Page 67

You’ve met Hale Hauser.

Get ready for his cousin, Jon.

Darkness. And the taste of blood.

I turn my head and spit. Something slimy. Not blood. Or not just blood. What the fuck’s in my mouth? Tastes recycled.

I blink. Still dark. They must’ve moved me. New cell’s darker than the old one. No line of yellow seeping under the cell door. No faint blue glow from the A-Eye in the ceiling. Real darkness. Pressing hard against my eyeballs.

I stretch. Testing. Constriction at my wrists and ankles.

Something tight across my chest. Doesn’t feel like metal, and when I give it a hard tug, it gives.

Not a restraint. Where’ve they got me? Medical?

Did they fuck me up again? Last thing I remember is turning in after a couple of hours playing v-Go in my cell.

Fucking A-Eye was beating me. They gas me while I was asleep and work me over?

Wouldn’t be the first time. If they did, I’ve been out a long while. I’m not even sore.

I yank against the restraint on my right wrist and it gives with a tearing sound. I finger the torn edge. Frayed. A woven strap. They haven’t made any effort to lock me down.

I free my other wrist, then my ankles. The strap across my chest feels different.

Smooth and slick under my fingertips. It comes away from my skin with a slurping sound, a sense of suction.

Like it was attached to me. I pull the end up to my face.

Nothing. Can’t see a thing. Not even right against the tip of my nose.

I can smell something, though. Recycled, stale, putrid. Like the goo in my mouth.

I sit up slowly, one hand held above me.

Nothing but air. Finally, high above my head, a curved surface.

Cool. Glassy. I follow it with my fingers.

It arches back over my head, ends in a thick angle.

I feel my way across to a metal rim. Fingertips pressed against icy metal, I trace the rim until I have the contours in my mind.

Oblong. Two meters by one meter. I’m sitting in an open pod.

I stretch my senses. I can’t see shite, but I can hear, and feel, and smell. Better than any Neem.

Wherever I am, it ain’t Reek. It’s quiet.

Almost eerily quiet. Some faint, distant ticking sounds, but none of the usual noise.

No footsteps. No shouting. No screams. My breathing’s the loudest sound.

And none of the other sensations of Reek.

No constant breath of recycled air across my skin.

No smell of piss and rock dust. There’s a whiff of sweat, an antiseptic edge, broken metal, an earthy smell.

I take a deep breath. Dirt. I haven’t smelled real dirt in years. Not since I was shipped to the Moon. Didn’t know until just now how much I missed it.

I find the edge of the pod and reach over. A long way down, my fingertips brush something cold and solid. Floor. I haul myself out of the pod. Land heavily. More gravity than I’m used to.

Standing makes my head spin. Like I haven’t been upright in a long time.

I crouch next to the pod, waiting. A siren.

An alarm. The cool voice of the A-Eye telling me to get back in the pod.

Nothing. Just my breathing and the faint, distant ticking.

Now and then, a soft rustle, like something caught in an air vent. Nothing else .

When it sinks in that nothing’s going to happen, and my head stops spinning, I feel around.

Floor slopes away slightly under my toes.

Bad angle. Hard to get my balance. A meter across the canted floor and my hand bumps into another curved, glassy surface.

I trace the long arc. Two meters long. A meter wide.

Another pod. This one’s closed. Square shapes set into the side could be controls, but nothing happens when I press them.

I give the pod an experimental rap with my knuckles. The sound echoes in the silence.

No answer. Guess nobody’s home.

I move around the pod, taking shuffling steps.

Afraid to come down hard on anything sharp.

Feels like I’ve got Reek standard-issue peds on my feet, but stepping on something sharp in the dark ain’t the time to find out.

A meter to the right, another curved, glassy surface.

I shuffle forward, one hand at waist level, the other in front of my face.

More smooth, glassy surfaces under my hand.

More pods. In my mind’s eye, they stretch away on all sides.

Rank after rank. A field of silent, closed pods. Sitting in darkness. In silence.

Where the fuck am I?

Hours later, I’m no closer to knowing. I’ve found the end of the row of pods. It was only two deep and eight long. Not an endless field. Gotta keep my imagination on a lead. Being in the dark after so long in Reek’s perpetual light is fucking with my noddle.

I’ve followed a wall. Followed it for over an hour.

In the dark, with no idea of where I am, I’ve lost all sense of direction.

Could be following the wall around in circles for all I know.

Shuffling along in the dark. Struggling to keep my balance on the tilted floor.

Listening to the echo of my footsteps. It’s grown hot, and not just from moving around.

So hot I’ve shrugged out of the top of my standard-issue and tied the sleeves around my waist. And I’m still sweating.

There’s a nasty niff in the air. Sharp. Chemical.

I’ve torn the lining out of a sleeve and tied it across my nose and mouth.

Still pongs so strong I can’t smell anything else.

I finally come to something I can’t shuffle around.

Blocking my way. Not a wall. Curved, and warm to the touch.

I crouch at the base of it, where it meets the floor.

There’s a jumble of small shapes there. I sort through them, tracing each shape with my fingertips.

