Three
for the Money by Jules
PART TWO Six Jack lifted the lid and held it in front of her for a moment, as though she expected something to leap from the box to attack her. Then she sighed, dropped it to the floor and began to pick through the plastic container's contents. Inside was a short stack of papers, a box of data discs, and several small wads of soft, white tissue paper. Jack pulled each one apart to reveal small, colorful figurines that she turned over in her hands before rewrapping and replacing them. At the top of the next box was a thin book covered in frayed pink cloth with a heart of yellowed lace glued to the front, slightly off-center. Beneath it, glittering, uneven script spelled out 'Jackie'. Jack blew on the cover, sending up a small, sparkling cloud that made her sneeze. As she rubbed her nose she cast a sidelong glance toward the door. She knew he was there. "I was ten," she said with a cautioning look. Riddick stepped out of the doorway and crossed the room to squat beside the bed. "I won't bite," Jack said, baring her teeth. He drew himself up to perch on the edge of the mattress, bouncing lightly and jostling her as she squinted at her own tiny handwriting. "Bet the big jerk read every word," Jack scowled. "Well, good, now he knows how much I hate his guts." "So what are you looking for?" "You don't want me to answer that," said Jack distractedly, flipping to the back of book. She took hold of an upturned corner of the inside cover and pulled, tearing it free. Underneath was plain brown cardboard with a darker spot in the shape of a rectangle at its center. "Sonofabitch!" He leaned closer, conscious of the change in Jack's posture as his bare shoulder rested against hers. Sighing, she slammed the book shut with a dusty thud and tossed it back into the box. Then she turned to face him, their noses inches apart. "Why do you do that?" she asked. "Do what?" She pursed her lips and fixed him with a stern look but he could feel her arm trembling against his. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, which only caused her scowl to deepen. "You know exactly what," she said, nudging him. He did, but he didn't have a fit answer to give her, so he changed the subject instead. "What's missing?" "Huh?" "From the book." "You're going to just breeze right by that, aren't you?" she said with a short laugh and a small, exasperated gesture. "Mm-hmm." Jack shook her head and leaned over to rummage through the box as she spoke. "Grandpa gave me this card a long time ago. I think it was a key card. He told me to put it someplace safe, which is what I thought I did." Riddick watched as she set aside the small, wrapped pieces and paused to push her hair back behind her ears with long, tapered fingers each time it fell into her face. The top she wore didn't quite reach the waist of her pants, revealing a swath of skin as she leaned forward. His hand twitched and he forced it to be still. "Apparently," she said, sitting up empty-handed. "I was fucking wrong." "Think he has it?" said Riddick hoarsely. He cleared his throat and coughed slightly, flashing a broad, close-mouthed smile when Jack turned to look at him. "Maybe," she said. "Bet you anything he went through all my stuff when I left, probably to see if there was anything worth selling, the big, fat, jerk." "No sweat," shrugged Riddick. "If he's still got it, we'll get it." Jack sighed and flopped back on the bed behind him, pulling a pillow to herself and hugging it tightly. "You don't know what a slick bastard he is. I know this whole new image bullshit is exactly that. A great, big, smelly crock covered with flies. I just don't know why. I mean, he's an asshole but he's not stupid. He's got to know I won't fall for it." "Maybe," began Riddick. "And I'm prepared to run screaming like a schoolgirl as I say this -- maybe he really means it." "Not a fucking chance." "Okay, screw that, then." Jack laughed out loud and swung the pillow, connecting squarely with the back of Riddick's head. He felt the blow coming, but it didn't surprise him any less. Jack drew the pillow back and held it in front of her defensively as he turned, glaring. "You know what this means, right?" he growled. "Oh shit." For an instant they were both still, eyes locked and hands shifting like a pair of gunfighters before the draw. Then Riddick's hand shot toward her and Jack shrieked at the top of her lungs, rolling away and off the bed to land on her feet and bolt for the door. Grinning, Riddick cut her off, causing her to backpedal and almost lose her balance. She caught herself and changed direction, hopping back onto the bed and bounding across to leap off the other side. He threw out one of his long arms to snag her, but she twisted in the air and his fingertips barely managed to brush her as she passed. Laughing wildly, she ran through the door into the common room at the center of the suite they shared. "Marty, help!" Bent over a laptop computer on the low table in front of him, Marty smirked and pushed up the pair of narrow-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. "I claim neutral status for the sofa and all outlying territories between armchairs," he said without looking up. Jack circled the small, round table in the corner and stopped on the other side, darting back and forth as Riddick tried to make his way around it. Finally he paused, breathing heavily though he was far from winded. He wiped his forehead with the back of one hand, resting the other on the table as if to support himself as he tensed to spring. "You getting old or someth--?" With a low grunt he darted around the table, snagging her arm with the fingers of one hand before she realized what he was doing. Instead of tightening his grip he stepped up behind her and pinned her arms to her sides. Jack squealed and tried to squirm free but he spun around and trapped her in the corner, where she turned to face him, flushed and smiling. Setting both hands on the wall he flashed a broad, toothy grin. "Gotcha," he rumbled. "Yes, you do," she said slowly, beaming up at him. "Question is, what are you going to do with me?" "Walked right into that one, didn't I?" "Head first." "Get a room," muttered Bender. Riddick turned to scowl at him and Jack was gone in a flash, dropping to her hands and knees and scurrying between his legs and under the table. She got to her feet and vaulted over a chair to land on the cushions beside Marty. Riddick followed, stopping short as Bender looked at him over the top of his yellow-lensed glasses. "Uh-uh. Leaving international waters, big guy," he said. Jack pulled her legs up onto the couch and stuck out her tongue. "Neener," she said. "And you," said Bender, snatching up a small, square pillow and cocking his arm back. "You have violated the no-fly zone and will be fired upon." He beaned Jack with the first pillow and reached for another as she scrambled for the other side of the couch to arm herself. "No fair!" she protested. "All's fair in love and war, Jack," chuckled Riddick. "Yeah, well, where's the love?" She laughed and heaved the pillow at him. He caught it and tucked it under his arm. Jack threw up her hands. "You two bad boys could give a girl a break," she said. Then with a sly grin, she added, "They teach pillow to pillow combat in the special forces? Were there a bunch of you guys doing your nails, talking about chicks and whacking each other with pillows in your underwear?" She paused and flashed Marty a knowing look. "Except for you, of course." "Nothing wrong with an unfurnished basement, Jack," he replied, tossing his glasses on the table. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "You need a drink," he said, nodding at Riddick. "I sure look like I do." "Did you find anything?" asked Jack. "Yep," Marty replied, shutting the laptop and standing. "I'll tell you about it over a tall, cool one." v v v "Milk?" Jack threw an arm across Marty's shoulders. "Yeah, it's for me. My pop here doesn't like me drinking. Says it'll stunt my growth or something," she said. "He, on the other hand, will have a Sneaky Pete and a shot of Tequila." The waitress shrugged and trained her tired gaze on Riddick. "How about you, Honey?" "Shot of Zero G." "And a plate of cheese fries," Jack threw in. "Right up." With a last glance at each of them, the woman turned and made her way to the bar. Old habit and new paranoia had the three of them sitting in a corner booth with their backs to the wall and a clear view of the entrance. Jack was between the men, legs drawn up and crossed, fingers tapping out a tune on her knees. Beside her, Riddick leaned back, stretched out the length of the bench with one arm rested on the back of the booth. Jack shifted a bit and settled against it with a contented sigh. Marty sat straight, with his hands on the table spinning a fork on its vertical axis and watching the guy behind the bar mix drinks. He couldn't remember the last drink he'd had. Not surprising, since he couldn't remember the first one either, courtesy of the head