Solar Storm (Galaxy Mavericks Book 5) Read online

  “Lars!” she shouted.

  A nervous engineer jogged over.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “This casing’s shot. Didn't hold up like it should have. We probably need to tweak the alloy a bit more. Can you rush this to the lab with my notes?”

  “Yes, m’am,” Lars said, walking away quickly.

  “Testing,” Dawn said, shrugging. “We’re devising a new handcoil that fires faster and does more damage. Only the best for our partners in the field.”

  Miller smiled and wagged a finger at her.

  “I appreciate the gesture until one of these babies falls into the wrong hands and I'm on the business end of one of your new bullets.”

  “Business risk,” she said. “What did you want with Margot? She's been reassigned. I believe she's headed to Gargantua.”

  “It's not about her,” Miller said. “It's about the cyborg. Did Margot upload the memory graph results into the GALPOL database?”

  “She did,” Dawn said.

  “Has anyone seen it yet?”

  “It'll be reviewed,” Dawn said. “We've got a lot of cases in front of it, and with the Accords and all—”

  “I really think you guys ought to move this up to the front of the line,” Miller said.

  Dawn’s face wrinkled. “Every agent that comes in here tells me that, Ryan.”

  She started through the shooting range again and he followed her just as more people fired.

  “I get it, Dawn, trust me. But I've never seen anything like this case in all my twenty years of law enforcement. This one’s different. It's weird. And it stinks.”

  Dawn stopped.

  “What stinks?” she asked.

  “All of it. How much of it have you seen?”

  “Enough to know this guy had a lobotomy, right?”

  “That's just the beginning,” Miller said. “Or the end, depending on how you choose to look at it.”

  “What exactly do you want us to do?”

  “I'm looking for any leads. I want to know what kind of sick bastard would do something like this. Turn a man into a killing machine against his will. Whoever it is, they're still out there.”

  “I'd be happy to move this up, Ryan,” Dawn said. “but what do you hope to accomplish? The Accords prevent us from using cyborg data for anything other than solving cases. My engineers tend to stay away from stuff like this. When they have to deal with it, they're careful—so careful it's hard to get anything out of them.”

  “I know the constraints,” Miller said. “But technically, this would be to help me solve a case. If you want, you can plaster my name all over the files. Leadership has chewed me out so many times I don't mind.”

  “I'll pull them myself,” Dawn said. “You eaten lunch yet?”

  Miller grinned. “Not yet, but if the cafeteria still serves its infamous mystery meat, count me in.”

  “Take a long lunch and then come back. I'll see what I can do between now and then.”

  “Thanks, Dawn,” Miller said, backing toward an elevator. “You're the best.”

  26

  Time passed slowly on the jail ship. Every day it was the same.

  Early morning alarm. Smoke yawned and waited for the cell doors to open.

  Showers. Smoke washed himself with a constant eye on the others.

  Breakfast. Smoke ate huddled in the corner and no one would sit within fifty feet of him.

  Morning activity. Weightlifting.

  Lunch.

  Afternoon activity. Weightlifting.

  Second afternoon activity. Clean the floors.

  Dinner.

  Evening activity. Weightlifting.

  Bedtime. The bars would clang shut every night, and the ringing sound persisted in his ears well into the night. He lie in his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at a crack in the ceiling, thinking of nothing.

  He was completely numb.

  Time passed slowly, but he didn't mind it.

  How long had it been?

  He wasn't sure.

  But there was no getting out of this place.

  Only waiting.

  SMOKE HUNCHED OVER LUNCH.

  Every day, it was the same lunch. Meatloaf.

  He was beginning to hate meatloaf. Its cardboard, flavorless taste bothered him.

  This wasn't how meatloaf was supposed to taste.

  He tried remember what it should have tasted like.

  He knew there was a memory that associated with this taste…but his mind blanked. No point trying to remember anymore.

  He speared the last bite of meatloaf and chewed it down, glad the meal was over.

  As he got ready to rise, two fists pounded the table.

  Two muscled men surrounded the table, boxing him in.

  Lyle stood in front of the table with his arms folded.

  “Time’s up,” Lyle said.

  Smoke folded his napkin and stared Lyle in the eye.

  “You've had time to consider my proposition,” Lyle said. “What's it going to be?”

  Smoke stood up, but the men came closer with menacing looks on their faces.

  “Can I count on you?” Lyle asked.

  Smoke folded his arms and mirrored Lyle’s body language.

  “You gonna talk or what?” Lyle asked.

  “You and your meatheads are in my way,” Smoke said in a low voice. “I don't like it when meatheads get in my way.”

  “Give me a yes or a no and we’ll get out of your way, all right.”

  Smoke said nothing.

  “Are you completely stupid or is this an act?” Lyle asked. “A brute like you oughta know that we’re headed for hell.”

  Smoke shrugged.

  “You look like the kind that's been to jail before,” Lyle said.

  Smoke shook his head.

  “You're really pissing me off, buddy,” Lyle said. “I need my answer.”

  “I'll join you,” Smoke said.

