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One

The rain was oily. How the hell can water be oily? It was just one of the mysteries of city life I had yet to solve and didn't really give a damn about.

I pulled my collar around my neck and dove into the whirling maelstrom of humanity that choked the pedifares. Most wore rebreathers to protect themselves from the latest alien pathogen, real or imagined. I didn't bother. My nanites scrubbed my lungs and scoured my bloodstream seeking out toxins, parasites and any other micro marauder that sought to do me harm. There is a major drawback; I can't get drunk and I sure could've used a beer right about then. There was no time for luxuries anyway; I had a job to do.

Thin as it was when surfaced, my armour felt bulky under my duster. For the sake of appearance, I had foregone up-armouring my face and skull. I patted the comforting lump of the plazer strapped to my thigh. LLooking up, I saw a billboard blimp slowly making its way above the smog filled, vermin ridden canyons the towering habitats created.

People lived up there. Rich people. They looked out above the smog that created perpetual twilight below without ever touching ground level. They lived there, worked there, played there and died there. Hell, for all I knew, they were probably buried there. Theirs were rarefied lives, never mingling with the stinking press of humanity. And I was their bitch. Then and now.

It had started when I was on a patrol in Baghdad, the thrice blessed and twice nuked City of the Holy. We started taking fire. I saw a muzzle flash, raised my grenade launcher and let fly. HEAT rounds do one helluva job on snipers and their immediate environs as well. But in this case, it wasn't just a lone sniper.

They found the weapon he used in the rubble, checked its targeting chip and confirmed that it had been fired, most likely at me. It was deemed by my immediate supervisors that I had taken appropriate actions. All was right with the world and the incident was behind me. Then, some fucking civilian do-gooder got wind of it and turned it into a media circus. I was just trying to save my buddies and it became a fiasco. The Army hung my ass out to dry. I got a Big Chicken Dinner. Bad Conduct Discharge. No chance for redemption.

Okay, so I fragged one family. Big deal. I saw fire coming my way and it came from their window. How was I supposed to know that the kids were home? Uncle Achmed shouldn't have been shooting at me during dinner.

So, there I was. That was what my life had been reduced to. A nearly indestructible 'nite pusher to the rich and famous.

I hate my life.

I climbed two flights of rickety stairs plastered as an afterthought to the side of one of the monolithic buildings to reach a taxi stand. My weight activated the electronic thumb. Within seconds a cab dropped out of the traffic stream and hovered before me. I climbed in.

"Where to," the driver asked me through the bullet proof shield that separated us. I laughed inwardly. Did anybody actually carry chem reaction weapons anymore? My piece can blast through a quarter inch of plasteele as easy as kicking a boot through a baby's skull.

"Keystone Building, 48th and 10th, L87, B59," I answered absently. I fingered the package in my pocket.

A fourteen block trip ended up costing me $157.00. Eschewing the credit scanner on my side of the shield for reasons of anonymity, I slipped two bills into the antiquated one way cash drop. "Keep the change."

"What the fuck is this?" He slapped the shield with the balled up hundreds.

"Hey, it all spends." I slammed the door on his tirade and pushed the button beside the condo's door. Here, above the smog, I could actually see a few stars peeking through the overcast. The rain wasn't oily up here. The stink remained though

"Who is it?" Although I couldn't tell from my side, I knew that the door had become transparent to the viewer on the other side.

"Who the fuck do you think it is Richey? Open the door, it's wet out here." He opened the door a crack and I shoved through. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Do you have it?"

"Nah, I'm here because you're so fucking charming. Of course I've got it," I said reaching into a pocket and removing a small package. The 'It', to which he referred, was a dose of designer miminites. The only high possible for those of us lucky enough to be Enhanced. They mimicked our own 'nites, in whatever configuration we had chosen (I hadn't the option of choosing mine, standard military upgrade) and were consequently ignored, they made their way to the various spots of the brain that would respond to their programming, be it a drunk, a Venusian sting, a simple orgasm, or what ever your little black heart desired.

"Put it on the table," he gestured, stepping away from me. Something was up. He was jumpy as hell.

"Hey, what's…," was all I got out when several black garbed individuals rushed in from the hallway. The pudgy little fucker had set me up.

"Dallas Police …Urrfff," the lead cop said as I kicked the settee over in front of them. They landed in a pile, giving me just enough time to push open the landing door and bolt outside. A red burst of energy melted the door frame beside my head. I tugged my pistol free and fired a blast of green plasma, tagging Richey squarely in the face. His head exploded neatly, painting the room a grisly shade of death. I slammed the door on the sad little pudknockers life.

"Now what," I asked myself. I was almost a klick up with nowhere to go but down. If the DPD nailed me, it was back to Cuba and a comfy cell for a long time.

Time to put my armour to the test. If any ballistic object came in contact with it, it would instantly go rigid. Tougher than steel. I guess the concrete pavement could be considered ballistic, rising up to meet me at terminal velocity. Of course it would be like hitting in a form fitting steel suit. No direct damage from the impact, but I imagine my interior goodies would resemble a meat milkshake after the sudden stop.

I'd have to manually hit the Tesla shield blast just before impact. Tricky.

Fuck.

The sight of four black armoured men busting down the door, hell bent on putting a boot up my ass, solidified my plans.

I jumped.

I could see in the windows as I passed them headlong on a vertical trajectory straight down. I enjoyed the ride while it lasted.

I lived and didn't have to hit the shield. A Fiat I hit on the way down broke my fall. Thank God for those cheap fibreglass hulls. He managed to land the sucker… barely. I pried the door open and was greeted by the sickly sweet odour of fresh shit. What was that bit mom used to say about wearing clean drawers in case of an accident? I'd have loved to see him explain that to the claims adjuster.

The armour was reabsorbed into my skin. I stopped to take a quick inventory of the situation. I was pretty sure the cops didn't know who I was. I always used an alias. Richey wasn't talking, that was a given. Dumb fuck, that would teach him to step into the middle of a firefight.

Shit, this was not good. I had to lay low for a while. I was in deep kimchee.

Two

"Do we have any idea who it was?" Marcus Aurelius Josten, founder and CEO of Josten Aerospace, hid a barely controlled rage beneath a thin veneer of civility. The news of his son's sudden, violent death did not sit well with him.

His chief of security, Charles "Chaz" Dubrovnik, late of the Marine Corps, shifted nervously in his chair. "We have a partial view of his face," he answered in a strong steady voice, suppressing his fear of one of the most powerful men in Texas, if not the country. "It was raining. He had his collar up and his hat pulled…"

"Listen son," Marcus interrupted, "I don't care if he was shittin' kittens in a hurricane. What do you have?"

"Well, we found the taxi he took. The driver claims he never saw the guy before. In the end, he was very convincing. The driver was pissed because he paid cash. Paper bills if you can believe that. No credit trail. He wore gloves, no prints.

We're running the partial image through face recog and dropping it to LEO's around the country. He's probably just some lowlife pusher who found himself in a bad situation and panicked."

"You idiot," the businessman's anger burst forth as the vein in his neck threatened to do, "how many scumbag pushers have you ever seen that can fall 900 metres and walk away. He's Enhanced, you stupid bag of pig shit. He's fucking military. This was a hit. FIND HIM."

Jostens command was so abrupt it mentally knocked his security expert back to boot camp. He jumped to his feet with a crisp, "YES SIR," had to physically restrain himself from saluting about faced and exited the massive mahogany panelled office in three long strides.

