Black Hole Sun (6 page)

Jaisalmer District, New Eden
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 7. 18:21

“No farging way. Not if they paid me a bishop's wage,” Jenkins says when I make him the offer of a job. “They're
miners
. I don't want nothing to do with their kind.”

As promised, we spent the bulk of the day hitting the pubs in search of good Regulators who'd work for piddle-squat. Like Vienne said, we found good Regulators, and we found a few
dalit
ready to work for their next meal. But we didn't find what we were looking for, except a couple of tussles that Vienne ended fast.

“Worse has come to worse,” I told Vienne after we found ourselves empty-handed and hungry from missing dinner. “We've run out of options.”

An hour later we find Fuse and Jenkins deep in the bazaar. They're milling around at a coppersmith's booth, checking out a collection of used spittoons and nose rings. Not buying, just looking, since they spent their payday in the pub.

After Jenkins's refusal, Fuse grabs his forearm. “Buck up
now, Jenks. I never took you for a bigot. At least listen to what the chief has got to say. You never know. His offer might be attractive. Right, love?”

“I've killed eleven people in tai bo combat,” Vienne tells him.

“So?”

“So if you call me
love
again, there's a good chance I'll make it an even dozen.”

“Rowr! Saucy.” Fuse makes a clawing motion. “Like I said, I enjoy a suzy with a chunk of spunk in the old trunk, if you know what I mean.”

“The only chunks you need worry about,” she says, and pulls her weapon, “are the ones I'm going to blow off if you don't shut that yap.”

“Then I'm shutting up. Not another word.” He winks like he's got a tic. “See? Zipping so no sound—”

“You used that line already,” Vienne says.

“I'm recycling for the betterment of Mars.”

“Enough!” I bark, feeling a bit more put out than necessary. When I've got their attention, I lay out the terms of the contract.

“A hundred each?” Jenkins roars. “That's all you're offering?”

“No,” I say.

“Glad to hear it. What else you got?”

“No, you don't understand: one hundred split among the whole davos.”

“You're out of your mind.” Jenkins spits into a spittoon. When the merchant cries out in complaint, Jenkins raises his open palms. “What? I'm not allowed to test-drive them?”

I stick to the subject. “I'll take
you're out of your mind
to mean you're declining the job.”

“They're cannibals. That means they eat people. Find yourself another sucker, chief. Leroy Jenkins ain't going to be cannisnack.”

“Cannisnack?” I ask, confused. “What's that?”

“You know. Cannibal. Snack. Cannisnack.”

“R
iii
ght.” Strike Jenkins from the list. I turn to Fuse. “How about it? You're a demolitionist. The miners used to stockpile explosives for the mining operations. I bet they still have some of it. They might share.”

Fuse licks his lips. Pulls me aside for a quiet word. “You and me, we're men of the world. Right, chief?”

“Of the world, yes. Of the same world, probably not.”

He shrugs my comment off. “The Vienne of yours, is she attached?”

“You mean, like, to a male?”

He winks. “That'd be the one.”

“No, she's not. Vienne is only interested in her duty, her davos, and her chief.”

“But she could be, no? If the right jack come along at the right time.”

Not on your life,
I think, and almost tell him that before I
get an interesting idea. A very interesting, useful idea.

“That's sneaky, cowboy,” Mimi says.

“I've not said anything,” I tell her.

“But you thought it.”

I put a big brotherly arm around Fuse's shoulders. He's a good twenty centimeters shorter than me, with narrow shoulders. A year older, too. Not that it matters. Regulators don't care about age. “If the right jack did appear, I suppose she would be—”

His ears perk up. “Open to the idea?”

“Less likely to shoot him than normal.”

“That's not very reassuring.”

“Well—”

“But I'm a risk taker.” He punches me playfully in the gut. “I'm willing to give it a go. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. If we can round up a few more Regulators. I'd like to have at least six, so that leaves us needing three.”

“How so? I count you two, me, and Jenkins. That leaves you needing two.”

“Jenkins declined the offer.”

Fuse clicks his tongue. “Let me handle Jenkins, and you two go about your business. Meet us at the TransPort tomorrow at dawn. East End Station, no?”

“Right.”

