Honey Moon (10 page)
She bit her lower lip, tapped the purchase button and sat back with Sam Dexter’s deep green eyes
on her mind. While she waited for the name of her whale, which she presumed would be long enough to print out in a page before the bulk of the info was deleted from the hard drive and cyberspace, the clock and her libido ticked onward.
Hot, hard body.
Even if she managed to get an idea of what could go wrong once they were on the shuttle, she—overconfident fool that she was—had to get onto the damn thing first.
Cocky smile.
It was stupid to put all the eggs, so to speak, into one basket by hoping these nature-loving rebels would figure that she also needed fake identification, meaning she had to make contact with yet another unsavory site. If only she, the clueless idiot going with instinct instead of logic, could make the right choice about whom to trust.
Brilliant mind.
Her name and Sam’s on that list as winners and the forged IDs imprinted into their wrist phones were next on her to-do list—and that had to cost more than twenty grand to accomplish.
Strong, competent hands. Calloused finger pads of an expert writer and lover.
She flexed her dominant scrolling hand, danced her own worn fingers on the screen and was glad she’d already scrolled about yesterday, narrowing down options. She just had to make a few more decisions after getting an answer from her whale-loving friends. So, no reason to cease the distracting images of a certain good-looking guy that kept popping into her head, doing nothing other than making her moist between the legs. Why not play about the Net, encourage the touch of OCD within her concerning her rebellious streak when it came to Big Brother, as she waited?
The cobweb overlords, intricate spying sanctioned by governments worldwide, would mark the hops she made to red-flagged as well as frivolous sites. It was only a matter of time before authorities became clued into her cyber history. She may as well flitter about, check out what happy lovers were doing before potentially deadly shuttles fired up. Anything to make things slightly more confusing for the controlling bullies policing the Net.
She sucked at lying in both the cyber and real world. Minus any combat skills, knowing pepper spray wouldn’t cut it, all she had was her intellect. And here she was, smiling at pics on Face2Face—the world’s largest social site. Reading comments on whether the pink or purple spacesuit looked better with readily available steel-toed boots, or best go with the coveted, outrageously priced space boots that transformed into sleek and sexy heels.
Hopes, dreams, expectations concerning romance and happy-ever-afters posted and chirped from every locale on Earth. Grooms boasted of the novel or clichéd way they’d proposed. Bubbly brides postured, showing off outfits. Thousands of families celebrated and said their online goodbyes to the happy couples.
What should I, the phony bride, wear?
On some shuttles, monochrome attire—traditional frilly white gowns and crisp white or black tuxedos—would fill the aisles. Red silk with intricate gold patterning would dominate other aircrafts.
Hair up or down?
Women preened in their bright sarees, men in their japas or suits and many of both genders were draped in gold bling.
Red or blush lipstick?
Brides displayed temporary henna tattoos, cheerfully and intricately painted, on hands and feet with an excess of color and an emphasis on shades of yellow to ward off evil and green for luck.
God, I’m an idiot.
Luck and evil influenced by color choice wouldn’t matter if she didn’t figure out a way to get on that shuttle in any sort of get-up, then off without being in a body bag. A ping of an incoming message had her closing out windows and buckling down.
The message said her whale—Assion—was indeed in trouble and,
no duh
, time was critical. Her criminals were in the process of acquiring a local to provide her with the specialized medicine the young male needed to continue surviving in polluted waters. She should enlist, on her own, an alias such as Captain Ahab to find Moby D so he could be treated. If she did so, she could link the info to them and they’d provide her with the hard goods for that as well.
In other words, whatever they found that was off with the shuttles or pods that would transport the honeymooners, required her to have specific items in order to deal with what was wrong. They’d soon contact her with someone who’d make the delivery directly to her, but finding aliases that’d clear surveillance at the launch was on her. All they could do was provide the virus needed to transmit the new identities that she provided them to her wrist phone. Like she knew how to come up with stolen identities.