"Dumbass," Josten muttered. With a curious twist of his hand, he accessed the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Josten," came a bored female voice.

"Send in Perkins please, Mrs. Stewart." Another similar, but entirely different motion of the wrist severed the connection. He rose and went to an ancient highboy and poured himself a tall bourbon, neat.

His office overlooked the city to the west. He tossed back his drink as he watched the sun set on the Dallas skyline.  The airlanes were clogged with rush hour traffic. Below them the buildings disappeared into a vast sea of heavy smog.

As he poured himself another drink, a double, his desk announced the arrival of Perkins, his handler of difficult problems. A deft twist of his hand bade the visitor enter. The heavy mahogany door swung inward on silent hinges. Perkins glided in. He was tall and thin to the point of being gaunt. His sunken eyes and thin lipped mouth belied a certain calculated cruelty. He sat in an overstuffed wing chair without being asked.

"I understand there is a… complication…?" Perkins voice was a dry hiss. He wore a jagged scar across his larynx as a reminder to himself of the pitfalls of letting ones guard down, of being content, happy. Particularly with a loved one. The cruelly serrated knife, his knife, had barely missed the jugular and the carotid. The image of her twisted, mangled body was still fresh in his mind. Her punishment for letting him get too close to her. He had removed the ring and left it there in the spreading pool of her blood.

Marcus' seemed on the verge of an explosion, but the tall mans thin spidery voice sucked the rage from him. He collapsed in his chair, his anger vetted. "You already know?"

The tall man stared back, saying nothing.

"Of course you know. Stupid question. Sorry. Somebody knew my body wasn't ready and took Richard out of the equation before I could turn a temporary power of attorney over to him. They found a bundle of miminites at his apartment. It was made to look like a drug deal gone bad, but I know it was a hit. It had to be."

Having got this out, Marcus visibly changed. He looked refreshed as his nites got to work restoring his chemical equilibrium, hunting down and neutralizing floods of testosterone, adrenaline and lactic acid from taught and knotted muscles.

"How do you wish to rectify the situation?" Perkins reedy voice and snakelike eyes were always a little unsettling to Marcus. He out massed the rail like man by a good twenty kilos, but still felt a twinge of primal fear when Perkins was in his presence.

"I have Chaz on the trail of the assassin. When he is located, I want you to talk to him. Find out what and who he knows, then you may deal with him, slowly. I want him to know who did this to him… and why."

"As you command." The wraithlike figure was up and through the door almost before it opened itself for him. Marcus again felt that stygian fear in his reptilian hind brain.

He flicked his wrist and again Mrs. Stewart's unemotional voice came out of nowhere. "Yes, Mr. Josten?"

"Please have the medical team assemble in my office in one hour."

"Yes Sir."

"Oh and Mrs. Stewart?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Please send a wreath and a note of condolence over the death of her son to my wife."

"Yes Sir."

His wrist twitched and the connection was severed.

Three

Leaving his employers set of suites, Perkins made his way to the buildings sub-basement where he kept his own offices.

His outer office, where he entertained his few and usually none too happy visitors, was decorated in what one could only describe as macabre. The room was furnished with Victorian reproductions and prints of wood cuts of the Biblical apocalypse. Paintings depicting the Black Death adorned the wood panelled walls.

His inner office was far more Spartan. Bare concrete block walls painted a muted grey and indirect lighting from glow strips illuminating a Government Issue style grey metal desk and matching uncomfortable straight backed chair that were the only decorations.

He sat down and pulled a computer from a stack. He unrolled it on the otherwise bare desk. Flattening it out, he removed his jacket and rolling up his sleeve, he pulled a lead from his arm, sliding it into the desks access port.

He linked to Chaz' database and jacked in. The stupid jarhead had actually made some progress in ascertaining the whereabouts of his prey. His sat up reflexively and his eyes fixed on the wall. His eyes moved at a feverish rate, as if he were scanning a newspaper at relativistic speed. Abruptly the scanning stopped, he sat motionless for a moment, then his lips curled into a thin grin, "Luna", he said. His smile grew broader.

Four

I made it to Luna; I had an old Army buddy there. He owed me. Besides the moon is as good as anyplace to hide and considerably farther from the clusterfuck I had just left back on Earth

I got off the shuttle at Port Chaffee with a throbbing headache and a massive lump on my head. It had been several years since I flew. I hate micro gee. I forgot to adjust my attenuation ready level and as soon as the stewardess announced that we were free to unbuckle and float around the cabin, I shot out of my seat and brained myself on the opposite bulkhead.

I scared the piss out of the middle-aged groundhog couple that sat behind me. I'll bet that was the first time they ever saw anybody move that fast. I cursed myself inwardly for not covering my Enhanced state.

I was retrieving my only baggage, a small OD green Valpak, from the carousel when I heard somebody repeatedly yelling, "Ray, Ray." It took me a moment to realize that was the name I was currently travelling under.

I turned and saw my old Army buddy, Yuri Vorkosigen waving to me. He managed to recognize me even though my 'nites had transformed my appearance. He was still as sharp as ever.

He lumbered over to me and wrapped me in a huge bear hug as soon as I cleared customs. I'm not exactly a little guy, but Yuri is HUGE. He stood well over two metres and must have massed a good 120 kilos. "What the hell brings you up to Luna, you old dogface?" His voice was as big as he was.  Others in the terminal turned at the sound of the thickly accented thunder that rolled over them.

As soon as I recovered my wind and mentally inventoried my ribs for cracks and bruising, I managed to croak, "Things got a little complicated dirt side. Mind if I hole up with you for a while?"

"Yeah, I figured as much. Moya dom, vazsha dom, buddy. Hell, if it weren't for you getting my green ass out of the fire on Mars, I wouldn't be here." I didn't want to bring it up, but I'm glad he did.

Yuri had been an FNG, a fucking new guy, cherry, fresh out of recruit infantry training at Ft. Benning. It was his first time off planet and by luck or fate his big, happy Russian ass landed in my squad. Lucky me.

He had a little trouble with a singularity mine and nearly got the both of us involved in a mess of quantum mechanics I didn't even want to think about. My contribution to saving his ass had been to yank the detonator just before it did its job. He became my instant loyal lapdog and eventually, grudgingly, friend.

"My place is this way," he said and motioned to a tube station across the terminal, "You get a make on the buzz cut," he asked, never turning his head, or looking in the direction of whom he was referring.

"Yeah, He's been on my ass since I left Dallas. He nearly shit himself when we were assigned facing seats on the express to Port Canaveral." I casually adjusted my bag over my shoulder and glanced back at my tail. He was studiously looking casual in the same way a turd looks at home in a punch bowl. "Dumbfuck. Must be a Marine." We were still laughing as we took seats in the tube pod.

Five

"Mr. Josten? The medical staff has arrived. Shall I show them in?"
Marcus Josten was slumped in his chair. The left side of his face was beginning to sag. His left arm was becoming painfully stiff, and his thinking was becoming muddied. The drugs and treatments that rejuvenated him were beginning to wear off.  They were becoming increasingly less affective as time passed. The signs of his stroke became more apparent as the treatments became less efficacious. 'Nites could heal damage that took place after they had established themselves in the host, but they were largely ineffective on whatever damage had been done prior to assimilation.