  The muscled men looked at each other.

  Lyle grinned.

  “Good. I knew you were a smart bastard,” Lyle said. “You got to pass a test to prove your loyalty.”

  Lyle pointed to the other end of the cafeteria, where Stacks was gathered with a group of men. He was telling a story, and the men laughed.

  “Go over there and punch Stacks in the face,” Lyle said. “Then I'll know I can trust you.”

  Smoke motioned for Lyle to come.

  “What?” Lyle asked.

  “I have rules,” Smoke said. “And you need to know them.”

  “Name ‘em.”

  But Smoke said nothing. He motioned Lyle over.

  Lyle walked over slowly. Smoke asked him to come closer.

  Smoke took Lyle by the shoulder and brought Lyle in close.

  Then he grabbed Lyle, slammed his head into the table twice, then picked him up by the torso and threw him.

  Lyle landed near Stacks, in the middle of the crowd, hitting his head against the corner of a chair.

  The muscle men ran.

  All across the cafeteria, the prisoners scattered, even Stacks.

  Lyle lay on the floor in a pool of blood. The warden checked his body, shook his head and said “he ain't gonna make it.”

  Smoke walked out of the cafeteria with all the prisoners’ eyes on his back.

  Exactly how it should have been.

  SMOKE’S CELL DOORS OPENED.

  It was early.

  Too early.

  According to his body clock and the starlight streaming down into the common area, rising time wasn't for two more hours.

  “Get up, boys,“ the warden said, strolling up and down the hall with a club in his hand. “Time to transfer your sorry asses!”

  Smoke emerged from the cell. The other men climbed out, rubbing their eyes.

  And then Smoke saw it.

  Through the skylight.

  The golden-brown light of a planet.

  “LINE UP, LINE UP!” the warden cried.

  T
he brown light through the skylight grew stronger.

  Smoke stood in a long line that stretched through the common area.

  All the men were handcuffed and in chains.

  Smoke watched quietly as all the men lined up and the chains clinked.

  Stacks passed him, sneering at him.

  “You don't know what you're up against, buddy.”

  Smoke ignored him, but he kept talking, hanging around like a parasite.

  “You killed Lyle. I'm not that stupid. You'll end up joining me in the end. I'm good people, good people…”

  “Come here,” Smoke said, “and let me see how good of a person you are.”

  Stacks sidestepped away. “You'll come around soon enough, cyborg.”

  “Line up!” the warden cried again. “That includes you, Stacks!”

  Stacks disappeared into a crowd of passing men.

  Smoke listened intently behind him; he expected someone to wrap their chains around his neck. He was ready for it. He was ready for someone to attack him when he was at his most vulnerable.

  But most of the men didn't make eye contact with him and they shied away from him, keeping their distance.

  The warden walked up and down the line, inspecting everyone, touching the chains and handcuffs to make sure that they were tight and that there were none loose. When he reached Smoke, he yanked on his chains and handcuffs extra hard.

  “You know where you're headed, boy?” the warden asked.

  Smoke stared ahead.

  “You'll love this place,” he said. “But if you keep cracking skulls, there's nothing good in your future.”

  The warden moved on.

  The line moved. Smoke followed, the chains dragging along the floor.

  They exited the common area into an airlock. It looked like any other airlock, but ranged across the walls were sliding doors with blinking red lights above. The doors led into circular pods that seated five and had seatbelts and straps.

  Several policemen guided the prisoners into the first pod. They latched the door shut as the men sat down and strapped themselves in.

  Then they hit a button next to the panel and with a sucking sound, the pods disconnected from the ship.

  Dread spread through the room. Some men whimpered. Others whispered. But Smoke sensed fear.

  “Where the hell are they going?” someone asked. “They're sending us to die!”

  Smoke hadn't thought of that.

  His sentence hadn't included death. He was supposed to serve life behind bars. But who was to say that the government wouldn't renege on its promise?

  He must have been in the middle of God-knows-where.

  Maybe he was in a different galaxy.

  It would be no trouble at all for them to just dump him in space and keep going.

  Dump all these losers into space and keep on going.

  Society would be better for it.

  Smoke wished it were true. He'd never wished in all his life for a rule to be broken so badly.

  Floating out in space.

  Peaceful.

  Quiet.

  Easy.

  The warden passed and a prisoner grabbed him.

  “I don't want to die!”

  The warden laughed. Then he grabbed his club and struck the man, making him shrink back.

  “You should have thought about jail before you committed your crime,” the warden said. “That goes for all of you sorry idiots!”

  The room grew quiet.

  “I suppose none of you know what actually happens to lifers like you, huh? We do a pretty good job of keeping that secret, I suppose.”

  More prisoners climbed into the pods. The guards activating the control panels and the pods disconnected.

  Ploof!

  Ploof!

  More men yelled.

  Smoke followed the line.

  Then it was his turn.

  The warden was waiting for him.

  “You ride alone, cyborg,” he said.

  A pod door opened.

