Crescent (10 page)

“Faulty gear?”

“I checked it.
More than once.
Everything at the docks is working fine,” she sighed and took another sip of the
malty
beverage.

“Maybe the guns were already here?”
Maerl
said in the most nonchalant of tones. To Marisa, this seemed like the wrong kind of question to ask—the variety of question that Kendall would want her to prevent Core Sec from asking. Marisa shrugged it off and offered a weak smile.

“You know,”
Maerl
added, “I bet when Core Sec comes here with their fancy gear, they’ll find something wrong with the dock scanner system. Nothing will be to blame but old wiring.”

“You’re right,” Marisa nodded, and smiled.

“Get you anything else?”

“I’m good for now, thanks.” She didn’t think her angry stomach could make it through the current pint, let alone another.

Maerl
went back to the bar and left Marisa with her thoughts.
Maybe the guns were already here.
She heard
Maerl’s
voice repeat this in her head.
Maybe?
There was no maybe about it. Those guns had been on the station. They had been handed to the mercenaries.
By who?
By Kendall?
Why would Kendall give them guns in the first place? Did he want that whole thing to go down at Heathen’s? That didn’t make any sense.
Easy, Marisa.
Keep your nose clean and it won’t get broken.
She pushed the beer away and pressed a credit wafer to the clear disc at the center of the table. It chimed. She instructed the computer to place a five credit tip on her tab, and waved to
Maerl
as she left the bar.

Marisa stepped out onto Main Street. Several of the station’s large, multi-limbed collector bots trudged by, emptying refuse bins into compartments on their wide backs as they went. A pack of children chased after the robots, throwing stray pieces of garbage at the machines. The bits of trash—aluminum cans, glass bottles, and the like—were caught with ease and placed into the back compartments for recycling.

The overhead globes flooded the drag with fiery orange light.
Sunset.
If you didn’t look up to the high, arching ceiling you might believe it was a real sunset. The cool recycled air smelled of spices and cooking meats. Main Street was
almost
as good as a real planet-side market, but not quite. She was willing to concede its imperfections for the peace of mind brought on by a brief waft of curry and an artificial sunset.
And why the hell not?

A man in a dark sweat shirt and cargo pants stepped up to her so suddenly she almost knocked him over. He held out a stack of black paper leaflets with a hand that was painted with a small beetle tattoo. Marisa growled at him for ruining her moment. She pushed him out of the way and the stack of fliers went skyward. In an instant, the weirdo was on his hands and knees collecting and Marisa was on her way down the street. There was a group of similarly clad youths handing out the same bits of trash just ahead of her. She crossed to the other side of the street and made her way into a bazaar choked with people drifting from one tent-shop to another.

A bald head, buried deep in a throng of market-goers, caught her eye. Dark tattoos snaked up to the shaved scalp.
It’s him,
she thought, and stopped short.
The
vatter
.
He turned and seemed to see her. Marisa couldn’t make out his face. It hurt her head to look directly at it. In an instant, he was moving, weaving through the crowd. Marisa reacted in the span of a heartbeat and ran after him, weaving in and out of meandering station folk. She followed him out of the bazaar and down a side alley choked with cardboard crates. Marisa burst out the other side, taking a few boxes with her. The bald head disappeared around yet another corner. Marisa leapt over a news stand in quick pursuit. She knocked over a rack of news flimsies and nearly careened into a rack of gaudy sunglasses. The pursuit led her into another narrow alley, but the small dead end street was empty save for a single lit storefront. Ramshackle, decorated with animal bones and gaudy, glowing beads, it bulged from the station wall. It wasn’t a shop at all. It was a residence.

The
vatter
was nowhere in sight. Something glittered on the bleak floor-space just in front of the apartment’s split and warped metal frame. Marisa approached the burnished object; her feet were increasingly hesitant with each step. She shuddered. Something was wrong here. Marisa could sense it in her fillings. She looked down at the shiny object. It was a small, metallic stud, like
vatters
wore in their skin.

