Crescent (23 page)

“You’re on your own now. I’m not your lackey anymore,” Marisa spat.

“Very well,” Kendall said. He straightened his suit jacket and walked out, the trembling man-mountain in tow. Marisa wondered if the big bastard had ever fought in his life—all brawn, no brain, no balls. The door slid shut and she activated the deadbolts. She leaned against the door and slid to the carpet. She felt exhausted to the very core of her being.

You should have killed them.

“I should have let you kill them.”
I must really be losing it now,
she thought. Talking to one’s self was not an attribute of the mentally sound. Neither was assault. Kendall would leave her alone now—she was sure of that, at least. She unbuttoned the top of her shirt past the line of her breasts and exposed one shoulder. There were two deep red spots where Taylor’s ham hock of a hand had been. Marisa looked up at the terminal. The never-before-used handset still swung like a pendulum. The screen erupted with a burst of static and then filled with the glowing image of a long, darkened corridor and two figures—two women, one dark haired and dressed in the blues, one light haired and thin—walking hand-in-hand into the shadows. She would call Nigel. Yes.
Soon.
She closed her eyes.

Right after she took a little rest.

(•••)

Kendall wasn’t sure if the sounds were of pleasure or of pain, but he was sure of one thing: He was enjoying Angela’s pillow-muffled screams. He mustered a little more hatred with each thrust. He fucked Angela, his favorite little whore, but he saw Marisa the Core Sec Lieutenant bent over before him.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said. “I’m going to teach it to you good. And you’re going to learn it well.”

Angela’s voice doubled in octave as the violation continued. Kendall growled when he came. He withdrew and stood above her, panting. She rolled over on her back. The pillow she had been yelling into was stained dark with tears and saliva, and her eyes were ringed with red. Beneath the smeared makeup and snot, the girl looked shocked. She looked
put
in her place. That was well and good. He was able to picture Marisa’s face easily—a translucent mask of imagination that highlighted the parade of tears that ran from Angela’s eyes and the glisten of mucous that ran from her nose. Kendall lashed out with a backhand; the crack was loud and pleasing when his ring split her cheek wide open. He spit on her and left the bed chamber, closing the bathroom door behind him. Angela’s sobs bled through the wall. The sound only fueled his anger. He turned on the shower—it almost drowned out the sound of her crying.
But not quite.

If she wasn’t gone when he stepped out of the shower, he would kill her.

Sheets stained with tears, sweat, and blood were all that was left of Angela by the time Kendall stepped back into the bed chamber. Also gone was the blind rage. Now all he felt was tired. He laid his sleep clothes out on the bed and began to dress himself slowly. His back ached from the pounding he had just delivered. Christ. Even his pelvis hurt.

The terminal in the bedside wall chimed. Kendall continued to button his night shirt, activating the terminal by voice command. Walter Vegan’s horse face filled the screen.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Vegan said.

“If there were anything going on worth interrupting, I would not have answered. What do you want?” Kendall asked.

“A ship just entered the docking perimeter.”

“That’s fucking wonderful, Vegan,” Kendall paused. “When did you decide to start calling me every time a ship enters the docking perimeter?”

“It’s him.”

“Would you mind being more specific, Vegan?” Kendall’s patience for bullshit was nil at the moment, but since he couldn’t reach through the terminal screen to smack Vegan in the ugly mouth like wanted to. He’d have to tolerate the slow-wit.

“Stronghold.
Either someone is faking or the raider warlord will be landing on Crescent in about,” Vegan looked off-screen at a monitor and then returned his eyes to the camera, “fifteen minutes.”

Kendall had expected to hear from
Darros
. It had been weeks since the last firearms shipment.
Had it really been that long?
Kendall thought. He was sure it wasn’t any shorter than that.

“Vegan, contact
Catlier
. Have him and Raney escort Mr. Stronghold to my office. Make sure there is no reason for Nigel
Swaren
to show up. And make sure neither he nor that
cunt
Griffin are at the docks. Are my instructions clear?”

“Yes sir.
Very clear.”

Kendall disconnected. He got out of his sleep clothes and moved to the closet for a suit. Appearances must be maintained and
Darros
Stronghold surely had not come looking for slumber party.