injury that had earned him his medical discharge. Booze was off-limits, now, because it interacted badly with the pharmacy's worth of medication in his system. In fact, anything that threw his body chemistry even a little bit out of whack, from cocaine to caffeine would cause a severe reaction. He didn't miss most of the vices he'd adopted in his youth, but goddamit if there weren't times he would have mooned a bus full of nuns for a bottle of working class champagne. Jack nudged him and planted her elbows on the table. "So, did you dig up anything on good old Virge?" "Huh?" Marty turned away from the bar and looked at her blankly for a moment, then shook out the cobwebs and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Actually, once I knew where to look, there was quite a bit." "Good stuff or bad stuff?" she asked. "Be a sweetheart, Marty, say it's all bad." "Sorry, Jack," he began, flashing an apologetic smile as he watched her deflate. "But the bullshit quotient in your old man's story is surprisingly low. He cleaned up, enrolled in business courses at Aragon U. and has a decent job with a large corporation. His last arrest was here on Terra-Luna, dated a few months after you left home. Breaking and entering, filed and subsequently dropped by Sonia Farelly. I'm going to take a stab and say that was right about the time she threw him out." "Must've left his comb," Jack snorted. "When the authorities released him he went back to the mainland. Most of what I pulled up for the next six months were credit checks, unemployment benefits and credit card bills. Then bam, he up and checked himself into a rehab facility. He spent thirty-six days in a high-priced, private clinic in San Francisco, paid in full by an anonymous benefactor." "What gives?" asked Riddick. "Oh wait, there's more," said Marty, pausing as the waitress returned and set the drinks in front of them. When she was gone, Jack picked up the shot of tequila and downed it, then switched the glass of milk for the drink in front of Marty. "Thanks, Love," he said with a wink. He took a quick sip and continued. "So, he leaves rehab with a clean bill and nowhere to go, right?" "Right," said Jack. "Wrong," Marty corrected. "He goes straight to Los Angeles Interstellar because he's got a flight to catch." "To where?" Riddick picked up a tall shot glass full of clear liquid with a small, red orb suspended motionless at its center. He took a deep breath and tossed it back, swallowing loudly and then blinking furiously as his eyes began to tear up. "Bit the ball, didn't you?" Marty smirked. Riddick nodded and cleared his throat. "Where?" "Right here." "Terra-Luna?" Jack frowned. "Why the hell would he come back here? He hated it here. Bitched about it all the time." "I think he had a pretty good reason to come back," said Marty. "The seat next to him was assigned to a young lady named Selma Torrance." Pulling a napkin toward him, he took a pen from his pocket and wrote down the name. Then he copied each letter down in a different order until a second name appeared beneath the first. "Marlene Castor?" Jack read. "What the fuck?" Riddick raised an eyebrow. "She paid for it all?" "Looks that way." Jack shook her head. "Why?" Shrugging, Bender began to doodle on the napkin. "Dunno. I can take a guess and say your pop met her either here or on the mainland and made a hell of an impression." "Why do it anonymously?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest. "Not sure," Marty replied. "Like I said, I'm guessing, here, but I'd say she was trying to keep the relationship under wraps. Her old man's big in society and his seventeen-, eighteen-year-old daughter flinging with a guy twice her age who has a record longer than my arm might not thrill him too much." He winced inwardly even as the last few words left his mouth. Riddick shot him a glare and he shrugged, countering with his best apologetic look. There was no good way to fix it out loud. Cheeks flushing with color, Jack blinked at Marty for a second before dropping her eyes to watch his pen continue to sketch disorganized patterns and spirals. "Who's her old man?" she asked. "Donald Castor," Marty replied. "CEO and majority stockholder of the Castor Mining Corporation, and your dad's boss. The company holds most of the mining contracts here on the satellite." "Who has the rest?" they asked together. Marty finished his drawing and dropped the pen on the table, then glanced from one of them to the other. "Weller Drilling and Mining."
Seven The air outside was humid, but there was no chance of rain. Not here. No weather, no seasons. The only wind was an artificial breeze that gently shuffled the loose trash along the street before it was quickly swept up by a passing automated refuse unit. Looking up, Mackey felt a brief twinge of fear at the sight of the wide-open sky above him. Nothing between him and The Big Freeze-dry but an invisible wall that could, theoretically, vanish at any moment. There were numerous redundancies built into the system, sure, but one hole no bigger than a quarter and whammo! they all went swirling straight down the shitter. Or up it, he supposed. A line of cabs waited along the curb, drivers leaning against their vehicles until the approach of a potential fare sent them into a feeding frenzy. Men waved the papers they'd been reading to kill time and hurled obscene gestures at one another while shouting out the virtues of their ride. He wondered at the ferocity of the competition, since with few exceptions, the hacks were the only drivers in town. "Get you there the fastest!" "Most comfortable!" "Know the neighborhood like nobody else!" "That guy's a rip-off!" Mackey glanced down the line and spotted a woman in skintight red vinyl standing beside a small, round-topped blue vehicle with tall white letters on the side: BLUE CAB. As he headed for the closest car she hopped up on the runner and unzipped the front of her form-hugging top, giving him a brief flash of her breasts before zipping it up again. "We have a winner," he muttered, allowing himself a short laugh. The shouting erupted anew, this time directed at the lady in red. Bouncing down from her perch, she winked and waved at the other drivers and pressed a button to open the trunk, taking Mackey's suitcase with a wide, dazzling smile. She fit it carefully into the small space, then gestured at the bag slung over his shoulder. "There's room for that one, too." He shook his head. "I'll hold onto it, thanks." "Alrighty," she said, closing the trunk and pressing a button on her collar. The passenger door opened with a quiet whoosh then slid closed after him as he dropped into the seat and set the bag down beside him. "Where to, sir?" Her voice came through a small speaker set into the protective plastic shield between driver and fare. He swept his card through the scanner and watched as the display lit up. Underneath it was a thin slot and an old-fashioned change dispenser polished to a high shine. The woman matched the cab; clean, smooth and brightly colored. Her hair was primary yellow and her eyes an improbable shade of brilliant blue with long, thick lashes that curled upward, almost pointing straight back to the painted lids above them. Underneath it all, he thought she might be pretty. "Galileo Hilton," he said. The cab pulled out into traffic and began to purr its way toward the center of town. Mackey leaned back, sinking into a seat that felt as if it were filled with warm gel. "I can make that vibrate," said the colorful cabbie, tapping a dial on the dashboard. "Excuse me?" "The seat vibrates," she said. After a short pause, she threw a wink over her shoulder and added, "If you want anything else to, it'll cost extra." That got a laugh out of him, but he shook his head. "No, thank you." He pulled a thin, black box from the bag on the seat and flipped it open, squinting into pale, blue light as the screen warmed up. At the center of the display a pale face with fine, feminine features faded into being, red lips drawing into a conservative, close-mouthed smile. "Good evening, Garvin." The picture's mouth moved in perfect sync with the voice, only discernable from that of a real person because of its distinct, metallic echo. "Hello, Lusci. How was your nap?" "Short," she replied. "But I missed you, anyway." "You changed your hair." "This style says 'secretary' so much better," she replied. "The old one said something more along the lines of 'fifty dollars for the works'." Lusci was an adapted companion program, rewritten as a personal assistant. It had never occurred to him to change her appearance. That seemed kind of personal to him, artificial intelligence or not. That she'd decided to change it on her own made him smile. "It suits," he nodded. "Thank you." The cabbie glanced over her shoulder, brow knit in puzzlement. Mackey gave her a small smile and jiggled the hand held computer in his hand by way of explanation. Apparently satisfied, the woman went back to driving. If he'd installed a data interface port in his skull like the hardcore techno freaks their conversations could always be conducted in private, streaming between Lusci's speech center and the implant in his own mind. But, wire-happy as he was he'd found himself unable to take that last step. It was one thing when a power surge fried your operating system, it was another when it fried your brain. "You have three messages," Lusci continued. "I don't recall owing anyone money this part of the galaxy," he joked. "First message," she said. Her face disappeared, replaced by several lines of text. "Shall I read it to you?" "Thank you, Lusci," he said, pulling the small wireless earpiece from it's plug in the side of Lusci's box and pressing it into his ear. