Grimspace (17 page)

“No. Absolutely not.” I shake my head for emphasis.
We need to leave
now
, not go sneaking around the third floor. “I'm not going.”

March shrugs. “Then I'll go alone.”

For this “reconnaissance” mission—although the chances he'll do no more than fact-find are slim—the choices are an alien who can't fight, a geneticist who won't fight, a scholar who would piss his pants in a fight, and Dina, who's in charge of acquiring supplies. I'm not sure whether she's planning to trade or steal them now, and I figure that's up to her. If she can swing it, though, I'd prefer she rips Hon off.

And me. The others have decided to pretend he never came up with this mad notion, but I just can't. I follow him to the ramp leading down to the docking bay.

“Why are you so determined to go? It doesn't even make
sense
.”

He pauses then, but doesn't meet my eyes, hands clenching into fists. “Call it atonement, but I can't walk away from people who need my help. I can't risk letting the monster loose again, so I have to be better, stronger, more…everything than anyone else. See, I don't get to be a callous son of bitch because I perfected it. I don't ask you to understand or to risk your life over this, so stay here. It's fine. If I'm not back in two hours, get the fuck off station. The AI can handle it.”

Though it's a bad idea on a thousand levels, I want to touch him. Brush the dark hair out of his eyes and lean my forehead against his chin. We're both so fucking broken that I understand our strange attraction, a push-pull magnetism born of similar scars.

It's a foregone conclusion that I wind up heading back with March. I can't let him die alone, the unsung hero. I don't know what he thinks he can do up there, but I've got his back regardless.

I can't help wondering about the broken jumpers Hon admitted to kidnapping. Who else has he taken and why? I feel the pinch of an awakening conscience. Sometimes it's a pain in the ass traveling with a bona fide hero, not that I'd have thought to use that sobriquet on March a short time ago. But it applies.

I wonder if he's going to bring up the way I left and brace myself for awkwardness. He's quiet as we make our way back on station. Wish Canton Farr had been able to tell us more about security, but he spent most of his time in the library, trying to look harmless. So most likely, they're tracking our movements via that door. But there's nothing we can do; it's the only way into Hon's Kingdom.

“He told me enough about his operations that I don't think he intends to let me leave,” I volunteer.

“Just figuring that out, Jax?” His tone sounds like nothing, though, no mockery, no teasing, and there's an astonishing coldness in his neutrality. “I told you not to mess with him. I've known the man a long time.”

My mouth quirks in what can't rightly be called a smile. “I never claimed my brain is my strong point, apart from the J-gene.”

I offer the opening, so I expect a standard March slam, but instead he falls silent. We pass through the throne room, eerily empty, even though I know it's the middle of the sleep cycle. I feel like a little kid sneaking to the kitchen after hours to pinch some cookies, but we'll get a lot worse than a warm bum if we're caught.

As we reach the library, he says, “Go on. Test the codes Farr gave us and see if you can use them to access complete schematics for the station.”

When I do, the archives immediately unlock and the sys-term says, “Welcome back, Canton Farr.”

It takes a moment, but I'm able to find the original layout and design. Without looking at March, I activate PA-245 and invite it to translate the data to its data banks via scan. The slim beam flickers over the screen as I pull each one up. I also snitch info about DuPont Station's initial weapon systems to give us an idea what might be shooting at us when we make a run for it.

“Compile the separate images into a single three-dimensional map, please.”

“Certainly, Sirantha Jax.”

That tears it. We
have
to take Farr with us, as it's inevitable this terminal will show what records he accessed recently. A man like Hon will place only one interpretation on such research—the correct one—and take steps accordingly.

PA-245 presents me a nice map of the facility, and I study it for a moment. March seems uncharacteristically passive, or maybe he's just distracted. Eventually, he comes over, peering at the clamshell terminal before saying, “The lift isn't the only way up there. We should access the maintenance shafts via the ventilation ducts.”

I'd like to protest. Crawling about in dark, dusty ducts isn't something I want to do, but going straight to the third deck in plain sight seems too foolhardy, even for me. There's direct access to the maintenance tunnels, of course, but we don't have door codes. We're not authorized repair personnel. If we knew where they lived, March might be able to get the codes as he'd done on Perlas, but that just increases our risk of discovery for no guaranteed gain.

Sighing, I nod and indicate a spot on the display. “We can access it through a panel here.”

“Let's go. With luck, Dina will have supplies on board by the time we finish up.”

I follow him, and we retrace our steps, where I half expect to find Hon sprawled on his barbwire throne. But the room's still empty, and March leads the way over to the far wall, behind the table where the rovers were playing Charm, and drops to one knee. He tinkers with the catch, and it snaps open.

“Ladies first,” he tells me, polite as a banker.

Yeah, sleeping with him was definitely a mistake. I miss him giving me shit, even the way we bickered. Now there's just this silence in which everything dies. But I know what's expected of me, so I crawl into the vent, where it is, not surprisingly, dark and dusty. My PA gives off a faint glow, enough for me to read the map and orient myself. Thank Mary, it's not dark enough to trigger a flashback.

