Armstrong Station Page 4

  He would feel safer with a detachment of officers along, but that would defeat his purpose. Besides, nothing about this is official, and he will likely be sanctioned by his superiors if he is discovered down here without a legitimate reason.

  He recognizes most of the doorways and frontages and notes the three brothels he closed when he first joined the MP have reopened. He will send raiding parties to visit them when his business down here is concluded.

  Arriving at a dimly lit corner, he finds it abandoned. He checks a few of the shadowy doorways but sees no one. Realizing he is being monitored, he masks his revulsion and casually leans against the filthy, urine-baptized wall to wait.

  Shortly, two hooded figures emerge from the shadows. Bulky cloaks cannot disguise their size. Both are over two metres tall and broad-shouldered; probably ex-mercenaries from Terra, displaced and unemployable after the war. They stride purposefully in his direction. He immediately regrets not bringing his weapon, but the instructions were specific.

  The men do not inquire as to his identity but make him raise his arms so they can search him. They take his data pad and pocket it before one of them produces a black hood and holds it out.

  Carson pulls it on, plunging the surrounding dimness into total darkness.

  Strong hands guide him along twisting passages and through several doorways, many of which, he surmises, are concealed. They walk for ten minutes until they reach an incline. The air grows cool, and their footfalls echo off narrow corridor walls. Hooded and blind, he imagines the passage closing in on him as they descend deeper beneath the city’s foundations.

  An acrid stench of raw sewage and burning garbage assaults him, growing stronger as he moves forward. Clasping a hand over the fabric covering his mouth, it is all he can do to keep from retching.

  Abruptly, they stop and the hood is pulled off. He blinks as the frigid air caresses his face. His eyes sting from a pall of heavy, malodorous smoke that seems to rise from the ground to merge with the fog of his breath.

  They stand at the entrance to a vast cavern. Multiple tunnels like the one he descended open on the space. Its high ceiling disappears into a cloud of overhanging smog, lazily drifting toward slowly rotating ventilation fans.

  A push on his shoulder prompts him along a ledge that overlooks a central pit. Following the wall, a string of ancient, barely operational lighting panels cast a sickly green glow on the spectacle below.

  Dozens of people warm their hands around fires in charred barrels. One or two of the denizens take note of him, but he is ignored by the majority. Most are dressed in filthy rags, and the miasma of unwashed bodies, shit, piss, and burning rubbish rises to assault him anew. Malnourished, sickly children wrapped in blankets cling to the legs of the adults milling about. Sad, empty eyes track him every step of the way.

  Several shallow recesses are carved into the decaying concrete that lines the pit, serving as hovels for the poor wretches. Ahead of him is an opening, partly obscured by a hanging curtain. One of his escort parts it, and he is led inside.

  He enters a chamber, brightly lit and bustling with the activity of half a dozen people. These men and women are better dressed than those outside, sporting clean wool jackets, stocking caps, and thin gloves against the chill. Some work at a table counting stacks of government-issued food vouchers. Others make entries into data pads. Carson notes another table is piled high with sundry medicines and first-aid supplies.

  At the centre of the room sits a man about forty years old. A trimmed black beard and head full of slicked back, dark hair frame a hard face with suspicious brown eyes. He lounges in an old, patched armchair, his calf-length fur coat splayed open, displaying a stylish red shirt and black pants cinched at the waist with a bright matching sash. His long legs are stuffed into knee-high, comfortable-looking leather boots. He seems the image of a Cossack, lifted from a history text.

  The man studies him menacingly, all the while munching on an apple. Finishing his snack, he tosses the core aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “I do not know you,” he says in a heavy Russian accent.

  Carson takes a sidelong glance at his two escorts, who remain within a pace of either side of him, then focuses his attention on the man in front of him.

  “Do I have the honour of addressing Oskar Vostok?”

  A wry smirk grows beneath the beard. “But you are not Bentley Ferris.”

  “My name is Carson Willis.”

  The Russian’s smile fades briefly. “Your reputation precedes you. You play a very dangerous game, no?”

  “I am not here in an official capacity. I am looking for someone.”

  Vostok chuckles and is joined by his people. “You Morality Police are always searching for people.”

  “I’m here on behalf of Anthony Cabot.”

  Vostok’s amusement vanishes, and the room becomes silent. His eyes narrow, and he studies Carson more carefully.

  “What does he want?”

  “I’m searching for his daughter.”

  Vostok’s smile returns. He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms to indicate the surroundings. “And you believe she has run away from home to join us? It is an amusing notion.”

  “She is not here willingly. Your men took her from Bentley Ferris.”

  “Ah! The circle now closes. You are under the belief that that woman is Cabot’s daughter? Far from it, I think. She was Ferris’s whore. He could not pay what he owes, so she served as payment.”

  Carson scowls and takes half a step forward before strong hands fall upon his shoulders. “If any of you has violated her...”

  Vostok waves his men off, and they release Willis. “No one here harmed your little princess, if that is who she really is.”

  Willis inclines his head toward one of his escorts. “This one confiscated my data pad. The girl’s picture is on it.”