"Yesh, shend them in," he said to the disembodied voice of his long suffering secretary. The door opened and three men in matching grey suits entered.

"Gentlemen, pleazsh come in."

The men stopped. A look of fear flashed across their faces.

"Yes, yes I know," Josten blustered, carefully stressing the sibilance of the words. "What can you tell me? How much time do I have?"

The men burst forth simultaneously, trying to convince and console as much as to cover themselves. Josten let them flail for a few moments before taking control.

"Enough. You, the squirrelly one; you speak," he indicated the rake thin department head with a pronounced over bite, "you two, shut up."

"What's your name, son?"

"Krenshaw, Sir."

"All right Krenshawsir, tell me, how long do I have and when will my body be ready."

"It's just Krenshaw, Sir."

"Don't sass me boy. You're about as worthless as tits on a boar hog."

"YOU!" Josten bellowed, pointing at a tall young man doing his best to disappear between his own enormous ears. "Do you think you can answer a simple question without having a goddamn shit conniption?"

"Yes sir," he managed to squeak.

"Well?"

"What sir?"

Jostens face visibly reddened. He spoke slowly, "How long do I have, and how long until my body is ready?"

The young geneticist marshalled up his hoarded reserve of courage and said, "Best case scenario Sir, you will require stasis within two months. Cryostasis will retard the process, but at the current state of technology we can only stave off the inevitable for about nine months until your body suffers irreparable systemic malfunction. You will die within a week of extraction."

Josten appeared deflated, he drew himself up to his full six foot two inches, squared his shoulders and asked hopefully, "And my body?'

"If we push it, and there are dangers involved, if we push it, a year, maybe eleven months tops."

Marcus Josten would not allow himself even a moment of self pity. "What about another host body, until mine is ready?"

"Sir, you need as close a genetic match as possible. Since the death of your son erf…," he was silenced by a rude jab in the ribs, "of your wife's son, you have no genetic repository."

"Yes, I know. Damn fool." He pounded his desk in frustration. "I was thinking about… Would my brother do?" He smiled.

Six

"Good. They haven't made me. I thought I was busted when we were assigned lovers seats," Chaz Dubrovnik thought to himself as he watched his quarry zip away in a Trans capsule. He managed to get a photo of his subjects acquaintance and as soon as he made his way out of the port building, he could get a link with the lunar directory and find out where this mook lived.

Against his better judgement, he grabbed the pod sled after theirs. By all the rules of spy craft, he should have waited for at least two to pass, but they didn't know he was there and besides he was good.

He stepped into the tear drop shaped pod, and just managed to strap in before he was shoved back into his seat upon acceleration. "Sonuvabitch," he groaned, too long accustomed to the gradual acceleration of transport on Earth.

As he zipped past Armstrong Station, he caught a glimpse of his prey. The giant Slavic looking bastard was too big to miss. He continued on to Lovell Station and took the returning pod back.

Armstrong City was a city in name only. It was really a collection of interconnected warrens spinning off a central hub. The hub was a cavernous park like area several metres below the surface. The stony roof had a small oculus capped by a plasteele dome. It was daytime, a day lasting two Terran weeks, above the dome and no stars were visible. The circle of darkness was the only visual reminder that there actually was something beyond the rock walls.

The suffused yellow light of the main chamber and branching passageways was supplied by the walls and roof. A fine conductive metallic fabric was laid over the rock and sprayed with a thin coat of LEF, light emitting foam, giving everything a soft dreamlike look.

The pair were no longer there in the gardened promenade that was the antechamber to the main excavation of Armstrong City, but he hadn't expected them to be. He found a free data port, waved his right palm over the credit scanner that automatically deducted 17 dollars from his account. He accessed the city personal directory. He pressed his head against the pad and downloaded the image of the Slav for recognition. Instantly a response shot back:

Citizen Gregori Stanislaw
Greater Ukrainian State of the NHC
Diplomatic Attaché to the Council of the Lunar Republic
Address not given
PID not given
Chaz sighed deeply, but he had expected as much. He hadn't expected the guy to be listed, but he certainly hadn't expected him to be part of the diplomatic corps. Now he was wondering what he had gotten into.

"Shit, this is big. I better check in with the boss." He rang up the Ritz Carlton and checked himself into a room, checkout date open. He had work to do. He strode off clumsily in the weak gravity and made his way down the main thoroughfare to Armstrong City proper.

In a Starbucks across the plaza two pair of eyes watched the guy lurch awkwardly down the corridor.

Seven

We were sitting in Starbucks when Yuri pulled out his tablet, took a swig of coffee and blew a steady stream out of his nose, "What the hell is so funny," I demanded, sopping up the caffeinated mucus that had spattered the table.

"Your mysterious friend just tried to run a make on you. Since you're not listed here he tried a photo ident on me."

"So?"

He tried to explain between fits of laughter. "When I first immigrated to Luna, I got here the same time as some low level Embassy flunkie. The idiots in immigration can't tell one Slavic pig fucker from another, so they fucked up our PID pics. You are looking at Gregori Stanislaw of the state of the Ukraine Embassy, a minor, but essential functionary of the embassy," he finished. His mocking attempt to look dignified fell far short.

"Yeah, cute, but what's so funny."

"That Ukrainian guy was busted about three months ago for smuggling synthmesc in his diplomatic pouch. He had diplomatic immunity, so he received a slap on the wrist and was sent back in disgrace, but anybody who comes looking for him is going to raise a few eyebrows among the powers that be. And the laws here are a little different than they are dirtside.

Just by accessing that listing, he has already made himself known to the local gendarmerie. Dumbass."

"It's getting funnier. Go on."

"Where do you think an old war horse might find gainful employ in a rustic location such as this?" His grin widened as he took a sip of his coffee?"

"No shit, you're a cop?"

"Top Cop as a matter of fact. They recruited me directly from Bragg. After Luna seceded they wanted to change the entire infrastructure from the top down. They looked at the whole place like some lawless old west town and wanted their own Wyatt Earp.

Colonel Edmonton, you remember him; well, he found out that they were searching for people with certain qualifications and recommended me. So here I am with nothing to do, there is no crime to speak of. Basically I ride herd on a couple of hundred thousand people and occasionally put a few in the stockade to sleep it off. The only fun I get is when some user comes looking for the Ukrainian for a quick fix and knocks on my door instead."

His tablet buzzed again, he glanced at it and put it away. "My guys got him. You maybe want to have a little chat with him?"

"In a minute. So when did this happen," I asked him, sipping on my iced tea.

"Right after they fragged your career. As a matter of fact, I hear that if you were still in the batt, they would have offered you the job."

"I was a soldier; I couldn't stand being a pussy ass cop." I gave him a dirty look

"Fuck you Sarge. Still riding my ass after all these years."

"I taught you everything you know."

"Almost, but not all." We laughed at that.

"Where was she from again," I asked

"Bolivia, I think."

"I never knew a woman could actually do that."

"I don't think she did either. What a trooper… Come on let's go have a little chat with your friend."

Eight

Dr. Craig Josten, head of the Nanotechnology R&D Department for Boeing Aerospace and Chair of sub molecular bio-engineering at MIT was enjoying a rare afternoon without the usual annoying hoard of grad students that seemed to constantly hover around him.

He was well into his fifth Jack Daniels when his 'plant buzzed him. He clicked his tongue and linked in. "Josten here."

