A Fateful meeting

Tren adjusts his bow tie and tuxedo before stepping into the casino, which just happens to be on a space station. It revolves around a gas giant that orbits a blue star on the edge of known space. It has no real name, just a combination of letters and numbers on a star chart. Locals call it Big Blue.

The doors hiss shut behind him. Tren strides forward confidently (all part of the act) and affects a swagger. He feels the same giddy thrill of his last mission, suit on, flying high on stims, a kiss his lucky gold charm, adrenaline pumps, both in memory in his body now. Time to test my luck again. He is average height, average looks, average build, fit from his past in the military. Not that he likes to mention it. Average is good in the con game, too pretty or too ugly and you stand out, people remember you. That’s fatal here. He’s seen too much of fatal in the past.

He slides off his sunglasses and pretends to check himself in one of the many mirrors, likely also surveillance points, they will be watching him already. Glancing at his reflection, he runs his hand over his blonde hairꟷstill clipped short, a buzzcut. At age 32 years, Old Earth standard, he doesn’t have the money for DNA splicing to fix himself up, yet. Which is why he is here, to make it big, and leave the past behind.

He approaches a blackjack table, the sound of ancient jazz music pulsing through the room, lights twinkling and dazzling from ornate chandeliers. The casino hums with excitement from the gaming tables, shrieks of delight or “oohs” of disappointment. A sleek and emotionless robot dealer deals him in, and he tosses his chips on the table. The tang of cigar smoke hits his nose. He’s heard it’s pumped in. He twirls his luck charm around his fingers; it’s the shape of a small bear, his nickname in the squad.

“For luck,” he tells the onlookers, smiling.

An android waitress jerkily stutters towards him, proffering a drink. She’s dressed in grey, short brown hair, plastic skin, creepy perma-smile, her name badge reads Karen. AI limits are tight now, and after the ‘Before Times’ and disaster on Old Earth, it needs to be obvious you are dealing with an artificial. Real humans only work in the upmarket places.

He feels silly in this ancient getup, but everyone here is wearing the same. The further away you get from the central systems, the more weird and wonderful the culture becomes, this one’s obsessed with 20th century Vegas. It’s no wonder I’m drawn here. He plays a few rounds, losing. Comes naturally. He sips his drink, cheap liquor, it’s fiery and peaty on his tongue, it burns in his chest on the way down. Whisky, he realises. An attractive red-head woman, low cut dress, leans in, puts her hand on his. Her touch is electric, soft velvety skin on his, Tren whips his head around and glares at her, she whispers, “Bad luck, honey,” then vanishes into the crowd. Spooked and nervy, he turns back to the game and takes another swig to calm down.

On the fifth round, it’s time. He clicks his wristwatch, surreptitiously brushes his fingers over the soft furred green on the table, sleight of hand, natural looking. No-one will notice. Alarms explode, shrill klaxons fill the air, red lights flash, burly security types appear from nowhere, shouting. Panic hits him, heart racing, slamming in his chest, chills flying down his spine. He bolts for the exit, running faster than he ever has. I will not be caught again like before. Images from the past rip through his mind. He’s cut off from his squad, enemy closing in. Slipping between two guards, he ducks an arm thrown at him. He’s almost at the door. A forcefield slams down, blue and buzzing with static. He hits it, bounces off, limbs jerking with violent spasms, muscles locking, cramps hitting, he crashes to the ground, writhing in pain.

Well, damn.

He gets a beating by the guards as they drag him into a back office, roughed up and bleeding, his jaw aches, stomach churns, bile scores the back of his throat. He’s in less pain than he should be, though. Strange. They plonk him down in a plush leather chair; it screams wealth and looks like it belongs to the boss. He feels the soft leather on his palms, a stark contrast to his hard treatment and the stony looks around him. He remembers a prison cell, back on a rebel moon, remembers the feel of hot iron on skin, and he winces, gripping the charm in his pocket like he did back then.

“Well, Mr. Tren,” says a thick and menacing voice from behind a big oak desk, the back of a chair facing him, “it looks like you were causing trouble in my casino.”

The chair turns and a heavyset figure faces him, clad in black, cheek scarred, a malicious smile on his lips.

“I don’t like trouble, and I don’t like you. I don’t know how or why you set off the AI alarms, but I want you gone.” Even the mob follows the AI rules. No-one wants the horrors of the past to return.

“This kind of nonsense could bring the station authorities down on us. So, you will leave and never come back. Yes?” Tren nods his affirmation.

