no love lost for the guy, but he’s been clean. It was someone big—much bigger. We’re both dead if we meddle.”

  Amber showed her teeth and lifted the knife a little higher. “Some of us are dead anyhow.”

  “Listen to me! Use your street savvy. I would have sent word to you if I could. I got respect for Jack Storm. The man is a true Knight. He knows what it means to wear the armor… fight the ‘Pure’ war. There’s no one like him alive today… maybe one or two others, I don’t know for sure. I’d have helped if I could!”

  The knife point glittered before his last human eye. Ballard blinked frantically. “I’m telling you the truth. I… keep track of Jack, just to see what he’s doing. No one came to me—no one squealed—they didn’t have to. Whoever had him swept in already knew who and what he was—it was just a matter of finding out where.”

  Amber settled back a little. She resheathed the knife in her wrist sleeve. She thought Ballard was telling her the truth. “All right,” she said, relenting. Now she’d have to track down the contract labor shipments. And Jack in cold sleep—she shivered. It might drive him over the edge to be trapped like that again. “I need a chip, Ballard. Make it a good one. I don’t want to be picked up for using a terminated account or wearing a false chip.”

  Ballard smiled weakly. He pulled out his wallet after checking to see that they were still off camera. The bartender looked briefly his way, then discreetly looked away. Ballard tapped out a chip. It dropped onto the table, barely the size of one of her fingernails.

  “Take this one. It belongs to the Duchess.”

  Amber’s hand hovered over it briefly. She’d clawed her way out of South Malthen to live where chip implants weren’t necessary to buy goods, provide ID, trace movements, or just to live. She picked it up. Ballard taped it to the inside of her wrist with flesh colored tape. Now, if the monitors picked her up, she’d be riding the Duchess’ account.

  Amber smiled herself. She’d always wanted to be an interplanetary jewel thief. “What’ll I owe you?”

  “Nothing. The Duchess was needin’ an alibi anyhow. She asked me to find someone to wear it around for a few months. I consider this a favor for letting me stay alive.”

  She laughed at his ironic tone. Amber stood up. “See you around, Ballard. I’ll send the chip back, one way or another.”

  “Do that.” Without being told to, Ballard stayed very still and quiet in the booth as she left. His gold screen eye followed her, unwinking, and very unsympathetic.

  Chapter Six

  You’d be a hard man to sneak up on now, wouldn’t you?” Stash said, from the dawning corner of the bay. The artificial night of the lighting system faded slowly, leaving him a half-illuminated silhouette.

  Jack lifted his head from the bunk. “Maybe. What do you want?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? You wake up four, five times a night, you know that?”

  His head ached, but he answered, “I have some idea of it.”

  “How come?”

  “I like to keep an eye on you.”

  Stash bared his teeth in a grin. “Really? I’m flattered.”

  Jack swung his feet around and sat up, finally placing the man’s faint accent. New Aussie or maybe Cockney. Stash stood braced in the portal, a deepsuit in his hands. “What’s that for?”

  “I’ve come to give you lessons, mate.”

  “It’ll wait until after landing.”

  Stash’s teeth-baring smile widened to a grin.

  “Not hardly. From what I’ve heard around here, landings are tough. Maybe not even possible.”

  The hair rose on the back of Jack’s neck. Definitely not a good sign. He shook off the last of his bad dreams, of cold sleep and betrayal. “What do you hear?”

  The ship shuddered even as Stash straightened up, and he looked around, his grin suddenly gone.

  “Lasertown’s got an embargo, y’might say. It’s a bit difficult gettin’ in and out.”

  “Whose?”

  “Thraks.”

  In the stifling closeness of the bay, Jack stepped over the bodies of sleeping workers and felt chilled. He met Stash at the bay and took the heavy, sagging deepsuit from him. He closed the bulkhead behind him. They stood in the shop and Stash pulled anothe
r suit off its rack.

  “What do you mean, Thraks?”

  The man shrugged. “That’s what I’m told. It’s not an official violation of the Treaty or anything, so the Triad looks the other way. It’s got something to do with trade and mineral rights. Minerals. Th’ only thing Lasertown’s good for. Anyhow, word around here has it that when we start our spin in, we got a better chance of making it if we got suits on. That way, if the captain gets careless and we gets a hole blown in the side real sudden, we don’t get depressurized. Right, mate?”

  “Right,” Jack mumbled. He opened the sealing seam and looked into the suit. The palms of his hands itched. He wanted his memory back.

  He survived better if he stayed angry, rather than scared.

