part0014

The whir of the scooter sounded weaker, sicker somehow. Being weighed down with supplies and food stuffs was part of it, but Ruben was fairly certain the maintenance bike wouldn’t last much longer. He’d begun to wonder if it was simply his new destiny to only drive antiquated vehicles soon to fail.

He gathered the bundles from the passenger seat. Protein powders and water, meds from Brackin’s list, and a spare vac-suit for the doctor. All of it had cost SynCorp dollars, and it was only by the grace of Brackin’s syncer they’d been able to make the purchases.

“I’m keeping track,” Brackin had said the day before. “It’s going on my bill.”

Ruben mounted the short, sloping entrance from the tunnel to Point Bravo, hands full of Brackin’s grace.

“Did you see this?” Strunk demanded by way of welcome. The enforcer took the load from Ruben and indicated a screen on the wall with his elbow. They’d made it functional with some skill, luck, and a boost from one of the power conduits in the Roadrunner . Old LUNa City’s castoff tech had become their lifeline.

Standing by the screen, Brackin swiped up the volume. Cassandra, the hybrid AI-human, was talking from her throne. On her right hand, the pilloried head of her mother, Elise Kisaan, stood on a pole. It had been days since Cassandra took her life. That fact was evident.

“…have renamed the symbol of oppression Freedom’s Herald ,” Cassandra was saying. The screen split, the right half showing Tony Taulke’s flagship in orbit around Callisto. “We are reshaping Tony Taulke’s empire: its symbols, its stations, its reason for being. The people of Sol have waited long enough for deliverance. We, the Soldiers of the Solar Revolution, are the instrument of that liberation.”

“Can you fucking believe it?” Strunk said, filling the small space around them with fury. “They took the Pax Corporatum ! They renamed the goddamned ship!”

It’s only a ship , Ruben thought but didn’t say. But he understood Strunk’s anger. It was coming from a place of fear. Fear at just how widespread, coordinated, and seemingly unstoppable Cassandra was. If she could take Tony Taulke’s ship…

“You might have heard stories about the Taulke boy escaping,” Cassandra continued. Strunk continued to rage, cataloging the explicit methods by which he intended to extract suffering from Cassandra.

“Quiet!” Ruben yelled. He ignored the shocked gargoyle stare from Strunk. “Brackin, turn that up.”

“Like his father, he’s a coward,” Cassandra said. “It’s the instinct of all tyrants to run when facing justice. Anthony Taulke III is no different. This is his image.” A motion photo of Tony Three-point-one replaced the starship. He wore a sneering, self-satisfied look, the default expression of a teenager. Likely the best photo they could find to cast him in the worst possible light, Ruben thought. “He and his father will soon be in my custody. They will both be tried for crimes against humanity. They will both answer for those crimes. If you see either of these men”—Cassandra’s image faded to be replaced by a likeness of Tony—“report these enemies of freedom immediately to the network node at the bottom of the screen. You will be handsomely rewarded for your help in ending the tyrannical rule of the Syndicate Corporation once and for all.”

The screen faded, replaced by a flash-ad. Not a SynCorp product, now. But an ad recruiting citizen-workers into the ranks of the SSR. Cassandra’s image dominated the short message. Her symmetrical beauty, often cast in shadow, was rarely absent from CorpNet now. Whether preaching, recruiting, or promising a life unshackled from SynCorp, Cassandra’s face was a constant presence on the network.

“Turn it off,” Strunk ordered. Brackin complied instantly. “Can you fucking believe that shit?”

“Calm down,” Ruben said, feeling anything but calm himself. They’d all become edgier over the past three days, and Strunk’s overbearing fury wasn’t helping. Cooped up in this tiny sounding station, the air had grown heavy with impotent dread. “It’s just a ship. And you missed the good news.”

“Good news?” Brackin asked.

“Tony Junior got away,” Ruben said. “Somehow, somewhere. They don’t have him. They didn’t mention Tony’s mother, though.”

The room was quiet until Strunk spoke.

“She’s not a prize,” he said, his tone less strident. Almost apologetic, in fact. Ruben had given him something to think about, to reason out. It seemed to settle him. “Not like Tony Junior.”

Ruben nodded. “In their narrative, Marissa Taulke is probably a victim. She never really fit with Tony’s image as the godfather of the solar system. That’s paying dividends for her now, maybe.”