(•••)

The curtains were drawn wide open and a bloody light filled the office—
moonglow
from
Anrar
III’s
largest satellite. Kendall had the halos turned down low; he quite liked the effect of the natural light. It wasn’t often that station and moon were so well-aligned. Kendall surveyed the office—everything seemed in order.

He placed one crystal tumbler before
Darros
Stronghold’s intended seat and filled the glass with two fingers of bourbon. Red moonlight glanced off a silver coaster and glowed elongated on the otherwise black ceiling. Kendall filled his own glass with twice the amount and seated himself in the wide-backed chair. He took a sip. It burned, and he allowed it to sit on his tongue for several seconds before letting it fall warmly down his throat. The mayor pressed his thumb behind his ear and instructed for Stronghold to be brought in.

The door swung open and
Albin
stepped in first. Taylor followed. The big man had a white med-pad taped over his bad eye. He looked like a fool. At the very least, he could have found a more menacing looking patch. Kendall pursed his lips and Taylor stepped aside.

T
he next individual to enter was garbed in an enormous fur cape with a hood pulled over its wearer’s head so that all that was visible was the sharp point of a chin. It could have been any number of wealthy merchants.

“Like my jacket, Kendall?” the caped figure said in a rich, amused voice.

“Yes. It is quite nice.”

“It’s not safe for me out in public these days. You never know who has you in their sights.”

“You’re safe here,
Darros
. Guns, after all, are outlawed on my station,” Kendall said.

“Right,”
Darros
said. “Then how’d I get this one in here?” He waggled a snub nosed pistol—it looked like a needle gun, but Stronghold’s hand disappeared back into the folds of the fur cape before Kendall could get a good look.

“We need to have a bit of chit chat, you and I.
N’est
que
pas?” Stronghold said as he cast the hood off. The mass of fur that hung over his shoulders made his head appear small. He unclasped the chain at his neck and the fur cascaded down his legs to pool around his feet like a mammalian waterfall. Revealed was a tall and slender man—not slender in the same sense that Kendall was slender. Kendall was all skin and bone and he knew it. This man was sinew and muscle. He was lean and lethal. It appeared that the needle gun wasn’t the only weapon that
Darros
had brought aboard. He had several large blades sheathed at his side and another gun holstered beneath his arm. Kendall tried to picture Vegan attempting to relieve the man of his weapons and laughed out loud.

“Then sit, if you feel we need to talk. I even poured you a drink. After all, how long has it been?”

“Not long enough, Ezra. You know I hate this place.”

“My good
Darros
.
You wound me,” Kendall said and laid a hand across his chest. Stronghold ignored the comment. He seated himself across from Kendall and hoisted the glass of bourbon, downed the contents in one shot, and slammed the glass back onto Kendall’s desk with a hearty bang. Stronghold leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet up.

“Take a seat, Kendall. I promise this’ll be brief.”

Kendall did as he was asked. He didn’t like being told what to do, but
Darros
was impulsive, flighty, and well armed.

“Numbers and guns, Ezra.
I’m missing both,”
Darros
said. “I find it hard to believe that all that crazy mining activity in
Tireca
has stopped. And my little colonial rebel pups in
Habeos
are facing another Core Sec offensive.”

“The problem is,” Kendall folded his hands around the crystal tumbler. “The problem is Crescent operations are currently being audited by Core Sec.”

“Kendall, I could care less about the Core Sec
merde
on your station.”
Darros
smiled. “If you aren’t covering your trail, it’s up to you to be more careful. I’m paying you to provide a service and I’m respecting your space, so to speak. If I really wanted to, Ezra, I could pull this station out from under you faster than you could say ‘Don’t shoot me in the face,
Darros
.’”

“It’s not that simple,” Kendall objected.

“
Oui
?”
Darros
waggled his brows and patted the gun holstered under his shoulder.

“One of my people might be wise to our operation.
My salvage man.
He’s been hauling your leavings. I have not quite decided how I will deal with him. I do know that I have to do something before he gives too much information to this auditor.”

“No quite decided?”
Darros
rolled his eyes. “Getting soft on me, are you?”

“Not in the slightest,
Darros
.
It’s like I said. Matters are more complicated with Core Sec auditing my station,” Kendall said.

“Ezra, I’ll do you a solid. You send my
people coordinates
within the next forty-eight hours. You send your salvage boy out to pick up the scraps as usual, and we’ll take care of the rest. Accidents happen in space all the time. I’m not so much concerned with getting free ore as I am with the guns.”

