Paradise 21 (4 page)

“It’s none of your business,” Barliss growled. “Just do your job and let me do mine.”

There was a moment of silence before the young man replied, his voice empty of emotion. “Yes, sir.”

Barliss switched off his lapel pin so hard, he pinched the skin of his fingers. He changed into his camouflaged combat uniform, then sleeked back his wavy hair and rubbed a radiation-blocking lotion into the hard ridges of his face. He packed his laser gun, a tracking device, and an ultrasonic tranquilizer ray, setting the power to optimum. He stormed out of his room and headed for the docking bay.

The members of the search and rescue team had already belted themselves in their seats on the retrieval vessel when Barliss arrived on the loading dock. A hoverchair, with a white head poking out from its top, buzzed near the operations tower. Commander Gearhardt himself was surveying the operation. Panic and excitement rose in Barliss’ throat, and he swallowed it down. Sequestered in the control console for months on end, the commander rarely attended functions. The task of unplugging the various tubes and wires connecting his brain to the mainframe computer took two hours and three medics.

Barliss approached the wispy-haired man in reverence, trying not to stare at his hoverchair or the tiny input holes drilled into his forehead. His skin looked as thin as rice paper and as white as a bride’s dress. The man was of the third generation, the grandchild of the founding colonizers.

“Commander Gearhardt.” Barliss bowed so low, his lips could have kissed the floor. “My thanks for your help in this matter.”

The commander gestured for him to rise. “My dear, loyal Lieutenant Barliss. You have worked diligently these past months, and you will be rewarded. You do not deserve to suffer from another’s transgressions.”

Barliss stifled a smile, attempting to look modest. Finally, some recognition and assurance this awful turn of events wasn’t his fault. These sentiments, coming from the commander, of all people, made him feel as though he’d graduated into sainthood.

The commander reached forward from his chair to put a veined hand on Barliss’ shoulder. “This is the second one in a year, Lieutenant. Their impulsive, self-destructive actions trouble me. We’re going to have to take extra caution in the future. We’re losing too much of our gene pool.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to that personally.”

“I’m sure you will.” The commander’s thin lips pulled in a wiry smile. Barliss feared the ancient man’s fragile skin would tear.

“Thank you, Commander. I won’t rest until she’s found.”

The commander pulled a tiny lever near his wrist, and the hoverchair turned. “I’ve given you the best men the
New Dawn
has produced. I’ll be watching your progress.”

“I hope you do, Commander.” Barliss waited until the hoverchair disappeared in the elevator shaft before he walked up the ramp to board the small retrieval vessel. The crew members watched him with anxious eyes, some with fear stretched taut in their faces. For many of them, this was the first time in their lives they’d left the ship. It was like severing an umbilical cord. Barliss relished in their weaknesses, feeding off their dread.

He smoothed his uniform and addressed the team, projecting his voice as far as he could, making it echo in the far reaches of the hull. “My fellow Lifers, we are the keepers of humanity’s history and the preservers of its future. We transport the last remnants of a once great and mighty civilization. Our cargo is integral to the survival of our species. We carry our memories, our technologies and, most importantly, our genetic code.”

Barliss watched their faces, gauging their reactions. He’d struck a vital chord with his words. Some of the men’s fear had turned to anger and determination. Resolution shined in their eyes.

Barliss continued, delivering the pitch that would send them searching like a cleaning droid after a puddle of milk. “Aries Ryder’s disappearance threatens the success of our mission. With an ever-dwindling gene pool, we cannot carry on the diversity of our species. Whole genetic strands will be lost. Our mission is to locate Aries Ryder, and I want her alive and well.” He stared them down. “You have my permission to shoot anything that gets in your way.”

“Don’t get in my way if you want to keep that hand, pirate!”

Tiff elbowed a burly hulk of a man as he reached for the last bent fork. The hulk grinned, yellow teeth poking out of his hairy beard. His breath reeked of moonshine. “Easy now, pretty pixie, or do you want to start a fight?”

