Crescent (35 page)

“I’m Lieutenant Marisa Griffin. I’m in charge of Mr.
Haddyrein’s
security detail. As you know, we’ve had some recent activity on Crescent and request that Mr.
Haddyrein
be under guard at all
times. He is to stay on his tour ship until the concert.
For his safety, of course.”

“That is understood very clearly.” Trappe looked around the deck. “And if your main hangar is any indication, I can’t see why he’d want to go anywhere else on this…
 
station.”

Marisa smiled.

“We call it Crescent, Mr. Trappe. Home,” Marisa said. A figure standing just inside the nose cone of the Mira caught her attention. She wouldn’t have even registered the presence had she not seen the red tip of a cigarette flaring in the shadows. She could make out the bald head of Erick
Haddyrein
.
Trode
points on the back of his hand caught stray light off the deck
floodlamps
and glittered diamond-like for an instant. Marisa had to work to pull her eyes away. Trappe had his hands on his hips and he eyed her with growing impatience.

“Anything else we should be aware of? Perhaps there were details omitted from your initial and wordy email communiqué?” he said.

“No,” she replied and handed Trappe a small data flimsy.
“My contact information.
You need anything, please don’t hesitate to call. Everything else should be handled by Crescent’s concert promoter.”

After the meeting with Peter Trappe, Marisa returned home. She locked the door to her apartment and turned the lights down low. She slipped out of her uniform and sat cross-legged on the floor. The short, bristled carpet pinched the bare flesh of her thighs and ankles. The air that hissed from the overhead vent was cool and brought goose bumps to her bare skin. The ratty armchair sat across from her—it was mostly a skeleton now, with just a few tattered shreds of fabric hanging from its black plastic frame.

Marisa stared at the towel-wrapped package beneath the piece of furniture.
Light the chair on fire. Burn this whole apartment. Get rid of that…
 
that thing,
her mind commanded her. It wasn’t too late. If only she could find a way to destroy the optical disc.

Despite her desire to end things with fire and obscenities, she crawled across the floor on her hands and knees toward the chair, her dark hair spilling over her face. She lay on her stomach and reached underneath the chair, almost expecting something to grab her and pull her under. Her fingertips brushed the towel and even through the thick cotton she could feel the concealed object’s power.
If someone else touched it, would they feel it, too? If Gerald were to handle it, would every hair on his body stand on end as mine are now?
She tugged the bundle free from where it was nestled. It felt good to hold it again.

When she had sent the strange, singing hammer down garbage shaft, she had sent with it any chance of destroying the object.

Marisa sat with her back against the wall and the package resting in her lap. She unwrapped the towel slowly—not because she was afraid, but because she wanted to make each moment last. Soon, the towel was spread open on her thighs. Her face was reflected in the dark, polished surface of the optical disc. The towel was stained with a rust colored ring, as if the disc had bled while it hid under the chair. She ran her fingertip around the edge of the disc. It was cold.

The
vatter
would ask for it soon, Marisa knew, and when he did she would give it to him.
But only when he asked.
He would know what to do with it. She would wait. The Black would wait—a handful of hours
was
nothing.

(•••)

The hush of evening shrouded Crescent Station’s main hangar. A slender woman with
cornsilk
hair that fell past her shoulders led a handful of black-clad men and women across the flight deck, toward the sleek Mira class starship. The four officers stationed at the foot of the vessel’s docking ramp did not move to intercept the posse—they joined the
Aphotic
as the group passed by. The motley bunch led by the pretty girl entered the Mira with no resistance.

Even in the dark, the
vatter’s
quarters were not difficult to locate. The blonde woman left her friends outside the narrow door behind which lay the final key to unity.

She found the
vatter
asleep. The
bedsheets
were half cast off his body. He had an erection. She slipped the paper-thin dress from her shoulders and it fell toward the ground. Time seemed to slow with the garment’s descent. The blonde woman mounted the
vatter
. He didn’t wake, but a quiet moan slipped past his lips as he entered her. She rocked atop him until he released. Even then, he did not wake, but dreamed only of red.

The air shimmered.

The dress hit the floor.

(•••)

The door buzzer rang with a sound distant and murky, as if Marisa had heard it from under water. Slowly, she clawed her way back to the shore of consciousness. She flipped on the bed side lamp. The clock told her it was 3:45 a.m. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and swung her feet out over the floor. The door chimed again.

“Jesus. I’m coming,” she said.

She slipped into her pants and padded across the carpet. Movement ceased when she saw the towel open on the floor. The optical disc sat there, gleaming up at her. It grinned in a way that only a razor can smile. Marisa opened the apartment door without bothering to see who was on the other side. A man stood in the corridor. He wore a thick, hooded sweatshirt, and the hood was drawn up over his head. She didn’t need to see his face to know his identity.

“Come in,” Marisa said.

He entered stiffly and the door slid shut behind him.

“I’ve come here for something…
 
” His voice trailed off. She put a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. He cringed away from her. “I’ve come here for something
…
 
.
” he repeated in the same unsure voice. Marisa knelt before the optical disc and wrapped it back up in the towel. She held it out to him and he looked at it stupidly.

“This is what you’ve come for. Take it.”

He stood there gaping at her like an idiot. He probably wouldn’t remember any of this come morning. He wouldn’t remember until it counted.

Marisa grabbed his hand and thrust the bundle to it. She grabbed his other hand and clasped it around the thing. He drew it to his chest and took a step back.

