16 – Paul Chevalier

  Hector’s knuckles were white with the strain as he gripped the drop-seat restraints. The shuttle shook, rattling its contents—two hundred young men and women—like ice in a martini shaker. They weren’t coming down from orbit or anything; he’d gotten aboard outside Denver and, after a forty minute, high-altitude hop, they were coming down somewhere in the Sonoran Desert. Still, he’d never flown in a military transport before. He’d never flown anywhere—sixteen years in the Reyes Consortium Arcology.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ puke on me, Olivares!” Scott laughed, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow.

  “I’m not gonna puke, asshole.” Hector twisted his fists on the restraints, looking up and down the shuttle bay. He wasn’t the only one struggling with the rough ride. He saw wide eyes, wan faces, and white-knuckled grips all over the place. Seeing the other recruits in a similar state did something to calm him—took the loneliness out of the fear.

  When he looked across the way, he saw a thin girl with buzz-cut black hair looking at him, her blue eyes searching for his—maybe just looking for a human connection. He felt his spine stiffen, his face relax, and he locked eyes with her, nodding and forcing a smile. She smiled back, her straight white teeth brilliant. Then, the shuttle was down, and the guy with the wide-brimmed hat was shouting at them to move.

  “Get up, you rot-infested maggots! Get off your butts and line up! This isn’t a day spa. This isn’t a trip to the gulf, a day at the beach! We aren’t on spoiled-brat time anymore; we’re on Empire time! You’re in the Legion now, boys and girls! Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  ###

  Cool fingers touched his shoulder and jostled him gently. Hector’s eyes snapped open, and he saw Lemon looking down at him. She was dressed, and there was some light in the kitchen behind her. “I’m late.”

  “It’s not late, but you were shaking and muttering in your sleep. I didn’t know if I should bother you, but—”

  “Just a dream.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Just a memory.”

  She nodded, stepping back to sit on the edge of the couch. She was wearing tight black leggings and a long blue top that cinched at the waist. “I put your sweatshirt in the steamer, and I would’ve done your pants, too, but you know—” She shrugged and pointed to his legs. “I didn’t want to pull them off while you were sleeping.”

  Hector looked at his bare chest. When did I take that off? “Thanks.”

  “No problem. You going to wake up now?”

  He peered at the clock display floating around on the wall: 0832. “Yeah,” he grunted, pushing himself into a sitting position, his back to the wall.

  “I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “You don’t have—”

  “Grando’s paying me to put you up—least I can do.” She stood and walked around the couch to the kitchenette. “I bought fruit and protein mix last night. Does a smoothie sound okay?”

  “Sounds good.” Hector was staring at his hand, turning it this way and that. The cuts and bruises he’d earned fighting in the silo were gone, repaired by the nanites, but he’d picked up a few pale scars on his knuckles. The hand was too thin, his fingers too long. His veins weren’t as visible as he was used to; on his old skin, they’d stood out like tubes. Still, it was a strong-looking hand—capable. He clenched a fist and smacked it into his other palm.

  “You good?” Lemon asked, looking up from the blender she’d taken out of the cabinet.

  Hector stood and walked around the couch to the bathroom. “Good. We’ll head out around nine.”

  Lemon smirked. “Yes, sir!”

  ###

  “Wow,” Lemon said, as they stepped out of her building into the chilly air of the city. “Must be a storm blowing in.”

  Hector squinted into the stiff breeze, stuffing his hands into the pocket at the front of his hoodie. It was hard to imagine that the warm city of the night before had become such a frigid place with people walking around in heavy coats, their shoulders hunched, as they hurried to their destinations.

  “That’s Mars for you,” she said, leading the way toward the corner. He couldn’t help noticing that she’d put on a coat.

  “You knew?”

  “I knew the weather was changing, but I didn’t think it would hit this fast. Should we stop for clothes, first?”

  He nodded.

  “Someplace cheap, or do you want to take a train into downtown?”

  “Cheap.”

