THE GUARDSMAN: Book 1: Honor of the Fallen – Chapters 14-16
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The Guardsman, Book 1: Honor of the Fallen:
Chapter 14)
Persephone was an amazing dancer.
She moved like a beautiful jungle cat with no bones whatsoever impeding her movement. She had been going at it for hours only taking occasional drinks before burning more holes in the dance floor and tempting the crowd to keep up.
Samson bent comfortably over the railing in the dance club they went to after dinner. There were only a few tables behind him. He was ‘watching their stuff’ while the friends all danced. The drink in his hand was long forgotten, while he watched as she slipped and slid from one insistent dance partner to the next.
His glass contained a local brew. The short glass of ‘special spirits’ abused the title of ‘drink’. The club bartender and waitress had both claimed it was a top-side local brewed alcohol mix. It was supposed to be tequila and vodka both distilled within a hundred kilometers, formulated for maximum legal alcohol content and purity, enriched with natural juices to provide immune system-boosting vitamins. One of the youngsters had given in and bought a round for the ten of them and tipped extra, probably just to show off.
Persephone had asked some fellow patrons nicely and the combined group had pulled together three tables for their group and the few befriended patrons. They now had a whole corner of the establishment. She had them all out in the twirling confusion of colors and people with her eight courtiers.
The bouncers had been peevish when they collected his two gauss pistols. The eight accompanying ‘friends’ had gawked at the thousand rounds of ammunition he pulled out of his conceal pouches, which the bouncers had easily found, with tactile inspection, using an old-fashioned and dependable pat-down search. No one had said a word as Samson silently popped the left clasp on the sword, grasped the right harness, popped it, and swung the blade and scabbard out of his overcoat into his waiting left hand. Bouncers, friends, and anonymous guests behind him, all stepped back when the blade sang its lethal song, reflecting light as it spun to face the inspection of the bouncer, laid across a single supporting finger under the blade. At the bouncer’s nod, the blade flourished and slapped back into the scabbard, with its usual authoritative click.
The only person who had not stepped back was Persephone. From his back-right, she stood impassively until he turned to face the young beauty. She quipped, “Are you quite done, you big showoff?” She smiled up to Samson as her tiny fingers pushed into his back prodding him forward to hand off the sword blade for secure storage.
The ceramic blade clicked against the metal frame of the half-wall. Samson adjusted his drink in his right hand freeing several fingers to push the blade farther up his left forearm. On the final pat-down when told to raise his hands he had done exactly as instructed, crossed his arms to be minimally threatening, suffered the pat-down, and entered, with the small blade still in his possession. Samson had pressed the blade that was strapped to his left forearm to the back of his right while he non-threateningly held his elbow, the search skimmed down from his elbows to the rest of his body and down to his boots. They had even checked his boots and came up dry for additional weapons.
Samson loved that little ceramic blade. It was the coolest weapon he ever had. It was so subtle yet lethal and had so many applications, after all, there were just so many things you could do with a rocket launcher before the novelty wore off. Trying to explain away the presence of a rocket launcher as an ‘art tube’, or claiming your vocation was ‘plumbing inspector’, probably would not work on even the laziest and stupidest security guard. But walking through such tight security and not even raising an eyebrow in the process was just so… cool.
The specially mixed spirits touched Samson’s lips again as he struggled to swallow the next mouthful of misery. To him, it tasted like sour lime concentrate, mixed with fuel cell acid. Not that anyone had ever survived drinking the highly corrosive fuel cell acid to complain about the taste, but the results of drinking fuel cell acid were well-known and ugly.
Persephone had followed her friends and pounded the shot down her throat. She had turned a sickly greenish yellow. Two of their group immediately ran, respectively for the male and female bathrooms. Two other women followed to the bathroom seconds later.
Just to show up the snobby young punks, Samson had taken a long slow sip, right in front of their gawking green faces. He immediately wished he still had a pistol so he could shoot the bartender and waitress for pimping the awful swill, then he could shoot himself to kill the pain. He kept up the act of drinking all the way to the tables. He mostly just pressed the glass to his lips, let it slosh, and pretended to swallow.
The youngsters were out jumping around having a good time and Samson could finally dispose of the drink he now decided to call ‘Satan’s Fiery Piss’, by drifting to the far end of the half wall, casually depositing the glass, and drifting back to his ‘table guarding’ duty station. While everyone was occupied, his movement went totally unnoticed.