“Come in, Officer Griffin,”
Naheela’s
unmistakable voice floated from inside the hut. “I would say I was expecting you—but I think you already knew that.”

(Part VII)

“I’ve been hearing some distressing things, Gerald.” Kendall stood behind an LCD-filled desk. At his back, the velvet drapes had been drawn shut, obscuring the large viewport. The blue light that came from the multiple displays illuminated the room and cast dark, slanted shadows on Kendall’s face. The mayor’s features seemed more narrow and angular than usual.

“And what things would those be, Mayor?” Gerald folded his arms. Kendall did not respond. “You have no proof that I shoved my little sister off of the bunk bed. Not a shred. She’s always trying to get me in trouble!”

Kendall remained silent. Gerald admitted to himself, that yes, he was perfectly uncomfortable. He had every right to feel that way. Of course, this was Kendall’s desired effect. And that Gerald was falling prey to it irked him to no end. Crescent’s mayor finally turned. On his face was a mask of impatience and irritation, the corners of Kendall’s thin lips sagged to the ground. He waved a long-fingered hand over one of the
viewscreens
and a two dimensional projection shimmered out of the display. Kendall twirled his fingers above the wavering image, rotating it to face Gerald, and the pixels coalesced. It showed Gerald helping Ina into Bean. It showed him climb in after her. It showed the ship lift off the flight deck and
exit
the hangar into space. Kendall snapped his fingers and the image froze on Bean’s flaring exhaust cones.

“That,” Kendall pointed at the image, “is what is distressing me. I was told you did not return to your hangar. I am an intelligent man, Gerald. Please do not insult that intelligence.”

“Okay. I took a pretty girl for a joyride.
So what?”

“You’re running salvage for another party on Crescent,” Kendall said, his voice matter-of-fact.
“In blatant disregard of our agreement.
In violation of our contract.
All area salvage claimed by your ship—by contract—belongs to Crescent.”

“Kendall, you’ve got it wrong. I didn’t land in a different hangar because I was hiding anything from you. I landed in a different hangar because I was hiding from my girlfriend.” Kendall’s brow lifted. “I didn’t want her to know I was…
 
sampling other wares? That can’t be covered under my contract with you, can it?”

“You have no way of proving that, son,” Kendall said. “By all accounts, you are in quite a pickle.” Kendall depressed a small black button atop his desk. An instant later Taylor was in the room, a meaty hand on Gerald’s shoulder.

“
Wait,
goddamnit
. I can prove it. Just check the security feed for hangar…
 
” Gerald blanked, what hangar number was the cover-up location.
Think, damn you, think
.
“Hangar thirteen.”

“Hangar thirteen, you say?” Kendall sat behind the desk and clucked his tongue. “What do you think, Taylor? Would you like to tear his arms off or would you prefer to watch the security feed from hangar thirteen?”

The man-mountain guffawed. “What do you think, Mayor?”

Kendall nodded and Taylor knocked Gerald from his chair, the floor rising up to slap him hard in the face. Taylor’s thick fists rained down blows before Gerald could register he was no longer sitting. Kendall circled the pair and spoke as Taylor delivered his beating.

“Gerald, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt as we look into your story. Why? It has nothing to do with any sort of fondness for you. I’m actually starting to
not
like you. But, you happen to be the
only
salvage man on Crescent,” Taylor’s fist caught Gerald in the side of the head and his ears began to ring. He could barely hear the mayor as he continued. “I’d send Walter Vegan out to do the job, but he’s already destroyed three—no, four ships. He’s more of an, how shall I put it, administrator. In the future, if you decide to leave Crescent on an unscheduled joyride, you had better go through the proper ATC channels.” Kendall held up his hand and Taylor ceased his assault. “This is my only warning, Gerald. I’m beginning to regret my decision to hire you. Why don’t you consider restoring my faith?”