Broken edges. Sticky. Something burns my fingers and I wipe my hand quickly on my thigh.

Tube shapes. Cool. Very smooth. I’m exploring one of these, a meter-long tube with a twisted, jagged end that feels like a huge amount of torque was applied to it, when I hear a new sound.

“ . . . is it.”

A voice. Distant. Unrecognizable.

I freeze. Voices mean people. Neems who probably want to lock me back in that coffin.

My fingers tighten on the pipe. I’m not going back. I don’t know where I am, but I’m free. First time I’ve been free in four years. And I’m staying free.

“... spread out. Cover more ground that way.”

A different voice. A woman’s voice. My spots tighten. Last woman’s voice I heard was Morganne’s.

I shake my head, grip the pipe, compressing the scar tissue on the ends of my fingers. That bitch is gone. Along with my claws. I roll my shoulders to ease the tension there. She’s gone and I’m free.

A distant shuffling noise from the direction of the voices. Growing louder. I turn towards it.

A grey finger of light stretches toward me.

I blink, squint. Shapes resolve around the splinter of light.

Gridded floor. White curve of the thing blocking my path.

A high pile of broken metal and ceramic, leaning precariously.

The light bobs, wavers, spreading across the floor from under the pile of wreckage.

Somebody’s coming.

Gripping the pipe, I step to the side of the pile, out of the direct path of the light. So whoever’s coming can’t see me. And I wait .

Sweat slicks my grip on the pipe. I wipe my palms on the rough fabric of my standard-issue, first one, then the other. Get a good grip on the pipe.

Whoever it is takes their fucking time. The splinter of light stretches, grows brighter.

I watch it illuminate the objects around me.

The pile of pipes and plaz tubing I was exploring when I heard the voice.

The gridded polycarbon floor. The white thing that looks like nothing I’ve seen before but is clearly some macca piece of equipment.

The shuffling grows louder, drowns out the distant ticking.

Each shuffle brings whoever it is closer.

Each beat of my heart, pounding in my ears. The thought that whispers alongside it.

I’m free. I’m not going back.

Finally, finally, a head appears from under the wreckage. Dark, glossy curls. Slender shoulders and back. Tapered waist. Flaring hips, round arse.

Fuck, it’s a woman. First woman I’ve seen in four years. And she’s about to come between me and my new freedom.

I’m on her before she’s upright, as she’s still straightening, dusting off her hands. Ragged edge of the pipe under her jaw. Hand around her throat. Not crushing. Not yet. But there, threatening, ready.

I push her towards the white thing. “Spread ‘em.” It comes out in a croak. Worse than the bass rasp Morganne left me with. Like I haven’t spoken in a long time.

She doesn’t struggle. A single tremor runs through her. Then she’s moving, smooth and slow. Wish I could smell her, gauge her fear. But the strip of cloth over my nose, and the pervasive stink, prevent me from scenting her.

When she reaches the white thing, she raises her hands. Spreads her legs. Casual. No trembling. She’s done this before.

I keep the broken pipe against her throat while I frisk her.

She could be the enemy. She’s wearing a uniform, a fitted silver unisuit.

But it’s not a peacekeeper’s uniform. And she’s not carrying any weapons.

I can tell that even before I slide my hand up between her breasts, over the round curve of her arse.

Long time since I’ve felt a woman’s softness under my hands.

“You armed?” I ask, even though I’m sure she’s not.

A throaty noise that could be a chuckle. “Not in the conventional sense.”

What’s she playing at? I push the pipe’s edge firmly against her throat. “Are you armed?”

The soft noise again. “No.”

“Who’re you?”

“Darienn.” She turns her head slightly – so I can see the pale curve of her cheek and the gelatinous edge of the breather she’s wearing over her nose and mouth – and looks over her shoulder at me. I shift so all she can see is a looming shadow. “Who are you?”

I’m not answering her. “Where’re we?”

“On the Vox Aurelia .”

Never heard of it. “That a ship?”

“Yes.” Under my hand, the muscles of her back have gone soft, relaxed. Why isn’t she afraid? I’ve still got the pipe pressed against her jugular. Still got the upper hand. “Are you wearing a breather?” she asks.

Is she planning on gassing me? I spread my hand on her back, holding her firmly against the white surface. “What’s it to you?”

“If you’re not, you might want to follow me out of here.” She pauses a beat. “The air you’re breathing is full of teratogens.” Another pause. “Do you know what those are?”

“Yeah.” And I don’t want to be breathing them. My genes have been fucked with enough as it is. I withdraw my hand from her back and slowly lower the pipe.

She turns. Light dazzles me for a moment, blazing from a little disk she wears around her neck. Her eyes flash in the shadows. Silver-green. Two steps around me and she’s dropping, back onto all fours, back into the wreckage.

I glance at the pipe in my hand. Sounded like a long crawl. A long crawl on a slant, dragging a pipe. In more gravity than I’m used to .

I toss away the pipe and follow her into the wreckage.

Watch for The Lure of Space, the Deep Frontier Cycle Book 3, coming ... well, given my track record with Throwing Fire, whenever it comes.