“See you then.” He winks at Vienne. “Bright and early, love. Don't bother with the face paint. You're dead sexy just
the way you are.” He skips out of the tent as Vienne draws her weapon.

“There's no killing him now, “I say, grabbing her arm. “The Tenets expressly forbid shooting a member of your own davos, especially in the back.”

“Chief!” She jams the armalite into its holster. “Tell me you didn't!”

“Had to.”

“But that fossiker's just going to blow himself up!”

“Let's just hope,” I say, grinning, “that he takes a few Dræu along with him.”

Norilsk Gulag, Norilsk District
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 8. 06:51

My father is a fallen angel. I tell myself that as Vienne and I climb the icy steps that lead from the TransPort station up to the surface. I tell myself that every time I make the trip to Norilsk, a gulag that swallows up prisoners like a black hole swallows light. It helps me choke down the anger in my belly.

“Is this the right place?” Vienne asks, strands of hair whipping across her face as we reach the surface.

Diesel exhaust fills the air with a burnt haze. Transport trucks rumble by on the avenue. Lined up, bumper to bumper. The chain is endless and moving fast. Their engines run loud. Their drivers even louder. Laying on their horns. Spitting cuss words in English, Japanese, French, Spanish, and Farsi. I can speak three languages. I know how to cuss in seven.

“It's the right place,” I yell over the noise. The station exit
leaves us between two hulking gray buildings coated with rust dust. Government buildings erected by the CorpComs. Great slabs of concrete stacked atop one another. No design. No ornament. No heart. No soul. They remind me of my father.

“We cross there.” I point to a circus traffic signal that's about to change. “Go.”

In unison, we jog to a checkpoint fifty meters ahead. This is the visitors entrance to the Norilsk Gulag. Father is expecting me.

“He is a fallen angel,” I repeat, subvocalizing.

“Is that a new mantra?” Mimi says. “Or are you trying to keep from chundering your lunch again?”

“I've not had any lunch,” I tell her.

Vienne walks in silence beside me. I like silence. Especially in constant companions.

“Is that a knock at me?” Mimi says.

“Yes.” I steal a glance at Vienne. Shoulders erect. Chin high. Eyes fixed straight ahead. A body that moves with such grace, it makes me want to swing her into my arms, press her body against mine, and…and…get ideas. Ideas that a chief is forbidden to have for another Regulator. Especially his second. At the checkpoint, a gate blocks the way. Two guards man the guardhouse, a female sergeant and her partner. They look bored. Until they notice the armor.

I stop. Turn my back to the guardhouse. “Here's enough to book the TransPort to Fisher Four,” I say, slipping some coins to Vienne.

“The rest is for?”

“To pay off guards.”

“And you will save enough for your dinner.”

“Yes,” I say, although it's a lie. Every bit of money in my possession will go to paying off somebody.

She places a fist in an open palm, then bows slightly. The Regulator greeting. I do the same. Except when she rises, our eyes meet. Her eyes are hazel. Since when?

“Since forever,” Mimi interrupts. “Are you the most unobservant Regulator in the history of the order? Yes, hazel eyes, blond hair. Height, one point nine meters. Weight—”

“I got the picture,” I growl silently at her. “No reason to belabor the point.”

“Apparently, there is, o observant one. A Regulator notices everything, cowboy. I certainly do.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Well?” Mimi doesn't answer me.

“Chief,” Vienne says. “Please don't dawdle. If you miss the TransPort, I will be stuck riding to Hell with those two.”

“Come on, Vienne. It wouldn't be that bad.”

“Yes,” she says. “It would.”

After we part company, I walk to the guardhouse. The male guard stares at me through a wire mesh screen. “Dr. Jacob Smith to see a prisoner. Medical prerogative.” I give him Father's prisoner number.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn't catch that number.”

I set six bits on the sill on my side of the screen. Slide
them through an open slot in the mesh. I repeat Father's number.

“Ah, that prisoner. Come inside the guardhouse for inspection.” He winks. “Doc.”

Graft and corruption. Hallmarks of the CorpCom era. Inside the house, the guard slides a lockbox across the desk while his partner, a sergeant, scans me with a wand.

“Fancy,” Sarge says, admiring my symbiarmor and giving it a flick. “Can't even tell it's armor. You've had an upgrade. Is this the newest line?”