He flagged the waitress with a finger in the air and occupied himself watching Persephone manipulate the whole dance floor, stealing women from their dates to drag them to dance with her before returning them out of breath. When the waitress arrived, “I seem to have misplaced my glass…” he said with a smile.
She interrupted eagerly, hoping for another commission from the lime-flavored swill. She offered cheerfully, “That’s fine, I’m sure someone just bussed your glass and didn’t see you next to it. Would you like another one?!”
Samson answered immediately and authoritatively, “No thank you.” Her depression was obvious, so he smoothed it over, “I’m actually working tonight, and I need to behave myself. I was wondering if you had any standard beers?”
The server cheerfully chirped, “Of course,” excited to be back in the business of selling drinks. She quickly rattled off the list of their beers, only one of which Samson recognized, but by name only, and he ordered that one. He was a little ‘gun-shy’ having already experimented once that evening. He still felt his burning and angry stomach, so he was cautious.
The beer actually turned out to be a pleasant surprise. He made note of the name and even reordered a second after he found the first empty in his hand.
The multi-tiered gallery that surrounded and stepped up and away from the dance floor on three sides, with stadium-style steps leading up to banks of tables on every level of the gallery, provided an excellent and comfortable view of the whole establishment. The caveman in him also enjoyed the casual leaning and occasional scratching posts they provided for Samson’s back, at the break in the wall, as it opened to the stairs. He could step down a few stairs and lazily rub his back where his arms could never reach.
By the time Samson was well into his second beer and many songs later, Persephone was still going strong, bouncing around. Her companions were beginning to show signs of wear and even fatigue. Samson had worked himself further down to the edge of the dance floor enjoying the show: the darkened club, the throbbing crowd, the pounding music, the flashing colorful lights, and most of all Persephone, were putting together.
Persephone’s long hair spun and reflected light. It draped around her in her silk strands. She had checked the overcoat she had borrowed from Samson at the door, leaving her in a slinky silk thing that hid everything and managed to improve all with its amazing accents.
Samson felt his mouth hanging open as he watched her lithe legs, toned arms, ridged smooth stomach, and unfathomable curves spin and dip and move. She was beautiful beyond words.
Uncomfortable, Samson poured beer from the shatterproof bottle into his mouth and pulled long and hard.
Then all hell broke loose…
A woman at the door screamed. Samson took a long step towards Persephone. Looking at the door, a press of newcomers mobbed the bouncers, throwing flashes of light as they came. The paparazzi and news parasites had found them somehow.
The bottle struck the floor and bounced, sending the dregs of his beer flying and the hardened plastic bottle spinning and twisting away. It disappeared, forgotten, under unknown tables. Samson’s pulse pounded. Adrenaline dumped into his system sending him into a state of hyper-awareness.
He took two more steps, as more photographers poured into the club. They were coming in over, around, and through the bouncers and door security.
The customers on the floor panicked as more people felt the wash of unknown intruders suddenly entering and the sudden press of additional bodies precipitated the panic.
A male he did not recognize obstructed his view of Persephone, probably by accident or panic but the man’s outstretched hands were an impediment and pissed Samson off. His own paired hands looped clockwise, first trapping then dragging the fellow’s hands down and around while accelerating him away from Samson. The contact caused the other man to look at his flung arms. The mistake allowed Samson time to complete another hundred and eighty degrees, sink at the knees, and strike the man under the ribs. The rising blow lifted him off his feet while sending him drifting through the air to impact with a set of tables and chairs to Samson’s left. His objective was achieved by discarding the impediment, and Samson reacquired Persephone.
What he saw sent his blood to boil. Someone was touching Persephone.
Not dancing touching. He was grabbing and handling her. He was trying to trap her. He was restraining her.
Samson saw red, white, and black at the sides of his vision. It had nothing to do with the lighting in the club or the flashes from the incessant cameras.
In the confusion and press of bodies, Persephone had just realized she was being assaulted and held as Samson closed the distance. She saw the paparazzi with their flashing buzzing cameras and the overanxious reporters, fighting each other and the crowd to be the first to the promised story.
The man holding Persephone sealed his fate when his right hand, the arm closer to Samson, closed around the back of Persephone’s shirt and held her straight at arm’s length while his left hand waved over his head to the oncoming cameras.
