EIGHTEEN: Games
Time to
work, Val thought. She wore a loose white shirt, unzipped far enough to
draw attentive eyes. Tight black slacks wrapped around her slim hips,
emphasizing every step as she walked across the cabin to the door.
“Where
are you going?” Foxe asked from the bed. “That’s pretty slink for breakfast.”
She
shrugged. She saw his eyes follow the rise and fall of her shoulders.
“Just—around.”
“Don’t
forget we’re viewing the profiles in three hours.”
Hands
on her hips, she stared at him. They had the bickering down all too well. “And
don’t forget we can’t change our minds about the eyes again. Blue moon is what
we agreed on.”
“I
just said maybe we should think about—”
“Just
think about leaving here as soon as possible. With a product. Unless you want
to stay here and gamble all our money away with that Frique.”
“I’m
due for a winning streak. With what this is costing us—”
“Just
shut up! Please.” Her voice shook. “It’s what we settled on.”
“Yeah.”
He looked away from her. “Just be . . . watch yourself. Lot of crazies in this
place.”
He
was actually worried. He didn’t think she was up to the job. She shook her
head, irritated. I can handle this, she wanted to snap. Not even the
toughest location I’ve gotten out of. “All right.”
She
left.
She
walked quickly, her heart beating harder than she expected. Foxe could play
games with Frique all through the Alpha Shift, and maybe he was good enough at enough
gambling to turn Frique, force him to co-operate, but she had something better.
A little flirting and a certain amount of flesh, and Ben would give her
anything she asked for before half-shift break.
Of
course, that’s when things could get tricky. She’d handled beings like Ben before,
males and females and gender-swingers of different species who expected to get
their taste of her whether she laughed or screamed. They usually underestimated
her ability to slide away from their slimy hands before they realized they
weren’t going to get sexed. A handful of times she’d had to actually perform,
but even then she’d been able to play the game until they were so caught up in
passion or cruelty they let their guard down and gave her a chance to kick
their genitals whichever way hurt most. She didn’t like to remember those
episodes, but they were necessary. The memory kept her alert.
But
Ben wouldn’t be a problem. A horny kid, too long stuck in the middle of this
nebula, a hundred light years from anything female that would look at him twice
without checking his credit first. He was aching for attention. And other
things. She’d need to be cautious—frustrated lust was one of the deadliest
forces in the universe, she’d found—but she probably wouldn’t have to kill him.
Val
knew what Morine and her crew would do to Ben if she got what she wanted from
him. But she didn’t let herself think about that. Couldn’t afford to. Ben was
on his own, just like she was. Just like everyone.
Maybe she could get him out. Maybe she
could rescue all of them, lead a revolt against the clonesavers, take over the
station, and bring Rumav back home unharmed. Uh-huh. Right.
You
can’t save everyone, Vallie. The universe has to take care of itself. Sorry,
Ben.
She
made her way down to the maintenance decks, using a code Ben had given her to
open doors. She found him sitting in the corridor, legs crossed, his fingers
punching the controls of a vidgame. He didn’t notice her, and she watched him
as his round eyes darted like angelfish tracking the game. His concentration was
pure and total. His breathing was shallow, and he didn’t laugh once for the
ninety seconds she watched him.
“Hi,
Ben,” she said when she decided he wasn’t going to take a break on his own.
“What you playing?”
“What?
Oh, hi—hi, Val.” He blinked, torn between staying with his game and looking at
her. “It’s just a new version of River Rats. Hamnet gave it to me. Do you
ever—ever play River Rats?”
“V-games
aren’t that much fun.” She crouched to peer at the screen.
“Yeah,
this is good, though. You got to navigate down a river, and each game is a
river on a different planet. See, this is the Brandyroot on Corius Seven, it
goes across the whole planet.” He jabbed a thumb on one control. The small
craft flitted away from a rising tentacle, but Ben’s maneuver took it into the
path of a jagged boulder falling from a tall cliff over the shore.
The
craft dropped beneath churning waves. GAME OVER.
“Sorry.
I distracted you.”
“That’s
all right.” He turned the player off and stuffed it down a pocket as if ashamed
of his defeat. “What you doing down here?”
“Bored.”
She sat next to him, stretching her legs. “Slept bad.”
“Bad
nightmares?”
“Just
. . . lonely. I’m stuck in that compartment with just my husband, nothing to
do, just waiting . . ..” She closed her eyes.
Was
he running his eyes over her body? Probably. She’d caught shy glances from him
before when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
Foxe’s
face reared into her mind for a moment. He’d gotten a look at her body a few
times, and while he didn’t try to hide his interest, she sensed that he had
other priorities—not just here and now, but in his life outside the station.
She hadn’t let herself wonder what they were.
She
had more immediate goals right now, too. Getting attention with her body was
easy. Using that attention to get what she wanted—without losing control of the
situation—that’s what took skill.