"Josten here too, how are things, Little Brother?"

Craig's sluggish mind quickly threw off the affects of the Tennessee tea. "What do you want?"

"Now is that anyway to treat your loving brother?"

"What do you want?"

"Yeah, your wife called. You really are a prick, you know that?"

"Why, because I put that little worthless faggot up with a trust and a luxury flat? Gave him whatever he wanted so long as he didn't embarrass me, the family or the company?"

"No, because you sent Caroline a bouquet to inform her that her son had died. No matter what he was, she loved him."

"It's her fault she turned out like he did."

"Never mind that, what do you want?"

"Have you considered my offer?"

"My answer is the same. I'm not going to be a part of it. It's bad enough that you had to drag our name through the mud while you lied, cheated and murdered your way to the top."

"I was never even indicted for that," he replied tersely.

"The answer is still no."

"At least come to dinner and hear me out. There have been some changes. I know Caroline would love to see you."

"She's the only thing you got right in your life. Fine I'll come. When?"

"How's Wednesday at eight? I'll send the car around to collect you."

"Since when do you talk like that? We both grew up as swampers on Dad's rigs."

Markus ignored the jibe. "See you Wednesday."

As the connection was cut, Craig stared at the framed photo of his roughneck father, covered in grease and oil and smiling a gap toothed grin.

"Fuck," he said and poured himself another drink.

Nine

The room was small. No more than five metres square with a low ceiling and what looked like dried blood on the scuffed formerly white walls. As if picking up on my thoughts, Yuri said, "The bloods real, the application is… exaggerated. I got a pint from the medics and sprayed it around. I've found the detainees are a little more forthcoming when they think their soft parts might be in danger."

"You wouldn't really rough somebody up would you?" We both laughed at the joke.

We had just settled into the straight backed aluminium chairs when the door to the interrogation room slammed open and a Peace Officer nearly as big as Yuri shoved our guest inside. He fell over the brushed aluminium table bolted and fell to the floor.  Being handcuffed he had some difficulty getting up. Neither one of us offered to help. After a few moments he stopped struggling and glared at us.

Yuri reached into his jacket and pulled out a computer. He unfolded it and punched in a few commands. His eyes lit on something I couldn't see, and he smiled. "Good morning Mister…," he stopped to look at the computer again, "Michael Day. Tell me please, what is your real name?"

"That is my real name you Nazi bastard."

I just had time to notice that Yuri was still wearing his old issue steel toed jump boots. This was not going to be pleasant for somebody. "Ooof", I said in sympathy, as Yuri kicked him in the chest. Take a bunch of dry spaghetti in your hands and break it. That's what snapping ribs sound like. Only moister.

Yuri smiled as the man writhed in agony. "How clumsy of you to fall. Here, let me help you to seat." He reached down and yanked the man into the chair with one hand. I could barely imagine the pain as those splintered ribs grated against each other. "Now, please tell me name." I had just noticed that Yuri had slipped into his Russian accent. All of us are taught to speak in a uniform clipped mid-west accent so that you can't tell if somebody is from Yonkers or Bettendorf, Iowa. Yuri was putting on a show for me. He always was a ham.

"My name is Michael Day. Fuck you."

Yuri smiled at me. "He likes to tell joke. I like tell joke too." It was all I could do to keep from laughing. "Okay funny man. Here is good Joke." I could almost feel it as Yuri gave the man a short jab to the side.

"F-f-f fuck you." bloody, frothy spittle dripped from his lips, sure sign of a punctured lung.

"Okay, listen up 'Chaz". Sounds like some goddamn gay college punk doesn't? Chaz I mean," he said turning to me. I just grunted.

"Here's the skinny," he'd covered his accent again, "we know who you are. Did you think you could duck the security of an entire planet?"

"Isss not a pl… planet." he managed to get out.

"What did you say? Chaz?" Shit, he was smiling again. Chaz was definitely not going to like this.

"Issss not planet. Issss sat uh lite," he managed to get out between ragged breaths.

Yuri gave him an open handed cuff across the face that I'll bet his grandmother felt in her womb. I could hear his teeth slam together as his head snapped sideways. "Listen buddy, your not making things any better for yourself. You've got a punctured lung, and I think maybe a broken jaw. You took a nasty spill coming in here, now talk. You don't want to take a walk outside without a pressure suit do you. Accidents do happen."

"You don't know who I work for. You'll be sorry you fucked with me." His words were brutal, but his eyes showed fear.

Yuri tapped on the thin sheet of plastic that was his computer. "You're Charles "Chaz" Dubrovnik. You work for Josten Aerospace as head of security. You report to Marcus Josten personally. You suck his dick too, Chaz?" He turned to me, "I'll bet he sucks Josten's dick." I nodded agreement.

"I just want to know why you are here, and why you were following one of the best private soldiers in the business," he paused to let that sink in. "You may as well talk. You are going to die miserably either way, so you might as well shuffle off this mortal coil knowing the guy who sent you on this fools errand is going to follow you quickly to the great beyond."

"You wouldn't really vac him?" I feigned concern.

"Of course not, I'm just trying to scare him." We laughed for a bit at that one. Chaz didn't seem to find it as amusing as we did. There was no hiding the terror in his eyes.

"If I talk, you won't kill me, right?"

"I certainly will if you don't."

"Okay, this guy killed Josten's son. Josten wants to know who put the hit out and why? The why is the most important part."

"Richey was his son. No shit," I said in disbelief. "That little faerie was Old Man Josten's son? You'd have thought I'd be doing him a favour."

"You were, your timing just sucked is all," Chaz collapsed into a coughing fit spattering himself with bubbly red mucus.

"Wait a minute," Yuri motioned for me to be quiet, "why is 'why' important?"

"Josten is dying. He needed his son as a host until his body was ready."

"Having children as an insurance policy against your own death. That's pretty fucked up."

"Wait a minute," I said, "I still don't understand the 'why'?"

Dubrovnik tried to speak but his body was wracked by another coughing fit. When it subsided I glanced at Yuri. He shook his head. We both knew he didn't have long.

When he had quieted down he continued. "He thinks you killed his son as an assassination by proxy. He wanted to know how he was found out. He was careful. He wants to know who the leak was."

Suddenly I felt sorry for the poor schmuck. He was just doing his job trying to protect his boss. He was dying as I watched. The poor fuck. "If it makes any difference to you, there was no plan, no conspiracy. Richey just happened to get caught in his own little game that he was playing. He sort of lost his head."

Chaz laughed at that, coughed up some more crimson streaked foam and died.

TEN

The customs officer at the Port Chaffee shuttle terminal was uncomfortable. He didn't like to feel uncomfortable. He was a customs official, it was his job to make others uncomfortable, but the tall, emaciated figure before him made him want to curl into the foetal position and weep.

"Anything to declare, Sir."

"No."

"Is your trip business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure." He smiled as he let the word out with a hiss. Urine trickled down the custom agents leg.

"Welcome to Luna. Have a pleasant visit, Mr. uh, Perkins." He thumbed the 'Entry Accept' on the passport and shoved it back at the menacing figure.

"Oh, I will. I certainly will," Perkins said, leaning into the thin lucite sheild that separated the two men. He smiled widely and strode off.

"I, uh, I gotta go for a minute," the agent said to one of the others in the small cubicle as the smell of warm shit flooded the enclosed space.