Dum de doomed, dum de doomed… Oh how screwed can I get?
It took a half hour of scrutinizing before she made her way into what appeared to be a chatter-cell with a rep for connecting buyers to sellers of anything the darkest heart desired. It was complicated to find someone who could access and sell her fake IDs. If the lines of dialogue between shopper and provider contained keywords to alert the government, she figured either the private discourse would freeze or her com-desk would blowup. Fortunately, seeing as she wasn’t looking to exploit children, hire a hit, acquire a handgun or so on, it went surprisingly well.
A grueling hour after she’d been brave enough to open up to someone, they figured out helping her would potentially result in trouble for the LC. She couldn’t help but chuckle when the price dropped by forty percent. Clearly others didn’t like or trust the LC, either.
She finalized the transaction by sending,
yikes
, forty thousand to a site that changed IP addresses on a second-to-second basis. This was a hands-down illegal procedure, activating alarm pings on the screens of authorities. Although the funds would end up at a source no one—not even the most powerful authority—could connect with an actual name, for the rest of her life, short as that may be, she’d be tagged under a cloud of suspicion. And by the time the suits came to drag her away, they’d have a lot more concrete evidence to hang her with than a willing transfer of monies no one could prove she hadn’t sent to a prince in Nigeria.
It amazed her that the United World Governments had the means to colonize past the moons of Saturn, but couldn’t exterminate the guys who kept burning holes in firewalls, no matter how new or complicated.
An agonizing fifteen minutes after she’d messaged her whale-loving friends, the coordinates for a meet vanished from her screen after giving her a flash moment to read them.
Crappin’ hell
. She had to haul ass. Assuming she’d got it correct, she had less than an hour to hop two trains and find the locale in time to make the rendezvous. She knew without being told that if she was late, a paranoid guy who’d wind up behind bars for life if caught wouldn’t hang about and give probable agents scrolling the Net for trouble time to zero in on him.
She ran into the bathroom, splashed water on her face and decided there was no point in wearing a hat or trying to hide her face. In for a penny, in for a pound was an ancient expression she now understood as she hurried out the door.
Fifty-some minutes and counting, she bustled herself off the train without bothering to look behind her. The street was well lit, sidewalks packed with people. Most of them headed toward the new, multi-towered cinema-mall. Holographic technology allowed individuals to project their choice onto an eight-by-ten screen that could be expanded so large it appeared to be the size of a football field, without interfering with the person seated right next to you.
The glass door to the bar beside the theater’s elevators slid open at her approach. Inside, the ceiling—an enormous visual display monitor—looked like the open sky. Stars twinkled, planets in what appeared to be the far distance sparkled, and the corner of a spiral galaxy was stunningly beautiful in shades of purple, blue and black. Computer-generated music made her heartbeat pick up, her feet feel light, and if she didn’t control it, her head would be bopping.
A dance floor took up most of the decadent amount of space. Singles, couples, threesomes, and—
wow
, an intense cluster of six all stepping in choreographed moments—had given in to the lure to show off in soundproof bubbles with private music controls. The contracting, warbling bubbles reacted to the dancers within, moving so they never quite touched the filmy, sparkling liquid shell no matter how robustly and powerfully athletes leaped and tossed others about within their bubbles.
Sensors clued the interior air within the bubble to bend, exerting force until the dancer either voluntarily moved or was forced out of range of another bubble or an object. Despite what looked like a valiant effort by a teenage pair of males, neither could get the other to whack into a star. She guessed any moment they’d fall flat, concussed from the pressure on their skulls and bodies the bubble pounded right back at them.
A good share of the bubbles had gone dark. Her stomach jolted as she understood the undulating movements were either gentle shows of copulation or some serious BDSM activity. Imagining the screams or gasps or orgasmic coos contained within the one jerking in a pattern of arms or torso rising and falling against a writhing base, she jerked her gaze from the dance floor to the bar.