“You’re
going soon, right?” He blurted the question, as if she scared him.
“Well,
I can’t live here. If we can decide on the right specs it could be soon. Today,
maybe. But Erick can be a pricking pig sometimes.”
“Yeah.
What’s a pig?”
She
smiled, her eyes still closed. “An animal. A dirty animal.”
Pause.
“Why do you like him?”
“Good
question.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about Foxe—he was difficult to scan.
Probably good at his job, but too defensive. Hiding behind jokes and attitude.
“He can be—fun, sometimes. Just not here.”
“Yeah.
Not much fun here.” He was getting restless.
She
had to keep his interest. Val opened her eyes and sat forward. “You know what?”
He
blinked, shifting his eyes away from her body now that she could see him again.
“You
could do me a favor, maybe.” Val looked into his three eyes. They were perfect
circles, yellow and unsettled.
“Yeah—maybe.”
He looked away from her. “What?”
“We’re
supposed to view the embryo profiles in a few hours. If I could get a look at
them—well, I’d know what Erick’s going to argue about, and I could make him
shut up.”
“You
want me to show you the profiles? That’s—I don’t know.”
She
glanced up and down the corridor, then leaned closer to him. “Maybe not the
final profiles. Just the raw data. The genetics. You could do that, couldn’t
you?”
“Well
. . .” He wanted to.
She
put a hand on his leg. “Nobody has to know.”
He
grinned suddenly. He had a single ridge of bone inside his mouth, the color of
pearl. “There’s a work carrel. It’s private. It’s kind of tight. We could . .
.” His eyes grew shadowed, embarrassed.
“Yeah,
we could. Can we do it right now?”
“Right
now.” He forced himself to look away from her again and focused on the time
implant in his wrist. “I’ve got an
hour.”
“That’s
long enough.” She gave him a smile. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay.”
He scrambled to his feet and stamped them on the deck, as if they’d fallen
asleep. “This way. Come on.”
Got
you, Val thought. “Lead the way.”
Bacat was
based on an old Terra-1 game called Holdem, with one element added by the
Narixian Temple of Ramos the Champion: Bets were made by throwing a
twenty-sided dice. The only decision was whether to toss the dice or not.
Dice
made Foxe’s plan more complicated. Foxe could have rigged the gameplayer on his
handcomp to let him win—or lose—whenever he needed to, even though Frique had
naturally insisted on scanning the software. But he couldn’t control the dice
and how much it let him bet.
But Foxe had played this game during the Varrian Occupation with chainsaw
bombs exploding over his skull. The dice variation barely distracted him.
He’d created a “tell” for Frique to notice, rubbing his nose before tossing
the dice whenever he was bluffing. Foxe was careful to keep it subtle and rare,
avoiding Frique’s eyes and using the tell only when his hand was weak enough
that desperation was his only hope of winning.
Frique came from the Danquin homeworld: a short humanoid with no hair on
his body, no ears, and a web of bulging blue veins that crisscrossed his bare
scalp. His job was keeping the genetic manipulation equipment running smoothly.
He had access to all the crèche data. He could find Rumav—with the right
incentive.
And he was a decent bacat player, but he didn’t want to play today. “I just got off Gamma Shift.” He leaned
against a bulkhead. “Go away. I’m tired.”
“I’m leaving today. Probably.”
Then he straightened. Only slightly more than a meter tall, he was solid
and thick as an oxblix. “Then you’d better give me my 300 cees.”
“It’s 287.” Foxe flicked his fingers across the screen of his handcomp.
“How about double stakes?”
Frique sighed. “You’re defective. All right, come on.”
The
empty shelves inside the storage compartment where they played reminded Foxe of
prison bars. He set up the game on a small worktable in the corner. Frique perched
on a stool, watching to make sure he didn’t load any suspicious apps at the
same time. Frique had checked the gameplayer’s software before their first game
to be certain the hands were really generated randomly. He supplied the dice.
The
gameplayer on Foxe’s handcomp would project two holoscreens visible from only
one angle, displaying randomly generated images of playing cards. A third
screen between them showed their common cards. The gameplayer kept track of
their scores.
“Getting
your embryo today?” Frique asked as Foxe dealt.
“We
look at the profiles in a few hours. I just hope she’s happy with one of them.”
Frique
smirked. “You want to get out of here.”
“Soon
as possible. Hey, you’re a tech. You seen my profiles?”
“Can’t
tell you that. You know the rules.”
“The
only rule I care about is a flush beats a straight. Or is it the other way
around?” He grinned.
“Scumsucker.”
“Really—Can
you check the profiles out for me? I just want—”
“No!
Can you hear with those ugly flaps of skin you wear on your head? I can’t do
that. Don’t worry, you’ll be on your way soon enough. Let’s play.”