Description
One

The rain was oily. How the hell can water be oily? It was just one of the mysteries of city life I had yet to solve and didn't really give a damn about.

I pulled my collar around my neck and dove into the whirling maelstrom of humanity that choked the pedifares. Most wore rebreathers to protect themselves from the latest alien pathogen, real or imagined. I didn't bother. My nanites scrubbed my lungs and scoured my bloodstream seeking out toxins, parasites and any other micro marauder that sought to do me harm. There is a major drawback; I can't get drunk and I sure could've used a beer right about then. There was no time for luxuries anyway; I had a job to do.

Thin as it was when surfaced, my armour felt bulky under my duster. For the sake of appearance, I had foregone up-armouring my face and skull. I patted the comforting lump of the plazer strapped to my thigh. LLooking up, I saw a billboard blimp slowly making its way above the smog filled, vermin ridden canyons the towering habitats created.

People lived up there. Rich people. They looked out above the smog that created perpetual twilight below without ever touching ground level. They lived there, worked there, played there and died there. Hell, for all I knew, they were probably buried there. Theirs were rarefied lives, never mingling with the stinking press of humanity. And I was their bitch. Then and now.

It had started when I was on a patrol in Baghdad, the thrice blessed and twice nuked City of the Holy. We started taking fire. I saw a muzzle flash, raised my grenade launcher and let fly. HEAT rounds do one helluva job on snipers and their immediate environs as well. But in this case, it wasn't just a lone sniper.

They found the weapon he used in the rubble, checked its targeting chip and confirmed that it had been fired, most likely at me. It was deemed by my immediate supervisors that I had taken appropriate actions. All was right with the world and the incident was behind me. Then, some fucking civilian do-gooder got wind of it and turned it into a media circus. I was just trying to save my buddies and it became a fiasco. The Army hung my ass out to dry. I got a Big Chicken Dinner. Bad Conduct Discharge. No chance for redemption.

Okay, so I fragged one family. Big deal. I saw fire coming my way and it came from their window. How was I supposed to know that the kids were home? Uncle Achmed shouldn't have been shooting at me during dinner.

So, there I was. That was what my life had been reduced to. A nearly indestructible 'nite pusher to the rich and famous.

I hate my life.

I climbed two flights of rickety stairs plastered as an afterthought to the side of one of the monolithic buildings to reach a taxi stand. My weight activated the electronic thumb. Within seconds a cab dropped out of the traffic stream and hovered before me. I climbed in.

"Where to," the driver asked me through the bullet proof shield that separated us. I laughed inwardly. Did anybody actually carry chem reaction weapons anymore? My piece can blast through a quarter inch of plasteele as easy as kicking a boot through a baby's skull.

"Keystone Building, 48th and 10th, L87, B59," I answered absently. I fingered the package in my pocket.

A fourteen block trip ended up costing me $157.00. Eschewing the credit scanner on my side of the shield for reasons of anonymity, I slipped two bills into the antiquated one way cash drop. "Keep the change."

"What the fuck is this?" He slapped the shield with the balled up hundreds.

"Hey, it all spends." I slammed the door on his tirade and pushed the button beside the condo's door. Here, above the smog, I could actually see a few stars peeking through the overcast. The rain wasn't oily up here. The stink remained though

"Who is it?" Although I couldn't tell from my side, I knew that the door had become transparent to the viewer on the other side.

"Who the fuck do you think it is Richey? Open the door, it's wet out here." He opened the door a crack and I shoved through. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Do you have it?"

"Nah, I'm here because you're so fucking charming. Of course I've got it," I said reaching into a pocket and removing a small package. The 'It', to which he referred, was a dose of designer miminites. The only high possible for those of us lucky enough to be Enhanced. They mimicked our own 'nites, in whatever configuration we had chosen (I hadn't the option of choosing mine, standard military upgrade) and were consequently ignored, they made their way to the various spots of the brain that would respond to their programming, be it a drunk, a Venusian sting, a simple orgasm, or what ever your little black heart desired.

"Put it on the table," he gestured, stepping away from me. Something was up. He was jumpy as hell.

"Hey, what's…," was all I got out when several black garbed individuals rushed in from the hallway. The pudgy little fucker had set me up.

"Dallas Police …Urrfff," the lead cop said as I kicked the settee over in front of them. They landed in a pile, giving me just enough time to push open the landing door and bolt outside. A red burst of energy melted the door frame beside my head. I tugged my pistol free and fired a blast of green plasma, tagging Richey squarely in the face. His head exploded neatly, painting the room a grisly shade of death. I slammed the door on the sad little pudknockers life.

"Now what," I asked myself. I was almost a klick up with nowhere to go but down. If the DPD nailed me, it was back to Cuba and a comfy cell for a long time.

Time to put my armour to the test. If any ballistic object came in contact with it, it would instantly go rigid. Tougher than steel. I guess the concrete pavement could be considered ballistic, rising up to meet me at terminal velocity. Of course it would be like hitting in a form fitting steel suit. No direct damage from the impact, but I imagine my interior goodies would resemble a meat milkshake after the sudden stop.

I'd have to manually hit the Tesla shield blast just before impact. Tricky.

Fuck.

The sight of four black armoured men busting down the door, hell bent on putting a boot up my ass, solidified my plans.

I jumped.

I could see in the windows as I passed them headlong on a vertical trajectory straight down. I enjoyed the ride while it lasted.

I lived and didn't have to hit the shield. A Fiat I hit on the way down broke my fall. Thank God for those cheap fibreglass hulls. He managed to land the sucker… barely. I pried the door open and was greeted by the sickly sweet odour of fresh shit. What was that bit mom used to say about wearing clean drawers in case of an accident? I'd have loved to see him explain that to the claims adjuster.

The armour was reabsorbed into my skin. I stopped to take a quick inventory of the situation. I was pretty sure the cops didn't know who I was. I always used an alias. Richey wasn't talking, that was a given. Dumb fuck, that would teach him to step into the middle of a firefight.

Shit, this was not good. I had to lay low for a while. I was in deep kimchee.

Two

"Do we have any idea who it was?" Marcus Aurelius Josten, founder and CEO of Josten Aerospace, hid a barely controlled rage beneath a thin veneer of civility. The news of his son's sudden, violent death did not sit well with him.

His chief of security, Charles "Chaz" Dubrovnik, late of the Marine Corps, shifted nervously in his chair. "We have a partial view of his face," he answered in a strong steady voice, suppressing his fear of one of the most powerful men in Texas, if not the country. "It was raining. He had his collar up and his hat pulled…"

"Listen son," Marcus interrupted, "I don't care if he was shittin' kittens in a hurricane. What do you have?"

"Well, we found the taxi he took. The driver claims he never saw the guy before. In the end, he was very convincing. The driver was pissed because he paid cash. Paper bills if you can believe that. No credit trail. He wore gloves, no prints.

We're running the partial image through face recog and dropping it to LEO's around the country. He's probably just some lowlife pusher who found himself in a bad situation and panicked."

"You idiot," the businessman's anger burst forth as the vein in his neck threatened to do, "how many scumbag pushers have you ever seen that can fall 900 metres and walk away. He's Enhanced, you stupid bag of pig shit. He's fucking military. This was a hit. FIND HIM."

Jostens command was so abrupt it mentally knocked his security expert back to boot camp. He jumped to his feet with a crisp, "YES SIR," had to physically restrain himself from saluting about faced and exited the massive mahogany panelled office in three long strides.