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, feeling the sting. Sleep had been scarce on the last leg of the trip here. It was the colossal screw-up on his last job. Thinking and re-thinking what he could have done differently. It hadn't been a total loss, but while he'd located the primary target, he hadn't been able to keep a hold of her. Now that he had a better grip on what he was dealing with he wouldn't make the same mistakes again. "This message is to confirm the deposit of fifty thousand dollars American in Banc Universal account number four-four-six-eight-seven-five-three-oh--" "Is everything in order?" A pause and a gentle whirr from inside the box. "Looks good." "What's the next message?" "Another call from the Interplanetary Violent Crimes Database. Automated. The following file number nine-eight-one-oh-four-four-eight-R has been detected on your login sheet. Please be informed that this file no longer exists and should be immediately erased from your database. Shall I go on?" "No, thank you, Lusci," he sighed. "What about the third?" "Datafile from Tallulah. No viruses detected." "Open it up." He leaned forward, frowning curiously as an image appeared on one side of the screen, joined by a long line of scrolling text. The words that jumped out at him made him less than eager to read it in depth. "Target one identified," said a thickly digitized voice. Mackey studied the picture and his frown deepened. The guy's face was round and clean-shaven, with a mildly cleft chin and eyes that turned down at the corners. There were laugh-lines there but no trace of what might have caused them. "Next," said Mackey, shocked to hear his voice crack. The screen faded to be replaced with another. This man he knew, but suddenly the files he had seemed woefully incomplete and the grip he thought he'd had on the situation was threatening to slip. "Mother of God," he muttered. He'd been prepared for criminals, but not this. The average bail-jumper, thug and deadbeat operated at a certain level of intelligence and ingenuity and Mackey felt more than able to cope with that. He would have to be careful, here. He gave a short, humorless laugh at the gross understatement. "Save or erase?" asked Lusci. It took Mackey a moment to remember that she was talking to him. "Save, please," he said, running an unsteady hand through his hair. He hated surprises. In his line of work they were hardly ever good. Surprise, your target is not in fact a violent criminal but a data librarian. That never happened. "Are you alright, Garvin?" He paused to take a quick, mental inventory and decided that he was. There were plenty of ways to tangle without things getting physical. If it came to that? Well, he was a hell of a lot tougher than somebody's old spinster auntie. "I'm fine, Lusci, thank you." The cab swung onto hotel row and the interior was flooded with competing neon lights. Two lanes of one-way traffic slowed to a crawl and finally a complete stop in front of a gray stone building dubbed The Palace. Columns lined the walk up to a pair of tall, wooden doors with artfully placed worn spots that marked them as well-done fakes. Mackey noted with amusement a man in a red uniform trying with little success to maneuver a narrow, dangerously overloaded cart up the incline. Tapping on the partition brought his attention back inside. Colorful was smiling apologetically at him as she gestured at the traffic. "The Galileo's only about a block and a half up the street," she said. "Not that I can't use the money, but I'm just running the meter, here." Mackey smiled and set Lusci gently on the seat. Digging out his wallet, he found his silver Banc Universal card and swept it, tacking a hefty tip onto the fare. "Help with your luggage?" "Just pop the trunk, thanks," he replied. "And thanks very much for the ride." "Thank you for choosing Blue Cab," the cabbie said cheerfully. He gently shut Lusci's case and shouldered his bag as the door slid open and the warm air hit him like a wall. He hadn't realized how comfortable the cab had been in comparison. The hood rose and he collected his suitcase, then strolled across the other lane of traffic to reach the sidewalk. Glancing up the street he was awed by the stagnant river of multi-colored vehicles stretching into the distance. Dodging other pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk, he made his way to a street marked Center Ave. Half a block down, just where the cabbie had said it would be, was the big, red Hilton logo identifying the Galileo. "Can you hear me, Lusci?" Her voice, mildly irritated, spoke into his ear via the earpiece he still wore. "Despite the fact that you locked me in a small, dark room, yes." "Sorry about that, honey," he said. "We're in a bit of a hurry." "That's funny, I got the sense that you'd rather not be here at all." "It's possible to be both." "I suppose it is, at that." "I need you to take a peek at the hotel registry," Mackey said, taking a brief, self-conscious glance around him. No one paid any attention to him and in fact he wasn't the only person on the street who was talking to himself. The widespread popularity of wireless communication had nearly everyone muttering and yelling at people who weren't there. "I'm looking for registered guests under either of the names in that file. And a room number if you find one." He trotted up the steps and across the lobby as though he belonged there. Halfway across he changed course for Stargazer's, the in-hotel restaurant. It was a good place to look inconspicuous while reading through the new files. Maybe he'd draft a letter to his employer requesting further funds. Tracking down a runaway was one thing, mixing it up with a couple of ex-Marines was something else entirely. The hostess seated him and handed him a menu. He thanked her as he pushed his suitcase underneath the booth and set Lusci on the table. He flipped the case open to reveal her too-perfect face set in a pout, lips pursed and brow artfully furrowed. "Any luck?" "Flatter me." "You're the smartest girl I know, Lusci." She tilted her head and gave him a narrow-eyed, scrutinizing look. "That'll do. Room two-seventeen. Three occupants." "Thank you." Mackey raised his eyes from the screen and they were immediately caught by the passing form of a young woman. She was blonde and pretty and walked with the uncertainty of a youth still growing into a set of long legs. A good look at her profile sent a cold jolt racing through him. It was her. "Holy shit," he said. As she disappeared into the ladies' restroom beside the bar, he glanced back the way she'd come with a casual cool he didn't feel. The men were there, tucked into a dimly lit corner booth, talking. He turned away and picked up his menu, less to look for a meal than to focus his thoughts. How the hell could he have missed them? So much for avoiding monumental mistakes. He tried to reassure himself that it didn't matter. He had the advantage. They didn't know him and if he did his job right, they never would. Lusci stayed quiet, watching him expectantly. The waitress returned and he ordered, relieved at the even tone of his own voice. As the woman departed he felt the calm settle back into his bones. He kept a peripheral eye on them, folding the writing pad and electronic pen out of Lusci's case and jotting down notes that she transferred into files as he went. Just another businessman wrapped up in his work. Suddenly he lifted the pen and frowned. "Lusci, call up the file on Target One." The image and words sprang to the screen. "Split," he said. "And give me the surveillance stills from Port Safi. Cycle." The first image shrank and moved to one side as another appeared to its right. It displayed the outside of a building with a sign identifying it as the New Tangier Port Authority. Next came more pictures of the same place as people came and went. "Up cycle." They flashed by more quickly and he waited for the interior shots before asking her to slow down. Then he saw what he was looking for and felt an odd twinge. "Stop." The slideshow came to a halt at an image of the security desk. Over the shoulder of the beefy guard that manned it, he could see the man who had just signed in. Only this time he was smiling. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "It's the same guy."