The counter had to be forty feet long. People of all shapes, sizes and mixes of heritage clustered along it. At least she assumed they were all human, and not trained animals or robots. Hard to tell with the elaborate costumes some of them wore.
Her jaw dropped as she took in the three bartenders. Tall, wiry, long-haired males with dark blue skin—and eight arms apiece. Each guy wore a form-fitting device that completely covered the head and had six eye sockets circling the skull so they could see in all directions. It was impossible for her to tell which of their eight arms were real and which were mechanical attachments making the men look like aliens. The gorgeous server closest to her wiped the counter, made a fruity drink, set out shot glasses, filled them and scanned wrist phones as he handed out drinks—all at the same time.
A male throat cleared. “Your first time here?”
She turned to face windswept hair, dark eyes, chiseled jaw and ruffled pirate shirt open to expose his chest. The guy looked like he’d stepped off the cover of an archaic romance novel.
“Sweet chicky.” His grin snaked across his face as he sidled closer. “If I buy you a bubble, will you hold it against me?”
She took a step back. “No thanks. I’m meeting someone.”
“That’s shiny.” He winked. “Dick, I hope? Or Jane. Doesn’t matter. I do either triangle.” He gestured at the dance floor. “I promise to be so hot all those suckers will wish they could come a poppin’ while our bubble’s a rocking.”
Right. She’d done her first, and most likely only, ‘fast and furious’ and was positive this phony would never come close to comparing. “I said no.” She turned aside and startled as another man playing dress-up loomed to glower at the stud.
“She isn’t the droid you’re looking for,” rasped Darth Vader. “Move along.”
Stud laughed and muttered to her, “Your loss.” He stalked off.
Darth Vader was in full costume, including the gasmask which obscured even his eyes. She hadn’t needed to identify herself. Her contact would not only know what she looked like, but would have the skills to learn details down to her blood type, food preferences, and thanks to a blurry nineteenth birthday in New Orleans, that she had a mole beneath her left breast.
The guy stepped back away from the bar and gestured her to follow.
She swallowed hard and trotted up to him. “Are you…”
“Yes. Hold still.” Darth Vader stopped. He took her arm with his gloved hand, touched his wrist phone to hers, sending sparks of fear into her gut, and jerked his arm aside.
He eased close, hunched, and used her to hide his arm. He removed the wrist phone he wore, took a tiny vial out of his pocket, and in a fast, deft motion sprayed the phone as it dangled between his pinched fingers.
A sharp whiff told her some sort of acid-based chemical destroyed it. He dropped what was left of the melted phone, straightened and crushed it beneath his heel, then shoved his gloved hand into his dark cloak. He pulled out a small, folded envelope, handed it to her and whispered, “Open it when you’re alone. Read fast and remember. Good luck.”
He spun on his large black boot heel, and headed for the exit without a backward glance. She hurried to follow. Outside, a glance to her left, right and straight up showed he’d disappeared.
On the way home, she imagined the envelope burning a hole in her small pack carefully clutched against her chest. Safety inside her apartment, every lock secured, she stood at the com-desk, took a deep breath and opened it.
Her breath caught. There was a thin bit of folded cellophane and a note, but the kind criminals had also scavenged a pair of gold wedding bands. A critical detail she hadn’t thought of. Inside the bit of cellophane was a single, encapsulated pill.
Oh God.
Her stomach clenched. They’d not only found something off—it’d take drugs to deal with it?
Fingers trembling, she unfolded the paper. As soon as the air hit the ink, as fast as she could read, one by one the brief sentences, a list of instructions, faded.
What the hell?
These anonymous hackers who’d obviously greased their way deep, quickly and efficiently into the heart of the LC hadn’t found concrete proof of anything diabolical, just invoices showing purchases of some interestingly nefarious chemicals. Then, most likely using a twelve-year-old kid sitting in a cramped bedroom with an old-fashioned chart of the periodic table on the wall, paranoid minds had projected World War Two and Nazi scenarios of what those chemicals could be used for.