He’s given another beating just to ram the point home, then they toss him out on the street. Misfortune again. He gives a wry chuckle to himself. Still alive though. It is station “night-time.” The red gas giant looms over the station through the clear dome above, swirls of white storms move across through ammonia clouds, hypnotic, it shimmers in the distortion of the EM shield. Grav cars of the rich with yellow and white headlight beams glide above dark, steaming streets, wet after cleaning bots have been through. Ground cars rumble by him, the option for the less salubrious. A muffled laser shot rings out in the distance away, and a couple of dogs bark. It’s warm. Always warm on a station. Advertising boards shout their wares on every street with garish 3-D holograms, flashing red, green, blue, for attention. He takes stock, mind reeling. What the hell is happening? The low-level software in his watch is designed not to trigger AI alarms, to sway the dealer into giving him a winning hand. Well, obviously not. He will have much to say to the dealer when he catches up with him.

His wounds and bruises are already healing and fading, faster than ever. He pays it no mind and ducks into a bar to drink away his troubles, like he always does. It’s almost empty inside, a few of the usual hard drinking types prop up the bar. The robot barkeep quietly cleans glasses with a rag. He looks up at the holo screen and sees a picture of his face with the words “Casino Killer on the Loose” running beneath. He watches it move to a cut scene of a body, a blanket covering it, splashes of blood either side. A lot of blood. A picture of the red-head from the casino pops up with the word “victim” next to it. His head spins. Murder? How?

He needs off the station and fast. He’s got to run like he always runs from everything. Although I can never seem to outrun my past. The cops will be onto him, even out here, this kind of high-profile thing isn’t overlooked, it’s bad for business. Lucky for him a gambling station out here is alive with criminals. He swiftly hides in the men’s room, splashes water on his forehead, enjoys the cold shock, then looks in the mirror. I wish I had a disguise. As he watches, his hair changes to black, becomes longer, cheekbones higher, and a stubbly beard grows in. He hears bones pop and feels stinging pain, which eases after a minute. What is this? His tuxedo feels tight, muscles straining beneath. He checks the mirror again, he’s handsome in a way he always wanted, shoulders fully, with a square jaw.

He gets back outside, his mind reels at the changes. His face is on every billboard, his old face anyway. He walks down the street trying not to look suspicious. Cops in hover cars slip by, lights flashing, pictures of old him scroll down their windows, “WANTED!” flashing in bright digital letters. Sweat prickles down the back of his neck, from the nerves and the heat. He picks up his pace and heads to the bad side of town, where you get things done, and the cops don’t enter. He prowls by low rise buildings, old, rusted metal that needs repair. Tren halts outside a rundown shop with a gang sign scrawled in graffiti above the door. This is what he needs.

He raps the door.

“I got business!” he hisses, so as not to attract attention. A slot opens in the façade and hard blue eyes look out.

“What? This better be good. Cops all over the city tonight, boy,” a harsh voice spits in reply.

“Yeah, I heard about that. I need evac tonight. Nice and quiet,” Tren whispers conspiratorially.

“You him, eh?”

Tren pushes his face closer, and says, “No, look at me. I ain’t him.”

“Okay. Gonna cost extra though, ‘cos of all the cops, see?”

“Like how much?”

“1,000 credits.”

A thousand. A thousand will clean him out. But he can escape, start again somewhere, new face, new looks, new life. Whereas a murder charge will see him locked up forever. Or more likely dead when the real killer finds me.

“Okay,” he says reluctantly, with a shoulder shrug.

“Be at terminal 5 at oh three hundred. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Details beam directly to his watch, which beeps as payment goes out.

Tren later approaches the terminal at the station’s edge. A trickle of shuttles launch themselves into space outside the dome, he sees them manoeuvre and drop away as the engines kick in. The entrance is check-in point leading to a large tunnel out to the docking bays. The usual concern is with those arriving, not those leaving. Now the entrance is swarming with police, they search everyone who enters. Tren approaches, affects his usual confident swagger. He feels in his pocket. Grips his charm. I really need you this time.

“Evening officer,” he says in a friendly tone, a grin on his face.

The cop eyeballs him, looks him up and down, checks the image on his com pad. His uniform is the blue and red of station police, laser pistol at his hip, tall and bald under a standard issue cap.

“Still in the monkey suit?” he asks, as he returns the grin, but it does not reach his eyes.

Tren senses the danger, looks down at himself in mock surprise.

“Rough night. Let’s just say my fortunes took a turn for the worse,” he states, looking up with a mock laugh.

The cop nods and laughs back, tension eases from his shoulders, with an air that says he’s seen many hard-luck cases.

Tren saunters forward, feeling reassurance now. The barrier is just ahead.

“Stop,” says a voice.

This voice is quiet, bland, plain, nondescript. It could be from any number of planets in any number of systems. However, something about this voice carries more threat than the mob boss from earlier in the day. Tren slowly turns, wary, and sees a nondescript man dressed in a black jumpsuit, out of context here in Big Blue, his skin pallid, black visor over his eyes, a deceptively slight build. Goosebumps race across his flesh, his heart pounds, this means only one thing. Government agent from the Central Belt. He has another flashback, tied to a chair for a debrief, an agent similar to the one in front of him, pacing around, asking questions, using a brutal tone.