Samson’s right hand closed over the man’s fist, locking it in place. The heel of his left hand struck the straight and locked elbow.
The force of the blow shattered all three bones at the elbow joint. It sent pieces and bone shards ripping through the man’s skin, muscle, tendons, and ligaments, out of the soft crook of his arm. Blood splattered in a gruesome fan from the erupting compound fracture and ruptured veins. Samson discarded the shattered limb, by tossing the compound fracture down and out of his way. The shattered bones popped against each other again as he discarded the other man’s fist. The arm swung grotesquely mangled, as it ripped broken bones out the other side of the broken joint as the shattered bones in the compound fracture popped against each other again in the opposite direction. The force of Samson’s manipulation was completely masked by the intense blossoming pain that was invading the other man’s shock-locked brain.
The force of Samson’s breaking blow spun the target to face away from him, as Samson’s hands glided purposefully up the broken arm and over the shoulders as Samson took a left sidestep to position himself directly behind the other man. Samson gripped the man under the jaw with both hands. He pulled back and down with his hands. Samson’s right knee drove, up into and under the assailant’s ribs, on the right side.
The explosive force instantly ruptured the right-side kidney and rattled the intestines loose from their soft tissue wrappings. It was so painful and traumatically sudden that the attacker lost control of his bowels. The blow lifted the man clear off his feet. In the instant he hung in the air parallel to the floor, Samson finished the fight by driving the chin, neck, and shoulders down to the floor. At some point, gravity and torque drove the fellow’s head and spine into the floor. The force of the blow, if not instantly lethal, would surely break or dislocate every bone in that area, including the cervical column, skull, and upper back. He would be lucky to walk again if he survived.
With his arm around Persephone, Samson ducked them both low into the scattering mixed crowd of patrons and photographers, as they rushed and milled in every direction. The frenzied photographers and confused, panicked customers created a tangled and confused maelstrom all around Samson and Persephone.
Persephone’s insistent tugging on his hand and fingers finally drew Samson out of his adrenaline-fueled rage, “This way,” she calmly proclaimed guiding Samson by the hand to a corner and an occupied set of tables, where the patrons had been able to avoid the melee and the cameras.
The press corps started shouting and Samson heard some of the names of the people in their group. As Samson looked back, several members of their group peeled off from the crowd and clumps of reporters followed the laughing scattering friends. They already had a plan and location to meet if things went wrong. Thanks to Samson’s planning and instructions it had become a game for them.
The civilians had no clue that the ‘gone to hell plan’ he had insisted on was a really bad thing if they had to actually use it. Because it means everything has gone to hell by the time a soldier has used it. To the civilians it was fun.
The expert dancer she is, Persephone, softly gripped Samson’s right hand, the one protectively cradling her, while insistently maneuvering her to their escape, in both of her hands, lifts and somehow twirls Samson several times like a dance partner.
When he stopped spinning and faced her, Persephone sat and hid the two of them by pushing Samson back into a darkened booth next to patrons in a dark corner. Samson was intent on flight with his precious Persephone. Disobedient to his will, she straddled him in the booth.
His anger melted as she kissed him all over, his lips, face, eyes, ears, and neck. All the while, the rest of the world around them was in chaos, her long hair covered both of their faces from view.
The friends broke into small groups and all ran in separate directions. They were followed by the press. It was a game the children of corporate nobility knew. They liked the sport of running from the press while offering their best sides for the tabloids.
Samson was lost in the woman he loved. He did not care about anything other than the clean smell of her hair, her flower soap, and the warm, natural, beautiful scent of her sweat, from dancing for hours. She is in his arms and that is all that matters.
As the last of the photographers and paparazzi passed Persephone coyly whispered, “Just like old times, Love?”
Concealed to the roar of the club and too close to her ears, for anyone else, Samson teased in a whisper, “Persephone Apollonia, some days I do not know if I want to love you forever or tie you down and throw away your key.”
She teased, “Well Samson, maybe if you are a really good boy, tonight you can do both.” As the man whom the world now knew as ‘John Smith’ tried to reflexively stand to, and regain control of this spiraling situation, Persephone squeezed her knees against his hips, and the electric shock of her soft love bite, on his ear, sent shivers down his spine. His efforts end unrealized. “I have missed you so much, Samson. I cannot take this anymore! Let me stay with you! Let me stay with you forever!”
