I Am Not Junco Omnibus: Books Four - Six (9 page)

Her jaw clenches and then she turns away for good.

We land and taxi over to the exit portal. I stand and wait for the door to be opened and the crew is all present when I engage the invisibility and walk away, calling out a half-hearted thank you as my boots clang down the metal stairs.

Chapter Nine

The Dallas planet pad was designed at the height of the Beautification Justification period of metropolitan architecture that started just after the Succession Wars ended in 2098.
Beautification Justification
translates to:
If you're gonna fuck up the entire planet with the destruction of large tracts of land, at least make it something the locals can be proud of.

Back when the first pads were being constructed there was almost zero thought as to how the suborbitals would impact the massive populations of people that surrounded the major cities of the world. London built the first pad, with Los Angeles and Jersey finishing up their pads within a few months of London.

The problem was that all three places were so densely packed with people that there was absolutely no room to create the miles of tarmac necessary for a safe landing. So they razed houses and paid off the landowners. Thus inserting a massive space port into suburban neighborhoods. Eventually people lost interest in smelling rocket fuel twenty-four seven and the areas around the pads were cleared and more commercial facilities built.

Of course by that time the property values had been destroyed, people lost a lot of money over the deal and war was declared on the evils of planet pads.

Just when the uproar was starting to heat up, South America and Australia both decided they needed their own spaceport to compete with the Northern Hemisphere. In a global race to see who could be the first to finish, South America clear-cut almost fifteen thousand square miles of rain forest. Couple that with an explosive failure during the maiden landing that killed everyone on board, then started a fire lasting for almost two weeks, and you can guess how well that went over.

Enter crazed environmentalists in Sydney Harbor.

The Australian government modified their plans real fast and erected the first viable Southern Hemisphere pad in the middle of the Simpson Desert under the watchful eye of whatever corrupt organization was running environmental building codes and park permits at the time.

It was a clusterfuck of fuck-ups, came in four billion dollars over budget and no one was happy about having the promise of expedited travel arrangements being sidetracked with a multi-day trip to the desert.

There are now no fewer than three brand new metropolitan areas in and around the Simpson Pad. I bet Oceania is so glad they decided to make that pad so far away from civilization so they could save the environment. Taught those world travelers a lesson.

Enter Texas.

Texas just doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks, but they do have a fair amount of their economy dependent on tourism so their solution to the planet pad hostility was to erect it right over the former Dallas downtown, standing on top of pillars that spanned almost a thousand feet up in the sky with the tallest skyscrapers acting as facade pillars of the foundation.

A new city was bustled into existence while the old one underneath was vacated or simply forgotten. The hanging railway dangles from the upper city, swaying wildly as the cars navigate the intricate highway system that fills the cavernous underbelly with noise non-stop, all day and night.

You gotta hand it to the Texans. They are a bunch of crazy bastards.

This started the
Beautification Justification
massive development period in the United Republics. Texas made the Dallas planet pad so out-of-this-fucking-world spectacular no one cared that eight million people were either displaced or worse, left underneath the topside city to wither away in darkness and poverty, out of sight and out of mind.

And this is where I stand now, under the beast, smoking a cigarette stolen from the jacket of a man in a government flier I was not supposed to be in, just before I entered a hotel I had no legal access to.

Layla was right to be impressed with the circuitry coursing through my body. My career in covert data-theft is just about to take off.

Dallas is exactly seven hundred and forty-five point four six miles from Council 3 and that's where I'm going. But first, some provisions and a well-deserved night off with an old friend.

John Hando. They call him Hand for short.

God, he's really beautiful. I say his name over and over in my head as his father Vincent introduces me to the other associates. I try and pay attention, I really do. But that John Hando is so fucking gorgeous I can't take my eyes off him.

He's staring back at me too and this makes my whole body tingle.

I drag my attention away from the boy and listen to the mission.

This is child's play.

"Just tell me who and where. I've got it covered." I take my attention back to Hand as the room erupts into chaos. They are not sure of me, and that's OK. I'm not quite sure of them either. But this John has me a little closer to the edge of being convinced. His brown eyes alone are deep enough to swim in and they are beckoning to me, they want me to come take a dip.

"I'll take him for backup." I point over to Hand and everyone stops. "You guys want a fucking resume? Or what? A demonstration? You just let me know. I got piano lessons tomorrow at 1300 so let's get this fucking show on the road. The last suborbital leaves at 0115 and I'd like to get some sleep tonight, so I gotta get a move on."

It's almost impossible for me to stop looking at his face, but I force myself to find Vincent Hando and take a deep breath.

"Piano lessons?" Vincent asks.

"Yeah, you know, the instrument? I play four days a week and tomorrow I've got a lesson at 1300 and I'm not about to miss it over a stupid assassination job. So give me the deets and let's do this."

They are stunned silent now.

"Who are you?" An older man across the room, sitting quietly through all this, is the one speaking. His hair is pure white but since this whole family is Texican, I suppose it used to be jet black like everyone else's.

