The World Forgot (11 page)

“You sure know a lot about how the sausage is made around here,” I say.

“You gotta know how things work, luff,” Dodge says as we come to a stop at the end of the compression room. He pulls a security card from his jacket pocket. “Everything and everyone. Once you get that wired, you've got a shot.”

He gives me a wink as he swipes his pass card across the door's security sensor, but the panel honks—the card's been rejected.

“That's odd,” Dodge says, raising an eyebrow. He swipes the card across again, and gets the same honking response. “This should be working.” He tries again, with the same response from the security sensor.

“Knock it off. You're going to draw attention to us,” I hiss. I look around nervously. Despite the lack of visible security cameras in this area, I still have the uncomfortable feeling that we're being watched. I look across the floor, but there's no one else around. I glance up to the catwalk in the cooling/ventilation system above us—nothing. It's empty. Way too empty.

“Is there another way in?” Cole asks. He's getting anxious as well.

“No,” Dodge says. “I'm afraid this is it.”

The sensor pings in the affirmative, and it takes me a split second too long to realize that Dodge didn't swipe his card. I try to get Cole's attention, but before I can speak, the door slides open and five men come pouring out. Four of them are large and rough, wearing the same uniforms Bricks and Potter wore. They quickly surround us. The fifth man is of medium height and maximum width. Seriously, he's sporting the kind of girth that demands that you find employment in a lowered gravity environment.

“So's you've deliverated as promised, eh, Dodge?” the man says, a crooked yellow grin on his face. His clothes are remarkably posh compared to anyone else I've seen on the station—­pressed white dress slacks, a bright blue dress shirt, and a purple sports jacket with a single button. I even recognize his boots (which seem quite ill-fitted for factory work) from last year's Macydale collection. Despite the quality of the outfit, the man wearing it doesn't match. His greasy dome of a head sports a messy thin comb-over, while several days' worth of stubble spreads unevenly down his cheeks to his collar, which is stained with sweat. All of his clothes stretch with uncertainty around the man's massive frame, threatening to bust loose at any moment. His pants are dingy at the knees.

“Evenin', Guv'na,” Dodge says with a wink. “Your delivery, as promised.”

“You sold us out?” Cole blurts.

Of course he did. Flip me. Why didn't I see this coming?

“Sorry, mates,” Dodge says, clearly not sorry in the slightest. “You seem all right for zoners, but you're worth enough to get me off this rickety bucket once and for all.”

“You could have come with us,” I say.

Dodge merely shrugs. “Okay, so you're worth a ride plus a little more, monetarily speaking.”

“More 'n a little, boy,” the Governor tells him. “You'll not be wanting fer much.” He unwedges a wrinkled handkerchief from his pants pocket and drags it across his brow—which, despite the chilly temp in here, is dripping with sweat. Then he nods to one of the large thugs, who hands Dodge an envelope. Dodge opens it and examines the contents: a passport book, something that looks like a bundle of different travel tickets, and a green debit card.

“No offense, ‘mate,'” I say to Dodge, “but I hope you choke on your thirty pieces of silver.”

“A terribly cutting insult, to be sure, luff.”

“Cole,” I whisper, “now might be a time for some thrilling heroics.”

“I don't think so,” he replies, gesturing toward the thugs. They're all touting high-powered pistols, ready to give the Swiss cheese treatment to anyone feeling particularly escape-y. I glance back at Dodge, who gives me one of his charming winks and begins to whistle as he walks away from us back the way we came. As he passes behind us, he raises his hand, index finger pointed upward, in one last dismissive farewell gesture. I have to credit Cole for his restraint. Armed goons or not, if I had Cole's quickness and strength, I'd probably leap over and snap Dodge's finger off before doing horrible, horrible things to him with it.

“So, you are our new snoops, intrudicating upon my affairs,” the Governor wheezes when Dodge has disappeared for good. He rubs the back of his neck with his handkerchief, then brings it back around and jams it into his pocket, a good three times grosser than it was before. “Now, how a couple of zoners would get curiatized as to the comings and goings upon this most gesticulated spacial institution, that would perforate me most greatly.”