"Dumbass," Josten muttered. With a curious twist of his hand, he accessed the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Josten," came a bored female voice.

"Send in Perkins please, Mrs. Stewart." Another similar, but entirely different motion of the wrist severed the connection. He rose and went to an ancient highboy and poured himself a tall bourbon, neat.

His office overlooked the city to the west. He tossed back his drink as he watched the sun set on the Dallas skyline.  The airlanes were clogged with rush hour traffic. Below them the buildings disappeared into a vast sea of heavy smog.

As he poured himself another drink, a double, his desk announced the arrival of Perkins, his handler of difficult problems. A deft twist of his hand bade the visitor enter. The heavy mahogany door swung inward on silent hinges. Perkins glided in. He was tall and thin to the point of being gaunt. His sunken eyes and thin lipped mouth belied a certain calculated cruelty. He sat in an overstuffed wing chair without being asked.

"I understand there is a… complication…?" Perkins voice was a dry hiss. He wore a jagged scar across his larynx as a reminder to himself of the pitfalls of letting ones guard down, of being content, happy. Particularly with a loved one. The cruelly serrated knife, his knife, had barely missed the jugular and the carotid. The image of her twisted, mangled body was still fresh in his mind. Her punishment for letting him get too close to her. He had removed the ring and left it there in the spreading pool of her blood.

Marcus' seemed on the verge of an explosion, but the tall mans thin spidery voice sucked the rage from him. He collapsed in his chair, his anger vetted. "You already know?"

The tall man stared back, saying nothing.

"Of course you know. Stupid question. Sorry. Somebody knew my body wasn't ready and took Richard out of the equation before I could turn a temporary power of attorney over to him. They found a bundle of miminites at his apartment. It was made to look like a drug deal gone bad, but I know it was a hit. It had to be."

Having got this out, Marcus visibly changed. He looked refreshed as his nites got to work restoring his chemical equilibrium, hunting down and neutralizing floods of testosterone, adrenaline and lactic acid from taught and knotted muscles.

"How do you wish to rectify the situation?" Perkins reedy voice and snakelike eyes were always a little unsettling to Marcus. He out massed the rail like man by a good twenty kilos, but still felt a twinge of primal fear when Perkins was in his presence.

"I have Chaz on the trail of the assassin. When he is located, I want you to talk to him. Find out what and who he knows, then you may deal with him, slowly. I want him to know who did this to him… and why."

"As you command." The wraithlike figure was up and through the door almost before it opened itself for him. Marcus again felt that stygian fear in his reptilian hind brain.

He flicked his wrist and again Mrs. Stewart's unemotional voice came out of nowhere. "Yes, Mr. Josten?"

"Please have the medical team assemble in my office in one hour."

"Yes Sir."

"Oh and Mrs. Stewart?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Please send a wreath and a note of condolence over the death of her son to my wife."

"Yes Sir."

His wrist twitched and the connection was severed.

Three

Leaving his employers set of suites, Perkins made his way to the buildings sub-basement where he kept his own offices.

His outer office, where he entertained his few and usually none too happy visitors, was decorated in what one could only describe as macabre. The room was furnished with Victorian reproductions and prints of wood cuts of the Biblical apocalypse. Paintings depicting the Black Death adorned the wood panelled walls.

His inner office was far more Spartan. Bare concrete block walls painted a muted grey and indirect lighting from glow strips illuminating a Government Issue style grey metal desk and matching uncomfortable straight backed chair that were the only decorations.

He sat down and pulled a computer from a stack. He unrolled it on the otherwise bare desk. Flattening it out, he removed his jacket and rolling up his sleeve, he pulled a lead from his arm, sliding it into the desks access port.

He linked to Chaz' database and jacked in. The stupid jarhead had actually made some progress in ascertaining the whereabouts of his prey. His sat up reflexively and his eyes fixed on the wall. His eyes moved at a feverish rate, as if he were scanning a newspaper at relativistic speed. Abruptly the scanning stopped, he sat motionless for a moment, then his lips curled into a thin grin, "Luna", he said. His smile grew broader.

Four

I made it to Luna; I had an old Army buddy there. He owed me. Besides the moon is as good as anyplace to hide and considerably farther from the clusterfuck I had just left back on Earth

I got off the shuttle at Port Chaffee with a throbbing headache and a massive lump on my head. It had been several years since I flew. I hate micro gee. I forgot to adjust my attenuation ready level and as soon as the stewardess announced that we were free to unbuckle and float around the cabin, I shot out of my seat and brained myself on the opposite bulkhead.

I scared the piss out of the middle-aged groundhog couple that sat behind me. I'll bet that was the first time they ever saw anybody move that fast. I cursed myself inwardly for not covering my Enhanced state.

I was retrieving my only baggage, a small OD green Valpak, from the carousel when I heard somebody repeatedly yelling, "Ray, Ray." It took me a moment to realize that was the name I was currently travelling under.

I turned and saw my old Army buddy, Yuri Vorkosigen waving to me. He managed to recognize me even though my 'nites had transformed my appearance. He was still as sharp as ever.

He lumbered over to me and wrapped me in a huge bear hug as soon as I cleared customs. I'm not exactly a little guy, but Yuri is HUGE. He stood well over two metres and must have massed a good 120 kilos. "What the hell brings you up to Luna, you old dogface?" His voice was as big as he was.  Others in the terminal turned at the sound of the thickly accented thunder that rolled over them.

As soon as I recovered my wind and mentally inventoried my ribs for cracks and bruising, I managed to croak, "Things got a little complicated dirt side. Mind if I hole up with you for a while?"

"Yeah, I figured as much. Moya dom, vazsha dom, buddy. Hell, if it weren't for you getting my green ass out of the fire on Mars, I wouldn't be here." I didn't want to bring it up, but I'm glad he did.

Yuri had been an FNG, a fucking new guy, cherry, fresh out of recruit infantry training at Ft. Benning. It was his first time off planet and by luck or fate his big, happy Russian ass landed in my squad. Lucky me.

He had a little trouble with a singularity mine and nearly got the both of us involved in a mess of quantum mechanics I didn't even want to think about. My contribution to saving his ass had been to yank the detonator just before it did its job. He became my instant loyal lapdog and eventually, grudgingly, friend.

"My place is this way," he said and motioned to a tube station across the terminal, "You get a make on the buzz cut," he asked, never turning his head, or looking in the direction of whom he was referring.

"Yeah, He's been on my ass since I left Dallas. He nearly shit himself when we were assigned facing seats on the express to Port Canaveral." I casually adjusted my bag over my shoulder and glanced back at my tail. He was studiously looking casual in the same way a turd looks at home in a punch bowl. "Dumbfuck. Must be a Marine." We were still laughing as we took seats in the tube pod.

Five

"Mr. Josten? The medical staff has arrived. Shall I show them in?"
Marcus Josten was slumped in his chair. The left side of his face was beginning to sag. His left arm was becoming painfully stiff, and his thinking was becoming muddied. The drugs and treatments that rejuvenated him were beginning to wear off.  They were becoming increasingly less affective as time passed. The signs of his stroke became more apparent as the treatments became less efficacious. 'Nites could heal damage that took place after they had established themselves in the host, but they were largely ineffective on whatever damage had been done prior to assimilation.

