A hand closed over the collar of Kor's heavy coat, began to pull him back. Kor's fist came up and he was already spinning before he realized it had be to Qivan tugging at him.
"Uncle, fuck, man! What you doing, yeah? Don't wander off."
"That kid." Kor's voice was low and growling, like one of the bass woofers down the hall. "He's telling someone we're here."
Qivan made a noise at the back of his throat. "Nah, uncle, best hope's in-out, yeah? We living on top each other here in the sky, you know? Place crawling with eyes, can't avoid 'em all."
Up ahead, the whirring of small rotor blades cut through the air, and a drone not much larger than Kor's open palm dropped into sight from an open spot in the ceiling's tiling.
Kor's hand went inside his coat before dropping back down. He reminded himself he wasn't carrying EMP charges or sensor dampening smoke. That he was still naked, unarmed.
"Come on," Laren said, head turned away from the drone. "Let's step, yeah?" His hand went to the front of his gas mask.
"What are you do-?"
Rotors humming like four giant Izzetian dragonflies, the drone was already coming for a closer look at the two of them.
Pulling up his gas mask, Laren strode on in that same, long-legged amble. Kor fell in behind him, face turned away from whatever input sensors the drone ran.
Surveillance was diverse, Kor knew, and the universe vast. On one planet, where technology hadn't quite peaked, it could just be stationary closed circuit cameras. On another it might be an actual bio-engineered dragonfly. On still another, a cloud of lighter-than-air nanobots may float down a hall like this constantly running ambient checks as it simply existed.
And, just as vast as the universe was when it came to surveiling a target, so too were the countermeasures operatives deployed.
Though, Kor would be the first to admit that willingly removing one's mask was new. Even to him.
Clearly not seeing what its pilot wanted, the drone's quad rotors increased the pitch of their whine, and it darted back down towards the kid Kor had wanted to throttle.
Kor didn't glance back, and Laren kept going. Together, the two of them threaded their way through the rest of the low-celinged block, past more plasteel apartment doors. Kor couldn't tell exactly where, but they seemed to have crossed into a different section somewhere along the way, and this one was clearly busier.
The old soldier couldn't help but be reminded of his old ship. Sure, these weren't soldiers, and none of them were even the same species as him But the way the ceiling bore down, and how the dingy halls seemed so tight they could squeeze the air from his lungs took him back to the old transports.
Some apartments only had a few occupants, others housed more than one family, with their occupants spilling out into the hallway and the pair's path. Another had been converted into a makeshift neighborhood cantina, and yet another a community hydroponics garden.
Just like the bazaar below, the people here were astounding in their variety. And, no matter their species, each one seemed to give them a wide berth. Maybe it was the Menelaun's imposing bulk, or Laren's revealed face that he still hadn't shown Kor. But the kid seemed to navigate this place like a native.
No, had to be something else to it. Locals were treating both of them like strangers. Kor' mouth twitched at the conundrum.
On their left, two black X's before a filthy plasteel door, two black X's after. The door slid open as they came abreast, and a thin haze that smelled of death and desperation and spent dreams came wafting out into the hall and washed over Kor. Herbs with a metallic, chemical edge tickled his nose.
"Doom in there, uncle. They's go to die, drift away in the junk."
Kor grunted. "Never been much for psychedelics, don't worry."
"Know the ayahua, yeah?"
"Menelauns aren't puritanical about that shit, kid. We take whatever we need to get the job done."
"It's up ahead," Laren said without looking back over his shoulder. When they were a dozen paces from the turn, shoes scuffed on the tiles somewhere at their rear. Couldn't have been much farther than the ayahua den they'd just passed.
Kor's head turned, but he didn't look back. He merely grunted.
Footsteps coming their way. The rhythm sounded sober. No dragging or stumbling. Faster, now.
"Hurry up, kid. March. Double time. Unless you really do want an altercation."
"Gotta move smooth, uncle. No scene, yeah? Almost there." They rounded the corner into a hall that looked virtually identical to the one they'd just left, only nearly deserted. "Middle door, yeah? Right side. Keep steppin'."