He reminded her, “It has only been six months, Love. I’m a ‘John Smith’ now!” The condemned and disgraced man kissed the Imperial Crown Princess and Heiress to the Empire, as her delicate arms clasped, hands to elbows, around his neck and she hid them with her hair. “I’m in enough trouble as it is. This is why I was punished last time; don’t you remember? If your father caught you staying with me in that little rat hole I hide in every night, he would shoot me in the head and leave my corpse for the scavengers!”
She offered, “Yes, but think about it Samson, my Love! No sneaking around and stealing kisses between security monitor stations. No nannies or servants walking in on us.” Persephone playfully teased, “We could play grown-up house, you come home from work, and I’ll have imaginary tea waiting for you and my stuffed bears to keep us company at the table…”
Frustrated, Samson snapped, “Woman! Your father is going to kill me.”
Persephone teased, “Yes, but think of how much ‘adult fun’ we could have before he tracks us down, drags me back to the palace, and you into the street before he shoots you.”
Samson groaned, and retorted hotly, “Oh, that sounds like tons of fun! Thank you.”
Chapter 15)
The crooked old man snapped, “Try ‘gain princess!” John Smith tensed before he realized the grubby proprietor, of the grubby lodging, did not actually recognize Persephone, “Yous ‘n yer fr’ens can put yer fancy shiny moneys ‘ways.”
The annoying tag-along pretty boy, the one John could not bother learning his name, the same one John had wanted to beat into a pulp and leave by the corner of the building when they met was the one who spoke first. As was the case throughout the night from the time he bought those horrible drinks, he spoke before his brains caught his tongue. “What is your meaning, Sir? This is proper Imperium coinage, and perfectly legal tender for all transactions within the Incorporated Empire!”
From behind the counter, the old man corrected, “Yous can go ‘legal tenders’ some b’lace elze! Looks ‘roun yah! I’s nee’s ta fence dat gol’ coin in yer han’, ‘n erer other ‘ere. Evens if’s da fence don’ just kill me ‘n take’em, fer ‘is self, ‘e gonna pay twen’y percen’ on face, ‘n still repor’ me a thief. Zmall fol’in’ money, only, none them fancy gol’ coin. Can’ make no change for, tha’ much coin, no’how.”
Tiring of the endless banter and negotiating, John snatched the coin from the pretty boy’s hand. The young man squeaked a cry of shocked irritation. John followed by snatching the seven coins his friends all held. None of them wanted to appear poor in front of their friends so they all wanted to pay for their own rooms with ten-thousand credit coins.
The idiots were trying to use ten-thousand credit denomination gold coins, to pay for shanty rooms, in an unregistered city slum, cradled literally between the sweeping legs of a city tower. No one on the ground could see through the permanent mists, dripping fluids, and falling garbage, from the upper levels of the interconnecting sky towers. It was pure idiocy to think that they would care about some corporate lordling’s high words and higher denomination coins, let alone make change for that coin.
In theory, the elevated base of the towers kept vermin and flood waters out of the mechanicals and interior areas. The design philosophy had obviously failed given the number of pests he had living in his own residence.
That reality did not stop planners from employing multi-tiered force barriers along the legs of towers. The barriers worked up from an irritating tingle to the largest and most powerful barriers that would vaporize fluids and living tissue when they came in contact with those fields. The ever-present hum of massive currents and static crash of vaporized pests, rodents, birds, and any other mutant thing from any of the thousands of colonized words that hitched a ride on a ship, was the only reminder at the ground level that there was something far above, and out of reach, high above the mists.
The barriers worked on human pests that tried to climb the towers too.
From the ground, the substantial hotel looked like some tiny turd dropped by a massive shadowy beast. One that straddled so far into distant mists, that only one leg was visible at any time. The hotel itself had a good location, good being a relative term, because the sweep of the tower’s legs caught most of the falling garbage from above in its sprawling incineration fields. The rest of the hotel followed the upper sweep of the tower’s legs and avoided falling solid wastes and the occasional large, multi-ton, industrial wreckage that was known to pulverize structures at ground level.
After falling a thousand meters, the kinetic energy produced by those multi-ton missiles was enough to rival artillery rounds. On impact, the shrapnel, and any combustibles contained, instantly ignited into expanding fireballs, which were further fueled by anything combustible on the ground. When any flames died the smarter human scavengers ripped the wreckage apart and built places like this hotel, in the shadow of the tower’s base and legs to protect themselves and their work.