The other guard doesn't give a rat's petard. Just the business at hand. “Place your weapon inside the box.”

I pull my armalite out of its holster. Set it in the box. Gently. Then start to close the lid.

“I'll handle it from here, Regulator,” he says, then reaches for the grip.

“No!” I grab his wrist. Feel the soft flesh give as I pinch too hard and catch a nerve.

He grunts, his eyes widening. With his free hand, he fumbles for his sidearm as I slam the lid shut. Then release him.

“On the floor!” He's found his pistol, which is now in his shaking hands. “On your knees!”

The woman laughs. “Quick one, innit he? Like a ruddy viper. Had you dead to rights before your beady eyes could blink.”

“Sarge!” the guard says. “He assaulted me!”

“Saved your worthless life is more like it.” She takes his pistol away from him. The safety is still on. “About to grab an armalite. Don't you know what happens if you do that? The things are rigged with explosives. One touch from you, and we're both dead.”

“Really?” he says.

“Really,” I say. “The armalite's coded with my biorhythmic signature. Standard Regulator stuff. Can I go in now?”

“Five minutes. No more.” She opens a door leading to a long corridor. As soon as I step inside, the door clangs shut behind me.

At the end of the corridor, there's a chair and a window. Nothing else.

“Mimi, could you give me a few minutes of radio silence.”

“Anything for you, cowboy. Tap when you want my attention.”

I take a seat. A sheet of Plexi separates me from a man. He's sitting in a chair like mine, his chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. I tap on the window, and he looks up.

He's lost weight. His cheeks are hollow, the wrinkles on his forehead too loose, and his skin is blotched red. There's no sign of physical abuse, though. No bruising. No wounds. No scars, either, except the old ones under his right eye and the crooked nose, trophies from the beatings he took from the mob that dragged him from the stand during the trial. It's the cancer that's shrinking him. The treatments I'm paying for are enough to extend his life but not to cure him.
There's not enough money on Mars to do that.

He's sixteen centimeters shorter than me, and the years in solitary confinement have bent him. Still, he feels taller.

“You need a haircut.”

“Hello, Father.”

“Jacob.” His voice is monotone.

“It's been a while, sir.”

“Six months. One week. Four days.”

He forgot hours.

“Seventeen hours.”

Or not.

“But who's counting?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“I am,” he says. “All I have to do is count. Bunch of derelicts won't even let me have a book to read except the Bible, and I can quote it chapter and verse.”

It cost me the payday from a primo job to buy the Bible for him. “You're looking tosh. The food must be—”

“Awful. Didn't you say something about bribing the trusties in the kitchen? About time you did something about that, if you have the means.”

The bribes I pay puts extra in his bowl. Otherwise, he'd be living off gruel. “I'll see if I can find the means, Father. Good commissions are more difficult to find than—”

“You disappoint me, Jacob.”

Here it comes.

“Your biological mother was chosen for her intelligence and physical prowess. A PhD in molecular biology who was
an Olympic swimmer. The surrogate who birthed you was the finest available. Your birth was without event. Your education demanding, your training flawless. This is not your destiny, Jacob. It is your destiny to become the leader of Mars, not a common
dalit
mercenary.”

For a moment I say nothing. Look down and away from his relentless gaze, the way I did as a child. “You made me a
dalit
, Father.”

At the end of his trial, he was forced to spend a day and a night in stocks. The Regulators commissioned to Stringfellow gathered in the temple square, all three hundred of them. When the clock struck signaling the end of his time in the stocks, they all committed suicide, an act that showed true sacrifice. Only two Regulators refused to join the ritual. Me. Because my father forbade me to kill myself. And Vienne, who had sworn her life in service to my own. That's how we became
dalit
. Masterless. Outcast. Pariah.

“What? What did you say, Jacob?”

“I said, Father, that if I'd had my wish, I'd have died horribly alongside your other Regulators.”

“And wasted a lifetime of planning and hard work. They need you, Jacob. How could I deny this planet its savior because of a senseless, antiquated ritual?”

“Regulators live by those rituals. The Tenets—”

“Spare me the cant about the Tenets. They're as useless as the old fools who wrote them generations ago. We live in modern times, Jacob. They call for modern men. The
Orthocracy is dead. The CorpCom government is a passing phase, a transition to a new government that will rise from the ashes of both! That government needs you.”