(•••)

The stink in
Naheela’s
hut was unbearable. It was an amalgam of incense, rotting things, and the undeniable smell of old age. Visually, the space was a disaster area. There were boxes and crates piled everywhere. Knick knacks—small statues, dim
holo
projections, candles—were anywhere there was a flat surface for them to stand upon. Marisa had to fight the compulsion to organize the place.

Naheela
sat at the only trinket-free piece of furniture, a small round table with a heavy, metal base. The table looked like it might at one point have been anchored to the floor of a diner.
Naheela
beckoned to Marisa with the arthritic claw of a hand. The hag opened her mouth; viscous saliva spanned the dark space like spider silk and caught the candlelight before breaking. Flecks of white spittle remained on her cracked lips. Either
oblivious,
or just not giving a crap,
Naheela
did not wipe it away.

“Are ye jus’
gonna
stand there all day, dearest? You’re
lettin
’ a draft in.”
Naheela
tossed her head back and cackled as if she had just told the funniest joke in the universe. Marisa remained frozen in the doorway. The laughter ceased so suddenly it was startling. “Come in and sit down,”
Naheela
barked as an order and Marisa found herself in motion, moving across the cluttered floor in short steps to seat herself across from the crone. The rancor of the old woman’s body odor made Marisa’s eyes water and she wondered when the hag had last bathed. She dropped her eyes to the table. The dark wood grain swirled and writhed beneath the gloss of polyurethane. Marisa placed her hand on the slightly scarred surface. It was real wood.

“This table is the oldest thing on Crescent Station, ye know,”
Naheela
said. Her words floated on a cloud of foul breath. Marisa wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

“Why have you invited me here?” Marisa asked.

“Why have
I?
”
Naheela
pointed to
herself
with a curved, yellow nail, “Invited
you?
”
Naheela
cackled again. The sound was like breaking glass to Marisa’s ears, and she cringed. “Need I remind you, girlie, you are the one who showed up on
Naheela’s
doorstep.
No, no. I didn’t invite you here, but I did expect you sooner or later. Pushed by the need for answers, and by winds you can’t explain but can only feel.”

“You’re not making any sense.” But that was the rub.
Naheela
was
making sense. Marisa knew she was right where she belonged. And that made her feel all the more batty.

“You followed him here.”

“What?”

“The
vatter
.
But that was just a reflection. He is not here yet, but I’ve seen him more than once and so have you. The glass shudders, Marisa. And from these vibrations come the reflections, like ripples on a pool. They dance to our shore and show things yet distant. Things are changing on Crescent every day. I see them all.”
Naheela
clapped her hands together.
“Strange and terrible things.
You can feel it. You stand in it waist deep in the well.
The
Three
, Marisa.”

Marisa started to speak, but
Naheela
held up a hand to silence her.

“The Three are close, and you are just a pawn. You brought the darkness to your boyfriend—and he is a pawn. You opened his eyes to the Black.
And his new slut.
There is another—your boyfriend’s new slut—she was touched as you were touched. At the Vault,”
Naheela
intoned the words. “You best be heedful of that girl. I cannot see what is planned for her. Your roles are different in all this and I have already made my decision. I can only help you.”

“Help me what? Why am I even listening to this?” Marisa pushed away from the table and stood. The old woman was only preying on Marisa’s deranged, sleep deprived state. The hag was probably about to ask for money.

“Soon, you will go back to the water. There is something there that the Black would have you keep.
Something that would open the door for the Three.
But you must go there and ruin it. Destroy it. Destroy it good.”

“I’ve heard enough. Enjoy the rest of your short life.” Marisa turned to leave.