  “Lost a finger there?”

  It hadn’t really been a question, but Jack looked up into Stash’s face. The other looked vaguely interested. “Yes.”

  “Fight?”

  “Frostbite. I got left in cold storage too long, once.” He’d said it sarcastically, but once said, the hearing of it jolted him. Had he been? It didn’t seem probable, but—

  Stash interrupted his thoughts. “No kidding? Well, you won’t need that one for the welding gloves, anyway. Okay, this is how it’s done. You’ll be getting insulating socks. Wear them. Step in, but leave the suit collapsed on the floor like this so you can hook up.”

  Jack watched, bemused that Stash took it for granted he’d had no experience with a deepsuit before, and wondering what angle the man had, for it was crystal clear that everything Stash did had a price on it. But the man had vouched for him as a welder, so maybe it was just as well he had his own back protected, too.

  “These are the catch bags. We’re in these suits twelve, fourteen hours a day, so keep them and yourself clean. And if you get an infection or anything—even the tiniest itch—get to Med Bay. Otherwise, you might have things fallin’ off of you and we wouldn’t want that now, would we, mate?”

  Jack didn’t answer, but continued to suit up as Stash babbled on. The suit felt flimsy, spineless, for all it was made from layers of a tough fabric. Once on, it was, at the same time, much bulkier and much flimsier than it looked. He ran a hand down his flank.

  There was no power in this suit. It was a burden, hanging from his shoulders, pulling down the length of his body. If he moved, flexed, the suit hampered it. It felt both eerily wrong and right, warring with his memories.

  Jack didn’t like the feel of it.

  Stash seemed to sense that. He paused, helmet in hand. “It’s not much, but it’ll keep you alive.”

  That, ultimately, was what counted. He caught the helmet Stash threw at him. “What’s in this for you, mate?” he said.

  Stash did a double take, then smiled widely at the mocking accent. “Why, mate,” he answered. “Money, of course.” He laughed as he turned and waded the length of the shop bay, and disappeared through the bulkhead.

  Jack hesitated a few moments, afraid to follow him, and gritted his teeth in disgust at the turmoil boiling in his stomach. He looked at the helmet in his hands and longed to crush it between his palms. How long had he been this disoriented? Thoughts rushed through his mind like an icy wind. What the hell had happened to him? Where the hell had he come from and how long had he been gone? He could have been chilled down and kept for years, maybe, before being shipped out. He looked after Stash. He couldn’t pin it down, but the man’s face nagged at him. He rubbed the battered face plate of the old deepsuit thoughtfully.

  “Nasty being, that Stash is,” sounded a voice behind him. “Been partnering with him long?”

  Jack turned. A small, wiry man, with hooked nose and gray hairs that peeked out of his nostrils, watched him. The man had more hair in his ears and his nostrils than he had on his head. He recognized Stash’s much cheated against cardplayer.

  “I’m Boggs. Alfredo Boggs.” He’s whispered a little through broken teeth.

  “Jack Storm. I’m not partnering with Stash. I just… know him.”

  The wiry man spit into a corner of the shop bay. “Best to keep it that way.”

  “He cheats you at cards,” Jack said patiently.

  “That he does. And he knows I know it. I’d rather play with a known cheat than one that sneaks up on you. Get your throat cut that way.” Boggs eyed Jack with watery hazel eyes.

  He shrugged. He put the helmet back on a hook and began to unsuit. A sudden familiarity swept him. His eyes blurred.

  Boggs crossed his arms as he watched Jack brightly. “Storm. Unusual name, that is.”

  “It goes back to the first crossing,” Jack said without thinking. “Amerind, the family told me.” It came out, unconsciously and so quickly he scarcely knew where it had come from and it felt right. It was him. Part of the him he’d lost.

  Boggs helped him drag the suit to a rack and hang it up. “Been welding long?”

  “Not very.”

  “We all had in mind that none of us had heard of you until Stash spoke up.”

  Jack looked down at Alfredo Boggs. The man was past middle-aged prime and tough as an old rat. “Tell you what, Pops. You didn’t get that old working with a crew that was green or stupid. I’m not that green and I’m definitely not stupid.”

  Boggs seemed unmoved, though his hazel eyes blinked. “We’ll see about that,” he responded. “We’ll see about it.”

  The sleeping bay was filled with sour smelling, tense bodies, strapped to their bunks as the intercom buzzed on. “Thirty seconds to descent pattern. All hands secure themselves. Thirty seconds…”

  The ship bumped. Jack felt the jolt through his bones. Several feet away, in an under bunk, a voice swore. He recognized Alfredo Boggs’ rusty tones.