"Semaj Prodigy, I fucking told you. Why'd you let me in if you're not sure of who I am? Am I wasting my time here? Because I could be riding right now. Michael is already pissed off I missed yesterday's lesson and James is the only reason I got out of it today. So let's go. Make up your mind or I'm leaving."

"Riding lessons?" Vincent again.

"What is it with you and my personal life? Do you have a job for me or not?"

In the end they most certainly did have a job for me. I killed seven people that first night, with Hand's help of course, then got lost in his eyes as he took me over to the planet pad. We never did have any time for sleep but that was OK with me. Him too, I think.

I dreamed about him all the way home.

It was the best fucking dream I ever had.

I take another drag of the cigarette and look across the street to the pawn shop. It's got a twenty-five-foot perimeter wall that surrounds twelve entire city blocks which reminds me a little of the Stag, but that's where the similarities end. This place has never seen the sun and the sun was the only bright thing about the Stag. And the Stag was a place for secrets and hiding, while this place right here, even with the razor wire and overzealous weapons system mounted on the perimeter wall, practically reeks of family and love.

I can hear the bustle of activity inside the compound even as people and traffic whizz past me on the dark street. I get a few looks, some boys call at me, egging me on with dirty names and promises of sex, but I ignore them.

If they want a fight they can come get it.

But they don't.

It's funny how people from the street automatically know if you're a victim or not. No one, and I do mean
no one
, has ever fucked with me down in the belly of Dallas. And I've walked some pretty fucking scary neighborhoods down here alone in my Dallas days.

I toss the smoke and head towards the pawn shop. Its most distinguishing feature, besides the wall and razor wire, is the sign out front that blinks in yellow neon announcing bail bonds and gold bought and sold.

I press and hold the buzzer for six seconds and wait.

It takes six minutes of me standing still and silent before a crackly voice addresses me over the wired comm affixed to the outside of the gate with a sloppy epoxy job.

"Yes?"

"Reporting in."

"Verification?"

I have a moment of jitters as I pull up the old code, but push it down and answer the man before any sort of detectable pause can be identified. "Semaj Prodigy."

I hear a distant laugh on the other end before the comm cuts out and I stand for a few more seconds in silence.

"Who?" A familiar voice this time.

I repeat myself. "Semaj Prodigy. Standing
down
."

They pause as I pivot and smile and salute up at each of the six security checkpoints surrounding me in the doorway.

A light flashes down and I close my eyes and let it wash over me. The scan feels good, reminding me of all the weekends I spent here in Dallas with these people.

The gate clicks. I pull it open and enter the next vestibule. The door behind me closes, then another click and I open the second door which takes me into a small interior room with two-way glass on all sides. The lights go off and I hear the door open.

My heart jumps a little as the footsteps make their way towards me.

"Junco?"

I zero in on his artificially lit-up face, courtesy of my newly enhanced vision screen. "Hand?"

He pulls me towards him and the lights come on at the same moment. His night-vision goggles bump up against my head as I am squeezed. "I really thought they’d killed you that night."

"Sometimes I wish they had," I whisper into his chest.

I haven't seen him in a long time, not just the years Inanna stole from me either. My senior year at cadets was a flurry of a lot of things, one of which happened to be local freelance jobs supplied in quantity by Hand's father, Vincent, in exchange for money, weapons, armor, and a whole assortment of survival gear.

But that was also the year Gideon came home near death, I went insane and killed a bunch of mutant projects, Matthew stole my memories then tried to kill me on the sniper range, and I finally got my revenge.

It was never the same after that. And Hand never got to hear why.

"You've been on the news, Junco. Tonight, that rock-star chick, Cora? She said you commandeered her suborbital and held her hostage, all the while telling her how you planned on killing billions of people with your revenge."

I smile. "What a bitch."

Hand pulls his goggles down his face so they dangle over his chest and his dark brown eyes flash as he grins. "You just tell me what you need, Junco. I've got your back."

He's the same age as Gideon, but they've never met as far as I know. His black hair hangs all the way down his back, the same way it did when we were younger, and his skin is the perfect shade of golden brown when he gets a chance to stand in the sun.

"I'm surprised you recognized me, I don't exactly look like the old Junco, do I?" My leaky thoughts betray my insecurities with my new body, but Hand just shrugs.

"You look real good, if that's what you mean. And your hair is pretty fucking long, Juncs." He reaches out and lifts up a few strands. "I always thought you preferred it shorter."

"I do, but I've been kinda busy, haven't had time to chop it off. You wanna chop it off for me?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, I like it."

My face tingles and I turn away. "I need a bike. I gotta get back to Council 3, like yesterday. You got a bike I can take? I can pay—"

He waves his hand in front of me. "No, I'm not taking your money. I've got a bike. No big deal. But Council 3 is still off limits. They cleaned it up pretty well, there's even new growth in the worst areas now. But it's forbidden."

"I have a way to get past all that, don't worry. I have stuff there."