Eight The place was packed, with most of the other patrons crowded around the television sets to watch a satellite broadcast of a sporting event from the mainland. Heads turned away from the screens to watch with interest as Jack passed by the bar, swinging her hips just a little bit more because she knew people were watching. Riddick wondered if she knew he was one of them. Her absence resulted in an uncomfortable silence at the table. That didn't happen often and Riddick had no trouble remembering why it unsettled him. He knew Bender was watching him watch Jack and made a conscious effort to keep his face passive, unaffected. It wouldn't work. The rumor in the Corps had been that the Captain could read minds. Riddick had laughed it off until the first time he saw Marty looking at him the way he was now. Straight through to the goddamn wall. There was no reproach in that look, just a knowing that gave him the creeping shivers. Away from the other patrons, with the sound muffled slightly by a low glass wall, he was positive that Bender could hear what he was thinking. "I think," said Marty, startling him. "That you two need to have a talk." Smart-assed replies warred with honest, well thought-out ones, fighting to be the first out of his mouth. The result was that he stayed silent just a bit longer as Bender glanced at the screens over the bar and tapped one end of his unopened straw on the table. In his mind, he started half a dozen times, but nothing sounded right. What could he say? That he wasn't avoiding it? That was a lie and Marty would know it. He could just agree or not and Bender would most likely leave it at that. It never had taken many words to get things straight between them. That wasn't the real problem, though, was it? Marty would approve or he wouldn't. Didn't matter. Nope, this was all about something Riddick referred to as The Jack Situation. The way he saw it, The Jack Situation had been created by his own failure to maintain the distance he'd set out to keep between them. Despite the appeal of having himself a fan, the last thing he'd needed was to be loaded down with a wide-eyed, love-struck teenager. But the adrenaline-filled circumstances of their meeting had drawn them together in much the same way Riddick had felt bound to his fellow soldiers and the walls he'd hastily built had tumbled just as quickly as they'd gone up. He had let her in where she shouldn't be and now the whole deal had his skivvies in a super mean twist. And she wasn't helping. He'd doubted at first that Jack knew exactly what she was doing with the casual touches that weren't, the accidental slip of a towel, or the nonchalant changing of clothes in the back of a cab. For fuck's sake, had he actually looked? But not anymore. The confidence she'd once pretended at had slowly come to her and she'd changed from a kid trying to be tough to a young woman who seemed satisfied to let him be tough for her. She got a kick out of it, and worse, he got a kick out of pleasing her. She could tell him to beat up a bar full of bikers and he'd do it if just for the momentary thrill of her approval. Jeezus H, shit or get off the pot, will ya? The voice in his head was Bender's. Not the one sitting across from him in the restaurant but the one who had once riled his men so fiercely before a fight that they'd charged armored tanks on foot. The one he would have done anything for if it would just gain his you're gonna feel like an ass if you say it, buck-o, even to yourself approval. Is that what he was after? Had he struggled all his life with warring motivations only to discover now that all he really wanted, golly gosh, was to be liked? He almost laughed out loud when he thought of the trouble he could have saved himself and the penal system if he'd had this epiphany years ago. Just want folks to like me, Doc. All better now, thanks for your time. It would have been funnier if it wasn't true. He didn't hold it out as an excuse for his past behavior. There wasn't anything could explain that. But the thing that leaped to the fore of his thoughts was that maybe that was why The Jack Situation bugged him so much. She approved. She never shied away. She wanted to be near him and went out of her way to do it. They shared jokes and meals and living quarters and the opinion that anchovies were part of a plot to identify people with no taste buds. What was that? He didn't think love amounted to just finding someone who could tolerate him. But then she trusted him, too -- to stand in front of broken restroom doors and make sure nobody came in; to play the jealous boyfriend and scare off would-be pick-up artists; to listen to her; to keep her safe. She'd thrown herself in front of a bullet for him. So what the hell was it? Jack waved herself in front of him like a flag every day and far from ignoring her, he had treated her like a museum piece -- something that would set off way too many alarms if he made a grab for it. Take your shot or not, Corporal, but for the love of God quit fucking with your scope. He chanced a glance at Bender, whose attention was still focused on the screen, or beyond it, it was hard to tell. Riddick opened his mouth to speak but Marty beat him to it. "I'm not talking," he said quickly, turning to offer a smirk. "And you, my man, are incapable of the kind of torture it would take to make me." "C'mon, you talk to her all the time." "So do you," Marty shot back. "It's not the same." "What gets said between Jack and I stays there," he replied. With a wink, he added, "Especially when it's about you, stud. What the hell are you, anyhow? A twelve-year-old with a crush?" Riddick glanced the way Jack had gone, checking to see if she was on her way back. Not yet. When he turned back to Marty, the smart-assed glint had left his eyes and he'd gone back to tapping his straw on the table. "You know as much about girls as I do," Bender shrugged. "Most of my relationships have lasted a few hours and involved a receipt and cab fare." "But you've been, you know, around." "We've had this conversation before, you and I. And nothing really came of it then, either, except that the both of us realized what a sorry pair of bastards we are." He paused, rubbing absently at his temple just below the small patch of gray. They stared at each other across the table and Riddick understood how disconcerting it must be to look into his own darkly shining eyes, and how impossible it was to read them. "Do you like her?" "What kind of question is that?" One that had caught him off-guard, for one thing. "Don't stall, just answer it." "Of course I do," Riddick said evenly. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't. Neither would you." "Oh, no. I'm here to keep you out of trouble." Marty shook his head and smiled. He was sweating, and paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "You know, you're like fucking clockwork." "What the hell does that mean?" "Every couple of months you bring this shit up and act like between this time and the last I've had a revelation and I'll lay some deep, life-altering wisdom on you," he replied. He drained the last of his second glass of milk and set it on the table with a loud clink, then shrugged. "Ask her out." Riddick laughed. "What, like on a date?" "Yes on a date, numbnuts," he replied. "Look, one night I'll get lost for a couple hours and you can...think of something romantic because I sure as hell can't." "You old softie," Riddick smirked. "You'd do that? Give me a chance to embarrass the hell out of myself that way? What a pal." "You betcha," Marty nodded. His breath hitched and he cleared his throat loudly. "I just won't tell you where I hid the video cameras." "She'll think I've blown a gasket." "First date, big guy, keep your gaskets to yourself." Marty's voice cracked and he