  She smiled. “I know a thrift nearby.”

  “I need underwear—” he said, but Lemon waved her hand, interrupting.

  “They sell some new stuff, too.”

  Hector followed her down the street, around a corner, over a train tunnel, and then into a ground-floor establishment called Foxes. He wouldn’t have known by the name that it was a clothing store, but the display window was filled with wire mannequins displaying their wares. Inside, the place was bigger than he’d imagined from the front window; it seemed to run for the entire length of the building.

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  Hector wasn’t looking to make a fashion statement; he needed clothes that were functional and that wouldn’t make him stand out in a crowd. Revenge was easier to pursue when you weren’t noticed. That said, the first thing he picked up was a black synth-leather bomber. Though the leather was worn halfway through here and there, it had a high collar, the silky orange lining was in good shape, and the silver buttons were sturdy and high-quality.

  He ran his thumb over the raised diving eagles on the buttons, then slung it on, sliding his arms into the sleeves. More important than anything else about the coat, it was a perfect fit with maybe a little room to give. He looked at Lemon for approval, and she nodded, holding up a pink-painted thumbnail.

  He picked up a few pairs of pants—jean-type fabric in shades of blue and black. Lemon helped him find several shirts, from Ts to a button-up, green-and-black flannel. He bought a pack of underwear and socks, and then, to round things off, he found a pair of sturdy, synth-leather black boots with a fresh, custom-sizing nanomaterial lining. After he paid—just a couple of hundred bits—the girl started to put everything into a large plastic bag, but Lemon pointed to a shelf of old suitcases and duffels.

  “You should buy a bag, Hector.”

  He nodded, walking over; one of them had immediately caught his eye. It was a brown leather duffel, well-broken-in with a long strap that would make it easy to carry over his shoulder. On closer inspection, he didn’t think it was synthetic leather, but sometimes it was hard to tell; manufacturers had been good at creating the illusion of wear even back when he’d last been alive.

  “Looks sturdy,” Lemon said. “Oh, jeez, Hector; it’s real leather. Look at the price.”

  He turned the bag so he could see the tag: 1,200 bits.

  Lemon looked over at the counter, raising her voice so the clerk could hear her. “Kinda steep for this neighborhood.”

  The younger woman shrugged. “Been here a while. I don’t think I’d get into trouble if I offered you a discount. How’s ten percent?”

  Hector nodded. “Sure.” He knew it wasn’t the smartest move, but something about the bag reminded him of his old life, and he failed to tamp the nostalgia down in time to save his bits. So, a few minutes later, with his old clothes and most of his purchases folded neatly in the duffel, he walked out into the chilly air, far more comfortable with his hands in his new coat’s pockets.

  “What’s next?” Lemon asked.

  Hector waited for a tram to pass, whistling by with a gust of frigid air. “Need ID and some augs.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot to tell you that Phil replied to my message. He gave me an address for an identity fixer, but he made me swear I wouldn’t say he sent me. I mean, I think Phil’s all right, but it really sounded sketchy.”

  “Guys who do IDs…” Hector trailed off, shaking his head. “They’re hard to come by, and none of them like attention. Your friend’s warning makes sense.”

  “Well, it’s out on the city’s edge, the guy’s place—not far from the spaceport. There are some factory stores out that way, too.” She started walking. “Come on; we’ll get a train.”

  Hector thumped his hand on his duffel, considered telling her he wanted to go drop it off, then shrugged. It wasn’t heavy. He followed her around a couple of corners until he saw one of the high-rise train platforms about halfway down the block. Seeing it, he realized he was beginning to get a picture of how the transit system worked; the high tracks were faster and moved to all the different city districts; the ones at street level were shorter lines.

  At the concrete base of the platform, Lemon paused by the elevators, touching the call button. She glanced at Hector and shrugged. “Don’t feel like climbing those steps in this cold, and there’s no wait.”

  He nodded.

