The restraints are seriously starting to chafe Nikki’s wrists as she is marched down Resnik, but she’s feeling another sting more keenly: that of humiliation. She is being escorted by a detail of four guards, two in front and two behind, sporting the maximum Seguridad weapons load-out, which is normally only deployed in the most extreme circumstances. They have the usual jizz cannons and electro-pulse batons, but these are supplemented by “goodnight guns” slung over their shoulders: suppression rifles that would normally remain safely in storage unless they needed to quell a riot.
It makes her look like some kind of monster, a dangerous animal who may need to be put down at any moment. And that’s what passers-by would see even without the overpowered arsenal.
She read once how the layout of Paris was altered after the French Revolution so that wide boulevards replaced the labyrinthine backstreets where mobs were formed and unrest fomented. They weren’t worrying about civil unrest when they designed Seedee, as it is nothing but narrow passageways, far from conducive to the discreet transport of prisoners. There is no option but to walk the short distance to the nearest dock, in full view of whoever happens to be around.
This is what the phrase “walk of shame” truly means. In the past it was merely a term she associated with stumbling home for a shower (or stumbling to wherever she was supposed to report for duty) with a blinding hangover and a queasy sense of embarrassment, details of her recent sexual exploits flashing into her mind like the pulses of her headache.
Nobody gave her a second look on those occasions, however. Today, she feels every pair of eyes burning.
She keeps her head down, which sucks because this is the last she’s going to see of the place. It looks kind of sad. Minus her lens, without all the overlaid information on every wall, door and citizen, it looks like a living room after the Christmas decorations have been taken down. Still familiar, still the same place, but somehow a little less warm, a little more dull.
Even the handcuffs look strangely denuded. Ordinarily she would be able to see the prompt, allowing anybody with the appropriate authority to release the restraints. She used to have that authority. She could have unlocked them with a gesture of her finger. She seldom needed them, though. That’s what makes her look all the more wretched. Nobody on the street will ever have seen somebody restrained like this, never mind under an armed four-man escort.
She can see the entrance to Dock Nine looming ahead. That’s when she starts to feel a dread sense of foreboding that reaches from deep in her gut to the ends of every hair now standing up on her neck.
Maybe it’s down to it truly dawning on her that this is real: not only is she leaving Seedee, but she’s looking at spending the rest of her life in jail, where she’ll never discover what this whole thing was about.
They pass through the reception area and proceed towards the shuttle bay, which she can see through the open doors. There is no spacecraft in position, no stevedores, no manifest administrators. Looks like flights in and out of Dock Nine have been suspended. The whole place is deserted, much as this same facility was when Yoram’s shipment got jacked. That’s where the vibe is coming from. The last time she came through here was when everything started to go south.
The déjà vu gets jacked up a notch as the party marches out onto the shuttle bay floor, where she sees two of the private-security-looking assholes who were there that day. They are waiting patiently, close to where the shuttle elevator comes up.
“The fuck are these guys?” one of the Seguridad detail asks.
“I don’t know,” replies Alonso. “Nobody is supposed to be here. I’ll check it out.”
One of the mercs is already on his way over. Unlike the Seguridad officers, he isn’t carrying any visible weaponry, but he looks all the more intimidating for that. There is a quiet assuredness about his gait, like nothing could threaten him.
“We’ll complete the transfer from here, Officer Alonso,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.
“The hell you will. We’re to escort the prisoner all the way to Heinlein. We have explicit orders.”
“So do we, and I believe you’ll find that ours countermand yours.”
Alonso sees something on his lens and visibly blanches.
“No shit. Just two of you?”
“Two of us will be adequate.”
Alonso turns to the rest of the detail.
“Okay, change of plan. These guys are gonna take it from here.”
Up above, through the canopy, Nikki can see a shuttle approaching. In a few moments it will disappear underneath. She recalls the last time she witnessed such a sight. It was as she waited on a dock with Candace, about to be sold out.
Suddenly a lot of things become clear, none of them good.
Her foreboding derives from a subconscious awareness that is far ahead of mere cognitive deduction. She isn’t spooked because she is on Dock Nine again, but because there’s nobody here: no admins, no stevedores, no pilots.
No witnesses.
She’s bound for Heinlein.
Way, way too late she comprehends the real reason the shuttle platform at Heinlein was cleared and the capsule officially transporting Slovitz was empty. It wasn’t to conceal the fact that Slovitz was secretly still on Seedee. It was to conceal the fact that he had been murdered. The official record would show he went home, explaining the fact that he would never be seen on Seedee again.
There is a stillness to the shuttle bay, an unnerving silence in a place normally alive with noise and activity. The incoming shuttle has dipped out of sight, and the rotation of the wheel means she can see the Earth through the canopy. Both of her captors are gazing placidly at the main doors, through which the last of the Seguridad detail has exited.
They are not taking her anywhere, she realises. They’re going to do it here. They’ll make up some story that she was killed during an escape attempt, because they won’t want her taking the stand at any trial.
The three of them stand wordless for a few moments longer, like some solemn observance, before one of the mercs rolls out a black plastic sheet on to the floor. It’s not a prayer mat.
The other merc slams a fist into Nikki’s gut, dropping her to her knees.
“So how do you want it?” he asks. “Strangled like Giselle, sliced up like Julio, or skinned and butchered like Omega?”
She is doubled over, feeling the cold metal of the floor through the plastic sheet. She is gasping for breath. She knows these are her last moments.
Funny thing is, it was her intention to die here. Just not so soon.
Some say death is not the end, and right now she believes that, but not in any kind of bullshit spiritual way. For her, the end came fifteen years ago in Santa Monica. Everything since has merely been waiting.
And yet she doesn’t want to go. Wretched and self-loathing as she has allowed herself to become, she still wants more of it. She wants to make amends. She wants to get justice for Giselle. She wants to show Candace there’s a caring woman inside this callous shell. She wants to tell Alice Blake that she has inspired her to change. But none of those things is going to happen.
For the first time in forever, she permits self-pity. For the first time in forever, she cannot prevent tears.
Her captor draws a knife, and Nikki gazes at the Earth for the last time.