flinched as though someone had taken a swing at him. The color drained from his face and Riddick looked down to see the straw he'd been fiddling with crushed in one hand. "Cap?" Riddick swallowed hard as one shimmering pupil abruptly widened while the other stayed the same. "I need to go upstairs," said Marty, his voice absurdly matter-of-fact. He tried to stand and Riddick had to make a dive for him, catching him under the arms and preventing him from taking a header into a nearby table. "Take it easy, boss." Riddick slipped an arm around Marty's shoulders and kept him on his feet as they made their way across the room. He paused behind their waitress, digging Marty's wallet out of his pocket and thumbing out a blue plastic card. "Just give it to the kid, she'll bring it up." She nodded understanding and gestured with the card at Marty. "He alright?" "Can't hold his milk, I guess," Riddick replied, ushering his burden toward the door. v v v Jack stalked up to the elevator and poked the button so hard she jammed her finger. She shook out her hand and waited impatiently for the doors to open. Ditched like a bad date. She'd come out of the restroom, an oh-so-witty comment all ready to blurt and instead of her boys there had been the waitress that took their order holding out Marty's blue credit card and telling her they were gone. Some bodyguards they were. A girl takes just a little too long to pee and they bug out on her. She raised a fist to pound on the shining, silver doors and was stopped by the cheerful 'ping!' that issued from above them. Muttering, she stormed into the elevator, barely giving its former occupants time to step off. Jack pounded the "2" button, crossed her arms and leaned against the cold, brushed-steel wall, fingers tapping out a sporadic rhythm on one elbow. By the time she reached the door to 217 she'd worked herself into a world-class snit. She reached for the card key in her pocket, then remembered that she'd left it on her dresser. Because I'm supposed to be with the guys, she fumed. Scowling, she made a fist and pounded on the door. "Not funny, people!" she shouted. Nothing. "C'mon, you guys, I forgot my key!" There was a buzz and click from the other side and the latch let go. Jack swung the door open sharply, hoping to catch a toe at least, but Riddick had stepped out of the way. The room was dark and his eyes flashed in the light from the hallway. No humor there. Riddick turned without a word, and walked away, wiping his hands on the hotel towel he carried with him. The white cloth was marred by uneven streaks of red and Jack felt her anger sink straight to her toes, passing fear on its way up. She started to say something but the sound of wet, ragged coughing cut her off and she settled for following him, instead. At the door to Marty's room he glanced over his shoulder at her. "Wait out here, Jack," he said. Then he closed the door and left her in the hall. Jack did as he asked, pacing at first and then sitting by the doorway with her back to the wall. She understood why they wouldn't want her around just now, but it still gnawed at her. She wanted to help and despite how selfish it made her feel, she didn't want to be the one alone out here wondering what was going on. It couldn't be too bad, she told herself, or Riddick would have taken him to the hospital instead of the hotel room. Of course, they couldn't do much besides let him toss his cookies and put him to bed, either. Despite the amount of pills Marty choked down daily, periodic attacks of the 'hiccups' couldn't be avoided. They were caused, he'd explained, by minute surges and interruptions in the electrical impulses in his brain. He was sick for a few days, sleeping for most of it. When he woke up he was clumsy for a while, and he'd forget things. Important things like where they were and not-so-important things like what color his toothbrush was. He always came back, much to her relief, because if there was anything that bothered Jack more than seeing him hurting it was that dazed, stupid look in his eyes that made her wonder if he was really in there at all. She closed her eyes and listened, her stomach clenching at the sound of poor Marty retching and breathing in short, wheezing gasps. When he quieted she could hear Riddick's voice, low and steady, speaking in the soft, reassuring tone he never used with anyone else. It felt wrong to be eavesdropping on something so obviously intimate and she thought he'd be angry if he knew. But she stayed, straining to hear, because the gentle, almost reverent way he took care of Marty filled her with a potent and utterly shameless adoration. A light touch on her shoulder made her jump and she banged her head against the wall. "Ow." "Why don't you go to bed,." Riddick's voice, so quiet that at first she wondered if she'd dreamt it. But he was there, his hand warm against her skin and the blue light of his eyes hovering close in the dark. She realized she'd been dozing and straightened, rubbing her own, sleep-filled eyes. "I'm not tired," she said, earning a small smile. Her back was stiff and she rubbed at it, digging her fingers into the knotted muscles. She leaned in to glance at Bender's sleeping form and listened to him breathe for a moment before asking, "He okay?" "He will be." Riddick stood and pulled her up with him. She held onto his hand until her head stopped spinning, only realizing when she let go that he was still holding onto hers. He seemed to notice at the same time and gently lowered it to her side with a look bordering on apologetic. "Get some sleep," he whispered. "Back hurts," she whispered in return. It did, but she wasn't sure why she'd said it. "Got some world-class pain killers you can borrow," he said with a crooked smile. "They'll knock your ass into next week." He set one big hand against the small of her back and led her out of the hall, pulling the door not quite all the way closed behind him. "Is he really okay?" asked Jack suddenly. "I mean, this isn't like one of those movies where they lie to the kid because they don't want to scare her and they're really all just waiting around for the big one and a depressing ending, roll credits, right?" He looked at her and gave a short laugh. "No, not like that," he said. "Good thing you haven't been sitting around thinking about it or anything." Shrugging, Jack shuffled to the couch and dropped onto it. She was satisfied that he was telling the truth and left it at that. She still owed for the shit-fit, though and she was glad that she didn't have the same problem apologizing as the guys did. Sure they'd admit they were wrong once in awhile, but being sorry about it was another thing. Actually saying so? Forget about it. "Sorry about before, I didn't know, you know..." she said. Riddick sat right next to her, easing himself onto the couch and slumping against the padded back as he turned his eyes to her. He didn't respond at first, and she began to feel uncomfortable beneath his gaze though she managed to keep herself from squirming. "Not good enough, I get it," she continued. "I should have thought about what might have happened and given you guys the benefit of the doubt before getting all pissed because I thought you ran out on me are you enjoying this?" He was smiling now as he watched her and listened. Not a big smile, more like a twinge at the corner of his mouth caused by an itch he didn't want to scratch. He was doing this on purpose, the big jerk. "Uh-huh," he nodded. Jack snorted. "Now I know why you stick around me," she said. "I'm not all old and bitter like you and you can still mess with my head." "You found me out," he said flatly. Then, "Actually I'm here 'cause I dig rich broads." "Well, joke's on you because I only want you for your body," she countered. It wasn't until after she'd