Iapetus Shift

Chapter 2

The flat, white cell left nothing for Olan's eyes to latch onto. Clean walls devoid of any speck or scratch surrounded him on three sides, and a smooth, white, non-reflective floor was neither warm nor cold on his bare feet. The vacu-flush toilet contained no water he could use to mess up the perfectly sterile room, and a small, white cot without blankets and pillows was about six inches too short for him to sleep on.

Worrying about the money had given him a headache; worrying about Estha just made it worse. Without access to the prison's network, he had no way of knowing if she'd made it out, or where she was. And there was no way to know if the payment for the job had come through. But if Estha had gotten out, knowing he couldn't endanger her anymore was worth losing his money and liberty, and soon, his life. After so many close calls with death, you grew to accept some things as inevitable.

So he sat and stared instead.

His electric lenses had not responded at all since he'd been put in this cell. There must have been some electric field interfering with them, keeping him from even throwing a projection up to have something to look at. The only thing they'd left intact was his skin-shifting lattice, which was no use under constant surveillance. Even so, it seemed quite risky of whoever held him here to not simply destroy his lenses and his shifting capability outright.

He found his eyes sliding along the forcefield wall in front of him, the only non-white portion of the cell. The field wavered like heat in the air, a barely discernible haze distorting the scene beyond it and tinting it a light pink. He was sure whoever designed this place would have eliminated the coloring if they could, but it came with the territory of forcefields. Something to do with the way the field bent light around. If he were to walk up and press on it, he'd feel either a soft but firm resistance or a blindingly painful shock, depending on how his captors had rigged the settings. He hadn't taken the initiative to find out.

But all that applied only to normal forcefield technology. Whatever they'd wrapped him up in at the mall was something different. It had been completely translucent, and formed to fit around his body. Modern forcefields were only recently being made to curve, and just slightly; most mainstream models were like the one in his cell—straight, flat, one directional. Whoever built that thing they'd tied him up with had made some giant breakthroughs. Olan had no idea what some headhunter like that Victor guy was doing with such advanced tech.

The hiss of a door opening caught Olan's attention, and he looked up as a thick, red-faced guard poked his head in. "You've got a visitor."

Olan felt a burst of worry. Estha, that better not be you! But it faded as a tall, male figure strode in front of the forcefield.

"Ten minutes," said the guard to the man. "Buzz me if you have any trouble." Then he shut the door, leaving the stranger alone with Olan.

The man wore a dark suit, simple but sharp, with his greying hair slicked back professionally. He held a tablet that he looked down at several times before speaking.

"Char Hendris?" he said. "Alan Stim? Var Missol?"

Olan kept his face still. All were aliases he'd used before—one of them many years ago. Whoever this guy worked for, they were no slouches when it came to digging up the past.

"I get your point. What do you want?" said Olan, remaining seated.

The man grimaced. "I just want to know what to call you."

Olan Gamor, born in the slums of Noctis, Valles Marineris nearly forty-two years ago. That string of syllables would mean nothing to anyone alive, yet he still felt uncomfortable sharing it. Even Estha knew only his first name. He remained silent.