She tilted her head, licking her lips, and flashed him a half smile. While he leaned in, enchanted, she puckered her lips. Then she pilfered the fork, disappearing into line before he could even think about what kind of fight she’d suggested.

A chain of metallic trays lined up before Tiff as she took her spot. She snatched a cracked plastic cup and examined the sides, wondering if it would hold any liquid. The line moved ahead of her, and she clutched the edges of the scratched tray and prepared to step forward. In Outpost Omega, if you snoozed, you ended up as the recycled food.

Drifter peered over her shoulder, his brown eyes roving down the line. Standing a foot taller than she did, he could spot the evening meal well before she laid eyes on the conveyor belts. “Looks like gray sludge again.”

Tiff put a hand on her hip, trying to look as though the bad news didn’t bother her. She hadn’t expected anything better, but deep down, she knew the man-made space station, floating in the middle of nowhere, and its substandard way of life was wearing her thin, chafing at her skin like a pair of boots two sizes too small. “They’ll never get the food generators working like they used to.”

Drifter grinned, and his crooked nose wrinkled. “We’re getting outta here, sweetheart. We’ll find Refuge someday, just like I promised.”

Tiff fought the need to roll her eyes and bit back a clever retort. She’d had enough of his broken-record phrases these past five years, enough to make her wonder if she’d made the right decision leaving Striker behind.

The line moved ahead and a wiry hag of a woman pushed a bowl of green-gray oatmeal-like slush toward her. Tiff snatched it up before the person next to her could blink an eye. She kept her knife secured in her thigh-high boot, but no one fought her for the gruel this time. With one hand securing her bowl, she positioned her damaged cup under a spout and pushed the button for water on the keypad on the wall. As rusty-colored liquid sputtered out, she leaned against the metal structure of the water dispenser and watched as Drifter grabbed a bowl of gruel for himself.

They settled down next to the heat conductor. The spaceport had an arctic chill. Ice formed on the ventilator shafts, making it impossible to ever feel comfortable. While she lay in bed, her breath blew out in a hazy mist. Compared to the deep space around it, though, it was a steamy, warm bubble of delight.

Tiff hid a shiver. Weakness of any kind couldn’t be revealed, which was why she kept her expression hard and her hair short, needing to blend in with the men. Try as she might, she couldn’t hide the girlishness in her features. With her dark-rimmed eyes, spiky hair, and small, pointy nose, she looked like a forest fairy gone Goth. Her black eyeliner hid the fear in her eyes and warned others not to come too close.

The conditions on Outpost Omega worsened each day. With malnourished orphans roaming the streets alongside rats the size of small dogs, another epidemic could sweep through any day. Just thinking about it made her anxious.

The slop in her bowl cooled fast. Her spoon jammed in the gruel, and she let it stick out like a flagpole on old Earth’s moon.

“Don’t say it.” Drifter peered through strings of long, greasy hair. “I already know what you’re thinking.”

Tiff tried to stir her meal, but the sludge had already solidified. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

“We’ll find the map and decode it. I’ve got Reckon on it. He thinks today will be the lucky day.”

“Right.” Tiff took a quick mouthful of water. Gulping was the best way to drink the liquid without experiencing the acid aftertaste as it went down. “And while Reckon works on it, we’re stuck here, eating who-knows-what recycled waste while our bodies rot inside-out.”

“I told you, he’ll find it. He’s the best hacker in this whole station. He’s good with puzzles and thinks the same way Striker does.”

“Did you promise him a ride to Refuge as well?”

“I had to, but we’ll see if we can’t leave him behind.”

“I don’t like the look of him. His weasel eyes follow me too close.” She flexed her leg muscle, feeling the reassurance of the knife’s hard metal.

“Hey, babe, you know I take care of you.”

Tiff swallowed her scoffing along with her acrid water. Because of him, they were stranded here, the coordinates for an uncharted, private paradise an arm’s reach away and forever unobtainable. She knew he’d be angry, but she had to try once more. “If we go back to the desert and rescue Striker, we could make him decode the map.”