“I guess we might as well get going. We have a lot of crawling to do before we reach the maintenance shafts.”

That turns out to be an understatement. My knees are sore and my shoulders aching by the time we reach the hatch where we'll emerge in the tunnels. The station's riddled with them like honeycomb, permitting repairs to otherwise-impossible-to-reach pylons. I wonder how long it's been since anyone ran a safety check, though.

We're making for a ladder that will take us to the third deck maintenance tunnels. From there we'll backtrack to the vents and come out…who knows where? Or what we'll find. This time, March takes the lead, scanning side to side like he thinks there might be mines. Can he find or disarm them if there are?

“Yes,” he answers without looking at me. “Stay behind me, at least three meters.”

“You really think they'd do that? Don't repairmen come in here?”

He spares me a single glance. “I think we're somewhere we're not supposed to be, Jax. There may be security measures in place that we're supposed to know how to circumvent. And I prefer to be a bit careful. Now get
behind
me.”

Bitching beneath my breath, I fall in, six paces back like a good, submissive Somalan wife. Part of me thinks he's enjoying this, and I feel cheated. I composed a speech mentally, dammit. I was going to tell him it was fantastic, but that it couldn't be repeated. March couldn't make it clearer that he doesn't want to talk about it, though. Shit, maybe if I brought it up, he'd read me my own speech. I scowl at his back, disgruntled.

March kneels then, running his fingertips over the welded metal seam between wall and floor, then higher. A red light higher up the wall flares in the gloom, then winks out. I tense, waiting for something worse, but March rises and wipes his hands on his thighs.

“A series of pressure plates all the way down,” he says. “If they're triggered without someone inputting the disarming sequence…” Well, he doesn't really need to articulate it. “Interesting thing is, I don't think Hon installed them. This technology is older than that, more integral to the station.”

I can't imagine how long it took to build this place; it's a relic, older than any other outpost in the Outskirts. But I'm not sure what this information means. “This was a Corp station, wasn't it? Before they decommed it and removed the last personnel when the star routes changed.”

March nods, and I think I see the flicker of a smile, although it's pretty dim. “So what does that mean, Jax?”

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “You're not going to get me to entertain you with another conspiracy rant. Don't think I didn't see how you and Doc looked at each other over my head on the
Folly
. Fragging patronizing, the lot of you, and I turned out to be right, even if I sounded crazy! You owe me an apology.”

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “But you're not getting it right at this moment. Let's go play hero.”

“Can't we play master and slave girl instead?” It's a joke, but I flinch as the words come out. Mary, do I have a big mouth.

I can feel the heat of his eyes. “I don't think so. Come on.”

As I start up the ladder behind him, I don't think I've ever felt like such an asshole.

I know something's wrong the minute we crawl out of
the vent.

The rest of the station looks like a pawnshop off Gehenna's pusher promenade, but the
third
deck, which everyone but Farr has been so careful to tell us isn't in use, well, it's like the disparity between the outside of the
Folly
and the gleaming well-kept interior. This level shines. Everything looks brand-new; it's a secure lab, and we've emerged in the middle of a hallway.

It's almost too bright after the gloom in the ducts. I've probably got something weird growing in my lungs now from breathing that air, some parasite that will eventually kill me, but what the hell, it was for a good cause, right? I wish I believed that.

Really, I'm testing March with these thoughts now and then. Waiting for his sarcasm, waiting for him to bitch at me and tell me I'm depressing. Something.
Anything
. But either he's not listening, or I just don't have the power to provoke him anymore. Why the hell does that
bother
me?

“Because you're fragging nuts, Jax.” He gives me a ghost of a smile as he says it. “I thought you wanted me to stay out of your head.”

“Since when does what I want matter? If the universe gave a shit about
that
, I'd be sitting in a café on Venice Minor, sucking on some choclaste nosh and admiring the working boys.”

I take a minute to imagine that.
Mmm
. Given the choice, I prefer the slim, pretty ones, golden skinned, without a lot of body hair.

“You're truly an enlightened soul, aren't you?” March shakes his head, setting off toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The red lights that encircle it serve as an effective warning as far as I'm concerned, but March won't be deterred. “Come on.”

Neither of us doubts Very Bad Things lie beyond this door, but there's a meter of solid titanium between us and…whatever. Mind, I'd be happy to turn around right now, but I know March. We're not leaving until he's seen this thing through.

“Whenever I follow you, we wind up in trouble,” I point out.

“How is that different from what happens when you lead?”

I sigh. “All right, genius, how do we get in? There are no guards for you to—”

“Let me handle that.” He withdraws a slim rectangle from his pocket, and I recognize it as a codebreaker, definitely black-market ware.

Slender silver filaments snake out from the device, gliding beneath the edges of the keypad to connect. I expect more animation, but it goes to work silently, and as it runs through numeric possibilities, the lights snap off around the door one by one. When all ten bulbs go dim, the door swishes open, leaving us looking into yet another hallway. I don't bother checking my PA; the map of the third deck is outdated, more than the other levels. According to those records, we're standing in an infirmary.

