Aberrant

Chapter 16

"Shit, shit, shit." Jinx stumbled out of Cryver's claustrophobic airlock, her stunner drawn. Her day, already an unsalvageable mess, had got even more screwed.

Some scum-sucker had just taken a contract out on her. Fuck.

And finding out on Zero was icing on the crap cake.

Her breather rasped with her too quick breaths as she watched for movement in the ghetto around her. In Dem's many unhappy vid messages, he'd mentioned the mining VIPs were seriously pissed about the dock shortage and quarantine. An abduction contract would fit the profit-worshiping bastards' MOs: blackmail, threats, and beatings. If a gang leader or other career criminal had targeted her, they'd go for a straight hit.

Or maybe not. Some of the sickos liked to do the mutilation and killing themselves. There was also an active slave trade in the sector. While drinking in the port's bottom-rung bars, she'd met a few body hunters—the scum who sourced fresh merchandise for slavers. They'd told her she'd be worth a "tasty" few credits. Thanks to her aversion to medical procedures, she was "unmodified meat". No body mods. A blank canvas to be tailored to some big-time client's tastes. A couple of the body-snatching idiots had actually thought she should be flattered by the price they could get for her. Uck.

She pulled her therm-pro's hood lower over her goggles and lengthened her stride, eyes skating over the ghetto's sand-mired walkways.

Her com vibrated on her wrist, almost giving her heart failure.

Cursing, she spared the unit the briefest glance. Three priority messages. Dem, Lenton, and Soh all trying to contact her.

They could wait.

She had a feeling she already knew what her friends wanted to tell her.

Her ears buzzed faintly as she hurried forward. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Blood pressure. But the headiness that accompanied the tinnitus kicked up her heartbeat. A brain glitch right now would be—

Three local deadbeats stepped out from a lean-to into her path. All armed. She recognised the tallest. Mort Shimecky, the junkhead son of a small-time dealer and bar owner. The Mohawk of metal spikes decorating his tattooed skull looked idiotic under the hood of his grimy therm-pro, but the illegally amped bolt rifle he pointed at her wasn't so amusing.

"Pu'ta." His skull-shaped breather muffled his weasel voice. "You usually hot property, but today, you is hot. Know what I mean?" His goggle-covered gaze slimed down her body. "We gonna have that party we always talk about. Ten minutes in my crib, making your dreams come true, then you's some other dog's entertainment. Girl, for three large, I'll share them curves. Ain't no doubt."

"Mort, you're an idiot." Jinx didn't back up, even when he and his two tweaker mates stepped closer. They were mutant mutts. Run and they'd chase. "Who's paying you to piss me off? And didn't your maw-maw ban you from playing with her guns after you blasted half your foot off? Shall I let her know you're playing aliens and super heroes again?"

"Fuck, bitch." Mort's sickly skin gained colour. "You got to be such a pain in the arse? Leave my maw-maw out of this here business negotiation. Be professional, yo? Some bankroller just wants to talk with you, is all, and I need the creds. It ain't no thing."

Jinx lowered her stunner. "Talk? That's it? What's the deal exactly?"

Mort shrugged and let his weapon's barrel dip toward the dirt. "Dunno, pu'ta. Just got to bring you to the roof."

"The roof? What? Of the port?"

"Yeah, bitch. Maybe someone wants to hang you over the edge or something, teach you some respect. 'Bout time, no doubt. You is a problem, screwing with people's business, taking their product. That needs sorting." He gestured to a side alley with his weapon. "Come on, freak girl. Move that fine—"