“Yeah. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what’s going on?”
The stubborn look reappeared. She shook her head. “I already have.”
I shook my head sadly and got to my feet. “Right. And corpies give to charity. Well, let’s dispose of the bodies before they start to smell. I think I saw an ejection port near the storage compartment.”
What would have been easy in zero gee was hard work in ship-normal gravity. People weigh more after they die, or seem to, and it doesn’t make sense. Life should have weight, and leave a body feeling lighter, like a canteen emptied of water. But that’s not the way it works, as the guys on the local meat wagon will be glad to tell you.
But, by rolling the bodies onto a cargo pad, and dragging them to the ejection port, we got the job done. Of course, lifting the stiffs and stuffing them down the tube was not an especially pleasant task, but better them than us. Once that was accomplished, the rest was easy. It was a simple matter to close the hatch, seal it shut, and hit the green button.
I felt a slight vibration as air was pumped out of the chamber and heard a thump as the bodies were ejected from the tube. I tried to feel something, tried to think religious thoughts, but nothing came. It’s hard to empathize with poppers, dead or alive, and my religious training, if any, had disappeared along with my other memories.
The adrenaline drained out of my bloodstream and took my energy with it. I was afraid. And who wouldn’t be? We were trapped on a spacegoing barge with one or more hired killers. Fear was normal, and anything else would be stupid. But fear is an uncomfortable emotion. It saps your strength and demands full attention until you respond. But what should we do? Our arrival at what had been our fortress served to underline the problem.
The android was where we’d left him. His sky-blue body fluids had oozed out, mingled with human blood, and formed a brownish crust. What had seemed snug and secure prior to the attack felt open and vulnerable now. I had just started to think about that when Sasha assumed command again. She stood hands on hips, her gun in easy reach, with a newly acquired backup stuck in her waistband. “Collect the gear, Max. We’re pulling out.”
I would look back later, remember how she’d taken control, and wonder how I could have been so stupid. But I was stupid, and still am for that matter, and it felt good at the time. I nodded slowly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. No sense in staying here. We’ll build a fort somewhere else.”
Sasha looked grim. “No, we won’t. You were right, Max. I should’ve listened, should’ve taken your advice, but didn’t and paid the price.” Her face softened momentarily, and I saw something that might have been affection in her eyes. “You’re good at what you do, and don’t ever let people say you aren’t. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”
Something rose to fill my throat, tears brimmed in my eyes, and a feeling of warmth suffused my body. I fought for control and got it. “Thanks…a letter of recommendation would be vastly appreciated. But why not? Build a fort, I mean.”
“’Cause we’re going to hunt the bastard down,” Sasha said coldly. “And his friends too…if he has any left.”
The idea hit my brain like the dawning of a new day. Bodyguards are reactive by nature, always looking to defend rather than attack, so the concept seemed radical at first. But the more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it. Why wait for the bastard to attack when you could find the creep, put him away, and spend the rest of the trip relaxing? The plan made excellent sense.
So we lifted the android to a standing position, checked to make sure he’d stay that way, and made an adjustment to his right hand. I thought the upraised finger said it all, and hoped the popper would see it.
It didn’t take long to gather our gear, stuff it into the duffel bags, and clear out. However, things that weighed nothing in zero gee were suddenly heavy and slowed us down. Sasha carried a bag plus the pressure suits, and I toted the rest. Joy wasn’t large enough to carry anything and scouted ahead. We were headed to starboard and on high alert. A second attack seemed unlikely but not impossible.
“We can’t carry this stuff all the time,” Sasha said thoughtfully. “We’ll be dead meat if a popper comes along. No, what we need is a stash, or a number of stashes in case some are discovered.”
I may be mentally challenged, but I know a good idea when I hear one, and the stash thing sounded good. My head swiveled back and forth looking for a good location. And, much to my own amazement, I found one.
