John Karr - Detonation Event

“Yeah, that’s fascinating,” Trent said, fanning a pretend yawn, “but Dr. Wagner tested you for the microbe during your quarantine on MOS-1.”

“Wait… about five foot two… tall for a female these days… brunette with silver streaks on the side? Nicely arranged physique?”

“Hey,” Trent said.

Gwen raised a brow. “That’s our doctor mom. The name Karen Wagner wasn’t a clue for you? She’s here on Lunar One. She tried to reach you several times, but you were shut down.”

Devans considered. “Yeah, I should have opened the links. She did agree to go on a space flight with me sometime.”

Paton Schiflet splashed his face and examined the damage in the mirror. The rivulets of water ran red with blood over his blackening eye and bleeding lip. Red also outlined the teeth as the ex-director of the Lunar Labs for National Institute of Health grimaced. It made for a ghoulish appearance.

Metamorphosis was rarely pretty.

It was only his first week in general population after months of isolation during his trial, and the junior enforcer for the cell block’s gang leader had already threatened him twice. Schiflet didn’t let the count reach three. He’d cloaked himself behind a large inmate and stepped out with a quick series of sucker punches as the thug passed by with his tray. Food went flying as Schiflet slipped the wild return punches. The thug was stunned and had been an easy takedown despite the size difference. Hammer fists and elbow strikes rained down on the bastard, made all the more brutal with the big head finding no give in the concrete floor.

Schiflet’s interest in martial arts had gone well beyond the desire to stay fit.

The junior enforcer was unconscious and bleeding profusely from a broken nose, to the astounded shouts of the inmates gathered in a circle around him.

Schiflet rose, breathing hard. Too late he sensed a new threat. He turned just in time to brace for impact as another inmate launched into a takedown. The man slammed into him, and down they went to the floor.

His attacker gained top position, and now Schiflet was on the receiving end of the strikes.

Dazed but infused with adrenaline, he caught at the descending wrists and grasped tightly, misdirecting their intent more often than not. Planting his forehead in the man’s chest made it a difficult target for heavy blows. When his adversary leaned forward and put his weight on his hands to straighten out, Schiflet locked his legs around the man’s abdomen and used his hip strength to keep him off balance. Schiflet selectively returned fire with punches and elbows of his own. The strikes weren’t powerful, but they were well placed for the eyes and nose. After weathering the second salvo, Schiflet unlocked his feet, scooted backward a few inches, placed them on the man’s hips, and shoved him back. A sharp jab while on his knees bought him enough time to stand.

Labored breathing, blurred vision in one eye, and the taste of blood were put aside. Instead of trying to flee, as the attacker probably anticipated, Schiflet launched a quick succession of elbows to the new thug’s temple and nose. There were gratifying thuds, grunts of pain, and blood splatter.

A siren interrupted the shouts and laughter from the other inmates. Lights flashed. An authoritative voice came over the speakers telling them to lie down with legs spread and hands behind the head.

Instead Schiflet struck with both forearms up and under the thug’s jawline, then locked his hands behind the thick neck. A simultaneous backstep and wrench downward placed the thug’s face in perfect position for knee strikes. Once, twice, and a third time the crack of face bone to hard knee could be heard over the chaos of sounds. The second thug went down like a bleeding sack of potatoes and did not get back up.

Schiflet spied a couple objects near the fallen food trays that would be useful.

A hissing canister bounced on the floor, followed by three more, and the audience was dispelled.

Evidently the guards had enjoyed the show long enough. They grabbed and shoved Schiflet to the ground, plasti-cuffing him none too gently. Schiflet just breathed and spat. After a quick trip to the infirmary for ice and a cursory look from the nurse, they escorted him to his cell.

His roomie, Watkins, was doing time for kidnapping and murdering his girlfriend. He’d been lying in his bunk reading a comic book. He sat up as Schiflet entered. “Hey, man! You did all right but they’ll keep coming. Guess you’ll do some paying to Ellix now, huh?”

Schiflet went to the sink, put down the ice, and spat a mix of blood and saliva. He rinsed his mouth out and spat some more. He shook from the adrenaline and strain. He splashed his face. The sting felt good.

“Don’t want to talk, huh?” Watkins said. “Well, that’s cool, you know. Just had that showdown and all. Word is there’s another on the way. You know, while you ain’t feelin’ so good and all.”

“You knew it was going to happen today?” Schiflet said, his voice coarse from exertion.

“Well, there was word, you know.”

“Thanks for the warning, asshole.”

“Everybody’s got to look out for himself in this place, Shifty.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sure, Shifty.” Watkins laughed, his comic book shaking.

Now Schiflet pissed in the toilet. The stream was black. Had his kidneys taken damage during the fight?

He thought of the Martian virus. Perhaps it was finally taking hold. Without getting tested, he had no way of knowing.

Given the circumstances, he didn’t feel that bad. The eye throbbed, but it was fading a bit. The lip had stopped bleeding and felt like it was going down already. But then, they had given him a dose of a mild painkiller. Still, he felt strong and alert. “Hey, Wormkins.”

“What?” Incredulous laughter from his cellie. “What the hell is that? It’s Watkins , dickhead.”

“I do want to talk to Ellix. Think you can get word to him? I’d like to arrange a meeting. Out in the yard.”

“You got balls, Shifty. What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll see about getting a few comics in the mail for you.”

“Bah, what’s a few more picture books.”

“Monthly.”

“Okay.” He went back to reading his comic book. He started to snore.

From his shoes Schiflet pulled the two spoons he’d pilfered before they cuffed him.

“One man with a couple shanks probably won’t get past Ellix’s bodyguards,” a low voice said. “Even if you use the first shiv as a decoy.”

Schiflet thought maybe Watkins had a lump in his throat. He placed the spoons in the basin and turned.

Watkins still had the comic propped on his face. He snored again.

At the door was a large bald man in prison garb. He was taller and broader than most Schiflet had seen in the facility, and none of it looked like fat.

“Saw you grab those,” the newcomer said. “Normally the detector would have gone off, but they took you around it. Pretty good, keeping your wits after the scuffle.”

Schiflet held the spoons in his palm so the handles pressed the underside of his forearm. “Name?”

“Nuro.”

Schiflet grunted. “Mars terrorist Lassiter Nuro. SCONA town hall shooter.”

Nuro shrugged. “That’s how they see it.”

“And you?”

“Earth First warrior.”

“Okay.”

“Paton Schiflet, you killed NIH Director Denise Armandy.”

“Friend of yours?”

“She was EFF.”

Schiflet squeezed the spoons. He could jab with the handle ends if he had to. If he got past this, he’d have to grind them into weapons quickly.

Nuro smiled, as if guessing the other man’s intentions. “She was EFF… but ineffective, given her position of power. More impressively, you manipulated events that resulted in the destruction of the planetary shuttle, though everyone escaped but Armandy. What didn’t escape was the Martian microbe you smuggled out.”