  “Jesus. We’re hit already.”

  A rustling went through the barracks. Jack had a mental image of a stampede for the deep-suits in the other bay. “No, that’s not it. That’s just spin off turbulence. Hang in there, Pops.” No sooner had he finished speaking than the ship dodged abruptly as though they had all fallen off a ledge.

  Someone else muttered, “Evasive pattern. We’ve got a son-of-a-bitch Bug on our tail.”

  Thraks. Gray silence hung in the bay. There was a groan as the ship cut rapidly in another direction and for a brief second, they all hung facedown from their bunks, straps cutting into their bodies.

  As quickly, they righted.

  Jack had to give the pilot credit. He flew as good an evasive pattern as any warship Jack had ever been on. Not that that made it any easier for his stomach to take. He shut his eyes briefly and created a center of gravity for himself. His thoughts whirled. He knew battle cruisers. Somehow, he knew. Another groan cut through the silence. Jack clenched the handholds. Then the ship bucked. It skipped, steadied, then hiccoughed again. He recognized the movement.

  “Now you can start sweating, Pops. We’re being fired at.” The ship sheared off suddenly. Jack bit his lip.

  Cold sweat dotted his forehead. The ship twirled. He felt the bump, bump, bump of blasts shaking the freighter. Jack tore off his belt. He got to his feet.

  Bump. Jack fell with a thud, the edge of the bunk slamming into his head. Crimson exploded and he reeled back, sick with pain. A berthmate reached out and grabbed his arm, keeping Jack in place on the floor as the freighter shuddered. Metal creaked. Then, a steady bucking began.

  Then, just as suddenly, he could feel a slowing in their movement, and a steady trembling, the familiar path of a decaying orbit. “We’re going in.”

  “Then we’re safe, mates. We’re past the blockade!”

  Weak cheering, punctuated by upchucking, and pungent smells filled the bay. Tears ran warmly down his face as he pulled himself back into the bunk. Memories flooded him. Real memories. Jack lay back and tried to think of other places and better times.

  Amber stroked the white Flexalinks armor as she settled it into the large shipping trunk. Luckily, a woman of means such as the Duchess could afford massive baggage in her travels. The tou
ch of her hands brought the faint flickering of Bogie’s thoughts.

  *Where’s the boss?*

  “I don’t know, Bogie. But we’re going to find out.” The armor was cold, but the mind-link warm.

  *I—need him.*

  “Me, too, Bogie.” Amber swallowed. It had been months since Jack’s disappearance. Bogie’s mind-link was incredibly weak. The parasitic life was no doubt losing its hold. But it was tough, unbelievably tough—it had survived seventeen years of cold sleep just as Jack had. Cold wasn’t the way to kill Bogie. Maybe loneliness was. She lowered the lid and palm-locked the fasteners. “And wherever he is, he needs us.” She accessed the travel code. “First stop, the Triad’s largest and most illegal cold sleep lab.”

  The hold doors opened. Jack listened to the clang and ring and prepared himself, pleasantly, for the inrush of new air—foreign, alien air, with its own spices and mixtures. The contractors were all on their feet, nudging forward, and he was caught in their wave, shoulder to shoulder, as they burst outside.

  Inside—a long, gray tunnel, where the air was, if anything, more stale, more full of human misery, than the recycled stuff he’d been breathing for the last few days. Jack staggered to a halt, letting the press carry past him.

  Stash stopped, too. He threw a look off his right shoulder and, with a grimy sleeve, wiped out a nearly opaque spot on the tunnel wall. “Look through here, mate,” the man said.

  Jack did. The starkness of nothingness hit him. He straightened, feeling for the first time the full impact of his situation. Lasertown was a dead moon mining community, her tunnels sprawled across the strip-mined landscape like an obscene spider’s legs, the center domes its bloated body. Stash nudged him. “Nowhere to run ‘ere, mate, unless you know where to run to.” Then, whistling a merry tune, the New Aussie passed him by as he shouldered his duffel. Jack watched him go.

  Alfredo came up behind him. He shook his head. “That’s a bad ‘un, Storm. You stay clear of him.”

  “Right.” Jack shouldered his own duffel. Lying in the back of his mind like a dead thing was the realization that he’d been told all this before—he’d just never realized it. Walking out of here sooner or later was not going to be a possibility. Neither was working off his labor contract. He was going to be enslaved here for the rest of his life—however long or short it was destined to be.