My feet glide nearly frictionless on the slick metal. The lights in the soles leave a trail of vibrant purple in the luminous dust my descent kicks up. Were it not for my helmet, my hair would be trailing as well. But you typically need a helmet out here. In space.
I can hear the radio chatter as they follow me. From the backroads of Kentucky to the low-orbit superspires of the Orbital Residential Block, one thing remains eternally consistent.
Cops hate it when you run.
Now, in my defense, If I don’t run they’ll probably arrest me for defacing public property. Not usually an arrest-worthy crime…unless either you’ve done it about a dozen times, or the shit you drew is particularly offensive to police sensibilities. I just happen to meet both criteria. Call me a goddamn overachiever.
So anyway. I run. Glide. Whatever.
The things I do aren’t exactly normal. Historically speaking, humans don’t have the ability to manipulate and shift their own gravity. But I’m untethered. It’s what we do. “Gravity” is a bad word for it. It’s really…well, it’s complicated. We all know better, but use the wrong word anyway. In my opinion, that’s pretty damn representative of us as a species.
I reach out with my mind and feel the metal beneath me. I hold my attention there, bringing it into sharp focus with a shiver that feels almost like interacting with a holographic interface though a glove with physical feedback. That’s a really specific reference, but it’s what it makes me think of. The gravity pulls me more firmly toward the ORB as the sloping metal transitions from ramp to floor for yours truly. I keep my momentum for a moment with a jog as I reach my destination–a maintenance hatch.
Once I get deep enough into the labyrinth of pipes, access tubing, and ventilation shafts, the cops pull away. They never bother chasing anyone this deep into the structure, and not just because their jetpacks are incredibly dangerous in cramped spaces. No, cops don’t come to the lower levels. If the powers that be need something done down here, they’ll send an agent or the military–nothing in between is worth the trouble.
Slipping down through waist-wide holes not meant for traversal at terminal velocity tends to be incredibly dangerous, which is why most people climb or walk through these mazes. I don’t have time for that. Not because of my pursuers, as they’ve long since given up the chase. I don’t have time because I don’t give myself time. People walk. Angels fall.
I’m being at least a little ironic in my usage of the word angel, I admit. As I already said, I’m a criminal. Still, it was evocative. It’s all about perspective, you know? No one thinks they’re the villain of their own story.
My poetic thoughts nearly get my head knocked off by a stray pipe, and I have to take a detour to correct my new trajectory. I come to a stop on the side of a massive sewage pipe to get my bearings. Turns out I didn’t miss my turn by too much. It’s just a six-hundred-meter fall if I angle it right.
I angle it right.
Another twelve and a half minutes of gradually slower slides, freefalls, and the occasional hurried jog bring me to the Shell. Faded orange paint on the metal surface lead me to the nearest emergency airlock. These are supposed to trip an alarm somewhere up above whenever they’re used, but this one has long been disconnected from the network.
I step out of the airlock and find myself faced with the dual oppressions of mass poverty and the ORB’s artificial gravity zone that holds it. The neck of my suit protests with a snap-hiss as I pull the helmet off and shake loose my ponytail of black hair. I suck in a lungful of that sweet smog-filled air that you only find in the bowels of the Core.
I’m home, or at least in the right neighborhood. It doesn’t take long to mix into the hustle and bustle of the streets. All around me I pass my people. In the fifteen minute walk from the airlock to my street, I see people of at least twelve different species and half as many genders, and more than a few who simply defy such categorization. Some people have stopped noticing those details, but I never could get on board with that. People aren’t uniform. That’s how Uppers live, with their perfectly gengineered ethnostate bullshit. Fuck that, and fuck them.
I turn down a cramped alley marked by a white tarp and duck through a sundered chain link fence, arriving at last. The door is unlocked, as most are down here. No one in this neighborhood really owns any wealth, so the only things worth stealing are tools, which usually end up trading hands on a nearly daily basis anyway.
Ivy is busy when I show up, as usual. I wait for her to finish seeing her patient, who turns out to be the uniquely hobbly Veronica. She’s upward of ninety now, though she refuses to let it slow her down, and thanks to some of Ivy’s drugs she won’t have to for a long time. I know for a fact that some of her hobble is from the seemingly endless supply of weapons hidden under her rags. She walks past me and we exchange a quick smile. Veronica always has time for me. Always has.
Then I look back to the door she came out of and I see her. Ruddy lab coat, decade old shoes, calloused and steady hands, and bags of sleep deprivation under the eyes. She’s beautiful. A bit of dull red hair covers part of a steely eye that I can’t help smiling at. But the creases in her face aren’t from smiling. I’ve never seen a doctor smile down here.
She’s twelve years my senior, but that’s never stopped us. I smile, hurrying into her examination room and out of my clothes. I’ve never been religious, but there are times when I sound as devout as a choir on Sunday. She likes my boobs, but they’re hurting today and I find another place to direct her mouth. Turns out you can’t just start hormones and instantly get the chest of your dreams.
Afterward, when I’m pulling on my suit and she’s locking her desk drawer, she broaches a subject I’ve been putting off for a while now.
“Someone like you…your talents…you’d be appreciated.”
“You were gonna say I’d be useful. That you could use someone like me.”
She shrugs. “You prefer other words, but the meaning is the same. You can move around this place faster than any of my people, even Jorn’s drones.”
“You can use me all you like as long as you cuddle me afterward.”
I grin. She doesn’t. My flirtations are usually either rebuffed or ignored. I wonder sometimes if she’ll ever be interested in anything more than our ephemeral trysts. When I ask she doesn’t answer, but…call it wishful thinking on my part, but I see something in her eyes. I sigh.
“…Alright. One job.”
And…God Almighty, have mercy. Then she smiles. The worried lines, the weariness…it all melts away and my heart skips a beat and holy shit, I’m so fucking gay.
“I knew I could count on you.”
“I’m not part of this thing.”
“No? Then your life of crime was…just for fun?”
I search for the words. I fail. “That…”
“Is different from a war.”
“You could say that, yeah.”
“Not so different.”
I still can’t find words. I sigh instead.
“Sooner or later they’ll catch you.”
I know it’s true. Eventually I’ll slip up and get caught. Or worse, slip up so bad that they won’t have to catch me at all.
“Wouldn’t you rather be part of something?”
The implications run wild in my mind. Part of something. Part of a movement. A revolution. A family. She’s offering me what I’ve never had. Stability. Foundation. A solid bedrock to build a life off that doesn’t rely on doing odd jobs or collecting money for loan sharks or stealing from Uppers.
It’s tempting.
“Let me be clear.” She interrupts my thoughts with a sharp tone. “I’m not fucking you because I want you to join my organization. What we have is good. I…like it.”
There’s strain in her voice. For the first time I can hear real emotions in her voice.
“But I’m going to have to relocate soon. I want to take you with me. We can get you papers if you’re with us, but otherwise…”
I catch her eye. I have to know.
“This is real?” I ask, gesturing between us. “More than a little fun now and again?”
There’s fear in her eyes. Fear I haven’t seen except when she’s about to put someone under the blade.
“Yes.”
It’s a whisper. All at once the stern, disciplined façade slips and I see the vulnerable woman beneath. My heart skips a beat. I don’t know what happens between then and when we kiss, but it can’t be a lot. We hold each other for a while. When I finally speak, it’s a whisper that barely makes its way past the lump in my throat.
“I’m in.”
Words From Nora Blake 