said it that she felt the warm flush of embarrassment flood her cheeks. But she kept her cool, meeting his gaze as he hoisted an eyebrow and gave her a look that said 'is that so?' "Yeah?" he asked, sitting up and leaning forward, hands resting on the edge of the cushions. "What would you do with it if you had it?" She swallowed, sure that it was loud enough for him to hear. Her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs and she was sure he could hear that, too. For one brief, horrible moment she was positive that he was fucking with her, but his eyes held no sign of the mischievous glint that usually went with it. They were fixed on her own with an intensity that would have frightened her when they first met, but now filled her with a wild, electric thrill. He licked his lower lip the way he always did when he was nervous and Jack found an instant in which to wonder if she was the only one who had ever noticed that. What would you do with it if you had it? Clever answers flooded her mind but she decided to go with the truth. Her soft dry lips brushed his and then pressed against them. If he was surprised, it didn't last. He returned the kiss, his mouth gentle on hers, almost chaste. When he drew back the only sound was the gentle whisper of their breath. For a long, silent moment he just looked at her and Jack was sure she'd made a mistake. Then he smiled, a broad, genuine smile that seemed to hold a touch of the nervousness she felt. He brought a hand up under her chin and, reddening, she realized she'd opened her mouth to speak and forgotten to close it again. A new fit of coughing erupted in the next room and Riddick nodded over his shoulder. "I should--" he began. "Yeah," she nodded, wincing inwardly as her voice squeaked. He stood and instead of turning, backed to the door and vanished into the darkness of the hallway. Jack looked after him until she was sure he was gone, then heaved a deep sigh and flopped back on the couch.
Nine Donald Castor scrutinized the papers on his desk beneath the cracked, stern stare of an ancestor whose name he wouldn't have known if not for the engraved, brass plaque set into the frame. He was surrounded by relics and reminders of the family and its trade, a few of which predated man's time on the moon. These things impressed his clients but he'd just as soon clear them out and have the space. Centuries ago the angry-looking bastard on the wall behind him had blasted mountains and tunneled into them searching for gold. Or rather he'd had a crew of impoverished foreigners do it for him. Now there were machines for all but the finest of the physical work. But machines still required engineers and mechanics to keep them running smoothly, which between the environment and the quality of rock here seemed to happen only rarely. His company had made enormous scientific discoveries, which interested him little. Castor Corporation diggers had discovered some of the first definite proof that the Earth's moon had once belonged to Venus. The scientific community had just about pissed themselves silly with excitement, scrambling to the dig site and waving the Gilverson-Menassi Act in his face. They were part of an agreement signed by members of the mining and construction community dictating rules for excavation with regard to scientific and historical properties. The agreement was named after John Gilverson, an unlucky bastard who had broken ground on a batch of condos in Africa and come up with a big haul of pottery, primitive tools and ancient human remains. He ignored it; deadline to meet and all. Turned out what he'd discovered and subsequently all but destroyed were determined to be the remains of one of man's first organized communities and proof that man had originated on the dark continent. Castor didn't give a goddamn about any of it except that it shut down operations in that sector for close to a year and cost him an obscene amount of money. No one had stepped in to make that up to him. Our deepest apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Castor, but all in the name of science and history and a better understanding of our universe and for the love of God why didn't they just blow it out their asses? There were seventy-one areas zoned for mining on the moon, and his company held contracts for the majority of them. The real kicker was that while he had more areas covered, the competition had secured more of the satellite-based market for what came out of them, forcing him to ship to the mainland, or worse, even farther. Both cut into profits and were more than a small pain in the ass. And that wasn't all. Mars, Leto, Cai-shen; he'd lost big contracts on each to Weller Mining & Drilling. Weller M&D's history didn't reach back quite as far as the company Castor's father had handed down to him. The walls of Jackson Weller's office sure as hell weren't hung with crumbling antique certificates and ancient mining gear. It wasn't steeped in tradition, they didn't have it in their blood. He laughed out loud. In the blood. Castor didn't know a goddamn thing about mining; had never been in a tunnel except on courtesy tours for visiting CEO's and investors and even on those he was little more than a tourist, himself. If not for the expensive watch on his wrist, he doubted he'd know the difference between a gold nugget and a bucket of bat shit. But things would change, soon. Everything that was left hanging when Old Man Weller died last year would come down straight into his pocket. Virgil Weller was smart, but clearly unmotivated. He had no desire to run his father's company, even if he should happen to win back the inheritance he'd been denied. He would probably sell even without Marlene as added insurance. The thought of Marly made him smile. She was a good kid, and bright. Smarter than her old man, he thought, and just as cutthroat when it came to business. He'd worried that her looks would hamper her career, but at twenty she was running the Human Resources department and had made her presence felt in other areas as well. She knew how to deal with people and Virgil Weller and his family were no exception. The reappearance of Virgil's daughter, far from complicating things, could be made to work in their favor. Even if the man wasn't allowed to take his place as CEO of Weller M&D -- a position Castor doubted the man could adequately fill on his best day -- then the highest position in the competition's head office would belong to a teenager. He didn't know much about the girl but he'd imagined the average runaway; alone, scared, wise in the same way as the kids who begged for change on street corners but ignorant in the kind of situation she'd chosen to thrust herself into. Marlene had called to tell him in her low, 'Virgil's home' tone of voice that she'd shown up out of the blue, accompanied by muscle she couldn't possibly afford. Surveillance camera stills had been run and the results pleased him not at all. Dumb-assed, frightened kids did not make those kinds of friends. That meant she was smart or she was lucky and he didn't much care for either. He would work around it. He would make her an excellent offer, a fair offer that the smug little bastards in accounting wouldn't be so quick to advise her against taking. Castor didn't know what a kid her age would do with a major corporation and he suspected that she didn't know, either. Happy to get rid of it. Make millions in the process. The Castor Corporation would absorb Weller M&D's mining licenses, their equipment, their employees and their customers. Extra supervisors would have to be taken on in order to make the transition go smoothly. He wasn't worried. That was Marlene's job and she was more than capable. Hell, maybe he would just keep the company intact and give it to her for her birthday.