While from the outside this place looked like a monstrous turd, the interior was relatively clean and decently lit. You could not tell this from the outside because most of the light was contained by the building’s plate steel paneling or the precious few windows darkened that were in turn hidden behind plate steel shutters, to protect them from the environment and vandals. It was hard to get intact glass windows after a thousand-meter fall. Windows were a luxury to treasure at this level.
John counted three windows in the back room behind the manager’s desk.
John pocketed all eight coins, pulled out a wad of loosely folded paper money, and peeled off the grubby low denomination bills, from the outside of the cash wad. He then shoved the larger bills unceremoniously into the front pocket opposite the coins.
Persephone’s eyes shot up as she stood to John’s right, “You know I’m a pack rat. Why would I be any different about money?” Her exasperated huff of an exhale told him the conversation was not over. Turning back to the fog-dweller he said, “You said seventy-five each…” John started thumbing through hundred denomination bills.
The proprietor agreed, “‘ats right. Yous gim’me thousan’ evin we call square.”
John’s mind raced through current weapon inventory, as breathing stopped, and his augmented pulse pounded. ‘John’ reverted to Samson before that first splash of adrenaline-spiked blood hit his brain.
He did not like being cheated.
His teeth were still in contact with each other through his clenched jaw, and Samson grumbled, “I count eight rooms by seventy-five credits a piece per night. Explain the forty percent premium.” Samson’s hands drifted down slowly pocketing the bills in his left front pocket, where he had put the gold coins. He then calmly and softly cupped together his hands in front of himself, with his right on the bottom.
Persephone quietly stepped back and to her right, putting Samson at double arm’s length, while she mimed a yawn and disinterest.
The hotel was technically adjoining the club they had snuck out of to avoid the paparazzi and he had not yet reclaimed his Ikazuchi or pistols from the desk security station.
Samson casually popped the button on his left sleeve, between his right thumb and index finger. The movement was masked and out of sight for all but Persephone who knew where to look.
The haggling hit close to home, “Don’ be tryin’a star’ noth’in’! Brice i’ da’ brice. I seen thems camera! Da’s lookin’ fer yous’all. Ain’no fancy camera do’n ‘ere fer noth’in’ else.”
Samson countered, “I’m offering a hundred per room, eight hundred total, nice small, wrinkled bills. And do not bullshit me about you’re full. I can see your register book. We want a block of rooms, the nice rooms. They are at the top of the open register’s page and all are listed as vacant. If you want to charge us those prices you are not sticking us with the cheap twenty-five credit rooms and charging the seventy-five credits plus premium. And, we want them now with no more questions. That is a nice premium for you and the owner does not have to know. If no one bothers us, I will add another two hundred when we leave.”
The offer was rejected, “Da’eells wit’ yous! All now!”
Samson’s left foot shot forward. In an instant, Samson’s left elbow moved to the eye level of the desk manager, and his right hand pulled the ceramic hold-out knife the scanners missed from his left sleeve. His vice-like left hand snapped out like a steel trap. It shot behind the man’s head, and seized the long, thin, greasy, hair behind the manager’s left ear; the pulling twisting hand pulled the hair at the roots and slammed the older man’s face into the desk.
The split second after the other man’s right ear squashed painfully into the desk, the six-inch ceramic blade thumped deep into the plastic desktop.
The hereditary corporate nobles flinched back when their eyes finally relayed to their primitive back brains what they had just seen, and preservation instincts took over automatically.
Persephone knew what was coming and remained silently still.
Samson ground the smashed ear and abused face across the rough plastic top, dragging forward, while gripping the embedded blade, cutting edge level with the man’s eyes. As the left hand dragged, the man’s face was dragged that agonizing inch closer to the blade. The only sound was the slick, grinding, slipping sound of the man’s flesh over a solid surface, ever closer to the blade. Samson’s fury turned his knuckles white, as the hot blood coursed through him.
A new voice spoke, “You’re a rebuild, aren’t you?” The manager’s perfect diction was a striking comparison to his prior ‘fog-dweller’ accent from moments before.
Samson growled, “And how do you know that?”