“No!” Drifter pounded the table with his fist, making their plastic cups rattle. In the clamor around them, the sound was but a pin drop. Still, Tiff cringed.

“I don’t want to hear that man’s name ever again, you hear?”

Tiff didn’t move. She couldn’t acknowledge his statement, or she’d be forced to let Striker go, her hope along with it.

Drifter’s voice grew calmer. “You know as well as I do he wanted to pack our ship full with everyone on this godforsaken station. If we bring the masses, it’ll turn into another Earth gone wrong.”

Tiff looked away, watching a young girl steal a man’s coat while he slept. Probably another runaway from the orphanage, trying to make her way in their screwed-up world. The hungry kids were Striker’s greatest weakness. He’d given away so much of his fortune trying to keep them alive. Striker’s soft side irked her as much as it got to Drifter. His philanthropy would only lead to their ruin. That’s why she’d helped Drifter take charge, betraying Striker’s trust. Drifter could make the hard decisions when Striker would be too generous.

“Besides, what makes you think he’s still alive?” Drifter asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

Tiff met his gaze without guilt. “I just know.”

Drifter’s fist clenched, and she glimpsed a hint of jealousy in his dark, shifty eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but a brawl erupted behind them, flinging gruel through the air. Tiff ducked and rolled under the table. She heard people grunting in a fistfight. Someone threw a man on top of the table, sending her cup and bowl to the floor. They needed to find an escape route before it turned into a laser fight.

Drifter caught her leg. “Come on, this way.” She crawled underneath the benches, following his dark boots. They made their way across the cafeteria. Her hands and knees slopped through puddles of dirty water, gruel, and oil from the leaky machinery above them. Dirty clothes could be cleaned, but laser holes couldn’t.

Tiff followed Drifter to a loading shaft. With one look at the chaos behind her, she reached up and closed the metal grate of the lift. He pushed the exit button on the keypad and they traveled down the elevator toward their docked ship, the war cries fading above them.

Drifter adjusted his belt, a strap of genuine leather looted from a stash of Earth antiques. Soon he’d have to sell that as well, if they were ever going to buy enough fuel to make it out of here. “You didn’t eat anything, Tiff.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

The door beeped, signaling the docking bay, and they stepped onto the promenade. Lined with glass on all sides, the walkway of glinting stars led to the docked spaceships. Although the corridor sparkled like a perpetual midnight sky, it revealed the endless void surrounding Tiff, making prickles run down her spine each time she crossed it.

As they turned the corner, a man ran toward them, boots clinking on the chrome floor of the walkway. His tattered coat flapped in his wake like old flags of lost countries.

The hairs on Tiff’s neck rose. She grabbed Drifter’s hand. “It’s Reckon.”

“He’s found something.”

Tiff reined in a rising thread of hope that maybe she’d chosen wisely, after all.

The gnarly man reached them, halfway to the ship. As he gasped for breath, Tiff noticed a gaping hole in one of his yellowed teeth. He’d probably sold the gold incisor.

“Hey ya, Drifter.” His marble eye stared askew while his good eye leered at Tiff. He wiped back his scraggly gray hair. “I’ve got news!”

Drifter clasped his arm. “You found the map?”

“You bet I did. Hidden in the engine room, beneath the incinerator.”

Drifter whooped, his voice echoing off the thick glass and down the corridor.

Tiff squeezed his arm, warning him not to bring any unwanted attention. She looked Reckon up and down skeptically. “Can you decode it?”

The old man’s good eye strayed to her legs. “Well, it’s pretty mixed up. It’ll take more time, which means more money and more supplies.”

Tiff stepped forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered cloak. “We’ve already given you what we have.”

“Hold it, Tiff.” Drifter pried her fingers off Reckon and pulled her back. “The man’s good. You have to give him that. We won’t need it where we’re going.” He elbowed the old man and the two of them laughed.