  She was right; the platform wasn’t busy for whatever reason—the weather or the time of day, maybe—so when the elevator arrived, they were the only ones to step into it. As it rushed upward, Lemon looked at him sideways. “You look better in those clothes. You looked like one of Grando’s goons before, but with that jacket and those jeans…” She shrugged, trailing off.

  The elevator lurched to a stop, and the doors slid open. Hector stepped off, and a heavy hand clad in a black plasteel gauntlet gripped his shoulder. He reflexively moved his arm in a circle, knocking the hand off as he took a sweeping step out and to the side, pivoting to face his assailant—

  “Be still, citizen! Standby for a scan. Resistance or flight is a criminal act and will result in immediate arrest.” The voice came from the speaker grille on the peacekeeper’s plasteel chest plate. It wasn’t his voice. It was his AI, being a good assistant. The peacekeeper, for his part, put his armored hand on the stubby grip of his overlarge sidearm—a blaster with a hell of a lot bigger batt than the one Grando had in his dirty little office.

  Hector knew better than to start a fight with a peacekeeper. He wasn’t ready for that kind of trouble—not yet. He held his hands up and studiously avoided looking at Lemon as she exited the elevator, her face ashen, her eyes wide. “Go ahead,” he said.

  The peacekeeper relaxed his posture a little, but his hand remained on his gun. Meanwhile, his matte-black visor moved slowly up and down as whatever sensors he activated inside that helmet scanned Hector. After a moment, the speaker on his chest crackled again. “Paul Chevalier, there’s a record of your death at Redwick Station.”

  Hector froze for a moment, but he’d been expecting something like that. With no ID of his own, the peacekeeper had pulled up his skin’s last ID. For some reason, hearing that he’d been recorded as having died filled him with relief; Paul’s body must have been sold posthumously. Of course, considering that Hector was perfectly healthy, it made him wonder why Paul had died, but it wouldn’t surprise him if it had been something perfectly curable. If he’d been indentured to a corp, they might have refused his treatment due to debt—they’d seen his body as worth more than his future service. Corps were one thing, but then there were the clinics, and the Empire; they had ways—

  “Did you hear me, citizen?”

  “Um, yes, sir. There must be a mistake.”

  “I’m issuing you a citation and a summons to court. You’ll report to the magistrate of this district at the date and time indicated.” A wafer-thin plastic ticket emerged from a slot in the peacekeeper’s shoulder, and he handed it to Hector.

  “Right. Will do.”

  The peacekeeper tapped something on the side of his helmet and put his palm over a glossy lens on his shoulder before speaking again. This time the voice was different—deeper and more human—and it came from the helmet’s vent holes. “If you’ve done some kind of insurance scam, do yourself a favor and disappear, kid. You’ve got a couple of days on that warrant.”

  “I haven’t—”

  “Don’t want to hear it.” The Peacekeeper moved his hand and then tapped his helmet again. Before Hector could register what had just happened, he turned and clomped away, his boots clanging on the plasteel grating of the platform.

  Lemon hurried over from where she’d been standing, trying not to look like she was associated with him. “Wow! Oh my gosh! That was the nicest PK I’ve ever seen!”

  Hector shrugged. “Maybe he’s new. Really need some new retinas and a new ID.”

  “I think he scanned more than your retinas—”

  He shook his head, holding up the ticket. The bottom row listed the identification-type, and it said: Bio-retinal. Hector tapped a finger next to his left eye. He knew the PK had probably scanned him for weapons, but as for his ID, he’d been satisfied with his retinas. Apparently his aura system hadn’t set off any alarms either; not enough aura in his pool to require registration.

  “Well, we have a small problem, then, don’t we?” When Hector just looked at her blankly, she continued, “A clinic is required to preserve your retinal print on new implants, right?”

  Hector chuckled, shaking his head, watching as a train glided up to the platform with a rush of cold air. “There are all kinds of clinics. You think Pete might look the other way?”

  Lemon tilted her head to the side, then smirked. “I guess you’re probably right. A few bits might earn his cooperation.”