Ten The air conditioner had broken four days ago and the atmosphere in the windowless room had gone from hot-and-stuffy to swamp-nasty. They were all feeling it, but nobody wanted to be the first to take one for his bunkmates and gripe to maintenance about the heat. It would earn their gratitude, sure, but nobody wanted to be the first man to holler uncle, whatever the circumstances. The sergeant just didn't take well to wussies, and if nothing was bleeding, broken or blown up, he didn't want to hear it. But goddamn it was hot. His bunkmates were off on weekend leave and for the third time in a row he'd sucked it up and stayed behind to study. Leaving the ship for dry land had changed him, but, he'd noted with dismay, it hadn't made him any better at schoolwork. He had to put forth every ounce of concentration he could muster and even then his weekends were spent going over the things that everyone else seemed to have no trouble understanding. Fortunately, basic mechanics was not one of those things. So, alone at barracks, Marty Bender found a way to beat the heat, have everybody owe him one, and not be labeled a weenie by the Big, Scary Bastard in the Wide-Brimmed Hat. He climbed up on a top bunk below the a/c access panel and popped the cover off, then frowned into the tangle of wires and hoses. The thing looked older than he was. Fort Benchley had stood for fifty-one years and he had a sneaking suspicion that this particular piece of equipment had been present at its dedication. Minimal searching found the problem. The hose that fed coolant into the system was missing and the fluid it carried had poured onto the bottom of the casing, forming a shallow, neon yellow pool. He dug around to see if it had somehow worked itself loose. Nope. Not loose. Just gone along with the hardware that held it in place. "What the fuck?" he muttered. Asking for a replacement part would be like stamping "pussy" on his forehead in permanent ink, so that was out. And besides, there probably wasn't one on base, anyway. There was only one populated area nearby; a small town so recently erected that many of its inhabitants still lived in temporary shelters. There might be parts in town but he sure as hell didn't want to sweat out another week before he had the chance to check. He could rig it, but it would be tough, and he was sure that most of the older buildings were fitted with the same unit. He'd just do what somebody else had obviously done and swipe one. He closed the cover and screwed it back in place, then sat on the edge of the bunk and dangled his feet. Who had taken it? The access panel was inside the barracks and about fifteen feet off the ground, corresponding to the main body of the unit that protruded from the outside wall. It could have been done from the outside, but that wall faced the wide-open center of the compound and somebody would have noticed. Unless they were all out on drills, in which case the place would be empty for five or six hours, maybe all day. The only guys left behind when the OC's were out were the instructors, and sure as shit nobody was going to think twice about them poking around the barracks. He was betting that their place was like a fucking freezer compared to this one about now. Sliding over the side, he dropped to the floor and flipped open the lid of his footlocker. To one side was his night gear, pitch black and folded neatly. He changed quickly, leaving his fatigues in their place and stuffing his knife into his boot. He cracked the back door and peered outside. Not a bastard in sight. It was time to see if those classes in night ops theory were doing him any good. On the OCS side of the base, the spaces between buildings were narrow and poorly lit. The barracks belonging to the officer candidates stood in two rows of three, main entrances facing the narrow, paved roads on either side. Across the faded blacktop from the ones marked 5 and 6 in bold, black letters were the Hooper and Brody Memorial Barracks that housed the instructors. They were similar to those they faced but were full of officers rather than hopefuls and presented a more difficult target. For one, while Marty's fellow OC's left the base on weekends, the officers often stayed. Whether it was to grade papers, bitch about the latest batch of wussies or because the thrill of getting drunk and laid every weekend was long gone, he didn't know and didn't want to know. What concerned him was that while getting busted by another OC might result in the need for a quick explanation, getting busted by someone who had made a career out of killing people might not leave him time for one. If he had to get caught, for fuck's sake let it be by Little Libby Lindenaur, who taught first aid. He glanced over his shoulder at building 4. It was probably empty. He could be in and out in five and nobody would be the wiser until they started sweating and by then it would be too late to pin it on him. His eyes fell on the officers' a/c unit, protruding from the smooth, metal wall of the building across the street. There was only about a meter between that structure and the next and there were no windows. The buildings were rounded on top, but the arc didn't start until a good six or seven feet above where he needed to go. If he chimneyed his way up he could brace himself in that narrow, dark passage and work the case open from the outside. Security was lax on the OCS side of the base, more concerned with their charges sneaking out than just around. He'd be tough to spot, and if he didn't make a shitload of noise, he could take his time. Fuckin'-a, bubba. With a quick look up and down the quiet road, he darted across the ten feet of asphalt and melted into the shadows on the other side. The ground there was wet and bumpy, with sparse patches of yellow grass. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust and even then he stepped carefully. His first three weeks on dry land had been hell, getting used to breathing natural air and running or even walking on uneven ground with rocks and pools of mud and any number of things he'd never set foot on before. It was different than the smooth, padded track back home and the first time he fell flat on his face he learned just how different. He'd chipped a tooth and sported a black eye for a week, earning himself a kind of not-so-good-natured ribbing that he wasn't used to. On the plus side it had driven him to do everything else right, which definitely did not include shit like this. He positioned himself just to the right of his target and put his back to the building opposite. He raised one foot and planted it against the wall, putting enough pressure against it to keep him aloft as he set the other beside it. Then, wedged between structures, he worked his way up. He moved slowly and quietly, the latter helped in no small part by the smoothness of the outer wall. His progress halted at the sound of a barracks door slamming shut and the unmistakable sound of Gunnery Sergeant Quint's booming laughter. Marty's every muscle froze and he felt a sudden, hollow sensation in his chest as his heart skipped a beat before going wild. Sure, the Gunny wasn't an officer, but that did nothing to lessen his terror. Thing was, the Gunny didn't need to pull rank to scare the living shit out of people. He was tall, maybe 6'2", and broad across the shoulders with thick limbs and a heavy brow beneath a receding hairline that was almost always covered by a wide-brimmed, perfectly blocked hat. A veteran of three wars and numerous police actions, he'd been assigned here after the loss of an arm forced his retirement from active duty. Marty wasn't sure if it was deep-seated resentment of his young, healthy charges or an honest desire to see them succeed that drove the man, and he wasn't prepared to guess. Whatever the force behind the man's burning devotion, Marty was sure that it would consume a lesser man whole. If the Gunny ever slept, Marty imagined it was probably the way a horse did, standing, dozing with his eyes cracked open; wary not of predators but ever-alert for his bitter enemies, the Fuckoffs. The Fuckoffs, he'd explained to a batch of green recruits eight weeks ago, were not something you did, but something you were and if you were, indeed, a Fuckoff, you had no place in his Marine Corps. Fuckoffs undermined everything the Corps was about. The Corps was a privilege. The Corps was a blessing. The Corps was a by-God pleasure to be a part of. But most of all, the Corps was to be taken seriously. It occurred to Marty that the Gunny's love for his job may well be the product of shell-shock induced euphoria, because up at the ass-crack of dawn and facing