They
tossed the dice and entered their bets on Foxe’s handcomp. For the first few
games they’d used credit tabs, until Foxe had lost big and claimed he couldn’t
give him all his tabs without his wife finding out. He had to get Frique to
lose more than he could easily pay, but he also had to make him think he had
his own limits.
Two
quick hands, and they were almost even again. Frique smiled, his face sweaty.
“Your wife going to cover you if I empty your credit deck?”
“Can
we not talk about her? This whole trip was her idea.”
“We
could work out a trade. She’d have to co-operate, you know?” The veins in his
forehead pulsed as he chuckled.
“Keep
yanking it. I’m the best she can handle. And she wouldn’t touch your—”
“Not
me. I don’t tilt her way.” He tossed the dice. “But some of my friends . . .”
Foxe
looked up, his eyes sharp. “What?”
“Nothing,
just—”
He
pushed himself up to his feet. “What?”
Frique
tilted his stool back. “Ay, back down over there. You wanted to play cards?”
Foxe
sank into his chair and glared at his card display. He wanted to keep Frique
wary of his temper, but his irritation wasn’t totally an act. Even though Val
seemed perfectly capable of protecting herself. “Keep your mouth shut about my
wife. Just shut. You going to bet?”
He
rolled the dice. Eleven. Frique peered into his screen and matched his 22 cees.
“Ready for the cap?” He flipped the last card.
“Hellcore.”
Foxe was down fifty cees.
A
few more hands passed in silence. Then Frique, after a few stolen glances,
said, “There’s this one, named Ben. Creche-tender, used to be material. He just
talks about your wife a little.”
“I
said—” Foxe stared at him. “Like what?”
“Thinks
she likes him. Your bet.”
Foxe
tossed the dice. Twenty. He rubbed his nose and entered a bet of 40 i.c. “Well,
she’s not about to share fluids with refuse from a crèche. I know the bitch
that well.”
“He
thinks . . . ” Frique turned the river, giving him three Lesser Monarchs to
Foxe’s two black tens.
“Shove
him. And you, if you keep talking.” He’d lost 130 cees in the hand.
Frique’s chatter about Val irritated
him. He wasn’t sure why. Val irritated him even more. Okay, not fair—it wasn’t
her fault she’d been born with money, and her body was a legitimate tool if she
wanted to use it. Frique’s words didn’t bother him as much as the truth—that
she was somewhere below them working Ben, letting him think . . .
“You
going to deal?”
Foxe
tapped a key. “Let’s make this worthwhile.” He anted double the usual amount.
Frique
smiled and met him.
Foxe
lost the next hand, without using his tell. He managed to lose 500 cees after
that without even trying, thanks to a potential flush that didn’t materialize.
Frique won with a pair of twos and cackled as he checked his score. “Ready to
pay up?”
Foxe
glared at him. “Just deal the cards.”
His
two pocket cards were useless, but he tossed the dice anyway. The three-up
cards gave him nothing. He let Frique see him hesitate. Betting too
aggressively on trash would arouse some suspicion, but he needed to keep the
stakes rising. With a loud sigh, he tossed the dice. Ten. His bet was 20.
Frique
tossed the dice, then closed his screen, conceding the hand. Foxe cursed
inwardly as he gave the tech a big grin. “Things starting to turn, my friend.”
He was still down by 220 cees.
“I
gotta go.” Frique shoved the cards across the table. “Alpha’s what—shista, half
over? Need some rest.”
Arguing
would just make him stubborn. With a shrug, Foxe said. “Fine by me. I can’t get
this money together anyway right now.”
Frique
froze. “What?”
“I
can get it, all right?” He edged his chair backward, as if afraid. “Just not
right now.”
“You
better, clonesucker.”
“One
more hand?”
“So
I can win more money you can’t pay?” His face grew red, a sharp contrast to the
blue veins in his forehead.
“I
can get it! One more, come on.”
“You
better. Or I get to take your testicles, if that’s what your species carries.”
But Frique sat down. “This is it.”
A
prince in the three-up gave Foxe a pair. He tossed the dice. Nineteen, which he
doubled. Frique threw a twenty and bet 40. The next card that opened, a greater
monarch, didn’t help Foxe at all. He threw fifteen, and doubled it again.
Frique threw a twelve and bet.
Now
the cap. The final card popped open.
Three.
Foxe’s other pocket card was a three, giving him two pair. He tossed the dice.
Sixteen. But on the cap he was allowed to wager up to ten times the dice. He
took a long look at his pocket card, then rubbed his nose, keeping his eyes
away from Frique. He bet 160.
Frique
tossed the dice for seventeen. With a grin, he bet 170. “All right, you’d better
have it by tonight . . .” His voice trailed away as their screens displayed
each player’s hands.
Foxe
sighed loudly. “Finally.”
Frique had one pair of nines.