"Yesh, shend them in," he said to the disembodied voice of his long suffering secretary. The door opened and three men in matching grey suits entered.

"Gentlemen, pleazsh come in."

The men stopped. A look of fear flashed across their faces.

"Yes, yes I know," Josten blustered, carefully stressing the sibilance of the words. "What can you tell me? How much time do I have?"

The men burst forth simultaneously, trying to convince and console as much as to cover themselves. Josten let them flail for a few moments before taking control.

"Enough. You, the squirrelly one; you speak," he indicated the rake thin department head with a pronounced over bite, "you two, shut up."

"What's your name, son?"

"Krenshaw, Sir."

"All right Krenshawsir, tell me, how long do I have and when will my body be ready."

"It's just Krenshaw, Sir."

"Don't sass me boy. You're about as worthless as tits on a boar hog."

"YOU!" Josten bellowed, pointing at a tall young man doing his best to disappear between his own enormous ears. "Do you think you can answer a simple question without having a goddamn shit conniption?"

"Yes sir," he managed to squeak.

"Well?"

"What sir?"

Jostens face visibly reddened. He spoke slowly, "How long do I have, and how long until my body is ready?"

The young geneticist marshalled up his hoarded reserve of courage and said, "Best case scenario Sir, you will require stasis within two months. Cryostasis will retard the process, but at the current state of technology we can only stave off the inevitable for about nine months until your body suffers irreparable systemic malfunction. You will die within a week of extraction."

Josten appeared deflated, he drew himself up to his full six foot two inches, squared his shoulders and asked hopefully, "And my body?'

"If we push it, and there are dangers involved, if we push it, a year, maybe eleven months tops."

Marcus Josten would not allow himself even a moment of self pity. "What about another host body, until mine is ready?"

"Sir, you need as close a genetic match as possible. Since the death of your son erf…," he was silenced by a rude jab in the ribs, "of your wife's son, you have no genetic repository."

"Yes, I know. Damn fool." He pounded his desk in frustration. "I was thinking about… Would my brother do?" He smiled.

Six

"Good. They haven't made me. I thought I was busted when we were assigned lovers seats," Chaz Dubrovnik thought to himself as he watched his quarry zip away in a Trans capsule. He managed to get a photo of his subjects acquaintance and as soon as he made his way out of the port building, he could get a link with the lunar directory and find out where this mook lived.

Against his better judgement, he grabbed the pod sled after theirs. By all the rules of spy craft, he should have waited for at least two to pass, but they didn't know he was there and besides he was good.

He stepped into the tear drop shaped pod, and just managed to strap in before he was shoved back into his seat upon acceleration. "Sonuvabitch," he groaned, too long accustomed to the gradual acceleration of transport on Earth.

As he zipped past Armstrong Station, he caught a glimpse of his prey. The giant Slavic looking bastard was too big to miss. He continued on to Lovell Station and took the returning pod back.

Armstrong City was a city in name only. It was really a collection of interconnected warrens spinning off a central hub. The hub was a cavernous park like area several metres below the surface. The stony roof had a small oculus capped by a plasteele dome. It was daytime, a day lasting two Terran weeks, above the dome and no stars were visible. The circle of darkness was the only visual reminder that there actually was something beyond the rock walls.

The suffused yellow light of the main chamber and branching passageways was supplied by the walls and roof. A fine conductive metallic fabric was laid over the rock and sprayed with a thin coat of LEF, light emitting foam, giving everything a soft dreamlike look.

The pair were no longer there in the gardened promenade that was the antechamber to the main excavation of Armstrong City, but he hadn't expected them to be. He found a free data port, waved his right palm over the credit scanner that automatically deducted 17 dollars from his account. He accessed the city personal directory. He pressed his head against the pad and downloaded the image of the Slav for recognition. Instantly a response shot back:

Citizen Gregori Stanislaw
Greater Ukrainian State of the NHC
Diplomatic Attaché to the Council of the Lunar Republic
Address not given
PID not given
Chaz sighed deeply, but he had expected as much. He hadn't expected the guy to be listed, but he certainly hadn't expected him to be part of the diplomatic corps. Now he was wondering what he had gotten into.

"Shit, this is big. I better check in with the boss." He rang up the Ritz Carlton and checked himself into a room, checkout date open. He had work to do. He strode off clumsily in the weak gravity and made his way down the main thoroughfare to Armstrong City proper.

In a Starbucks across the plaza two pair of eyes watched the guy lurch awkwardly down the corridor.

Seven

We were sitting in Starbucks when Yuri pulled out his tablet, took a swig of coffee and blew a steady stream out of his nose, "What the hell is so funny," I demanded, sopping up the caffeinated mucus that had spattered the table.

"Your mysterious friend just tried to run a make on you. Since you're not listed here he tried a photo ident on me."

"So?"

He tried to explain between fits of laughter. "When I first immigrated to Luna, I got here the same time as some low level Embassy flunkie. The idiots in immigration can't tell one Slavic pig fucker from another, so they fucked up our PID pics. You are looking at Gregori Stanislaw of the state of the Ukraine Embassy, a minor, but essential functionary of the embassy," he finished. His mocking attempt to look dignified fell far short.

"Yeah, cute, but what's so funny."

"That Ukrainian guy was busted about three months ago for smuggling synthmesc in his diplomatic pouch. He had diplomatic immunity, so he received a slap on the wrist and was sent back in disgrace, but anybody who comes looking for him is going to raise a few eyebrows among the powers that be. And the laws here are a little different than they are dirtside.

Just by accessing that listing, he has already made himself known to the local gendarmerie. Dumbass."

"It's getting funnier. Go on."

"Where do you think an old war horse might find gainful employ in a rustic location such as this?" His grin widened as he took a sip of his coffee?"

"No shit, you're a cop?"

"Top Cop as a matter of fact. They recruited me directly from Bragg. After Luna seceded they wanted to change the entire infrastructure from the top down. They looked at the whole place like some lawless old west town and wanted their own Wyatt Earp.

Colonel Edmonton, you remember him; well, he found out that they were searching for people with certain qualifications and recommended me. So here I am with nothing to do, there is no crime to speak of. Basically I ride herd on a couple of hundred thousand people and occasionally put a few in the stockade to sleep it off. The only fun I get is when some user comes looking for the Ukrainian for a quick fix and knocks on my door instead."

His tablet buzzed again, he glanced at it and put it away. "My guys got him. You maybe want to have a little chat with him?"

"In a minute. So when did this happen," I asked him, sipping on my iced tea.

"Right after they fragged your career. As a matter of fact, I hear that if you were still in the batt, they would have offered you the job."

"I was a soldier; I couldn't stand being a pussy ass cop." I gave him a dirty look

"Fuck you Sarge. Still riding my ass after all these years."

"I taught you everything you know."

"Almost, but not all." We laughed at that.

"Where was she from again," I asked

"Bolivia, I think."

"I never knew a woman could actually do that."

"I don't think she did either. What a trooper… Come on let's go have a little chat with your friend."

Eight

Dr. Craig Josten, head of the Nanotechnology R&D Department for Boeing Aerospace and Chair of sub molecular bio-engineering at MIT was enjoying a rare afternoon without the usual annoying hoard of grad students that seemed to constantly hover around him.

He was well into his fifth Jack Daniels when his 'plant buzzed him. He clicked his tongue and linked in. "Josten here."