  Frowning, Vostok summons the man forward and takes the device from him. After studying the image for a moment, he returns it to the guard and sits back. “Yes, this is the one. She is no longer here.”

  “What have you done with her?”

  Vostok shrugs. “Nothing. She is an intelligent and resourceful young woman. She escaped.”

  “I beg your pardon. How long ago? Are your people searching for her?”

  “A few days, and no, we do not search for her. A young whore who does not wish to work out her contract is of no use to me. It would cost me too much to hunt her down, and then I would be expected to kill her, and that would create complications for me; so no, my people are not looking for her.”

  “Any idea where she might have gone?”

  Vostok’s brow creases, and he shakes his head. “Mister Carson, you ask many questions. She could be anywhere. If, as you say, she is Cabot’s daughter, she had resources to make her way from Terra to Luna. I presume she can find her way to wherever she wishes to go, though how she found herself in the company of Bentley Ferris is puzzling. Perhaps you should ask him.”

  The smug, mocking expression on Vostok’s face causes Willis to wonder how much the Russian knows.

  “You understand I am authorized to offer a substantial reward for her safe return?”

  “So you say.”

  He frowns. “How do you think Mister Cabot will react when he learns what happened?”

  Vostok grins. “Who will tell him?”

  Carson looks around at the smirking faces of the others. He swallows the lump in his throat.

  “If you think your life would become complicated by murdering a runaway prostitute, what do you believe will happen if I go missing? Do you think I am foolish enough not to tell someone where I was coming this evening?”

  Vostok shrugs. “Forgive me. It was a poor joke at your expense. I do not wish to damage my working arrangement with the local representative of the Jovian Collective. I am pleased to assist Mister Anthony in finding his daughter, free of charge, of course.”

  “I know he will appreciate i
t.”

  “But I think my efforts might also aid you as well, no?”

  The lump in his throat drops into the pit of Carson’s stomach. “What do you want?”

  “It would not be a bad thing to have a well-placed friend in the Morality Police. I think, perhaps, a favour for a favour. This is fair, no?”

  Carson grinds his teeth. “It is.”

  Vostok beams, sits up, and slaps his knees. He rises and strides forward, hand extended. “We are agreed, then.”

  He accepts the Russian’s vigorous handshake and endures the subsequent bear hug. Vostok orders vodka to seal the deal.

  As the first of many shots burns his throat, he wonders how this is going to come back at him in the future.

  Chapter Nine

  “Gregor, Vassily, how are you guys doing?”

  I greet the two men I was roused from a sound sleep to come and deal with.

  The Russians dwarf Schmaltz, Requiem’s engineer. He stands between them and the ship’s entry, a length of pipe in his hand. He turns to watch me approach, wearing an expression somewhere between annoyance and fear that he’s taken on more than is wise.

  “Do you know these guys, Mel?” he asks. “I didn’t believe them when they said they know you and told me to wake you.”

  I put a hand on Schmaltz’s shoulder. “I can take it from here.”

  He regards me like I told him black is white. “Are you sure?”

  I keep my eyes on the Russians. “Yup. Why don’t you go see what’s detaining our captain?”

  He carefully studies the two men before nodding. “Okay, but you better take this.” He offers me his makeshift baton.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Schmaltz hesitates, undoubtedly questioning my sanity. But without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves to find Chambers.

  I direct my attention to the visitors. “What’s up, fellas?”

  The one called Gregor replies in a heavy Georgian accent, “We are sent to find someone.”

  He elbows Vassily, who pulls a data pad from his pocket and holds it before me. I am only moderately surprised to see Chloe’s face staring back at me. It is an older holograph of a much healthier version of her, but there is no mistaking her identity.

  After making a point of scrutinizing the image, I shake my head. “Nope, I don’t know her. Who is she?”

  “She is prostitute,” says Vassily as he returns the pad to his jacket. “She owes Mister Oskar much money.”

  Chambers’ voice booms behind me. “What’s all this about?”

  “These gentlemen are associates of our friend, Oskar Vostok. They are looking for someone.”

  Vassily produces Chloe’s picture once again, which Chambers only glances at.

  “She’s not aboard.”

  “Mister Oskar asks us to search every ship,” says Gregor.

  “Well, you’re not searching mine.”

  He frowns and presses in closer to Chambers. “He will not be happy.”

  I slip between them and look up at the huge Russian. “Does Vostok not trust us? I’m sure he doesn’t want to harm our working relationship over something so minor.”

  “Then let us search ship, and all will be well.”

  I smile placatingly. “I really would love to let you, Gregor, but there’s a problem. There is...‘sensitive’ cargo aboard. A very important client out near Jupiter will not take kindly to anyone poking around without the proper legal authorization. Things will not be very good for that person, if you take my meaning.”

  He seems puzzled.

  Chambers scowls. “No search without a legal warrant. I don’t think your boss wants the authorities involved in his business.”

  The Russians turn to each other, unsure about how to proceed. Realizing that we are only giving them reason to suspect we might be hiding Chloe, I interject. “Is there a reward?”