Tony moaned from the dusty floor. Ruben knelt beside him. Had his color become sicklier? Was that even possible?

“That’s the other good news,” Strunk murmured. He went to stand beside the portal window. Leaning against the wall, he stared at the wreckage of the Roadrunner . “Tell him, Brackin.”

Ruben looked up at the doctor to find a pained expression on his face, like he’d just stubbed a toe.

“He’s developed a massive infection. There could’ve been poison on that knife. From the patchy skin, it could be sepsis. If that’s the case, I could stimulate his microbiome with a catalytic regimen of bacterial consortia introduced through the gut. I’m just not sure, and down here there’s no way to—”

“I don’t know what the hell you just said, but if you’re doing anything to make him worse, I swear to God, you’ll wish I’d spaced you.” The fact that Strunk said it quietly, gazing out the porthole, made it all the more menacing.

“Okay,” Ruben said, trying to understand Brackin’s diagnosis. “Are you sure his implant can’t help? Maybe it just needs to be rebooted. When I met you, you were hooking that hackhead up with Dreamscape. You seemed to know your way around—”

“I told you before,” Brackin said, “Taulke’s SCI must have been damaged in the crash. I’m no micro-tech mechanic. You’re lucky I was able to deactivate yours and Strunk’s. We’re stuck with my training and what old-school meds I can scrounge up.”

“He says we need to move him to his clinic,” Strunk said. “Ain’t happenin’.”

Ruben looked from one to the other.

“Moving him could kill him,” Brackin acknowledged. “But my equipment’s back at the clinic. I brought a medical bag, and the antibiotics I’ve given him are helping, but not enough. The bacteria are too resistant. We’re fighting a losing battle down here. It’s only a matter of time before the infection, if that’s what it is, overwhelms—”

“Tony’s tough,” Strunk said, like repeating that enough times would help cure his boss.

“Tony’s human,” Ruben replied.

Strunk stared out the porthole.

“Wouldn’t we need to take him to a hospital?” Ruben asked. “Not your clinic?”

Brackin had the grimace on his face again. Like he wanted to speak but was debating it.

“Apparently, Doc there’s got lots of black-market equipment in a back room,” Strunk said. “We had a nice, long talk about options while you were out.”

Ruben nodded. “Your clinic, then.”

“We ain’t moving Tony!”

Standing, Ruben faced the enforcer. He mustered his best board meeting voice. “That’s not your call. It’s mine.”

Strunk and Ruben stared hard at one another, the enforcer’s index finger tapping out a rhythm on the butt of the stunner stuck in his belt. The dust shifted behind Ruben as Brackin backed away.

“It’s too risky,” Strunk said. “Not just to Tony’s health. Being spotted. His face—and yours—are all over CorpNet. We’d be clipped as soon as we stepped into Darkside. We’d already be clipped, if you hadn’t remembered this hidey-hole. And what about Fischer? I thought we were—”

“Fischer should’ve been here by now. Something must’ve happened to him.”

Brackin cleared his throat.

With a lingering look at Strunk, Ruben said, “Yes, Doctor?”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear, but he’ll die for sure here,” Brackin said. Strunk turned away again to stare at the lunar surface. “The infection or poison or whatever it is—I can’t properly diagnose it out here, much less treat it. We’ve got to get him to better facilities. I know a back way to the clinic, a black-market supply trail through the tunnels. We can use that joke of a scooter to get there. But if we stay here—he’ll die for sure. That I can guarantee you.”

“Motherfucker,” Strunk said.

Ruben waited a beat. “Strunk, it’s why we brought him here. If Brackin says—”

“Not him.” Strunk’s eyes peered through the porthole. “Them .”

Ruben covered the distance in two strides. Outside the bulkhead door, kicking up lunar dust near the half-buried Roadrunner , a dropship marked with the mirrored-snake brand of the SSR had touched down. Someone must have finally noticed the wreckage and called it in. It had only been a matter of time before that happened.

Time, it seemed, was their newfound enemy attacking on multiple fronts.

“Discussion’s over,” Ruben said. “We have to go.”

“I still say—”

Ruben grabbed Strunk by the front of his shirt. It was like taking hold of a bag of concrete, already set. The big man barely moved.

“Listen to me, Enforcer. As the sole member of the SynCorp board in the room, what I say goes.” Strunk’s eyes smoldered, but he made no effort to pull away from Ruben’s grip. “We’re done debating. It’ll take all of five minutes for that strike team to track us to this door. We have to go. Now .”