The manager’s left hand slowly reached forward, open palm up, toward Samson’s knife hand and flicked the indicative crosshatched scars that pulsed angry red and white on Samson and all other rebuilds, when they were stressed enough. Samson earned that particular set of scars from losing most of the meat and flesh from his right arm when the vehicle to that side was hit and exploded, catastrophically.
The rest of his scars were on the other side of his body. He lost the rest when the other parts were blown off in an artillery barrage. His armor protected his core, but the thinner arm and leg armor failed, in both cases.
The shirt sleeve on his ‘new second’ arm, on the right side, had pulled back slightly with the sudden draw and impact of the blade in the counter. The hotel manager had easily seen it because his face was being crushed and dragged into the blade Samson was holding with that wrist.
The manager then pulled his shirt collar back revealing his own faint, age-faded, rebuild scars, on his upper left shoulder and collar bone. “I was rebuilt almost fifty-eight years ago. I was a fuel cell tech. We were shelled. Rebuilds were less effective back then. I did not warrant a premium package, because I was just a low-level enlisted tech. Mine never healed correctly. I had too much deep damage for the process, at the time, to fix. If I was hit again, everything would have come apart, so I was discharged. Unless I missed my guess, you are not only a rebuild but an augment. I only saw a very few of them in my time, mean as hell and twice as fast, they were.”
Finding common ground through violence and shared experience, Samson asked, “So, we have a deal? I will see you tomorrow with the rest of the two hundred and we will swap war stories before everyone wakes up.”
Eager to be free or just relieved there was an end, the proprietor agreed, “Deal.”
Chapter 16)
“OK, speak up, strong silent one,” Persephone lounged across Samson’s lap in her suite as the hangers-on shuffled back and forth in the living room, kitchen, and common areas. For an apparent dump at the bottom of the world the little hotel, appended onto the club complex, had the most modern amenities.
Samson half expected to find the tags on things. Then cynically remembered that they were all probably pilfered en route to the stores, and never had a chance to receive retail tagging.
It was the little things that really impressed him though. The water ran clear and cleaner than his apartment, though Samson wanted to test it before drinking. The lack of the tiny little white flakes that came out of his kitchen sink was a definite plus.
Samson leaned to his right and away from Persephone, so he could see her face better, “Speak up about what?”
Persephone leaned forward along Samson’s chest, gently cupped his chin, and shook his head while she smiled, “You know what. Where did all that money come from? You are supposed to be poor and ruined because of me. I feel cheated that I didn’t succeed.”
Samson felt his mouth pinch to the left and his brows furrow. Before he thought about it, he pinched Persephone’s knee, just above the bone, in the soft ticklish meat. She squawked and jumped like a child. After noticing her giggling smile, Samson saw all the soft little noble hangers-on stopping to stare out of the corner of his eye. When Persephone turned to glance at them, they all hurried about their various recreations in the room. Her eyes flicked to a halt on Samson.
The sight would have been worth stopping for regarding the age disparity alone. Add the ‘early twenty-something’ Imperial Crown Princess of their Corporate Hegemony reclining in some unknown thirty-something commoner’s lap, while she was obviously allowing intimate touches, was almost scandalous, and the hangers-on were privy to the juicy details. There was no way that they would not watch.
Reminding her for the thousandth time, “I’m a pack rat. You have known that for a while, probably the whole time I served you, almost a quarter of your life.”
She countered, “Five years and four months now, Samson. That is more than a quarter; you were assigned to me when I was fourteen and a half.”
Samson counter-pointed her, “Really? Has knowing me been that much of a trial, that you count the days like a prison term?”
The sycophant buzz accelerated slightly drawing a mental observation note to the front of Samson’s hyper-trained brain.
She shrugged laconically, and admitted, “No, I just miss you. These new guys are no fun, and not as good as you. They do not teach me anything and hardly ever talk. They are like boring robots. And they still have not learned half of the tricks that you taught me. It is like they are fresh out of school, but so old and crusty that they cannot learn anymore.”
Teasing, he asked, “So, you don’t like your new minder?”
She sighed, put upon and corrected, “Minder’s’, plural. I have two of them now.”
He asked again, “So, you do not like your minders?”
Persephone shrugged noncommittally, “I like them about as much as they like me.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
He had to ask, “So how did you get away from them anyway? If you have two minders, I would imagine that they hand you off to each other.”