I signal for him to keep his voice down. “Father, your words are a thin line from treason.”

“It is the thinnest lines that define us, Jacob.”

“Define you. Not me.”

“If you cared about your father, you would stop this foolish charade!” Flecks of spit splatter the Plexi. “And become the man I designed you to be!”

I shake my head slowly. Rub the thick, rubbery scar on my temple. Every time, the same conversation. Yes, he calculated every possible variable, added every ingredient he could control. Maybe I should've become more than I am. Maybe he should've thought of that before he released the deadliest beasts on Mars on his own troops. Troops that included me.

“Answer me!” he bellows.

Above us, a tone sounds. A guard appears behind Father. I stand. Make the fist in palm sign of the Regulator and bow low to show my respect.

My father is a fallen angel, I tell myself, but when I rise, he's gone.

 

When I leave the prison, I see two shadows on either side of the catwalk, and I know something's amiss.

“Mimi,” I say after tapping my temple. “Don't even
bother with a scan. I recognize the stink of collectors when I smell it.”

“Too late,” she says. “I pinpointed them while you were still at the guardhouse.”

“Thanks, by the way,” I say. “For giving a few minutes alone with Father.”

“Believe me when I say, cowboy, it was my pleasure.”

Mimi hates Father. Can't blame her. He's the one, after all, who caused her death.

It takes a few seconds for the collectors to appear. Two males. Age-tens. When I head for the traffic signal, they sidle up. Both wear light gray suits with high, black tab collars. Pretending to be men of the cloth. The disguise is a good one, and most citizens of New Eden keep their distance. During the Orthocracy, priests were dangerous men. No one has forgotten that.

“Oy, Durango,” the taller one says. “Heard you pulled a job. Impressive. Except the kidnapper you hit has connections. Unhappy connections, if you know what I mean.”

“Mimi?” I say as we reach the far side of the street. I turn for the entrance to the Tube. “They're packing, right?”

“Service revolvers,” she says. “CorpCom shock trooper standard issue. Be careful.”

“Aren't I always?”

“No.”

“Oy!” the tall man says. Punches me in the back, and the armor absorbs the blow. Hope he skinned his knuckles.

I turn on him. Grab his fist, which is ready for another punch. Give it a squeeze, which he feels through his glove. “Save the chitchat, messenger boy. What does Mr. Lyme want?”

The second jack—the standover man—moves to step in. I draw the armalite with my free hand. Aim at his nether regions. “Don't think. Don't blink.”

He freezes.

“Good man,” I say. “Now back up, messenger boy. Tell me—Mr. Lyme sent you because?”

He squints. Tries to pretend the bones I'm grinding together don't hurt. “Your last payment wasn't enough. It's costing Mr. Lyme more and more to give your poor papa the same level of protection, no?”

“I hold up my end of the bargain,” I tell the collector, and let go the fist. The armalite I keep aimed. It's the quiet ones you've got to worry about. “Mr. Lyme gets half my take of every job in return for keeping the predators and the recidivists off my father. Your boss made a righteous bargain.”

“That means what to me?” He flexes his fist. Grins. Takes my act of kindness as weakness. Smug rooter.

“It doesn't mean much to you,” I say. “But when I cut this deal with Mr. Lyme, I made him a promise.”

“What kind of promise, Durango?”

“That I'd put a hole through his head if he broke our deal.”

Collector laughs. So does his associate. “That's a good one. You're one funny kid.”

“Not when my father's concerned.”

“You're a bit slow on the uptake, though,” he says. “I told you, the deal's changed. The price of protection's tripled.”

“Tripled?” I say. “You're out of your skull.”

“Can't afford the hay?” Collector picks his teeth with a flint match. “Mr. Lyme says he can cut you in on a side trade. There's good money in it for a fine strapping lad like yourself. A bloke of your abilities and looks who can transport merchandise.”

“Like what?”

He leans in, tries to whisper over the ferocious winds. “Rapture.”

“You want a Regulator chief to run contraband?”

“Not contraband! Don't call it that.” He winks conspiratorially. “Think of it as freelance pharmaceuticals.”

“Not happening.” I drop low. Sweep their legs with a quick roundhouse. Cut them off at the knees.