James Axler – Exile to Hell

He felt an insistent, jiggling pressure, as though he were riding on the back of a wag. He tried to roll with it, but he couldn’t seem to move. Finally he realized a hard object was prodding his right thigh. He managed to reach down, and his fingers closed on something that felt like the toe of a boot.

“Up and at ’em. Salvo and slaggers wait for no one.”

Kane struggled and managed to peel back one eyelid. Grant’s scowling ebony face filled his field of vision. He looked curiously distorted, resembling a frog under a magnifying glass.

Clearing a dry-as-dust throat, he massaged his eyeballs with the heels of his hands. They felt as if they had been filled with broken glass.

“You have a good time?”

Removing his hands from his face, Kane saw a foggy Grant examining an equally foggy yet very empty wine bottle.

“No,” Kane croaked. He realized he was lying on his sofa, still wearing his bodysuit, though at some point during the night he’d taken off his coat, boots and Sin Eater. They lay in a disordered heap on the floor.

Grant sighed unhappily. “This was rare stuff. You have any idea how hard it is to find?”

“You’ve told me often enough.”

“And you knocked it off in one night, like a goddamn methanol swill-pig. And you didn’t save me so much as a sip.”

Kane frowned at him. “You don’t drink.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“Yeah. It’s the thought that gets me. What time is it?”

“Twenty minutes till shift change. You’ve got till ten to pull your sodden ass together.”

“Why’d you come by?”

“Because you didn’t answer my comm calls.”

“You were worried.”

“Not particularly.”

“Were, too.”

“Okay, I were. Wondered what happened with Salvo last night.”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Just an ass-chewing. Not even that. More like an ass-gumming. Gave me a line of hoohah about some roamer warlord with predark weaponry.”

Grant grunted. “That old saw.”

Kane got his arms under him and heaved his body off the sofa, not even trying to stifle his groans. Pain, like a clawed animal, tore at the inside of his skull. He was grateful that Grant postponed further questions until he was able to function again. He stumbled into the tiny bath nook and doused his face with cold water. He plunged his head repeatedly into the sink, blowing like a whale.

Grant watched him from the doorway. “Want some food?”

At the mention of it, Kane’s stomach boiled like a percolator. Face submerged, he mumbled incoherently.

After the pain receded a bit, he straightened up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink. He winced at the sight. His eyes were dark rimmed and netted with red. His color was like mildewed drywall. He felt a small twinge of satisfaction. He looked exactly as he felt.

In a low tone, hardly above a whisper, Grant asked, “What did you do with the disk?”

Memories of his midnight visit to Brigid Baptiste returned in a swirling rush. He remembered everything, and a groan escaped between suddenly clenched teeth.

“Ah, shit,” he said softly. “Shit. Shit .”

“That bad?” Grant’s tone of voice wasn’t amused.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, shouldering Grant aside, he pawed through his wadded-up coat. The good thing about Kevlar was that it wouldn’t hold a wrinkle, no matter how much it was abused. The disk was still snug in an inner pocket, and he collapsed onto the sofa, not knowing if he felt relieved or anxious. Then Grant’s question finally penetrated. Directing a steady glare at him, he demanded, “How did you know about it?”

“Salvo called me this morning,” he answered quietly. “Said he was asking every member of our team if we’d boosted anything from the slaghole last night. Said he’d already asked you.”

“He did. Didn’t tell me what, if anything, was missing.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask him. I did. Doesn’t take a psi-mutie to guess who palmed it and when.”

Leaning his throbbing head against a coverless cushion, he asked, “You going to tell him?”

“Kiss my ass. Salvo asked me if I was the one who took it, not if I knew who did.”