Bored, she shrugged and answered, “They do, but I still got away. They are not as smart as you, Samson.”
Samson asked, “How did you get out? Just curious.”
She informed flatly, “I went out the bathroom window and used the grav harness you taught me to build.”
Amused by the vision, Samson asked, “So, you just jumped out the window in one of your frilly and flowy court gowns,” he asked sarcastically, as she rolled her eyes, knowing how much she hated those overwrought monstrosities, “floated to the ground and walked out the gate, just like that, just that easy?”
She quibbled, “Well no…”
He demanded, “Tell.”
She said cryptically, “Livery.”
Put out, he demanded more, “‘Livery’, could you be a little more specific?”
She filled in, “I took a set of livery and a hairpiece to tie my hair back from the normal court fluff. I just wrapped the hair into a simple, messy wrap, kept my head down, and walked right out at shift change. I had a little bag, with these clothes in it, hidden in my bathroom before I left. The livery is locked away in a transit terminal locker now, with the bag.”
He had to admit, “That is pretty bold, even for you. I see you have been planning this particular night out for a while. Maybe not necessarily this place in particular but still. I do not imagine anyone was looking for something that overt.” Samson could feel her cheeks move in a smile and her chest jump in a silent but totally relaxed chuckle, “How do you plan on making your escape next time?”
Persephone ignored the obvious statement about the length of time she had been planning and that she had in mind to ‘go out’ with him for a long time. Instead, she focused on the second part, “Well I have not really thought about it. I suppose I could just make a mad dash for the front gate in my full regalia.”
Samson quashed that, “Nah, motion sensors would alert the front gate that someone was running toward their position.”
She offered, “Maybe, I could steal away with the garbage?”
He reminded her, “I do not think so. They compact the trash before hauling it to the next stop, and you would stink too. Next?”
She asked, “Do you think I could hide in the laundry?”
He caged her with his narrative, “Maybe. How will you ditch your minders, avoid the guards, trick the cameras, bypass the servants handling the extra heavy basket you are stowed in, hide yourself in the sheet folds, not to mention defeat any additional security measures put in place because of this little adventure?”
Persephone kissed the underside of Samson’s ear, “Well in that case, we need to make this night count and you can pencil me in for another visit in a year or two.”
Samson’s semi-witty response was interrupted by a commotion at the door. It caused him to tense before relaxing when he recognized two of the male hangers-on causing the ruckus. They had stepped out sometime before. When they returned, they fumbled their re-entry into the room, and each knocked on the opposite side of the door frame. Both giggled ridiculously and chattered about the good time they were bringing.
Samson shook his head as he realized what they were carrying. Persephone leaned forward inquiringly, as the pair set the bucket on the table.
He asked her, “Mind if I retire to your room while they spark the festivities?”
She asked him, “What is that Samson?”
Samson told her, “That is a ‘Saffron Pot’. It is the newest ‘party’ rage up in the light. It was going strong down here years before I arrived.” Persephone looked back at Samson as he continued, “It is supposed to be a ‘mild euphoric high, that makes everything feel good, delivered in several sizes and burned like an incense candle, to permeate and enhance the room’s ambiance’.”
She snapped, “You sound like an advertisement. I never pegged you for the marketing guru.”
Indifferent he shrugged and answered, “I’m not; I have a good memory and an inquisitive nature. I asked about it while on assignment and was directed to a store of sorts down here that sells the stuff. I had some time, so I looked. It releases a Serotonin and Dopamine high.”
Offended, she demanded, “Hallucinogens and non-prescription stimulants are illegal in the Empire. How is it that this is sold in a store?”
Her naivety was shocking, given where they were, “Sweet thing, your father’s law ends where the mists begin. As an ashamed and condemned man, I’m not allowed to purchase, possess, or handle firearms, bladed weapons, or any other weapon of honorable service either. Yet, how many did I have on me when you arrived this morning? And the hold-out blade is ceramic; you know the punishment for that if you are caught crossing a corporate security perimeter with one of those.”
Persephone sat back slightly to look at him better before asking curiously, “Why? How can that be? With all we spend on security and enforcement as an Empire, adding all the corporate security auxiliaries, a full ten percent of our population must be in one form of military or security organization or another.”