“Shista!” Frique slapped the worktable hard enough to send the dice to
the floor. “That can’t be right!”
“Hey,
you checked the software. You insisted.” Foxe breathed a long sigh. “I was
about due for luck.”
“I was going to get some rest . . .”
“Well,
you can sleep all you want.” Foxe pulled the cards together. “We’d better
settle, though, I’m going to be leaving soon, and you owe me . . . 756 cees.”
“Bann’s
ass!” He grabbed the handcomp. “That’s out of—”
“Check
the log,” Foxe snapped. “You weren’t asking questions when I was down. Come on,
let’s finish it and you can get some sleep.”
“I
can’t—” Frique stopped, glaring at Foxe. “You needed time to get the
money.”
“You
said you were going to cut off my testicles.”
“You’re
going to leave!” He stood up, knocking his stool over, and kicked the wall
behind him. “Just as soon as you get your embryo. You and your luck. All right,
Koro owes me some money. Let me talk to him. Gamma shift.”
“Koro
owes you money.” Foxe closed the game, clipped the player to his belt, and bent
down for the dice. Time to raise the stakes.
“Yeah,
he’s an andy programmer—”
Foxe
hurled the dice at Frique’s face. It struck him just below one eye, then
dropped and bounced beneath the shelving as dark maroon blood began dripping
down his cheek. He shouted in pain and surprise, but before he could move Foxe
jumped around the table and slammed a fist into his chest. The bone beneath was
soft. Frique screamed. Foxe hoped he hadn’t damaged any important organs
underneath.
Frique
tried to lift his arm to defend himself, but Foxe brought his boot down hard on
his foot. Bones crunched, and Frique doubled over, gasping. Foxe grabbed
Frique’s neck in a tight painful pinch and pulled him upright.
“Goddeshi,
you don’t have to—ahh!” He squirmed. The veins in his forehead were dark
purple.
“That’s
for saying things about my wife.”
“I
didn’t—Ow! Okay, apology, okay! Stop . . ..”
Foxe
released him, and Frique sagged, laying his smooth head on the desk. Foxe’s
heart thudded. Frique was a cloneslaver. He deserved worse than this. But Foxe
needed him. For now.
“I’ll
get—the money—just don’t—hit me?”
“Oh,
keep your filthy credits. I don’t need your money.” Foxe nudged his leg with
one foot. Frique flinched. “I’ll tell you what I want instead.”
“Wh-what?”
Frique peered up at him, the bruise from the dice pushing his eye half shut.
He
leaned over. “I want seven fingers.”
“I
don’t . . .” He blinked, trying to focus on Foxe’s hands.
“For
my embryo! I want seven fingers. It’s just—something I want.” He gave Frique’s
chest a tap. Not hard, but Frique flinched and swore at him. “There’s got to be
something in one of the crèches with seven fingers, isn’t there?”
“I
don’t know. I don’t know!”
“Well,
let’s find out. Right now.”
“I
can’t—”
“Of
course you can. Weren’t you bragging yesterday about checking out the material
for good bodies?”
“But
I—wait! Don’t!” he shouted as Foxe drew his fist back again. “Shista. You’re
crazy, you know that?”
Just
what Foxe wanted him to think. He grabbed Frique’s neck again, squeezing the
nerve center near his spine.
“Stop!
I can do it. Back off, would you?” He curled up into a ball. “I can do it.
Goddeshi . . ..”
Foxe
released him and took a step back. Frique’s arms dangled at his side, his face
on the table, breathing hard. “All right.”
Foxe
didn’t enjoy beating people who couldn’t fight back, even when they deserved
it. But at least they didn’t haunt his dreams. He wiped the sweat from his face
with the back of his arm. “Then let’s go.”
“Right
now?”
“You
either pay me right now or do it right now. Or get more of the treatment right
now. You pick. Right now.”
“Okay,
all right.” Frique took a deep breath and pulled himself up, holding onto a
shelf. “I’m bleeding.”
With
a scowl, Foxe pulled a dermalspray from his vest and tossed it. “Here. Anyone
asks, you had an accident shaving.”
Frique
sprayed his hairless scalp. “Shaving?”
“Never
mind.” He pointed to the door. “Let’s go.”
NINETEEN: Target
“Quili’s
Fire is here.” Declannes highlighted an icon on the tactical screen.
Shrinn’s
eyes moved between the tactical display and the main viewscreen. Tactical
showed positions and distances relative to their ship. His ship could identify tactical
configurations, list known weaponry, analyze energy signatures, prioritize
potential targets, and suggest manuevers for attack and evasion. The main
screen showed reality: The cloneslaver facility floating in space, 1.5 million
kilometers away, shrouded by the glowing dust of the Sorresana Nebula. A thick
block of metal, scarred and dirty, rotating in a lazy, random pattern like a
piece of stellar driftwood.