There's a long pause as the Governor waits, looking at us expectantly. Finally Cole leans over to me.

“Elvie, we're in luck,” he whispers. “I think he's having a stroke.”

The Governor harrumphs and begins pacing back and forth in a clearly rehearsed and hilariously miscalculated attempt to look intimidating. If it weren't for the mortal peril we currently find ourselves in, the visual of this zeppelin waddling like a duck and spouting nonsense would be worthy of an autotune vid upload for sure.

“My benefactorous business associates will be most enjoyed upon finding such illicitating trouble-makers brought to their attention. I believe a bonus to our fiduciary concordance will present itself . . . presently.”

So Dodge ratted us out only to the locals, which means the Jin'Kai don't know we're here yet. Maybe that gives us a chance, if I play this just right.

“I really don't think you want to do that,” I tell the Governor, trying to muster as much cool as I can.

“Oh, do expound upon such statements,” he replies with a smirk. “Under what guise of treacherating deceitedness do you boast so?”

“Well, I know you're a big cheese up here and all that,” I say. Cool, Elvie. Icy cool. “But I don't think our boss will be too happy to know that you've interfered with us.”

“And pray tell, who is your employifier?”

“We're on a special assignment,” I say with a shrug. “For Huxtable.”

There is a sound of air escaping as the thugs seem to gasp in unison. Even the Governor's smug smile drops, and a new swath of sweat speckles his forehead.

“You work for Hux—Huxtable?” he stammers. He's uncomfortable even saying the name. So, good. The boogeyman works on this lot as well. “Dodge never said anything about that.”

“Well, Dodge had no need to know of our affiliation,” I say.

The overfilled bowl of saturated fat peers at me through narrowed eyes. “What verifying evidentials do you have?”

“Hey, if you need proof, you can ask the man yourself,” I say. And sure enough, that seems like it might be working. The Governor looks around hesitantly at his men, who are busy murmuring to one another.

“I dun want no trouble wit Huxtable,” one of them mutters. The others mumble in agreement.

“Das nuf,” the Governor says, his mannered speech faltering, if only for a moment. He grabs one of the thugs by the arm. “Go grab Dodge, the little rodent, before he's fled.”

The thug holsters his gun and trots toward the front of the facility. One armed assailant down; three to go. Gotta get the odds in Cole's favor.

“You're in over your head with these new ‘friends' of yours, ‘Guv'na,'” I say, stretching my back in an exaggerated gesture of calm. “You don't understand the people you're dealing with.”

“And what would you know about who I'm dealing with?” he says. The handkerchief is back out of his pocket as he furiously mops up his flop sweat again. “They don't cause any trouble. Not one fisticutory disturbance.”

“Do you even know what they're doing on your own station?” I ask, laying on the disbelief. “Do you know what you've gotten yourself into?”

“I've no informatives on their practitions!” the Governor says, his eyes bulging in his fat head. “If they've come at odds with Huxtable's dealings—”

“Oh, but they have,” I say. “In a big way. And you don't want to make him any angrier than he already is, do you?”

“Boss, mebbe we should cut 'em free,” one of the thugs says.

The Governor stands frozen, like the OS in his brain needs a reboot. Maybe, just maybe, this guy is chump enough to buy this bluff long enough for us to—

“No!” he shouts suddenly, his face collapsing into a scowl even less attractive than his normal expression. “Huxtable thinks he calls all the shots here? Not anymore. I have money now. I have muscle behind me. I am the caller of shots. I am the decider!” He pokes the nearest thug in the arm. “Shoot these dregs.”

Um, so, bluff backfired. I'm at a loss for a response.

“Shit,” Cole says.

That works.

“Boss?” the thug responds, confused. “You's want to war with Huxtable?”

“Huxtable ain't scare me no more! I got uppers on 'im! I'm the real weight around here now,” the Governor replies.

“No argument here,” I mutter. Which actually gets a snicker out of the thugs.

But snickers don't save lives.

The thug next to the Governor raises his handgun and points it right at Cole. “Hope you's know what you're doin',” he tells his boss.