Kendall nodded. Gerald would bite—he was almost sure of it. The mayor smiled and downed of the last of his bourbon.

“Very well,
Darros
. I appreciate your willingness to help.”

“Good. I expect you to return the favor. Get me those guns soon.”
Darros
got to his feet and strolled to the bar. “You wouldn’t mind me leaving with that fine bottle of alcohol would you? Space gets so very cold.”

“Of course not.”
Kendall gestured to the bottles lined up on his bar. “Consider it yours.”

“Bien, Kendall.”
Darros
picked a bottle at random. It was the most expensive one in Kendall’s collection.
“This it, then?”
Kendall smiled and nodded.
Darros
pulled the thick fur cloak back over his shoulders. He drew the hood over his head. “Forty-eight hours, Kendall. I’m being reasonable. You figure out how to work around Core Sec. I don’t care if he’s monitoring every single transmission coming out of this station. Send it out your asshole for all I care.”

“You’ll get your coordinates,” Kendall said. He found himself weary of Stronghold’s attitude. “It’s time you left,
Darros
.”

“It’s past time I left.”

And like that,
Darros
Stronghold was gone.

(Part XV)

“L Deck is presently being drained, but is still under up to a meter of water in some locations. The housing authority has issued a public statement that indicates, ‘things could have been far worse.’ Loss of life has been categorized as minimal. Mayor Kendall could not be reached for a comment.” The newsfeed showed a reporter standing in waist deep water with long, auburn hair wet and matted to her head and shoulders. She was wearing rubber overalls on top of her flashy red suit and looked quite ridiculous. Water rained down behind her from guttering ceiling light panels—there was an occasional burst of sparks as electronics shorted out. Collector robots trudged through the water, towing rafts and ferrying people off the flooded residential deck. “There was a similar scene here on L Deck some fifteen years ago. The flood occurred in the middle of the night, causing what can only be described as Crescent’s single worst tragedy. Now back to Frank with an update on sports…
 
”

Donovan Cortez clicked off the LCD and looked to his daughter. Ina sat beside his bed with her hands in her lap and her concerned eyes on his face. Donovan wondered how long she had been sitting there.

“You sure you feel okay, Dad?” Donovan had insisted he was fine each time Ina had asked the question. This was the fifth, not that anyone was keeping score. Truth be told, Donovan wasn’t feeling all that good. He was coming down with a bug that was sure to be nasty. The headaches, joint aches, and occasional vomiting were the least of his worries. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her about his blackout on the lifeboat. Or the visual and auditory hallucinations that preceded it. He smiled his best reassuring smile and patted her hand. “Yes.
Quite well.
I’ve been staying up late reviewing the photos from your initial survey of the geological outpost.
Fascinating stuff, to say the very least.
Occult phenomena. It will require some looking into. When will you and Gerald be going back to the surface to visit the remaining site?”

“I don’t know,” Ina said. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Gerald.”

“I wish you’d had the opportunity to spend more time down there. At least, I wish you could have returned with something I could hold in my hands.”

Ina’s demeanor changed almost immediately. She sighed and looked away. It was the reaction Donovan had expected. He felt a twinge of guilt about having spied on her, but she needed to learn a lesson about keeping things from him. He knew she had hidden
something
in her dresser. The timer on the food processor unit chimed. Lunch was done. Ina started to stand but he took her hand.

“Are you telling me about everything?”

Her brow creased with fine lines.

“Well, Dad. I don’t quite know how to say this…
 
”

Good,
he thought
, come clean with me. Tell me the truth.

“I,” she hesitated a moment longer. Donovan waved his hand—the gesture said
get on with it
. Ina sighed. “I’m pregnant.”

Oh yes, she is, this is very good news,
a cold whisper rose from the depths of his consciousness. The sound of the voice was distinctly
violet
. Yet,
at the same time the thought occurred to him, he realized he didn’t know what it meant.

“You’re…
 
pregnant?” Donovan’s face twisted and his mouth fell open. He felt a tremor in the hand that held hers, but the sensation was distant. How was she pregnant? It didn’t make sense.
“How pregnant?
Who is the father? The only many I’ve ever seen you with is…
 
Is it Gerald?
How…
 
” Anger rose on a surge of stomach acid, filling his throat and igniting a firestorm in his chest
.
His head began to pound.