The
ship was in stealth mode. Under normal circumstances it would be impossible to
spot, but any decent survey array would pick up disturbances in the stellar
dust of the nebula around them. In the viewscreen, ships connected to the
station with flimsy-looking tethers looked like insects caught in a huge web,
not trying to escape but hoping to make a deal with the spider with their souls
as payment. The other ships docked to the station’s hull were like sandleeches,
sucking the life from their prey, depositing their waste onto the station so it
could feed and continue to survive.
Perversions
were being committed there that they couldn’t see through any screen.
Disgusting experiments that no one should witness, let alone suffer through.
They’d all seen the AW archive vids on cloneslaver horrors. Every civilized
culture was sickened by the practice. And yet it persisted. Thrived. Fed on the
beings it captured and spewed the refuse it produced into the galaxy
But
Shrinn’s anger had nothing to do with the horror in front of him. He had a different
target. “Is Foxe still there?” Unscrambling
their tag through the strangled mess created by the hotpaint had taken
days—although it could have taken weeks if he hadn’t insisted on the best tech
for his team. But long as Foxe was still here, Rumav was within reach. And
neither one of them would escape.
“Let me . . .” Declannes hesitated, manipulating the CommBoard controls.
“Yes. Here he is in their current client database. Valeria Lynd is with him.”
Lynd. The bounty hunter from M’tajj’s suite. Also hunting Rumav. Had they
teamed up out of necessity? Maybe they’d been working together from the start,
pretending to be adversaries.
It didn’t matter. If she got in the way, she’d die too.
“Set
a tag on her ship. And in the name of the Seven, test it this time.” Declannes
had all the right skills, but he’d missed that step at Crystal Rendezvous. Lanesh
wouldn’t have.
“Yes,
sir.” Declannes bit his lip as he tapped the controls.
“Mateon?”
His Weapons Chief nodded.
“Sir.”
“Start planting SP-2s on the station’s hull. I want enough to obliterate
the station with one single command within the hour.”
“The
structural survey will take several hours—”
“Skip
the survey. Just plant as many as you can in one hour without being detected.
“Sir?”
Aje spoke from the doorway. He didn’t have a station on the bridge, but he had
the right to observe operations.
“My squad can board and take the station.”
Was it a challenge? They’d exchanged only a few words since Crystal
Rendezvous—curt orders and terse acceptance. But Aje seemed determined not to
give into any sense of guilt he felt for Lanesh’s death. And Shrinn had
realized, reluctantly, how great his shame must be. Aje was a good soldier. He
deserved respect. Despite his mistakes.
“No.”
Tempting as it was, that meant fighting from deck to deck, one cubicle after
another, and a station like Leda would have too many potential deathtraps
waiting for any invading force. Better to stand off in the darkness. Play to
their strengths—power and patience.
Aje
nodded. “Then we should place SP-2s on the docked ships as well as the
station.”
It
made sense. But he couldn’t give the station too much time to react. “How many
ships?”
“Fourteen.”
Declannes checked the board. “Counting Lynd.”
“Place one on Lynd’s ship, transition trigger. Leave the others. I want
to be able to make contact with that station within the hour.”
“On
it, sir.” Mateon was clicking keys as fast as he could.
Aje
nodded. “Your command, sir.”
The
Century Heir was somewhere in the facility. Helpless. Waiting to be harvested.
They could just leave him there. The cloneslavers would never identify him. If
he ever regained enough consciousness to stammer his name they’d assume he was
lying, or insane. Or they could simply destroy the station and leave its
wreckage to drift in the nebula dust. Erase it from existence, along with
everyone on board: the victims in their crèches would never know, and the crew
and their clientele didn’t deserve any warning or explanation.
But
he had to see. To give an accurate report to Darel, he needed to know for a
fact that Rumav was dead. No longer any threat to them That meant restraining
his impatience, keeping his team ready, not taking any chances.
He
heard the voices of his team murmuring around him, on the bridge and within the
ship’s onboard network, asking questions, sharing jokes, placing bets, cursing
each other. The various control boards of the bridge hummed and beeped like
crickeers in the grass of home. His own breathing seemed to thunder in his
chest.
The
Century Heir was on board that station, but Foxe was he pictured right now,
alive and healthy, oblivious to the damage he’d done and the punishment that
was coming for him.
Any
two-day recruit could go in blasting. As much as he wanted to act quickly,
decisively—violently—he needed to take his time.
No
more mistakes. Not after Crystal Rendezvous.
Ben was
nervous. Sweating like an adolescent sneaking into his father’s wine cellar or
his mother’s virtual sex platform, his t-shirt sticking to his skinny
shoulders, he whispered a quick, please-don’t-answer-me hello to one crewmember
in the corridor and waited for him to disappeared before taking Val through a
secured door. Inside he took a deep breath, half relief and half increased
anxiety.