They stepped. Kor's jaw worked and his nostrils flared. If it came down to a fight, he'd win unless they were armed with a ballistic or gyro weapon. But the Blues were an unknown quantity. How would they react to him leaving a thug broken?
A group rounded the corner ahead when Kor and Qivan were no more than a few meters from the door. Five thugs, mixed genders, all with heavy coats, boots, and masks dangling from necks. "Driver!" the one in front shouted as they advanced. "Surprised you'd stop by so soon."
Qivan sprinted for the door, fist outstretched. Kor followed.
The leader was a big, mean looking asshole in a long coat and tight-fitted, ribbed tank top. Greasy hair hung limp across his shoulders. Cosmetic chrome covered his cybernetics, but beneath it he was human. Roid and adrenal pumped muscle, probably vat grown, rippled beneath his flesh as he and his cronies advanced down the hall like they owned the place.
Kor knew he could take him. The rest might pile on and bring down the Menelaun, if they were lucky, but afterwards they'd be stumbling to the nearest clinic for splints and nanobots.
Qivan pounded on the door. Kor kept his gaze locked.
"Still owe me, Driver!" They kept coming. "That man paid!" Now they were rushing, full on from in front and from behind.
Kor's adrenaline up, time seemed to slow to a crawl, like watching a single bead of water hang from a blase of grass. Rolling his shoulders and tucking his chin, he pivoted around so his back was to the door. His heart beat a tattoo that matched the pounding of feet and of Laren's fist on the door behind him.
"Tisbel!" The kid's voice had warmed from cool to frantic, but still could barely be heard over the shouts of the oncoming gang. "Tisbel, it's Driver, come on!"
Kor counted enemies. One who'd been following them on the left. Five on Kor's right. Left was closer. Right wasn't far.
A disembodied woman groaned from somewhere, the rushers kept coming, and Kor wished command allowed retirees to keep their service rifles. Or even sidearms. "What now, Driver?" The woman's voice was young, tired.
"Need to shop! Big buy!
The shop owner practically purred, a kind of reverberating bass that resonated through Kor's skeleton.
The first of the thugs made it to their left flank as Laren finished shouting. Medium build, human looking, Kor figured early adulthood. Head down, the attacker rushed like he was going for an early tackle.
Leaping backwards, Kor shoved the tackler's shoulders downward before stepping forward in one smooth movement and crushing a heel down on splayed fingers.
Crackling of cartilage, bone, and tendon beneath Kor's jump boot, screams of pain from the thug as he tried to pull free.
The soldier moved on autonomic memory, decades of training moving his body like a wired puppet dancing to its renter's whims. Kor was outside himself, but also solidly within, as he slammed his other leg's knee into the side of the man's head.
More crunching and splintering of bone as the ultra-dense Menelaun bones connected with the fragile human skull, followed by the attacker collapsing to the hallway tile and Kor already turning to face the rest. Barely a second had passed.
The leader and his cohort slid to a halt ten or more paces away. Faces twisted into masks of contempt, they reached inside coats and began to withdraw weapons like it was the last thing they wanted.
Kor could close the distance, but he'd have to go now. And there was no telling what Tisbel, whoever she was, would do if he opted to engage rather than take refuge. No one wants to do business with a psychopath who chooses a fight.
The leader reached up with a shaking hand to grab his modified gas mask, placed it over his mouth. A long, textured tube ran from the front to a pressurized plasteel canister hanging from his belt, and he took a deep breath before letting the mask fall. His pupils dilated. Vape courage.
"Hambe, man, you okay?" The leader was suddenly sure again.
"Oh fine," Tisbel said with that same languid, breathy tone. "But tell your friend to wipe his boots before he comes in."
Hambe groaned and spat blood as the door slid open. Kor stepped backwards through the door, gave a small wave.
#
First off, thanks for the new follows and all the freaking upvotes yesterday, primarily driven by the Curie Project! That came out of nowhere, and was a welcome break of "they like me! they really, really like me!" in the middle of my day job plotting out my current novel.
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