by Fred Warren
Smith’s escape route twisted through a maze of corridors, maintenance
tunnels, and ventilation shafts—a jumble of vectors pointing, in their
summation, downward and inward. Any pursuers not intimately familiar with the
bowels of Avenir would become disoriented in short order.
He hoped.
…through
this hatch, bypass that one, up the ladder here, onto the catwalk— nearly
rusted out; it won’t take many more of these trips—there’s the gap in the deck,
mind the edges, ease down and through the structure, hang on a moment, quick
drop to the deck below, now move, move, move—don’t slow down, never look back…
Fifteen minutes later, confident he’d left any trailing
Enforcers far behind and hopelessly confused, he staggered into a vacant
utility alcove and slumped to the greasy floor. Cold, dry air flavored with oil
and iron knifed into his lungs and returned to the surrounding atmosphere with
an asthmatic wheeze. His temples throbbed, echoing the drumbeat of pain
pounding in his chest. One hand brushed his knee, and came away wet and sticky.
A shard of metal had slit his trouser leg somewhere along the way and bit into
his flesh. He wiped the blood onto his coat-tail, then turned his hand back and
forth in the dim light to inspect an angry red laceration on the wrist, left by
the cyborg that had caught him picking its master’s pocket.
“You’re losing your touch, mate.”
Smith scrambled to his feet, only to be shoved down hard by
a heavy hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to see the face. The gravelly
voice was enough. Wallace Beadle.
The thug bent close enough to reveal a gap-toothed grin
with blistered lips framed by three-day’s growth of wiry black stubble. The
nauseating odor of decayed insect flesh filled Smith’s nostrils. “Comes of too
much time spent wet-nursing the wee foundlings and not enough keeping your
edges honed. You never would have gotten pinched like that in the old days.”
“As soon as I catch my breath, Wallace, I’m going to twist your
head off. I warned you to stay clear of my territory.”
“Out of shape, too. Tsk, tsk.”
“How did you find me?”
“Silly boy. Nobody knows you better than I do. Every single
bolt-hole is a fond memory of our old partnership, those profitable, carefree
days before you met dear Ave and went soft in the head. I’d rather focus on the
future, though. Your blunder has become my opportunity. I have a proposition
for you.”
Smith smiled up at him. “Eat grit.”
“Oh, that’s a fine
attitude for a penniless sod who can’t protect himself, much less the dear
little tots depending on him for their livelihood. Yes, I know where they’re hiding. And let’s not forget the
winsome Miss Kate, all alone, so delicate and vulnerable…”
“You’ve made your point. What do you want?”
“I have a friend in need of your peculiar resources. He has
a number of parcels that require, shall we say, discreet handling.”
“I’m no smuggler, Wallace. You should know at least that
much about me. You want a delivery boy, press one of your own goons into
service.”
“Ah, but there’s the rub. These items demand unobtrusive
couriers with a delicate touch. Your poppets displayed remarkable skill in the
marketplace today, despite the failings of their ham-handed tutor. We think
they’ll do nicely.”
Smith spat at Wallace’s boots. “Never.”
Wallace chuckled and wiped the left boot, then the right,
on Smith’s injured leg. “As I expected. Let me introduce my client, so you’ll
know I’m in earnest.”
A second figure emerged from the shadows to stand behind
Wallace. He was a giant of a man, with a swarthy, scarred face, crooked nose,
and deep-set eyes, but Smith’s blood froze when he saw what the big man was
wearing.
Peacekeeper blues.