They
were deep within the station. Val could feel the power from the multi-fusion
chamber humming through the deck. They stood in a short, wide hall with a
circular lighttube overhead, doors with security locks glowing red on either
side of them.
Ben
avoided looking directly at her. “It’s probably this one,” he murmured,
stepping toward the second door to the right with the words STATION 4 printed
in black. “Or one of the others. But probably this. It should have what you want.”
“I’m
sure it will.” He needed confidence. Needed to trust that she wouldn’t punish
him for a mistake. “Let’s take a look.”
He
nodded, but didn’t move for a second. Val waited, scanning the area with her
eyes and ears. Finally Ben sighed and headed to the door. He jammed the chip
into the reader, tapped a code into the keypad, and tensed as the door slid
open.
“No
one’s usually in here,” he said without looking over his shoulder as he
entered. “You can access the database anywhere, but you've got to log in unless
you’re using one of the terminals here, so this—this seemed like the best way.
We can’t change anything, just look at the data. I’d need an override key to do
anything else”
“You
used a code on that keypad. Will anyone know we’re in here?”
“No.
It’s a just generic entry code. They don’t really care if we’re in here. It’s
just that—you’re not supposed to be here.”
The
room was slightly larger than the compartment she was sharing with Foxe. Six
comp stations jutted from the walls, screens on standby. A glowsphere floated
in the center of the room, flooding every corner with white light. Signs were
stuck to various monitors—CLOSE ALL INTERFACES WHEN COMPLETE, NIKOLAS DON’T
CHANGE ANY PASSWORDS AGAIN, ALLPORN MOVED TO CHANNEL N32, XR KEY STICKS SO
PRESS HARD!!!
Ben
picked a seat, and the dark screen in front of him came automatically to life.
He peered at the menu. “Okay. What—what do you want?”
“Embryo
profiles.”
“Do
you have the—no, you wouldn’t have a base ID. When did they take your specs?”
“Two
days ago.”
He
licked his lips and punched in a date. Lines of data poured down the screen.
“It could be—okay, here it is.” He highlighted one line and tapped a series of
instructions. The screen blinked, and five image icons popped into view. “There
they are.”
Val
leaned down over him, one hand on his shoulder. She could feel his arm shake as
she stared as he clicked on each icon, one by one.
Just
a cluster of cells. It was hard to visualize any living potential in this clump
of genetic material, but she knew that in a matter of days it would develop
into a real embryo waiting to be born—or flushed. The cloneslave trade was
based on the ability to produce fully-grown specimens as quickly as possible,
even faster than the typical acceleration process used by impatient beings on a
hundred worlds to reduce the waiting time between conception and birth. Many
would-be parents didn’t rely on sex to produce offspring; those that did
frequently had their embryos removed at an early stage to grow in gestation
tubes, monitored and manipulated to guarantee health and whatever advantages
they favored.
Val’s mother had done it, sculpting both daughters and one son for
physical beauty. Adriann had been more beautiful than Val, while Paul seemed
modeled after ancient statues of the gods of Greece on Terra-1 and the saints
of Orion Prime. Val, leaner than her sister and more athletic than Paul, didn’t
know what template her mother had used to guide her physical development, and
she’d given up pondering that long ago.
Panels
opened next to each icon, listing basic genetic stats. The High Lady Jatril had
provided her with a thorough summary of Rumav’s genetic code for identification
purposes. The strings of data meant little to her, but she’d highlighted some
genetic abnormalities for Val to look for. She searched the data, aware of
Ben’s eyes on her, his closeness.
The
third profile looked like it contained some of Rumav’s DNA. But when she tried
to drill down for the precise data, the system demanded an authorization code.
“Can you?” she asked Ben, her voice implying rewards for success.
“I
think so.” He entered a sequence. “This —it’s a code that belongs to a friend
of mine. He might get in trouble.”
“Don’t
worry.” New panels appeared with chromosomal source data. She frowned, wishing
she’d studied genetics better at University before dropping out.
She
felt Ben shift in his chair. Was she losing him? That would be fine in the long
run, as long as she got what she needed. But she needed his interest now. “This
won’t take long,” she whispered. “Then we can . . ..” She left the possibility
wide open for him.
“O-okay.”
He moved close to her again. His arm trembled as it brushed her shoulder.
This
is it. The DNA was definitely a match for Rumav. But something was wrong.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to find the mistake in the streams of data.
Something didn’t match, but she wasn’t a geneticist. Just a bounty hunter. And
she was closing in on her prey.
She
smiled. She’d found the target.
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“I
need to see this one.”
He
blinked. “It’s right there. Do you want—”
“The
material. Where is it?”
His
body stiffened. “It’s in a crèche. I can’t—Why?”
“It’s
important. To me.” She turned and faced him, her hands on either side of his
chair. “Can you do that?”
