So he settles for thinking about it. For mentally watching the flames from the mattress lick the ceiling. For mentally seeing the ceiling start to smoke and then glow red. Then the glow turn to flames. And eventually everything on this block is roaring and crackling.
He walks away, the mental fire burning bright behind him. He repeats the address Shaine showed him over and over in his head. Exte’s first sun still isn’t up, and the streets are darker than dark. Dangerous, he thinks, to be walking out in the open like this. But at least he has the black to cover him. He won’t forever, though. The walk is across the city, and by the time he gets to where he’s going, both suns should be up. He’ll be vulnerable. He runs a thumb over the heavy handle of the Uzek blaster still tucked away.
At least I have that.
Nixon hates these moments, when it still feels too early for it to be tomorrow and it’s too dark to think about it being anything other than night. Nothing good ever happens in these moments. There are people skulking in what would be shadows if there was enough light to create them. He hears them whispering as he passes. Talking to each other. Planning. Plotting. Plotting against him? He wouldn’t doubt it.
He doesn’t always understand the language. Is it Uzeki? Sometimes? Maybe.
He pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and makes sure its edge covers the top of his face.
He fakes a limp, falsely favoring his right leg. Anything to disguise himself. It’s just a matter of time until the Uzeks start looking for him. Probably already have. He picks up his pace, the limp turning to more of a hop.
There was a time when he would have been one of those in the crook of a doorway or a couple of steps deep into an alleyway. He’d have been waiting and watching, looking for opportunity. Opportunity to do what wasn’t as easily defined. Not necessarily to rob someone or rough someone up. Maybe it was an opportunity to take advantage of a situation. Someone drops something. Or they get distracted by something and quit paying as close of attention as they should to their belongings.
Maybe that thing they get distracted by is Shaine. The two of them always made great partners, especially when they were new to Exte.
Shaine: Big body. Big personality.
Nixon: Long and lean. Skinny fingers and gentle touch.
One performs; the other picks.
Nixon is lost in his own memory, remembering days with Shaine and the schemes they pulled and the credits they took. He’s lost in a time when it didn’t hurt to get up in the morning because Uzeks couldn’t catch him. He’s lost in a time when there was more life ahead of him instead of behind him, and the world was exciting with possibility.
He’s so lost in his own memory that he doesn’t notice that the real world around him is getting brighter, that the rising sun is bringing everything to life. Not until a woman comes out of her small home and dumps a pot of something from the night before out into the street. Then he notices that it’s past first light and that he’s still not close to arriving at the address Shaine gave him.
A horn blares in the distance, and he steps to the side of the road. The horn goes again, three quick blasts. Nixon looks behind him and sees it—a people mover. He pulls out his datapad and checks his credit balance. Still small, but hopping a ride now saves him time, even if it costs him a little money.
The people-mover blows its horn again, and Nixon raises an arm to request that the vehicle stop. It pulls up next to Nixon. It slowly drops to the ground, and a small ramp unfolds from the side allowing him to step on.
He puts his pad in front of a small scanner. He watches five more credits disappear from his total then turns to find a seat. It’s mostly folks who look like him. There is a Snapsit man who has folded himself into one of the seats, his knees pushing hard into the seat back in front of him. And there are three Uzeks in the back. There’s a seat near them, but Nixon opts to stand near the front of the people-mover. No, not all Uzeks run seeds for Uzel and the cartel, but what’s the point in testing these Uzeks out just in case they do.
He pulls the hood down farther over his face and slumps down lower in his seat. He listens to the automated driver announce stops. But he always has an ear on the Uzeks in the back. They grunt and snort in their very basic language.
He steals glances back there when he can. They aren't carrying anything. Nothing that indicates they are headed to some kind of work. But they don't try and sneak looks at him, either. Still … he doesn't like sharing a mover with them.
He closes his eyes and crosses his arms and pretends to sleep again. Pretends and listens. A chime dings and an automated voice announces the next stop. He hears people get off. Then he hears how the ambient noise changes as