  The inside of the pod was warm and stuffy. There was a vent in the ceiling for oxygen and a small porthole. There were no lights. Smoke knew the moment it disconnected there would be no light, and he would be in complete darkness.

  He sat facing the porthole.

  The warden put his hands on his hips.

  “Have fun in hell,” he said.

  The pod door closed. And then the pod disconnected.

  Smoke held on as the pod twirled and spun around. He banged his head against the wall.

  The pod spun and spun. Smoke gripped his straps tight.

  Space appeared through the porthole. The stars were blazing pinwheels.

  He was going to be sick.

  And then, brown light washed through the porthole.

  A planet. A brown planet with a violent atmosphere. Clouds surged across the surface like an angry storm.

  The pod kept spinning.

  Downward.

  Toward the planet.

  In the porthole window Smoke saw dozens of other pods spinning marbles.

  As he entered the atmosphere of the planet and his pod began to shake violently, Smoke hung on as tightly as he could.

  27

  When Miller returned to the lab, most of the engineers were gone. Instead of shooting, there was quiet. The bullet-riddled targets swayed in the air-conditioning, and the coil casings glinted on the floor. A lone engineer sat at a desk, analyzing a scatterplot.

  Miller sipped his can of diet soda, staring at the graph. He held a cup of coffee in his other hand, and a pouch of trail mix stuck out of his shirt pocket.

  “How do you look at this stuff all day?” Miller asked. “Do you ever just want to get out in the field and get some fresh air?”

  The engineer, an Indian man with unruly black hair, shrugged.

  “The field’s overrated, man.”

  Miller almost choked on his soda.

  “Every man’s opinion to himself, I guess,” he said.

  The engineer went back to the graph and ignored Miller.

  A door opened and Dawn stuck her head out.

  “In here, Miller.”

  Miller offered her the cup of coffee.

  “Figured you’d need it,” he said.

  She took the cup, surprised.

  “Field thing,” Miller said, glancing back at the engineer. “We look after each other. Coffee’s the easiest way to say you care.”

  He handed her the pouch of trail mix.

  “Appreciate it,” she said.

  He followed her through a row of cubicles and into a conference room. Several engineers were seated in a circle. On the walls were screens with Smoke’s face and body on them, and graphs and graphs of scatterplots.

  “You didn’t waste any time, did you?” Miller asked.

  “Do you want the good news, the bad news, the ugly news, or the weird news first?” Dawn asked.

  “Is there any fun news?” he asked. “In a place like this, I prefer to start with something fun…”

  She handed him a tablet. On it, video footage of Smoke’s trial played. Smoke sat in the courtroom stand, staring ahead as if he were a statue.

  “You obviously know that this guy is pretty messed up,” Dawn said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. So if you want some fun news, I guess I should tell you that you were right.”

  “I was right?”

  “We should have looked into this right away.”

  Miller laughed. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell the guys back at the station about this.”

  “What?”

  “The lab told me I was right,” Miller said. He sipped his diet soda again and let out a refreshing “aah.”

  “Please continue,” he said.

  “That’s the fun news,” Dawn said. “The weird news: there are too many things about Smoke that we just can’t explain.”

  “You and everybody else.”

  Dawn pointed to Smoke on the screen.

  “For instance, i
t makes sense that one would adapt a human into a cyborg. But we can’t recover any of the purged data in his records. We can’t identify who he was previously or where he came from. His entire body was replaced with unidentifiable body parts, so trying to figure him out is a complete waste of time.”

  “He’s a mystery man,” Miller said. “I figured as much.”

  “The ugly news,” Dawn said, shaking her head, “is that he’s completely unstable. If you look at his eye movements, body language, and medical procedures, it’s consistent with something we would call medically-induced mental illness. The medical notes indicated that his emotions could be unlocked with an access code.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Miller said.

  “If he is ‘unlocked’, there’s no telling what will happen,” Dawn said. “There’s no precedent for it.”

  “What could possibly happen?” Miller asked. “The guy’s already a serial killer. He’s practically insane. How can it get any worse?”

  Dawn shrugged. “Whatever it could be, it would be ugly.”

  “Got it. He’s behind bars on a maximum security planet, so whatever happens, that’s the prison’s problem. Unless he turns into a rocket, I don’t see him getting off Defestus.”

  “That brings me to the bad news,” Dawn said.

  Miller sighed.

  “We’ve charted his memories,” Dawn said. “And we can’t be sure of what we’re seeing.”

  They stood in front of a giant screen. Floating dots danced across a graph, pulsing. Some were bigger than others, and they were all different colors.

  “For example, some of his memories conflict with each other. Take this one over here. We charted the approximate time and it clearly took place after the lobotomy. But if you look at this one over here—let me pull up the metadata—it overlaps with the date and time of the previous one. So we can’t be sure which one is actually true.”

  “You’re telling me this guy has false memories?” Miller asked.

  “Maybe. We don’t know for sure.”

  “God. What about before the lobotomy?”

  “Same. We can’t verify any of these memories,” Dawn said. “They all overlap. Whoever created Smoke made sure that he would never know his identity.”