“I
could—but . . . I don’t understand.” Doubt was beginning to grow in his eyes.
“I
had a friend like this one. Once, a long time ago. Before Erick—he doesn’t
know. He had a son—”
“This
is just genetic code! You can’t tell anything from this!” He stabbed a key and
the panel vanished.
“We
were going to have children. Real children.” Hand on his arm? No—not right
after talking about her “husband.” “We submitted specimens to an agency, but
they disappeared and the agency went out of business. This fits the profile we
were planning.”
“It’s
not yours. It came in just a few days ago. It’s fully grown, mature—”
“I’m
not as young as I try to look. Really, I could be Erick’s mother. Maybe even
his grandmother.” Not true, but bodysculpture and youth treatments could
maintain a youthful appearance for decades. “Maybe it’s a mistake, but—I’d
really like to see him. To be sure, before I—before Erick and I . . . ”
She
stared into his eyes, not letting him look away. Threats, pain—they might work,
but the best way to get his co-operation was to enlist him. The hope of sex was
powerful bait, but sympathy would win real loyalty.
He
stared back at her, his eyes shivering. “I suppose. But if they catch me . . .”
“I’ll
take care of you.”
“I
thought you—” He shook his head. “Why are we here? Really?”
She
sighed. “I thought . . . he wanted a child, a—special child. I thought it would
help me keep him. Things haven’t been—good, lately. I’m not sure what I want
anymore. But if this is a real child, a healthy one, it . . . changes things.
Maybe everything.”
“You
can’t buy it. They won’t let you take it away. They never do, people have
tried—”
“I’ll—I’ll
think of something. But I need your help.” Now she put her hand on his arm, a
soft touch. “Please?”
He
looked away from her, shaking his head. When he looked back his face was calm,
his breathing slow and even. “O-okay. I’ll help.”
She
kissed his cheek lightly. “Thank you.”
In a
sanitation chamber Frique washed the dried blood from his face. Then he opened
a panel in the bulkhead above the sink and hauled himself up into the opening.
Foxe followed and found himself in a cramped passageway that ran behind
the walls. He had to turn sideways to follow Frique, hunching down so his head
didn’t scrape the ceiling. Only a few distant glowrods cast enough light to see
through the shadows. Frique climbed a ladder to the deck above, turned, and
headed down the passageway. They were somewhere near the station’s hull, and
all alone. Apparently.
After
a few dozen meters Frique stopped and opened a door. “Here.” Foxe stepped
through into a long narrow room stretching almost a hundred meters in either
direction. Cables and pipes ran down the walls and ceiling, and discarded
bottles, food wrappers, and contraceptive devices littered the floor. He heard
the skittering noises of station rats in the shadows. The usual sour odors lay
heavy in the air—sweat, stale beer, vomit and urine, lingering smoke.
His
nerves felt red and tight. Frique could easily be leading him into a trap. The
whole station was a trap, and he’d been living inside waiting for it to snap
for too long. An attack would be almost a relief. Action was always better than
the worry that came before.
“Don’t
let your feet stick to anything,” Frique muttered.
“This
is where you come for privacy?”
“It’s
a good place for—well, parties.”
“Yeah,
very posh.”
Frique
sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and picked up a handcomp that was linked
into a cable running along the curved outer wall. “The comp’s off the grid.
We—some of us use it to scope the material.”
“Better
than porn?”
“It’s
a small station,” he said, defensive. “We’re stuck here. I’ve been here four
years. We don’t get visitors like your wife often enough.”
“I
said to shut up about her,” Foxe growled.
“Forget
it. Let me . . ..” He activated the handcomp. Foxe crouched next to him,
avoiding a pebble of dried rat dung.
Frique
had seemed to calm down during their walk through the passageway, but Foxe
could see his muscles bunched beneath his shirt. His breathing was quick and
shallow. Foxe centered his weight and kept his hands loose. Frique might be
hoping he could catch Foxe off guard. It wouldn’t happen, but Foxe didn’t want
to waste any more time.
“What
is your thing for seven fingers?”
“My
lucky number. What do you care? Just find some.”
Frique
rocked back and forth as he ran the handcomp. The screen was small, and Foxe
had to lean in close to watch. “Is this going to take long?”
“They’ve
got everything catalogued. This isn’t even the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard
of.”
“You’re
cloneslavers. Nobody comes here to breed any great intellects.”
“Sometimes
they want beings who can do all kinds of math in their brains. For gambling, I
guess. They want everything. Not just genitalia. Warriors, beings who can breathe
water, or methane. Sometimes they bring—hey, here it is.”
Foxe
blinked. “That’s it?”
“Just
one. Material 9749. Take a look.” He moved back.
Foxe
clamped a hand on his wrist. “Right here where I can see you.”