“Elvie . . . ,” Cole says. His muscles are coiled tightly, ready to spring into action. He could probably take the guy out—he might be able to take them
all
out—but he knows as well as I do that there's very little chance that I can survive a firefight unarmed and surrounded. I want to scream for Cole to just go, run, smash everyone's face and break into the Jin'Kai base, find Olivia, save Olivia, go run away and raise her on an island somewhere that doesn't have mosquitoes and make sure she's happy . . .

The first shot is so unexpected that I don't even flinch. There's just a flash and we all stand still for a moment. Then my brain registers what has happened. It occurs to the thug with his gun trained on Cole too. Probably because he's the one who just got shot.

“Run!” one of the others shouts as his comrade collapses, dead, to the floor. More shots rain down from the catwalk above us. I look up to see who's up there playing Rescue Ranger. The shooter is in the shadows, but the green crackle of the energy blasts has a familiar glint to it.

The thugs scatter and take cover in the doorway as the Governor trips over his own fat legs trying to backtrack to safety. He rolls more than falls to the ground, whimpering, as his men grab hold of his purple jacket and pull him inside the cover of the entryway.

“It's Huxtable!” one of them shouts.

“What are you waiting for?” the Governor yells. “Shoot! Shoot! Perforate the transgressitators!” The thugs comply, firing blindly up at the attacker.

“Is it Marnie?” Cole asks as we duck down behind a bulkhead to avoid the cross fire.

“I don't remember her bringing an Almiri ray gun with her,” I reply.

A shot strikes one of the coolant valves above us, causing steam to burst out in a violent rush. The shooter moves out of the steam's path, into the light.

“What are you conks waiting for?” the shooter calls. Female. Definitely female. “You don't actually
want
to be dead, do you?”

I look up, but it's not Marnie on the catwalk. It's not even Ducky, reduced to a squealing soprano brought on by the stressful situation.

It's the cheap floozy from the bar that Cole was hitting on.

“Dude,” I say to Cole. “Just how much time did you two have to ‘chat'?”

“Elvie!” Cole shouts, grabbing my arm to pull me out of the line of another shot. “Gift horse. Mouth.”

“The ladder!” the chippie shouts down at us. I look to where she's pointing. A service ladder about a dozen meters behind us, leading to the catwalk. The little tart with the ray gun sends several blasts toward the doorway, forcing the thugs to hide behind their cover. “Now would be a good time!” she screams.

Cole pushes me from behind the bulkhead, and then I'm running like crazy. As soon as I reach the ladder, I grab hold of the first rung, and before I even start climbing, the girl slaps a control panel on the wall above, and the ladder begins to retract up into the ceiling. I scramble to maintain purchase on the rung as I fly upward, but I lose my grip and have to catch hold with the crook of my elbow.

“Cole!” I scream as I rise far above him. The floozy lays down a suppressive cover fire for her new boy toy, and Cole takes off from where he's been crouching, leaping the several meters to catch the bottom of the ladder. He lands against me with a thud and holds me safely in place as we zip the rest of the way up to the catwalk. When the ladder locks into place with a jolt, Cole lets go and drops to the ground, catching me as I release my dodgy grip.

“Cole,” the girl says.

(She would just say his name like that.)

“What are you doing here, Chloe?” Cole asks.

(I never really noticed before how dumb a name “Chloe” is.)

“Someone had to save your skins,” Chloe responds. “Follow me, pretty boy.”

(Not the time, Elvie. So not the time.)

With that, Chloe takes off down the catwalk toward a coolant system service shaft. “This way,” she instructs, like the world's most obvious tour guide. I mean, where else does she think we're going to go? Back down toward the guys trying to shoot our heads off?

“Chloe,” Cole calls as we run, heads ducked low, through the shaft. “How did you know I was here? And what are you doing with a gun?”

“You want answers?” Chloe says, leading the way. “Or do you want to get out of here in one piece? A ship?”

“Was that supposed to be a question?” I ask.

“A ship,” she repeats over her shoulder, her voice indicating that she thinks
I'm
the chromer in this group. “Do you have one?”