Ruben heard Brackin’s rapid breathing behind him. Strunk held the eyes of the Regent of Mars a moment longer. He wasn’t used to backing down. But he understood hierarchy. And his place in it, so Ruben hoped.

“Okay then, Boss Man,” Strunk said, his voice subdued. “You and the doc there get Tony out of here. I’ll hold them.”

Ruben cocked his head. “There’ll be a dozen Soldiers coming through that door.”

“Less than that,” Strunk said, “eventually.”

“Strunk, it’s suicide.”

“For them, maybe.”

Ruben opened his mouth, but Strunk cut him off. “The priority is getting Tony out of here and healed. You’re right about that, Boss Man. We need him if we’re gonna save the Company. But what’s about to happen here—this is my kinda show. Let me run it.”

Outside, the strike team had descended the dropship’s ramp in five pairs of two, rifles at the ready. Dressed in military-grade vac-suits, they spread out, cautiously approaching the crashed ship.

Ruben released the enforcer, then extended a hand to Strunk.

“Your show, your way,” he said.

Engulfing Ruben’s hand in his own, Strunk nodded.

“We’ll need to get him into a vac-suit,” Brackin said, jerking his head to Tony. “It’ll help keep his vitals stable, help me monitor him as we move.”

“We should all get in vac-suits,” Ruben said. “When they blow this door, the air’s gonna vacate the tunnels.”

Strunk went to the pile of pressure suits, recovered the biggest one there, and began sliding it on. Brackin was next while Ruben monitored the enemy outside.

“They’ve blown the hatch on the Roadrunner ,” he reported. A Soldier had already crawled inside. A few moments passed before he extricated himself. One of them, the team leader Ruben guessed, gestured with two fingers. He could imagine the orders over their comms: “Look for tracks.”

Ruben looked over to find Strunk holding Tony while Brackin worked him, one limb at a time, into a vac-suit. Tony’s vital signs came online. All the indicators were orange or red.

“Strunk, take the door. I have to get the scooter going.”

Brackin nodded to the enforcer, whose movements were heavy and cumbersome in his suit.

Ruben slid hurriedly down the short access tunnel to the scooter waiting below. Remarkably, it started on the first try. He patted it anyway, his superstitious need to thank the machine getting the better of him. He left it idling and crawled back up the access tunnel, where Brackin was securing Tony’s helmet. Its seal engaged with a soft phish .

“They’re making a beeline for the door,” Strunk said, fitting his own helmet in place. He engaged their local comms channel. “You need to go.”

Strunk had backed away from the door. He was piling supplies and old equipment that had been left behind in the tiny maintenance station. He was getting ready for a blast. Through the metal bulkhead door, Ruben heard the strike team working. They were trying to open it.

“Help me,” Ruben said. The air in the suit smelled sour. Or maybe it was his days-old sweat stirred up by airflow. Brackin moved to his side, and together they lifted Tony to the slope leading down to the tunnel. Brackin went first, and Ruben fed him Tony’s body. They both slid down quickly.

“Hey, Strunk,” Ruben said. “I’ll make sure Tony knows.”

Strunk grunted. “Fuck that, Boss Man. I’ll tell him myself when I catch up.”

Ruben smiled. The man was an asshole, but he had balls like asteroids.

“Good luck,” Ruben said.

“Don’t need it.”

At the bottom of the slide, Brackin was securing Tony in the scooter’s side seat. Under his weight the antigravs were burdened, barely holding the maintenance bike above the tunnel floor. With three of them aboard, Ruben wasn’t sure it would move at all.

“You’re driving,” Brackin said, indicating Ruben should get aboard. Ruben mounted the scooter, and Brackin boarded behind him. The doctor wrapped his arms around Ruben’s torso. “Nothing personal.”

Ruben revved the throttle. His feet were still touching the tunnel floor.

The small nook that was Point Bravo above them shook, a massive blast overloading their comms. Moondust and fractured rock rolled down the slide followed by a hazy cone of gray fog. All that suddenly reversed course, yanked upward again by the whoosh of evacuating atmosphere. Ruben gunned the scooter’s engine, and they headed for Point Charlie at a floating crawl. The lower bulkhead door to Point Bravo slammed shut behind them in the tunnel. The last thing they heard was Strunk’s voice cutting through the screeching static in their headsets.