“Ay,
I’m not trying anything! Just take a look!” He pointed.
The
screen showed a panel of basic specs—height, mass, race, physical
characteristics. Material 9749 was humanoid race R-72, 380 centimeters tall, 56
kilos, male gender, general health good. And then Foxe saw it: seven fingers.
“Can
you get me a visual? His face?”
“Face?”
Frique looked as if Foxe had asked for 9749’s favorite color. “What difference
does that—wait, wait! Goddeshi, I can get it. No one ever wants to see their
face.”
Probably
not. Looking at faces meant recognizing that a piece of “material” was a
sentient being. “Do it.”
“You’re
kind of strange.” But Frique worked the handcomp, and in a moment an image came
up on the screen.
Rumav.
Eyes open but glassy. Foxe felt his anxiety lift for the first time in days,
only to crash down again a nanosecond later. Yeah, Rumav was here, alive. Now
he just had to get him out.
“Where
is he?”
Frique
sighed and produced a schematic of the station. “Right here. Material
Management Two. What’s going on, Erick? You just said you needed something with
seven fingers, and now—”
Foxe
stood up. “Now I’m going to have to tie you up and leave you here. I’m sure
someone will find you.”
Eyes
wide, Frique tried to scramble away. Foxe caught his arm and hauled him to his
feet. Frique squirmed, pulling at Foxe’s hand. “No, no, you can’t—wait!”
Foxe
hit him in the face, and Frique sagged to his knees. His arm slipped from
Foxe’s hand but as he lurched forward, gasping through the pain, he clutched
Foxe’s fingers like a spacer holding desperately to a shipline.
“Wait,”
he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Someone
will find you,” he repeated. “You just said—”
“I
can help you get to him. I’ll help you get him out of here.”
Foxe’s
blood felt icy. “What?”
“That’s
it, right? Some kind of a rescue?” He blinked up at Foxe, his eyes pleading.
“Isn’t it?”
Foxe
reached down and wrapped his fingers around Frique’s throat. He didn’t want to
see the tech in his dreams, and argue about why he’d had to kill him. But if
Frique knew his plan, could figure out what he was up to in a momentary flash
of fear . . ..
No.
No need to kill him. He just had to hide him somewhere he wouldn’t be found
quickly. I can leave a note—if I have time . . . but that might get him
into more trouble.
“Take
me,” Frique squeaked through Foxe’s grip. “With you. Take . . .”
“You
don’t want that.” Somewhere in the passageway behind the bulkheads, a dark
corner—
“I
can get you in! I can get you out! Just—get me off this hell-damned station!”
Foxe
looked at him. No time for distractions. “I work alone.” Except for Val.
“Mostly.”
“Please!
Get me out of here! I’ll help you!”
Foxe
released Frique’s throat, grabbed his shoulders, and shook his body hard.
“You’ve been here four years and you want to quit now?”
“You
think I like being a hell-spawned cloneslaver?” He coughed, a dry hack in the
pit of his throat. “No one leaves. They try. Mishel, three years ago—he tried
to hide on Vini-2. They found him. The vid in the airlock—choking on
vacuum—” His voice rattled. “They showed it to us. Over and over.”
He
lifted his hands and pulled at Foxe’s vest. “Take me with you! Please!”
Damn
it to hellcore. Frique should already be unconscious and bound. But something
in the tech’s shaky voice wouldn’t let Foxe write him off. It wasn’t just fear
he heard, but something else. Desperation. Hope.
Foxe
dug his fingers into Frique’s shoulder as deep as he could. “You interfere and I’ll
kill you, and if I have time it’ll hurt. If I don’t have time, you’ll never see
it coming. Any questions?”
His
eyes lit up like shooting stars. “Yes! Yes, whatever you say! Thank you!”
Foxe
let him go, and he fell away, trembling. “And you called me kind of strange,”
Foxe muttered.
“Okay.”
Frique took two deep breaths. “Okay. I can get you there, but we have to be
quiet. And fast.”
“No
argument there.” He shut down the handcomp and yanked the linking cable loose.
He wrapped it around his wrist. Closest thing to a weapon available, unless he
found a pulser lying around.
He
wanted to contact Val, tell her he was on his way to the target. But they’d
agreed on silence until one of them was actually in the room, and he couldn’t
think of a solid reason to change that now. Too much could go wrong.
Frique
headed to the opening. “Are we going?”
He
didn’t trust the tech. Couldn’t afford to, even believing Frique wanted off
this station almost as anxiously as Foxe. But he didn’t have time to search for
more options. “Lead the path. Don’t get too far ahead of me.”
“Right,
right.” He ducked his head into the passageway, eager to get moving. Before he
lost his nerve? Foxe knew the feeling.
Someday
he’d lose his nerve for this work. He just hoped it wasn’t in the middle of a
mission. He hoped it wouldn’t be today.