  “Pardon?” says Gregor.

  “If we run across her, is Vostok offering a reward for her return?”

  They converse briefly in Russian. Gregor turns back and shrugs. “Da?”

  “I take it from that answer that you can’t say how much of a finder’s fee is involved here?”

  He studies me, appearing to struggle with the question. Finally, he shakes his head. “Nyet.”

  “Hmm.” I rub my chin, making a show of considering an idea. “Do you know how much the woman owes Vostok?”

  Gregor frowns and speaks again to Vassily. He, in turn, eyes me for a moment before replying directly. “Fifty thousand credits.”

  I whistle. “That’s a lot of scratch.”

  Turning to Chambers, I say, “What do you think, Roy? Ten percent?”

  “Yeah, that’s probably a fair number.”

  I turn back to the confused men. “Okay, Gregor, if we find her, we’ll return her for a five- thousand-credit finder’s fee. Deal?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Why don’t you go back and clear that up, and we’ll keep an eye open for her?”

  I grasp both men by an elbow and gently herd them out the door into the hangar.

  “Remember,” I say, “when we locate her, we want five thousand.”

  I return to the ship and wave to them as the outer door closes. They do not appear to be pleased.

  “Mel, what the fuck were you thinking?” said Chambers.

  “They intended to muscle their way in and turn Requiem inside out because we seemed to be hiding something. I defused the situation and made them believe we are willing to work with them.”

  “Yeah, except now there’s a bigger problem. Vostok controls the longshore union, which in turn runs the departure permit office. When we ‘fail’ to find the woman, they won’t let us leave until every cubic metre of my ship is searched.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think that far ahead.”

  Chambers rolls his eyes. “Brilliant, now there is no choice but to cut her loose. Or we can turn her in and make five grand.”

  “Roy! You wouldn’t.”

  His shoulders sag. “No, I wouldn’t. But we still need a plan, or the Russians will eventually find her, and I don’t believe Vostok will go easy on her for running away. The really sad thing is that unless you can get her off whatever they hooked her on, she’ll need to go back anyway.”

  I frown as I recall the results of Chloe’s bloodwork. “She isn’t addicted to any conventional drug. Her entire system is riddled with nanites.”

  “Don’t a lot of wealthy people use medical nanites? She’s rich, then?”

  “She has a trace of old ones; maybe she was at one time. The majority of those in her now, however, aren’t medical. They are a highly aggressive species that is literally eating her alive from the inside. I suspect she was infected with them, and that the drug she takes keeps them fed so they don’t dine on her.”

  “It sounds like something the Jovian Collective is rumoured to employ,” says Chambers. “How much time does she have?”

  “The few medical nanites remaining in her system are outmatched. I estimate she has maybe a week before massive organ failure.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  “Fortunately, I have some expertise in the field, but it will take time for me to develop a treatment. We need access to the antidote they were giving her.”

  “Everything comes back to Vostok. Maybe she’s better off with him.”

  “As a slave? Fuck that!”

  “Well, she’s going to die otherwise.”

  I look away from him, too angry to speak. When I was gang property in my youth, an option for death would have been welcome at times. I don’t want to subject Chloe to that kind of desperate choice.

  “How much money do you have?” I ask.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’ve got a little over thirty thousand stashed in the safe in my apartment and another four or five on the ship.”

  “Melanie, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m hoping between the two of us we might sc
are up enough to buy Chloe’s debt from Vostok.”

  “Are you crazy? You want to purchase her?”

  “No, I want to liberate her, but we’ll probably need a lot more than the fifty. We need a supply of the antidote too. That will get me some time to find a cure for her nanite infection. At the very least, I should be able to come up with a substitute for ongoing treatment.”

  His face reddens as I speak.

  “What?” I say.

  “Are you listening to yourself, Mel? It might take you years to cure her, assuming you can. She’ll have to live on the ship. She will be swapping one prison for another one here.”

  “Are you saying you’ll treat her as shitty as Vostok did?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “You intend to use her as your own personal sex toy?”

  “What? No—”

  “Pass her around to the lads on the ship, then?”

  “Melanie, STOP!”

  We scowl at each other in silence.

  “I have forty thousand in ready cash,” he says.

  “Do you mean that? You want to help?”

  “Yes. My sister is missing. This might just as easily have happened to her.”

  I smile. “You’re good shit, Chambers.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t let anyone hear you say that, or it will ruin my reputation.”

  Chapter Ten

  It is after midnight, and the streets in the lower city are deserted. Except for the occasional drunk sleeping one off in the gutter, all is quiet. Two men lean against a building as they wait for me beneath the only streetlamp.

  At the sight of me, they both become alert and stop holding up the wall. Gregor seemed almost happy to see me—at least as much as the grumpy old Georgian is capable of seeming.

  “Doctor Melanie, I was very glad to receive your message. You found the girl, yes?”

  His ever-present shadow, Vassily, is as deadpan as ever, eyeing me with unmasked suspicion. By far, Gregor is the more personable of the two, but I can never tell which of them is in charge.