Samson had to chuckle a little at that comment, but recovered quickly before he offended, “I think you overestimate a little bit, Love. The numbers are large, but you are forgetting two things. The military formations from Fleet Corporation to Ground Combat, and Ground Support Corporations are mostly off-world. They only rotate through to train and refit for the next terraforming campaign.”
She interrupted, “But the Genesis Wars are over?!”
He stopped her with a question, “Are you sure Love? Just because a treaty was signed does not mean that we do not have to defend against anonymous piracy or to occupy the worlds we claimed with ground and fleet forces. And do not tell me those formations do not take casualties from accidents, training, ‘unreported incidents’, ‘insurgencies’ and external corporate raids.” Samson shook his head, to reset his brain from a rambling tirade to a calm explanation to an innocent loved one, “So the Military Corporations have the vast majority of combat power and are on the frontier worlds. That leaves the Home Guard Corporation, Noble House security personnel, and Guardsman here. None of those will be sent out to patrol; their jobs are local security for The Citadel and various CEOs. That leaves the Police Corporations, and private security firms hired by buildings. They make up maybe half a percent of the registered population.”
Her scolding tone was overshadowed by the smell and soft crackling of the saffron pot starting to burn, “Samson?!”
Samson could feel his eyes, nose, and ears crawl with swarms of nanos expelling the chemicals from the membranes. Not the individuals of course, but the millions of them globing the sticky smoke into bundles and starting the expelling process. She was the next Empress of the Chroynos Corporate Hegemony demanding clarification of his evasive answer.
The fact that her tiny frame was perched on his lap made no matter to Samson, as her question burned on, “You qualified that remark, do not play with me.”
Samson blinked several times to clear his eyes, “They are igniting the festivities now. I’m sorry, I’m not avoiding, just uncomfortable.
“I’m not playing with you Persephone. You hit on my second point. That while the military is off-world leaving corporate nobility security details and corporate building security to handle citadels and towers, the police corporations are only a fraction of a percent of the census population. But the census takers never come into the mists. The law does not come into the mists. They are purely anarcho-centered societies, outside normal rules, and supervision. As much as we pretend up here, I’m not blind to the facts. Hell, the sun does not even come into the mists. There have to be millions of people down there. Whole gray cities illuminated by pirated electricity, buildings based on junk, and doing all the dirty jobs the tower dwellers do not bother doing themselves. Do you think the sanitation drivers and janitors can afford to live in the secured towers? My guess is that they take the money and live much better down here than they could afford in a tower. You have seen my place. Imagine that with a pack of kids running around.
“Someday, take the time to compare the employment statistics for the corporations based on their Human Resources rolls, number of children in schools, and those employed in domestic rolls, and compare it to the census numbers. I bet you they do not match. Have you ever wondered why those brilliant engineers, who can build star ships that routinely exceed the speed of light, cannot figure out why they are losing so much power, and signal quality from their nets, planetside? You don’t think this place runs on a fusion reactor of its own, do you? No. The engineers finally threw their hands up in frustration about the missing power and started pumping more energy through the grids to prevent brownouts to their paying customers.
“I’ll bet you ones to hundreds that they have been writing off the distribution loss for so long they don’t even bother to question it anymore!”
Changing directions, Samson reminded, “I need to get out of this smoke and take a shower.” Persephone leaned forward and Samson noticed the slightly dreamy look in her eyes as she stroked her thumb over the outside corner of his left eye. She cringed as she inspected the result. When she held a tiny dollop of pasty brown slime so Samson could see. He just nodded, and admitted, “I told you I could feel them expelling it. It is not that viscous and nasty for you, but my little guy’s package it. They think it is a radiological, biological, toxin, or chemical attack. They create artificial mucus as a package to neutralize the toxins, while they work on expelling the globs they create. They are overreacting as usual and they make me a party pooper.”
Persephone smiled and ran her hand through his hair, “You’re not a party pooper, my beautiful man,” she leaned in and kissed Samson on the lips, while her right hand held the back of his neck. She leaned back almost swinging from his neck as Samson caught her. Persephone wiped her left hand across her lips, “It tasted like a dirty film. That is absolutely disgusting.”
Samson asked again, “May I please be excused Persephone. I need to take a shower, and I will put a towel in front of the door to keep it out of your room.” She absently nodded several times while still trying to wipe the taste off her lips. She hardly realized Samson had stood with her in his arms until he placed her back in the chair, and she felt so alone.
Thank You!
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