“This is really dumb,” I mutter, as March sets off.

Presently we come to another security door, where he repeats the procedure. “I hope there aren't many more of these. This thing only has one charge left.”

That much I knew. Like most black-market wares, codebreakers are crafted with a finite number of uses, then they break down to base chemicals, leaving no hint as to their purpose. Maybe a really good chemist, analyzing the residue, would be able to posit a guess, but there's still no
proof
, and for most criminals, that's the important thing. For obvious reasons, possession of them is outlawed on every Corp world, and as far as I know, they can only be purchased on Gehenna.

We hurry onward, trying to be quiet, although skulking in a bright corridor with no cover looks even sillier than it sounds. As we pause at the next—and hopefully last—set of doors, I say, “One of these days you're going to stop surprising me.”

He gives me a saturnine smile. “And when that day comes, Jax, I'll miss you.”

Bastard.
But I don't mean it. Very few people can keep up with me verbally, and I wouldn't trade March for someone nice. Well, I don't mean that like it sounds. March is a good man, just not a nice one. Does that even make sense?

While I'm pondering, he gets to work, and the door whispers open. Even before I step around the corner to see, my skin prickles with wrongness. Yes, this is the place Farr warned us about, where they're doing dreadful things. I step into the room without waiting for March, scarcely able to take it in.

At first glance it looks like a med ward or possibly a morgue, so many rows of bodies, lying pale and quiet. The only sound besides our breathing comes from the low hum of the machines keeping them alive. And that's not even the worst part.

“Mother Mary,” March breathes, coming to stand beside me. “They're—”

“Helping populate the station,” a voice says from behind us. “We're growing only girl children right now. There are so many men waiting.”

Shit. We've been had.

I turn to find Farr leveling a disruptor on us. Either one of us makes a sudden move, our molecules are going to find themselves painfully rearranged. And that's really not good for breathing and circulation.

“Canton,” I drawl. “What an unexpected pleasure. Decided you don't want a ride off station anymore?”

As if he ever did.
The last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Hon doesn't possess the scientific expertise to execute this plan by himself. My stomach roils, seeing how they're using these poor women as nothing but wombs. I'm afraid to speculate just how insemination takes place.

“Yes, I was rather proud of that performance. I had to think fast. But why would I? I can't study in the field anymore…my lungs were damaged on Marakeq, and I have a sweet setup here. Hon trusts me to take care of business, I'm his right-hand man.”

“Where did you find all these women?” March asks. His hands furl into fists at his sides, and it doesn't take a specialist to read his body language.

“Med wards mostly, sometimes Psych. You'd be surprised how many throwaways there are, forgotten by friends and family.” Farr shakes his head in what appears to be sincere regret, and I have to conclude he's just about the craziest bastard I ever met. He thinks it's too bad these poor women wound up like that but doesn't see anything wrong with
this
? “Don't worry,” he adds, seeming to misread my look. “We test for genetic anomalies, and I'm keeping careful record so we don't wind up inbreeding.”

“Thank Mary for that,” I mumble, but Farr is immune to sarcasm. “You're behind the biomechanical work on Hon's jumpers, too, aren't you?”

He smiles, like we're having a friendly conversation, and if it weren't for the weapon in his hands, I might even believe it. “Yes, they're kept in a separate area, as it's a different project. Our goal is complete self-sufficiency, a settlement free of Corp influence, free from artificial cred-based commerce.”

“What happens if one of these women wakes up?” March edges closer to the scientist by millimeters.

“Oh, they never do,” Farr answers, and I can picture him smiling as he slides the spike behind their eyes, crooning,
This is for the best.
“And no one ever leaves Hon-Durren's Kingdom. Afraid there's no place for you here, March. Hon simply doesn't like you. We're keeping the women. Jax, after reviewing your Corp record, I don't trust you to be docile on your own, and you appear resistant to mental conditioning. The blonde's a mechanic, yes? We can use her expertise. The other two from your crew can join the rovers. I'm sure they'll all adapt…and if necessary, I can assist with that.”

Shit, why didn't I see it sooner? He's just like the Unit Psych, Newel.

After a brief pause, as if thinking things over, March asks, low, “Will you take care of baby-Z for me, at least?”

No. Oh no.
I find myself begging silently,
Don't you dare leave me, March. Don't you dare.
But there's nothing but my own thoughts, nothing to indicate he heard me.

“Of course,” Farr says kindly. “I have him right here in fact.” With his free hand he opens up his shirt and Z pokes his head out the top.

“Grrr-upp.” For some reason, Z only chats if he can see someone to talk to. With his head covered up, he seems to assume nobody's around.

Fantastic.
Now we're crippled because we need to be careful with the baby. Just when I don't think the situation can get any worse, March dives for the scientist's legs. Farr's faster than I'd have guessed, though, and he fires—blinding flash, so I hit the deck instinctively.

When my pupils adapt, I see March crumpled at Farr's feet.