“Why were you spared? How did you survive?”

“I don’t know. Just lucky I guess…”

He is back to the present. The nastiest of bastards. Why is he here? On a leash by the agent’s side is a yellow and green lizard-like creature on a leash, with a spiky ridge along its back, a Saur, gene-spliced so they can track people by blood and DNA. My blood and DNA, both of which are all over the casino. Shit. The creature erupts into a hoarse, coughing bark, strains at the leash to get to Tren.

“It’s him!” yells the spook, moving fluidly into motion, a gun appears in his hand.

People in the queue scatter, screaming, some hit the floor. Tren sprints for the docking bays, looks back and sees the Saur in pursuit. Damn the thing is fast. He enters the gloom of the long tunnel to the outside, light strips flash by overhead, like when he was on his back rushing down a hospital corridor, fresh from his rescue, and counting the lights going by, charm bouncing on his neck chain. Breath burns in his lungs, but no fatigue. He feels a searing pain in his calf. The Saur brings him down, the agent trots over, looks down at him over the gun, a proton accelerator, heavy duty.

“It is imperative you come with me,” the agent states flatly.

Tren is now sure this will mean death. A heat runs through his body and adrenaline surges. He throws off the Saur and hurls it at the spook with uncanny newfound strength, who flinches back in shock. Tren runs again, limping at first but he soon runs it off. Orange blasts fly past him, taking chunks out the wall and leaving molten holes behind.

“You need to stop!” yells the agent, desperation in his voice.

Tren stops and calls back, “You want me dead!”

“You might soon wish you were!”

What the hell does that mean? He runs again, faster now. Another blast flies out and takes Tren in the back. He collapses to the floor, a gaping hole in his chest, clean through. The agent looms over him once more.

“Well, second time lucky I guess,” he chuckles morbidly.

Tren should be dead. He isn’t. He knows not why. A strange warm sensation begins again. He manages to angle his head to look down past his chin. The hole in his chest is knitting back together. How am I alive?! He feels the breath back in his lungs, chest rising and falling. He gets a rigid shock, then relief comes in a wave. And now determination. The agent’s face twists in horror and disbelief.

“I didn’t know it could…”

Tren doesn’t let him finish, he’s up, batting away the gun and has his hands around the agent’s throat.

“Why did you set me up? Why did you kill the girl?” he demands, furious now.

“Didn’t...kill...girl...” the agent squeezes out.

Tren feels the agent’s neck under his hands, feels the pulse underneath, so easy to extinguish. His mind ignites with another memory, charred bodies stacked in piles, smoke stinging his eyes, the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh, squad mates laughing and joking about ‘fryin’ ‘em good.’ I remember I swore I would never do this again. He chops the agent on the back on the head. He checks the guy’s breath, he’s still alive. Tren’s own clothes are mostly incinerated, so he takes the agent’s, stripping him off and putting them on. The modern smartfibres stretch to fit his new, larger physique, contoured to his body. He puts on his sunglasses from earlier in the day, stuffs the charm in a pocket.

Tren strolls out of the tunnel, into the light, towards the docking bays. He finds his berth there, waiting, and hits the com pad.

“Ready to go, amigo?” comes the voice from earlier.

“Yes,” Tren replies, “but will we get out?”

“All good,” comes the reply.

A hatch opens and Tren slips into the hold.

The shuttle engine fires up, and docking clamps begin to release with a harsh clang.

“Station security?” he asks through the intercom.

“It’s weird. All stood down. We already got exit clearance.”

Tren straps himself into a passenger seat. He hangs his luck charm on a panel in front. Maybe things are finally going my way.

“Hi Tren,” says a robotic, metallic sounding voice in his head.

“Who are you?” he asks, panicking.

“I’m a part of you now. Literally. In every piece of your DNA.”

He tries to move, but he’s frozen in place.

“What do you want?”

“Let’s just say I took a gamble on you.”

His mind races back to the casino, the red head, the touch on his hand. Bad luck honey. The realisation hits him that he is infected, the skin on skin contact allowing the transfer. An AI. A very bad one from the “Before Times.” The shuttle glides towards the launch tube.

“And just look at you now. Ready for the big time”

The launch tube doors slide open.

Tren tries to struggle, but his limbs don’t respond.

“Relax. We’re going to do great things, you and I.”

Tren feels a punch in the back as acceleration kicks in. A monitor flashes on, showing the glittering dome of Big Blue rapidly falling away, his old life vanishing behind him as quickly as the shuttle taking him away. He sees his luck charm dancing about in the high g-force. Tren tries to scream, but nothing comes out. He only hears it in his head, as the shuttle races into the black.