17


Time lost meaning as I stumbled down the alley, trying to remember when I’d been in a similar place. A little voice told me to get my shit together, practically shouting at me that I’d spent a lot of time in Zag City alleys.
“Help me out, X,” I said, trying to clear my thoughts. I couldn’t even remember my own name. Apparently, there was someone or something I called X. The ridiculous moniker made me laugh, which hurt my head, so I stopped.
The world seemed to spin and the ground tipped up, forcing me to walk with my hands stretched wide for balance.
Details came back slowly, starting with the fact that I was a broken down Reaper on the run. Static ran through my vision, confusing me until I remembered that I had a malfunctioning enhancement in my left eye—a completely cybernetic monocular. It looked normal most of the time, but never withstood close scrutiny.
Flexing my left fist, I remembered other things about my condition. Images from my time in prison returned, followed by the mission to Dreadmax. I thought of Elise, then of the local contract killers, and finally Briggs and Crank. The Union spec ops soldiers hadn’t hesitated to open fire on a public street. That was a bad sign.
The sooner I rescued Elise and made my way to Roxo III for some real repairs, the better. I knew the tech was there and had been told there were qualified technicians. Hard experience with “experts” warned me not to hope too much.
A fresh attack of laughter sent pain through my head and caused tears to run from the corners of both eyes. “This really sucks, X. Stop messing around and tell me where I am. How far away is Briggs? Crank?”
No answer.
I tried again to contact him, and even sent an inquiry to the Jellybird in case I was near the smuggler’s spaceport we had landed on. All I got for my trouble was a slight fluctuation in the static filling my internal earpiece. X-37 had told me there was a lot more computer warfare happening on the planet than he had anticipated, and that maintaining his own presence took most of his processing power. There also seemed to be something constantly interfering with our signal.
Unlike Jelly, the AI of the Jellybird, X-37 physically existed in my nerve-ware. That made his inability to contact me an ominous warning. I couldn’t count on getting help anytime soon.
“Why can’t anything be simple,” I said to no one. “Fuck, that hurts.”
Thinking about my Reaper nerve-ware brought back memories of my training. I remembered crawling through mud, ducking under razor wire, and keeping my mouth slightly open to reduce the risk of overpressure as explosives exploded mud nearby. There’d been a lot of getting yelled at by angry noncommissioned officers and even more running. Looking back, it seemed like our trainers had believed we’d constantly be running with huge loads on our backs when we finally deployed as Reapers.
I found a quiet space where the sound of pedestrians and vehicles wasn’t too loud and no one bothered me. I sat against the wall, head in hands, and tried to breathe. There was a reason I was on Greendale and it was more than just to suffer confusion and pain.
“I have to get past this, X,” I said.
No one answered my pleas for the misery to end. More time passed and I was able to lever myself upright and continue.
Late afternoon turned into evening. The dark, neon-filled nights of Zag City followed. I still felt disoriented, which was probably the result of a concussion.
My vision tried to convince me I was on a drug trip as I walked beneath hundreds of neon signs flickering to life.
Twice more, I had to lean on a wall, drawing the attention of two beat cops. They sauntered toward me with their hands on their stun batons. Cops were cops, no matter the planet. We were in the Deadlands, but these men looked like they’d seen military service somewhere, probably with the Union. They lacked the heavy accents of Sarkonians.
I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact. “I’m okay. Sorry, officers. Haven’t had no Glad-sil for a while. I’m jonesing like crazy.”
To complete the act, I reached down the front of my pants.
“Knock that shit off and get moving,” one of them said. “Freak.”
I shuffled away from them with my eyes downcast. They watched me for a while but didn’t follow.
My vision finally cleared. I controlled my breathing and walked as normally as possible for several blocks. Recovery was slow and incomplete, but I was moving in the right direction.
Jimmy’s diner was busy. I loitered near a dance club across the street, waiting in line as though I wanted in. What I was really doing was watching the diner, the street, even the skies. By the time the line moved me to the door of the club, I was confident there wasn’t anyone else keeping surveillance on the diner.
“Hey, you gonna pay or what?” the doorman to the dance club demanded.
“There’s a cover charge?” I asked. “Screw that. I’m out of here.”
He shook his head. Other Zag City club goers pushed forward to take my place in line. I crossed the street to Jimmy’s place.
A few of the patrons looked wary. I recognized them from the last incident. It said good things about the food and the service if they were willing to come back after the owner was attacked in public.
I took a seat near the back, selecting a booth that allowed me to watch the door and the big side window facing the street. Two other waitresses worked tables while Jimmy handled both the counter and the kitchen, going back and forth between the two jobs.
I nursed a cup of coffee, ordering food without considering the menu. The service was prompt. Everything tasted delicious in my ravenous state. “I would definitely frequent this place if I was going to stay on Greendale,” I said, waiting for X-37 to comment.
A slight disturbance of my hearing suggested the Reaper LAI might have heard me and attempted to respond, but if he had I couldn’t make it out.
Music thumped from across the street, competing with the comforting noises of the busy diner. Spotlights swept the sky in time with the music. Neon signs flashed as far as I could see in any direction. There were more than just eateries and dance halls. Tattoo shops, game arcades, and massage parlors were also doing a lot of business.
The waiting area of the diner filled up.
Through the window, I saw two men in trench coats casing the place. With their faces down and their collars up, I couldn’t confirm who they were, but I had my suspicions.
I took out a cigar, considered it, and bit onto it as I retrieved my lighter.
“Hey, mister. No smoking in here,” Jimmy warned.
On any other world, during any other time in my life, I would have laughed and told him to blow me as I puffed away on the Gronic Fats—but I respected this man for the way he looked after Elise.
He stared at me, his manner firm but business-like. I shrugged and put the cigar in the front pocket of my coat. Maybe he’d come by my table when it wasn’t so busy and I could ask where to find Elise.
“Keep an eye on that one, Tom,” Jimmy said.
The textbook reader swept his finger across the pad, swiping a page, and he glanced up at me as he answered, “I am. Marked him as trouble the first time he was here.”
He adjusted a pair of reading glasses and returned to his pad.
I could tell it was newer but had no idea what it was about.
“That is most likely a library pad,” X-37 provided. “How are my signals?”
“Reading you just fine, X,” I murmured softly, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention.
Something about Tom made me think he was a more important part of the diner crowd than I'd first guessed. Call it instinct.
The man wore a jumpsuit, a machine shop uniform that looked like something he had worn often, probably every day.
It wasn’t long before the two men in trench coats made their approach. I recognized the way they moved. Britton Michaels and Roger Olathe held down their long coats—probably to conceal weapons—as they pushed through the people on the waiting list.
They wore heavier body armor this time—visible through the edges of their faux leather trench coats. Michaels adjusted his lapel and I saw part of a load-bearing harnesses normally used to carry extra ammunition, gas-mask-like helmets, and other dangerous tools. If the police came and cornered them, they were ready to fight it out no matter how much gas was deployed.
Jimmy also saw them. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said warily, placing himself between the men and as many of his patrons as possible. He was a big, burly man but didn’t seem overly confident right now. Their last encounter had taught him caution.
I waited for an incapacitating headache, but it didn’t come. Or maybe it was there and I was just used to it. I wanted to get up, but uncertainty made me pause. What happened if I took action and was suddenly driven to my knees?
When the pair stepped clear of the people in the foyer I knew there would be trouble, and just sitting here was no longer an option, debilitating headaches or not. Each of them held full-faced tactical helmets in their non-gun hands.
“X, this is going to be ugly,” I said.
“The ugliest,” X-37 agreed.