“Dad?
Are you okay?” Ina grabbed his arm. There was an edge of panic to her voice.

“What. Yes. I’m fine. Why?”

“The color went right out of your face. You stopped mid-sentence and just started rubbing your temple and muttering.”

“I did?” He couldn’t remember what he’d been so angry about. He felt the emotion fading. “I’ve been having headaches from the lack of sleep. Maybe I had better lay down.” Ina removed the pillows that had been propping him up on the bed and he reclined fully. “Ina,” he asked, “who is the father?”

“Dad, it’s not Gerald. I’m too…
 
never mind. It’s not Gerald. It might have happened before you and I even left the University. Do you remember
Dimetrius
Hyland?”

“Your lab assistant?”
Donovan asked, flabbergasted. A bolt of pain lanced through his skull. He clenched his jaw and let out a groan.

“Should I call a doctor, Dad?” There was a quaver in Ina’s voice, like she was about to break into tears.

“I
am
a doctor,” he said with a weak smile. “How soon you forget that. I’m fine, Ina. This is just a lot to swallow.”

“Please try not to worry about it, Dad. I’ll figure it out. Remember, I am a grown woman. I’m almost thirty.” She placed her hand atop his. “Get some rest. The food isn’t going anywhere—and it’s nothing exciting. Just some prefab lasagna I picked up in the bazaar. Heat it up when you’re hungry. Go to sleep. I’m going to try and find Gerald and see when we can go planet-side again.” Donovan appreciated the effort she was putting forth to sound strong, but he could see the concern swimming in her cerulean eyes.

A baby?
This is good news,
Donovan thought. But for some reason, the news terrified him. It terrified him because the part of him that was genuinely thrilled was the same deep-buried part of his mind that was making him feel sick and twitchy. Ina lingered; she studied his face closely. Donovan didn’t like the sound of her going off in search of Gerald but he acquiesced and waved her off. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

And he was fine.

(•••)

At least for the first forty-five minutes after she was gone, he was fine. He had managed to fall asleep. He dreamed of great, rocky landscapes.
Of shallow seas and of tall, craggy mountains.
A thin violet light clung to the scenery before him like luminous fog, skewing his perception as if he were a passenger traveling in bubble of purple glass. Then it came to him—he was seeing through another set of eyes. Donovan licked lips that were not his own; they were salty and cold. He looked down at the hands that were not his hands—they were gloved in, was it leather? This other
self
was moving fast.
Not walking, not running either.
Wheels spun below him. He flew across the landscape at high speed now. Control did not belong to Donovan.
The other
was in control. The purple view showed ground racing by. The view shifted up to a long flat building.

Movement halted when he reached the building. Donovan watched as he entered the structure through a sliding glass door. The door slid closed, Donovan caught a glimpse of the letters.
Anrar
III Outpost 13
.

“Is it ready yet?” a voice asked. It was a voice of a woman—lightly accented and sweet sounding. The eyes through which Donovan watched swung to the left, to a short woman with cropped red hair—Donovan knew it was red, even though it looked dark grey in the violet haze.

I’m experiencing someone else’s memory,
Donovan realized.
I’m dreaming someone else’s life.

The woman blinked up into the eyes of the other. An object was held up in front of the lady’s face, a palm-sized carving—of what?
A beetle?
No. Not just an ordinary beetle.
A scarab.
Yes. It was a dagger shaped as a scarab.

“How did you manage to shape the
sanguinite
?” the woman asked. “That shit is harder than our diamond bits.”

“Surgical lasers.
Took forever.
But I think the key is ready.” This was the voice of the other. It was rough—the timbre of a smoker.

“Do you think that it will open her? First cut must be made with the stone.”

“I know it will,” the other said.

“So, then.
It’s sharp?” the female asked. She took an eager step forward. “Sharp enough to cut through flesh?”

“Of course.”

The gloved hand holding the
sanguinite
scarab arced in a sudden path across the female’s throat. She took a step back, blinking in surprise, but she was okay. Donovan thought it a feigned attack, but then a necklace of dark beads appeared around her throat. She opened her mouth and blood poured down over her chin. She tottered backwards; her head fell back and a blaze of violet light spilled from the ear-to-ear gash.

