Aberrant

Chapter 32

Three hours and a sea of battered faces later, Jinx finally dragged herself off the docks. She'd been right; the experience had sucked. She felt hugged out and in need of emotional numbing. She still had no specific information on Soh and Lenton, but the stories people had told...

They'd fuel her nightmares.

People getting pinned by exskels and injected with paralytic. Others getting dragged screaming into the port's vent system. Some had been so desperate to escape they'd fled out airlocks without breather tech and suffocated in the wastes.

Desperate to kill those images, Jinx headed for the nearest liquor store and bought a bottle of Dem's favourite brand of gut-rot whiskey. But tracking him down to share it, inflicting him with her morose company, seemed like a crappy idea.

Instead, she found a bench outside, under one of the shiny, purple trees lining the terminal's external promenade.

Taking a long pull of Devil's Amber, she let its burn take her mind off the tightness in her throat. A crying jag was brewing, but she couldn't be bothered with it. It wouldn't bring back the dead or help find Soh and Lenton. Her brain would still be fragged. She'd still need to find accommodation for the night. And tomorrow, while she tracked down more survivors, she'd have to look for a ride and work.

The mundane reality of that, after what she'd just heard, seemed screwed up.

Taking another swig, she watched the air traffic above the port's buildings; silhouettes against the setting sun. The planet continued to turn on its axis. Day slipping into night. The universe—time—kept moving. Wouldn't stop for a goddamn second.

She needed to make some decisions.

Lifting her whiskey, she washed back the bitter taste building in her mouth. How long could she ignore the ramifications of that bout of panic she'd had? Had she just been overwrought? She still felt off now. Edgy. Hunted. And oddly lost. That relentless urge to run back into the void hadn't waned, even after the arrival of so many survivors.

She couldn't trust the instinct. Couldn't trust her mind.

She'd run from goddamn ghosts.

And was probably running toward others.

Every time she thought of Soh and Lenton, she got a sick feeling.

And that meant she had no choice. She had to leave, find out what had happened. She'd try for a position on a salvage crew in the morn—

A click beside her ear. The release of a weapon's safety.

She froze, gripping her whiskey—her only weapon.

A raspy chuckle. A waft of chemicals and sweat. "Good to see you breathing, Slim. Got my fucking credits?"

"Shit." Her breath whooshed out of her. Swivelling, she found a mini pistol in front of her nose and, beyond it, damaged mismatched eyes. "Thanks for the heart attack, skeezoid."

Cryver smirked, his melted face making the expression extra special. "Liquid comfort, Koel?" His gaze stroked the bottle she held. "I know people who could get you something stronger."

"And I know people who could get you ten to fifteen in the pen." Jinx took a swig of whiskey to settle her nerves. After a moment's debate, she offered the bottle to the sorry-looking criminal. "Should have known you'd be okay. Cockroaches never die."

Cryver grunted and lowered his weapon to accept the drink. "The robo bugs weren't interested in old wrecks."

"I assume you mean that dusty old ship of yours, not your less than delectable body." Jinx grabbed back the bottle and pointed a finger at him. "I knew that heap you lived in could still fly."

"I like options. I also like money, and you fucking owe me." Cryver fished a data stick out of his patched coat. "Your results."

Jinx stilled, her drink half way to her mouth. "The blood analysis? Seriously?" She snatched the data from his hand. "Okay, maybe I do owe you more than a kick in the balls." She shoved the whiskey toward him. When Cryver merely glowered, she waggled the bottle. "It's either this or the void dust in my pocket."

Cryver snagged the liquor. "We're not square, pu'ta. Not by a long way. But I'll give you time to make good. And a free piece of advice." He toasted the data stick in her hand. "If you have plans to bounce up and down on this individual, don't."

"The blood wasn't from a prospective boyfriend, you skeez."

Cryver shrugged. "Had to check." Taking a swig of liquor, he eyed the security in the area. "Only stopped by this prissy, stuck-up port to catch the new arrivals and get some business done." He looked back to her. "Don't make me come back here to deal with you. Payment details are included. You have two days before I do more than scare the shit out of you."

"I love your optimism."

"You'd be wise not to cross me, Koel. You don't get me my money, I'll make it back on your skinny arse. Got contacts in 'the Trade'."

"You think a slaver would pay that much for me? Flatterer."

"Two fucking days." The criminal jammed a finger at her then unnerved her by smiling. Taut, melted skin. Broken teeth. "You're gonna want to pay up, Slim. Trust me." With those ominous words, he limped away with her whiskey—each halting step an elevated finger to the universe, to whatever past had almost ended him.

Jinx swore on a long exhalation. The bastard was pharma-baked and crooked to his core, but she had to respect dogged grit. "Yo, skeezoid." She got him to turn back and scowl at her. "Glad you're okay."

He grunted and continued walking. "Pay me or that will change, pu'ta."

Rolling her eyes, humour tugging her lips, she tapped the data stick against her com. Two reports loaded to her temporary storage: one labelled "Bio-source A—primary" and the other "Bio-source B—contaminant". Smile fading, she ignored the second one. She knew all about that individual. It had been her shirt the blood sample had been taken from. That report could rot in hell.

She accessed the first file. A skim of the results summary told her why the old skeez had advised her not to get intimate with whoever had bled all over the Bullhead's deck. The tox screen was impressive; she didn't understand even half of what was going on with it. But the DNA analysis was even more whacked out.

Male. Human—mostly. Non-human genetic markers detected. Alien DNA. Species undetermined.

She sat back and rapped her nails against the bench. Her dead pirate or harvest victim—the imaginary friend a certain bitch high councillor had accused her of having—was some kind of alterant. One with enough psychoactive drugs in his system to floor a herd of Vok.