“There is music on this disc?” he asked her.

“…
 
The fuck should I know? Take it. I don’t want to see it ever again.” She opened the door and pushed him back out into the hallway. The door slid closed with him still looking in at her.

A pressure eased from her chest. Her head cleared and she became suddenly weak. She knew the musician had departed, and he had taken with him something far heavier than the optical disc: he had relieved her of her phantasmal chains. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
Marisa began to weep. She wondered why she cried. Was it relief? She felt like she had been let go.
I can leave now.
She could leave that very instant. Her will was her own again. She was sure of it. The Black had left her. She could no longer sense it. It had slipped away to wherever it slept. The Black was resting for the final thrust.

For the end game.

(•••)

Donovan Cortez was dying. Crescent was killing him faster with each passing day. Ina had not come home to him since the terrible riots. He was frightened for her, and even more frightened for himself. He drifted in and out of consciousness so frequently that he could no longer discern waking from sleeping. The purple glow was all he could see, living and anxious. The Violet was disappointed with Donovan Cortez. It had not anticipated the man’s frailty.

But if Donovan Cortez died, the Violet would be cast out, and there would not be enough time to find another with the right skills.

The bedroom door creaked opened. A figure stood there, backlit by the milky light of the hallway—a black shadow with features unidentifiable.

“Ina?” Donovan croaked. His throat felt like it was full of broken glass. The figure stood silently a moment longer,
then
moved out through the open door. Shadows pooled like water around its feet. “Wait.” Donovan whispered. He struggled out of bed, tumbling off the edge of the mattress. His wrist gave way with a dull snap when he hit the floor—he heard it, but he righted himself and crawled toward the living room, only distantly aware of the pain that radiated up his arm. The shadow stood in the apartment’s open doorway. It wanted him to follow. It had come to help him—Donovan knew it with a certainty. The walking shadow would prolong his life until he could say goodbye to his daughter. Donovan found a flashlight—he had a feeling he would
be needing
it—and pulled himself out of the apartment and into the corridor. It was empty, save for himself and the creature that his eyes seemed unable to focus upon.

Donovan crawled after the shadow-man for what felt like an eternity, following him through corridor after corridor until consciousness fled from him. When he came to, it was to the sensation of motion. He was lying on his back in a slowly descending service elevator. The deeper into the station the elevator traveled, the more laden with moisture the air became. When the lift door finally slid open, cold water spilled out onto the floor panels. Donovan rolled over and pulled himself out of the elevator, crawling onward through a thin layer of stinking water.
L Deck
, he thought—why else would the panels be covered in water?

The entire level was a ghost town. The corridors were lined with the mildew covered luggage, toys, and appliances the residents had been forced to leave behind when the residential level had flooded. Donovan crawled past abandoned apartments with doors that stood open. It seemed vulgar that the former homes were so exposed. Weak dregs of starlight bled through dirty viewports to show the insides of the vacant, water-damaged living spaces.

The corridor led to a dead end alley where a dark hole marred the otherwise featureless far wall; a metal grating lay cast aside in a pool of standing water. Donovan pressed his cheek to the damp floor panel, catching his breath. The walking shadow was nowhere in sight.

“
Geez
.
I
dunno
, man. We probably shouldn’t do this. What if we get lost?” a young boy’s voice echoed from the shadows.

Donovan gathered his strength and pulled himself through opening.

It was tight in the maintenance shaft and Donovan found that he had to rely on his legs and elbows to move forward. His broken wrist was all but useless and he had cut his other hand badly at some point in the trek. Fortunately, water and grime had turned the channel’s surfaces slick, making the travel easier. Donovan crawled below L Deck and the shaft began to descend sharply. His descent continued for almost thirty minutes. The small flashlight he had clutched between his teeth was useless against the shadows.

Donovan came out into a chamber where two rusted collector robots leaned against one another in awkward pose. A sneaker—a child’s sneaker—and a couple of flashlights lay covered in mold and muck just beyond the robots. An exit stood at waist height on the other side of the chamber. A child’s face appeared in the opening. The boy’s skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent.

“What are you waiting for? Come on,
scaredy
cat,” the boy said, and his face disappeared back into the dark.

Donovan ducked through the opening unthinkingly. A will that was not his own moved his limbs. For that, Donovan was grateful. He was so tired now.

On the other side, Donovan found dust,
spiderwebs
, and dying light panels. A steady drip-drop of water could be heard not far off.

He crawled past a bulkhead that looked like it had been sealed shut with a plasma caster; the seams were bloated with brownish, oxidized chrome.

A massive, black bulkhead marked the end of the line. The door pulsed and glittered. It was quite possibly the most beautiful site Donovan had ever set his eyes upon. Between the pulses of shimmering black, Donovan could make out a crude red X. He reached out for the door. Contact was the only thing that could save him now. His fingers brushed against its ice-cold surface.

“Brian, let’s go. I don’t like it here,” a voice in the shadows said.

“
Wanna
run home to mommy? Go, run home, then. I’m
gonna
touch it,” another voice replied.

“No, Brian. Come on. This isn’t cool. Let’s go.”

Donovan’s hand fell away. Even that brief touch had started his heart pounding with a renewed surge of energy. He got up on his knees and placed both hands on the door. The cold hurt. It made the muscles in his forearms spasm and cramp. He was sure he’d lose the first few layers of skin when he took his hands away—possibly a finger or two.

But Donovan didn’t want to take his hands away.
Ever.