Donovan sat up in the bed. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks from hair that was plastered to his scalp. A raging fever had turned his body into a furnace. The wall clock was flashing eights; the power had gone out at some point. How long had he been sleeping? It didn’t feel very long. A glance to his PDA told him it was 3:45 a.m. The apartment sounded empty. It felt empty. He called for Ina and there was no answer. Donovan got out of bed and started toward the bathroom, but instead he altered course and went to his dresser. There, he pulled open the underwear drawer and removed the palm-sized hunk of
sanguinite
. Donovan couldn’t help but laugh at the foolishness of storing it there.

This is no laughing matter.

“Who said that?” Donovan whirled around.

You did, you old fool
.

Yes. The voice belonged to him.

The realization caused him to startle. He fumbled the piece of
sanguinite
and it sailed through the air. He snatched out for the stone but it fell through his hands, clattered to the floor, and slid under the dresser.
 
Donovan cursed at the rock and then at the dresser. He got onto his hands and knees and squinted so that he could see beneath the big piece of furniture. It was dark in the small space, but he could see the shape of the strange rock. He thought he could reach it—
sure,
it wasn’t under there too far. It was just a question of whether or not he could get his hand into the tight space. Donovan wiggled his fingers into the thick carpet. The tips of his index and middle finger brushed against the cool, smooth stone.
Almost got it.

Dry, leathery fingers wrapped around his wrist. The grip was cold and vise-tight, and yanked him forward with such force that the fake wood base of the dresser splintered and dug into his arm. He cried out and tried to crawl backwards but he was jerked forward again. The dresser tottered unsteadily. The phantom hand let go and Donovan rolled out of the way just in time. The dresser fell forward and slammed down hard, right where he had been. The slate top snapped off with a loud pop and the contents of the drawers spilled across the carpeted floor. Donovan lay panting for what felt like an eternity. The fever had fully consumed him now and his heart raced. His arm was bloodied and bruised.
I couldn’t have been grabbed
, Donovan thought.
No wa
y. He had jammed his arm beneath the dresser out of eagerness. Or worse, maybe the spasm had been a seizure. He sat up as his breath returned to him and surveyed the scattered mess of trinkets and undergarments.

The small, black leather case containing his surgical implements sat amidst the disarray. He hadn’t opened the case in years—it was a souvenir from his other life and he had no use for the set any longer, but sentimentality made it impossible for him to get rid of it. He crawled over to the monogrammed box and picked it up. The weight of the case felt good and familiar. Now, holding the surgical tools, Donovan felt the sudden urge to operate. But operate on what? As if to answer, a corona of violet light spread around his hand, numbing it slightly. Whispers circled his head like gnats.

The voices wanted him to act. They drew his attention to the spilled dresser.
To the mess beyond it.
The liquid purple light flowed up from his palm like a glowing tentacle and snaked its way across the floor, through the debris, and over the dresser to the other side. There was a flash and then the light was gone.

Donovan went to where the light had pointed and picked up the
sanguinite
with his uninjured left hand. The weight of the stone had a peculiar familiarity to it, familiar as the weight of the surgical tools. Now he had something to operate on.
Something to sculpt.

He worked on the stone in near darkness. His expertise manipulated the delicate lasers of his surgical tools, but another power guided them—he was only watching them work. Violet haze blanketed everything Donovan looked at. Unlike in his dream, this time his own being was the source. The Violet wrapped him up in a shimmering blanket of fog. It was insane, but it felt wonderful. Donovan had never felt such a sense of purpose as he did watching the tiny lances of light cut away small bits of the hard, red stone. With each pass of the lasers, a new bit of detail was revealed—the curve of a wing, a pincer.

As he worked, his eyelids started to feel heavy. Each time they dropped, the purple light flared and he felt the urge to vomit. The sensation was fleeting, always quickly replaced by a burst of energy. This went on all night, until every muscle save those in his hands and arms twitched with exhaustion. Now the bursts of light did not make him feel exhilaration, only illness. He ran his thumb over the thin edge of the sculpture; the action drew a drop of blood. The scarab was sharp. The work was complete. Donovan collapsed from his office chair onto the floor, and vomited for the next twenty minutes. When the sickness subsided, he felt himself drifting toward unconsciousness. He hoped Ina wouldn’t find him there. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to seem him prone and covered in his own
biofluids
; he didn’t want her to find the scarab.