"Josten here too, how are things, Little Brother?"

Craig's sluggish mind quickly threw off the affects of the Tennessee tea. "What do you want?"

"Now is that anyway to treat your loving brother?"

"What do you want?"

"Yeah, your wife called. You really are a prick, you know that?"

"Why, because I put that little worthless faggot up with a trust and a luxury flat? Gave him whatever he wanted so long as he didn't embarrass me, the family or the company?"

"No, because you sent Caroline a bouquet to inform her that her son had died. No matter what he was, she loved him."

"It's her fault she turned out like he did."

"Never mind that, what do you want?"

"Have you considered my offer?"

"My answer is the same. I'm not going to be a part of it. It's bad enough that you had to drag our name through the mud while you lied, cheated and murdered your way to the top."

"I was never even indicted for that," he replied tersely.

"The answer is still no."

"At least come to dinner and hear me out. There have been some changes. I know Caroline would love to see you."

"She's the only thing you got right in your life. Fine I'll come. When?"

"How's Wednesday at eight? I'll send the car around to collect you."

"Since when do you talk like that? We both grew up as swampers on Dad's rigs."

Markus ignored the jibe. "See you Wednesday."

As the connection was cut, Craig stared at the framed photo of his roughneck father, covered in grease and oil and smiling a gap toothed grin.

"Fuck," he said and poured himself another drink.

Nine

The room was small. No more than five metres square with a low ceiling and what looked like dried blood on the scuffed formerly white walls. As if picking up on my thoughts, Yuri said, "The bloods real, the application is… exaggerated. I got a pint from the medics and sprayed it around. I've found the detainees are a little more forthcoming when they think their soft parts might be in danger."

"You wouldn't really rough somebody up would you?" We both laughed at the joke.

We had just settled into the straight backed aluminium chairs when the door to the interrogation room slammed open and a Peace Officer nearly as big as Yuri shoved our guest inside. He fell over the brushed aluminium table bolted and fell to the floor.  Being handcuffed he had some difficulty getting up. Neither one of us offered to help. After a few moments he stopped struggling and glared at us.

Yuri reached into his jacket and pulled out a computer. He unfolded it and punched in a few commands. His eyes lit on something I couldn't see, and he smiled. "Good morning Mister…," he stopped to look at the computer again, "Michael Day. Tell me please, what is your real name?"

"That is my real name you Nazi bastard."

I just had time to notice that Yuri was still wearing his old issue steel toed jump boots. This was not going to be pleasant for somebody. "Ooof", I said in sympathy, as Yuri kicked him in the chest. Take a bunch of dry spaghetti in your hands and break it. That's what snapping ribs sound like. Only moister.

Yuri smiled as the man writhed in agony. "How clumsy of you to fall. Here, let me help you to seat." He reached down and yanked the man into the chair with one hand. I could barely imagine the pain as those splintered ribs grated against each other. "Now, please tell me name." I had just noticed that Yuri had slipped into his Russian accent. All of us are taught to speak in a uniform clipped mid-west accent so that you can't tell if somebody is from Yonkers or Bettendorf, Iowa. Yuri was putting on a show for me. He always was a ham.

"My name is Michael Day. Fuck you."

Yuri smiled at me. "He likes to tell joke. I like tell joke too." It was all I could do to keep from laughing. "Okay funny man. Here is good Joke." I could almost feel it as Yuri gave the man a short jab to the side.

"F-f-f fuck you." bloody, frothy spittle dripped from his lips, sure sign of a punctured lung.

"Okay, listen up 'Chaz". Sounds like some goddamn gay college punk doesn't? Chaz I mean," he said turning to me. I just grunted.

"Here's the skinny," he'd covered his accent again, "we know who you are. Did you think you could duck the security of an entire planet?"

"Isss not a pl… planet." he managed to get out.

"What did you say? Chaz?" Shit, he was smiling again. Chaz was definitely not going to like this.

"Issss not planet. Issss sat uh lite," he managed to get out between ragged breaths.

Yuri gave him an open handed cuff across the face that I'll bet his grandmother felt in her womb. I could hear his teeth slam together as his head snapped sideways. "Listen buddy, your not making things any better for yourself. You've got a punctured lung, and I think maybe a broken jaw. You took a nasty spill coming in here, now talk. You don't want to take a walk outside without a pressure suit do you. Accidents do happen."

"You don't know who I work for. You'll be sorry you fucked with me." His words were brutal, but his eyes showed fear.

Yuri tapped on the thin sheet of plastic that was his computer. "You're Charles "Chaz" Dubrovnik. You work for Josten Aerospace as head of security. You report to Marcus Josten personally. You suck his dick too, Chaz?" He turned to me, "I'll bet he sucks Josten's dick." I nodded agreement.

"I just want to know why you are here, and why you were following one of the best private soldiers in the business," he paused to let that sink in. "You may as well talk. You are going to die miserably either way, so you might as well shuffle off this mortal coil knowing the guy who sent you on this fools errand is going to follow you quickly to the great beyond."

"You wouldn't really vac him?" I feigned concern.

"Of course not, I'm just trying to scare him." We laughed for a bit at that one. Chaz didn't seem to find it as amusing as we did. There was no hiding the terror in his eyes.

"If I talk, you won't kill me, right?"

"I certainly will if you don't."

"Okay, this guy killed Josten's son. Josten wants to know who put the hit out and why? The why is the most important part."

"Richey was his son. No shit," I said in disbelief. "That little faerie was Old Man Josten's son? You'd have thought I'd be doing him a favour."

"You were, your timing just sucked is all," Chaz collapsed into a coughing fit spattering himself with bubbly red mucus.

"Wait a minute," Yuri motioned for me to be quiet, "why is 'why' important?"

"Josten is dying. He needed his son as a host until his body was ready."

"Having children as an insurance policy against your own death. That's pretty fucked up."

"Wait a minute," I said, "I still don't understand the 'why'?"

Dubrovnik tried to speak but his body was wracked by another coughing fit. When it subsided I glanced at Yuri. He shook his head. We both knew he didn't have long.

When he had quieted down he continued. "He thinks you killed his son as an assassination by proxy. He wanted to know how he was found out. He was careful. He wants to know who the leak was."

Suddenly I felt sorry for the poor schmuck. He was just doing his job trying to protect his boss. He was dying as I watched. The poor fuck. "If it makes any difference to you, there was no plan, no conspiracy. Richey just happened to get caught in his own little game that he was playing. He sort of lost his head."

Chaz laughed at that, coughed up some more crimson streaked foam and died.

TEN

The customs officer at the Port Chaffee shuttle terminal was uncomfortable. He didn't like to feel uncomfortable. He was a customs official, it was his job to make others uncomfortable, but the tall, emaciated figure before him made him want to curl into the foetal position and weep.

"Anything to declare, Sir."

"No."

"Is your trip business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure." He smiled as he let the word out with a hiss. Urine trickled down the custom agents leg.

"Welcome to Luna. Have a pleasant visit, Mr. uh, Perkins." He thumbed the 'Entry Accept' on the passport and shoved it back at the menacing figure.

"Oh, I will. I certainly will," Perkins said, leaning into the thin lucite sheild that separated the two men. He smiled widely and strode off.

"I, uh, I gotta go for a minute," the agent said to one of the others in the small cubicle as the smell of warm shit flooded the enclosed space.