Elizabeth Bear - Hammered

“You should be able to feel what’s coming at you. It’s a function of the field the drive produces. We’ve got no justification for how it works, so don’t trouble yourself with that. It’s magictech, make-believe. Just run with it.”

Whatever . “Roger. How large an object do I worry about?”

“The drive field atomizes anything under about half a meter that it brushes up against. I would say, be on the safe side. Dodge anything bigger than a basketball. There’s not much out there.”

“Roger. Any last words?”

“Godspeed, Casey.”

And what a damned funny thing to say. “On my way, Fred.”

I point my nose up, and floor it.

And hell if he isn’t right. I’m flying blind, and it’s like water-skiing in the dark. I can feel the shape of space like a pressure against my skin. No — more like a pressure a few feet away from my skin. I get a taste of it at first, as the flickering aura of the drives brushes and consumes little things, barely noticeable things. Like running in a dust storm.

And then there’s a bigger piece, and I take evasive action, surprised by how fast I have to be on it and how slippery the bits of space garbage prove. The big ship flails a bit, more nimble than it has any right to be, and it’s all riding invisible swells like making love in a pitch-black room, all guesswork and intuition and trying not to poke anybody in the eye and damn, it’s hard.

I’m holding it together pretty good until a dark body more massive than Mercury pops up a parsec or two to starboard, and the HMCSS Indefatigable is careening in a direction I didn’t send her and I’m under her, out of control as wrestling a goddamned pig on ice, slick-sliding sideways, fragile frame of the ship shredding like twisted straw as I fight her. Going into the ditch, and dammit, it’s just a little bitty lump of rock and the damned thing is sucking me in like a fucking black hole and then it’s not a starship and a starless night, it’s a rolling A.P.C., treads blown off, metal crushing under its own weight and nothing to do but hang on to the yoke like I could do any good at all and

Boom.

The rest is silence. For ten seconds, maybe fifteen. And then I’m back in my aching old body, shaking hard with reaction, and a tech I can’t see is pulling the wires out of my processors and another one is holding my right hand, squeezing hard as sensation returns.

“Damn,” she says, whoever she is. “That was some nice flying, Master Warrant. You’re the first one I’ve seen get that far on the first try.”

Which makes me wonder how many dry runs there have been. And why they have us flying a starship when we’re supposed to be testing out tanks, for crying out loud.

I sit up, too proud to scrub the tears off my cheeks, feeling the loss of that ship— just a toy, Jenny, dammit— like my damned arm has been blown off all over again.

3:45 P.M., Wednesday 13 September, 2062

Hartford, Connecticut

Downtown

Mitch leaned back in the passenger seat of Razorface’s jet-black, silver-detailed Cadillac and unclipped his HCD from his belt. He accepted the call flashing at the edge of his contact. “Afternoon, Doc.”

“Detective Kozlowski?”

“Please, Doctor Mobarak. Just call me Mitch.” Because, for one thing, I’m suspended without pay as of this morning.

“Then call me Simon. I’ve spoken with Mr. Castaign, Jenny’s friend. Can we meet?”

Mitch looked over at Razorface. They were stopped in traffic on the Founder’s Bridge over the Connecticut River. Razor was leaning out the driver’s window, watching the girls walk by on the footbridge that ran from East Hartford to downtown. They turned around, giggling at the shining black car with the chromed cattle-catcher embracing the grille. Mitch decided not to ask how often Razorface felt the need to ram things. “Razor.”

“Yah?”

“Wanna swing by the hospital?”

The big gangster nodded, rubbing his jaw.

“Simon. We’ll be there in less than twenty minutes, assuming we ever get off this bridge. Want to meet in the caf?”

Twenty-three minutes later by his heads-up, Mitch strolled into the Hartford Hospital cafeteria alongside Razorface; they met Simon Mobarak standing next to a potted ficus near the long bank of windows. “Traffic?”

“The usual,” Mitch answered. “Simon, this is Razorface. Razor, Doctor Simon Mobarak.”

It was a measure, Mitch thought, of how subdued Razorface was that he didn’t bother trying to intimidate the smaller man with his namesake grin. Instead, he shook Mobarak’s hand and followed as the doctor led them to an out of the way table in the corner by the conference rooms. Mitch recognized Mobarak’s placid face and reserved manner as the professional stillness associated with bad news, and silently braced himself.

When they were sitting, Mobarak leaned forward and spoke without preamble. “I’ve gotten in touch with Gabe Castaign, Jenny’s friend in Montreal. Except he’s in Toronto now, and he’s seen her.”

“How she doing?” Razor leaned forward, elbows on the table. Mobarak met the gangster’s gaze, in his element, refusing to be pressured.

“Poorly. Castaign says she’s agreed to some surgery that may correct problems with her implants. In handling her follow-up care, I only recently became aware that there might be a problem, and I planned to complete some research and get my ducks in a row before I sat down to hash out a course of treatment with her. She seems to have jumped the gun a bit.”

“A bit,” Mitch cut in. “This surgery you’re talking about. It’s — what, replacing some worn-out hardware?”

“According to Castaign, it’s a total refit. Ground up, with new technology, and it could kill her. Apparently she’s back under the care of the surgeon who did the original work. A guy called Valens”—Razor sucked in a ragged breath—“you’ve heard of him?”

“Heard Maker say the name once or twice. Not real kindly.”

“I know. He apparently sent her sister down here to collect her — well, this is pretty irrelevant stuff. Anyway, Castaign sounds worried sick. I’m actually going to message Jenny and see if I can twist her arm into letting me be present for her surgery and recovery.”

“Lot of time away from your practice, Doc.” Mitch cast a longing glance the length of the cafeteria, toward the gleaming silver coffee machines. He didn’t miss the complexity of emotions that crossed Mobarak’s face, though. Aha. Someone has an unprofessional attachment to a certain patient, or I miss my guess entirely.

“My copractitioners can cover for me. God knows I have the time coming, and it’s a brand-new technique I may not get an opportunity to see again anytime soon.”

“Sure thing, Doc. Look—” but Razorface stopped him with a big hand on his wrist.

“You gonna see Maker?” the gangster interrupted.

“I’m going to try.”

“Give her this.” Razorface slid a long olive green plastic box across the table. Mobarak took it from his hand, lifted it up. “What’s in it?”

“Hide it when you cross the border, man,” Razorface said. “Something from her shop. I expect she gonna want it.” He avoided Mitch’s eyes.

Mitch had a pretty good guess what was in that box. Damn. Right out from under my nose. And if I ever wondered how this man rules half a fucking city by the strength of his word, I know the answer now.

Later, on the sidewalk outside the unmistakable white brick towers of the hospital, Razorface turned as if to walk away from Mitch without speaking. The cop dogged his heels. “Razor.”