The air vent was obvious really, especially to someone who lived on Sub-Level 38 of the Sea-Tac Residential- Industrial Urboplex, where good hiding places are few and far between. Four stainless-steel screws held the screen in place, but one of the recently deceased poppers had been the proud owner of a stainless-steel all-purpose pocket knife, the kind that comes with enough tools to perform brain surgery, and weighs a pound and a half. I pulled the monster out of my pocket, selected the Phillips head screwdriver, and went to work. Sasha supervised. “Don’t leave any scratches. They could give us away.”
I didn’t think there was much chance that my scratches would show among all those left by the maintenance bots and tool heads over the years, but I kept my mouth shut. Some things are worth fighting over and some aren’t.
The screen came free with relative ease. We made an arbitrary decision to divide our supplies into three equal portions, making sure there was a weapon in each-this against the possibility that one or both of us lost our weapons but remained at liberty. And, since the heavily armed poppers had contributed a total of five guns to our arsenal, that left each of us with a backup plus enough ammo to fight a small war-something I hoped we wouldn’t have to do.
So, having placed a duffel bag and the pressure suits inside the air vent, and having reinstalled the screen, we followed the bulkhead towards the starboard side of the ship. Since we were located near the barge’s stern, and knowing there was a great deal of space between us and the bow, it seemed logical to suppose that the popper or poppers were camped towards the entry lock or beyond. I had assumed that we’d climb up through one of the access tubes, recross the sky bridge, and retrace our steps from there. I even said as much. Sasha put me straight.
“Sure, Max, it could work, but tell me this: A popper escaped, right?” Well, where did he go? If he crossed the bridge, we’d have seen him.”
I frowned. She was right. The bridge was completely exposed, so we would have seen him. “How ‘bout the forest? Maybe he’s hiding in the bushes.”
“Anything’s possible,” Sasha said patiently, “but he’s wounded, and that makes it likely that he’ll head home. Wherever that is.”
Thoughts piled into each other as they tried to find a way through my head. The popper had headed home, the popper lived up towards the bow, the popper didn’t use the sky bridge, ergo, the popper knew of another way to get there. Brilliant, huh? But Sasha was way ahead of me. “The way I figure it, we should make another stash, work our way around the forest, and find his escape route. The rest will be simple.”
The rest would be simple? Tracking a professional killer to his lair would be simple? Was Sasha out of her mind? I looked her way, half expecting a sardonic smile, a hint of irony, but no, she was completely serious. I felt confused, very confused, and my head started to hurt. I wanted Sasha to be smart, wanted her to assume control, but couldn’t quite let go. In spite of the fact that Sasha thought circles around me, and was more competent than any girl her age had a right to be, she lacked experience. A sometimes fatal flaw. I fought the headache and prepared to assert myself when and if we found the popper’s escape route. We had just dropped a duffel bag containing a gun, ammo, and a third of our food into a large junction box when Joy pointed towards the other side of the bay, and gave the alarm. “Look!”
We looked, and saw what appeared to be a black dot quartering the area where the battle had occurred. Sasha kept her voice flat and unemotional. “The bastard has a spy cam.”
“Yeah.” I said grimly. “Or took control of a maintenance cam.”
She gave me a look, the kind reserved for occasions when I’m a pain in the ass, and gestured towards the grating. “Come on, let’s get the cover on.” I hurried to help. The grating clanged as it dropped into place.
“Look!” Joy said for the second time. “It heard! And it’s coming our way!”
We looked. The spy cam had heard and was coming our way. My reaction was to hide and hope for the best. Sasha had other plans. She pointed towards the deck. “Lie down! Pretend you’re dead!”
The order went against all my instincts, all my desires, but she gave it with such certainty that I obeyed. The deck was cold and the lights were bright. I closed my eyes. Black blotches floated on an ocean of red. I heard a whirring noise, air caressed my face, and the scene grew darker.
I felt the spy cam hover over me, or thought I did, and wondered what Sasha would do. The answer came as the darts thumped into the spy eye’s metal housing, servos whined as it tried to get away, and the whole thing landed on my unprotected stomach. Air whooshed out of my lungs, my eyes flew open, and my arms wrapped