“Wait!”
Naheela
cried out. “I have to give you something.” The old woman got up from the table with a speed that was nothing short of amazing. So amazing, in fact, Marisa remained planted where she stood. The crone hobbled behind one of the crates and returned with a small leather sheath. She tossed it onto the table. “Take that.” Marisa leaned over the table and reached out to smack the object away.
Naheela
grabbed her around the wrist with one hand and shoved the sheath into Marisa’s hand with the other. Her spotted hands were strong and cold. Marisa tried to pull away, but
Naheela
refused to let go.

“Destroy the thing you will find,”
Naheela
said in a voice that sounded like a thousand and echoed inside Marisa’s skull. The words seared onto her brain like a brand. The sensation passed, and
Naheela
let go of her. “Take it, Marisa. Take it.”

“I don’t want it,” Marisa said.

“Take it, take. Or I’ll be there every second of the day
askin
’
ye
to.
Even when that comely man of yours has his prick in you.
Take it. Take it.” Marisa frowned, but did as she was instructed. She slid the sheath into her pocket and patted the bulge there.
Naheela
nodded, satisfied.

When Marisa was far enough away from the stench of
Naheela’s
hut, she leaned against a dumpster—the trash bin smelled sweet by comparison. She retrieved the leather sheath from her pocket and removed the object it contained. She held in her hand a hammer not much bigger than her open hand. The head of the mallet was a thick disc of crimson so red, it was almost black. The hammer’s two prongs were metal and covered in flecks of what she thought might be rust.
Destroy the thing you will find.
Yes, of course. As her fingers curled around the object, she knew what she had to do. She had a purpose. The realization glittered in her mind. Something compelled her to rap the hammer against the dumpster. When she did, the prongs rang with the most beautiful note she had ever heard. It made her head feel clear. She returned the hammer to its sheath and returned the sheath to the pocket of her jacket.

(•••)

Albin
Catlier
sat on the top rail of the metal fence; his boots were hooked under the bottom rung. For an instant, he thought he heard singing and looked up and over to Jacob Raney, who sat beside him. The other man was silent, playing with some multicolored puzzle-trinket he had stolen from Kendall’s office.

Down the slope from where he and Jacob sat, Crescent’s plump and happy cows meandered and grazed on vibrant green grass. Big collector bots moved across the field carrying bales of hay. The cows were a new stock to Crescent. Genetic engineering had graced the animals with the ability to produce three times more milk than the naturally-bred station livestock that preceded them. The bovine wonders were graciously paid for by Donovan Cortez, and upped the station’s production of all protein-related products significantly.

“Let’s go, Jacob,”
Albin
said, and the two men hopped off the fence.

The farm extended for almost a mile in either direction. The ceiling here was lower than Main Street’s, but still high enough to give you a crick in your neck if you stared too long. Sun globes, similar to those on Main Street but a fraction of the size, pumped life-providing light to the grass below.

Albin
and Jacob drove a small hover down the slope and to the squat and angular structure at the massive
chamber’s
aft: the Farm. The Farm was the main agricultural plant on Crescent. All material for the station’s food compilers was processed here. Agricultural goods were packed at the Farm’s broad loading docks for export to the neighboring systems.

Albin
never cared much for the farm level on Crescent, or on any other space station, for that matter. There was something that was too unnatural about it. Sure, it shared some qualities with any planet-side open range.
Grass.
Open space.
The smell of hay and manure.
But none of it was genuine. Beyond the false sky, below the artificially-grown grass, there was
vacuum
. It just didn’t stroke him right. It was like someone smiling and buying you a drink right before they stabbed you in the gut.

Robyn Prior sat in the front room of the Farm’s office space. Her eyes were cast down to the data terminal set in the top of her small desk. She looked up when the two men entered and her cheeks immediately blanched. Jacob smiled one of his tobacco grins and
Albin
lifted his hat back with his thumb before lighting a cigarette. Robyn looked back down at the terminal, but
Albin
placed a hand on the screen, obscuring the view. Her flinch sent a glass ornament shaped like a penguin flying to the ground, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. A small robot chirped out of a hole in the wall and began sweeping up the fragments with a series of beeps.