another round of PT nearly every day, he sure as hell wasn't feeling it. The voice lingered for several drawn-out moments of near-panic before fading away in the opposite direction. Marty stayed still anyway, almost certain that the man would circle the building and bust him from the right. When it didn't happen, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and continued his climb. Fifteen feet above the ground, he used his legs to wedge himself in place, leaving his hands free to take a crack at the case. It was bolted on with a pair of chewed up screws that might have been part of the original hardware. Pulling the knife out of his boot, he pried out the screwdriver with a chipped fingernail and set to work, propping one leg beneath the unit to keep the case from falling open once he had it free. He dropped the thick screws into his pocket and eased the cover open, letting it hang against the wall from its hinges. His replacement hose was on the other side of two fans, with a tight space for him to reach through to get it. He would have to climb a little higher and not slip or he'd be bearing more resemblance to Gunny Quint than he ever wanted to. He took a deep breath and scooted upward until he could see almost straight down into the a/c's workings. The fan hummed like a swarm of angry insects, spinning fast enough to take a good chunk out of him if he fucked up. Best not fuck up, then, buck-o, he thought to himself. Easier said than done. He swallowed loudly and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of one hand, then folded the knife and tucked it into his shirt. He studied the angle, rubbing his hands together and whispering a short, silent prayer to whomever happened to be listening. St. Jude did desperate causes, but somehow he doubted there was a Patron Saint of Stupid Bastards. Marty reached his left hand inside, keeping the rest of his body as still as he could. He felt the air displaced by the fan's swift motion and did his best to ignore it. Feeling through the machine's warm, dry innards he set his hand on the prize, then slid upward to loosen the metal ring that held it in place. After that just a quick tug freed it. Holding both ring and hose tightly, he slowly pulled his hand back out. A slip toward the end earned him a shallow nick on the wrist, but he stayed cool and managed to get the hose out unharmed. Now he'd be even cooler. The a/c would probably continue to blow cold for about ten minutes, which gave him plenty of time to get back to the barracks and change before anyone noticed something was amiss. He tucked the metal ring in his pocket with the knife, but the hose was way too big. After a quick moment's thought he stuffed it down the front of his pants. It was out of plain sight and hell, if he met anyone on the way back to his quarters they'd sure as hell be impressed. With the cover back in place he worked his way down a few feet, then dropped to the grass. Crouching, he listened for a moment before making his way back to the edge of the building and peering into the street. Nothing. He raced across the open space, exposed for only seconds before he vanished into the darkness between barracks. He slipped through the back door, which let into the showers and listened for signs of life in the main room. Deciding it was still empty he ran to his bunk and stripped to his skivvies and undershirt, folding the night gear and tucking it back in the locker. Then he turned out the lights and waited a good ten minutes to make sure he hadn't been followed. No one came, and for a while longer he sat in the darkness, grinning from ear to ear. This beat the hell out of rewiring the Nightengale's tram P.A. system to spout juvenile obscenities instead of destination tones or rerouting intra-ship mail to random accounts, the kind of shit that landed him in JOTC in the first place and led him here. Climbing back up on the top bunk just beneath it, he popped the inner access door and replaced the hose, hoping that enough coolant remained to take the heat down a notch. He pumped a small switch in the back and the fans started spinning. As he flopped down on his top bunk and stared up at the high ceiling, he felt the first cool breeze sweep through the room. Oh hell yes. Damned if he wasn't by-God pleased to be there, just then. The only bad thing was that no one would ever know about it. v v v Somebody knew. No, it was worse than that. Quint knew, and that meant a heaping helping of deep, deep shit was waiting just for him. Most of the guys had staggered in late and loud off the base transport as Marty pretended to sleep. He'd listened as Colin Zimmer had stopped cold in the middle of a detailed description of his exploits when they noticed that the air was cool and dry instead of Essence of Bayou Outhouse. Someone had suggested waking him up to ask, but the others disagreed. Never look a gift whore in the ass, as a wise man once said. But this morning, standing in ranks for inspection, he felt an uncomfortable mental itch as Gunny Quint's eyes fell on him. It wasn't paranoia. The son-of-a-bitch knew. "I noticed this fine morning," he began. "That the a/c unit in number three appears to be working just fine despite the fact that maintenance has no record of its repair. On a related note, the a/c in Hooper barracks has mysteriously ceased to function. I'll take a stab and say that you men know how that came to be." A nervous shuffle made its way down the line, stopping at Martin, who stood perfectly still. Just in front and to the side of him, Scotty Draper turned to glance his way but said nothing. They knew he was responsible just as the Gunny did. Question was, would they stick together and cover his ass or offer him up in hopes of saving their own? Quint cast a glance over each of them like a predator seeking out the weakest member of the herd. Nobody budged, and Marty began to feel a sense of relief. But as the inspection continued, relief began to take a slow slide into the shitter. "Draper!" "Yes, Sergeant!" he replied, standing so stiff it looked painful. "Are you aware that base policy requires personnel to report all equipment malfunctions immediately?" "Yes, Sergeant!" Quint turned his attention to Mark Jeffers, two men down. "Why is that required, OC Jeffers?" "In order to keep this installation running at optimum efficiency, Sergeant!" "That is correct, Son. And what happens when equipment failure is not reported?" "It doesn't get fixed, Sergeant!" "Unless it happens to be in barracks number three, is that right?" replied Gunny, turning his pale hawk's stare on them all again. The question didn't appear to be addressed to anyone in particular, and so they all remained silent, praying it didn't require an answer. Quint was quiet for a long time, looking them over as if for some visible mark of guilt. Martin knew he'd already found it and remained at attention, waiting to be called out. The nervous apprehension was gone, though, replaced by the cool resignation he'd learned after years of being sent to the administrator's office. "You boys have earned yourselves a twenty-five kilometer run," said Gunny. There were no groans of disappointment -- that would have made it thirty -- just a barely perceptible sag in the ranks. Marty braced for the sudden hail of "he did it"'s and finger-pointing but it didn't come. His mouth threatened to fall open but he kept a handle on his incredulity, a task made even more difficult by the fact that it was reflected in Gunny's eyes as well. Twenty-five K was a big hit to take for a buddy, but maybe not so big a price to pay for not having to sweat their balls off every night. Gunny squinted at them, then nodded, the brim of his hat dipping almost imperceptibly. "Fall out and form up on the road! Dismissed!" The men broke up and re-formed their ranks on the paved road that lead off-base. "OC Bender will call cadence," Quint shouted after them. "He will also repair the a/c in the Hooper Memorial Barracks upon your return." "Yes, Sergeant!" Marty replied. He fought the twitch at the corners of his mouth that threatened to stretch them into a smile as he trotted up to take his place beside the other men. They fixed him with a look that seemed grateful despite the run. They started down the road, boots stomping in time on the hot asphalt and as the men echoed every line he hollered out, he realized that despite the best efforts of those who knew what was best for him, not much had changed. Only this time it wasn't with a prank but a purpose that he'd gotten himself in trouble and won the respect of his well-behaved peers.
Jump to
Chapters LunarWeb Search RETURN TO ENTRY PAGE
Disclaimer:
|
