A Fistful of Credits: Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 5) Read online

  “Okay, you’re here,” he said, and he put his thumb on the safe release. Zeke looked at the flashing red light on the safe and considered. A thousand credits was a thousand credits. The driver’s cocky look slowly morphed into one of concern. “It was a good ride, and fast…” he said in a mulish tone. Zeke looked out of the tinted canopy of the flyer, noticing a few shabbily-dressed pedestrians staring at the flyer sitting with its blades still spinning. They seemed mildly curious.

  Zeke pressed his thumb to the safe. The door on the other side popped open, and the canopy released. He didn’t wait for the cabby to say anything or offer any thanks. People would do stupid things over that kind of money.

  He walked quickly away from the flyer to reduce the chance of mischief and was rewarded by a quick blast of chop wash as the cab screamed into the sky. As the wind eddies died out, he fished one of his hand-wrapped cigars from the faded leather jacket and bit off the end. A poorly-dressed woman slowly pushing a FedMart shopping cart gave him a look that was somewhere between disgust and outright loathing as he used an alien-manufactured plasma lighter to ignite the pungent stogie.

  “You aren’t supposed to smoke,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear. He exhaled a huge cloud of smoke in her direction, smiled, and nodded. She accelerated slightly.

  The departure of the flyer had scattered tiny tornadoes of garbage and leaves in its wake. Zeke strolled down the sidewalk a few blocks until he reached his first destination. The old building had started life as a train station and was a center of rail commerce so important in the 19th century that it had become the stuff of songs. Later, in the 20th century, it became a hotel and convention center. Then, as time and mismanagement took its toll, housing for indigent people. Some research on the Aethernet enroute from Houston had indicated it was a FedMart distribution center, but he quickly saw that was out of date. The entire structure had been looted and burned to the ground.

  He examined the ruins of the historic Chattanooga Choo-Choo for a few minutes, trying to imagine how it looked when he’d last seen it. He walked over the long-fallen ‘Do Not Cross’ tape and through some of the vacant structures. Eventually, his needs fulfilled, he walked back out.

  At the street, he found a pair of young men trying far too hard to look inconspicuous. He gave them a quick assessment and came up with a very low number of possibilities before he walked the rest of the way out to stand between them.

  “Whatcha lookin for in there, grandpa?”

  Zeke puffed on his cigar and regarded them with a calm, cool gaze.

  “Doncha know that smoking is bad for you?” the other asked.

  Puff, puff. Zeke walked away.

  “Hey! You don’t walk away from us!”

  “Yeah, you know who we is?”

  Zeke stopped and turned, examining the punk. About 20, maybe 25, undernourished, and with long, greasy hair that was half in dreadlocks and half in cornrows. He wore some sort of military surplus jacket which bulged noticeably and combat boots with steel tips. Cheap metamorphic tats covered both sides of his neck. One looked like a fire-breathing dragon, the other a butterfly with fangs. Cute. The other punk was less colorful, but they both looked confident and hungry. He shook his head.

  “Weez wit the TVG, muthafucka.” Zeke cocked his head. “You knows, Tennessee Valley Gangstas!”

  “Yeah,” the other said.

  Zeke grinned, gave a little chuckle, and turned to walk away. A second later, he heard their footfalls.

  * * *

  There wasn’t much he remembered about the city. That, in and of itself, wasn’t a surprise; he’d been gone a long time. The changes, though, weren’t from the natural progress of growth and evolution of a city, so much as its decay and decent into barbarism. He strolled down Market Street, noting places he remembered. Porker’s Barbecue, home of some of the best brisket he’d ever eaten, had ended its life as a check-cashing place before being condemned. The Patten Towers, where he’d once had an apartment, had suffered a similar fate to the Choo-Choo; only a burned-out husk remained.

  As Zeke got to MLK, he saw a pair of police cruisers parked at the corner of 8th Street, and he turned left before they could see him. One of them might have caught a glimpse of him, but he wasn’t too worried. What was one more drifter in this decaying town?

  On Broad Street, the Starbucks was amazingly still standing. He walked down to take a look, then realized it was like the one in the Houston Starport, a robotic vendor. He figured the taste wouldn’t be any different, so he went back to MLK and continued west. He was heading for a specific destination, though he didn’t know why. It couldn’t still be there, not the way the town looked, but he persisted. His feelings of bitter nostalgia got more intense with every step.

  As Zeke approached the corner of MLK and Carter streets, he thought he caught a whiff of hot grease and baked goods. It wasn’t possible, yet there it was—just across Carter from him. The City Café Diner looked almost the same. The memory felt like a shot to the gut.

  “Huh,” he said in amazement. A sound made him turn, and he saw a police car whiz by on Broad Street, heading south. He crossed Carter and went up to the diner. It had changed after all.

  It had always been in the corner of an old hotel. The space was leased from the building owner, and the café had been known far and wide for its cakes and pies, but they’d made a mean cup of coffee and some great omelets, too. The hotel was gone, demolished at some point, and the café was a standalone structure now. Its walls were hardened, and the entryway had a robotic guard built in with heavily-armored shutters and blast grates which could be lowered. It reminded him of some areas of Startown. The parking lot held a dozen ground cars of questionable utility, most showing more rust than paint.

  “Your business,” the robot said in passable English. He was impressed as it looked like an Oogar design.

  “I’d like some coffee,” he said. The robot considered him, and he considered it. Roughly humanoid, it was nine feet tall with two heavily-reinforced arms. One held a stun baton, and the other a shield. On the shield was a faded but readable sticker: “Robot Sentry License 8-771-A – City of Chattanooga,” and the date it was renewed.

  “A balance of at least fifty dollars is required for entrance,” the robot informed him. “Cash or credit?”

  “Credit,” he said, and held out his Yack. The Universal Account Access Card had a scan-enabled ID code and was linked to a bank account. The robot’s laser swept across it, then the machine slid aside on its track.

  “Welcome to the City Café Diner,” it said, but pronounced Café as “Kaf-ee”. The door opened, and he went in. The interior was unchanged; it was decorated in mid-nineteenth century diner-style, with lots of chrome, red plastic upholstery, and checkered vinyl flooring. It felt like home. Zeke grinned like a kid.

  “Yeah?” asked a woman half his age from behind the bar where a pair of women were drinking sodas and talking.

  “Coffee?” he said. “Maybe a piece of pie?” The big rotating display was still there, and while the number of options seemed to have decreased, there were still a lot of tasty-looking confections. She examined him with a critical eye, and he could tell she was wondering if her Oogar surplus robot was on the fritz. “I can pay,” he said, cutting off her concern. She grunted, took a menu, and led him to an empty booth. He dropped his bag on the seat and plopped down. The place was so familiar it hurt. He’d practically grown up here.

  There were maybe a dozen people in the place. Owing to the minimum solvency needed to get in, the clientele was better off than the few people he’d seen on the streets, although they still seemed well-worn. The woman handed him a battered old slate with the menu. As Zeke glanced at it, he was surprised to realize he was hungry. The images of the food looked as good as he remembered, so he selected pancakes, eggs, bacon, and orange juice. The menu said coffee was complementary with any complete meal.

  “Bacon is synthetic,” the waitress warned, then shrugged, “our sourc
e for real bacon was shut down by protestors two weeks ago.”

  “Protesting what?” he asked.

  “Animal rights. Where you been? The Supreme World Court is about to grant a stay on slaughter of all farm animals.” He looked at her as queerly as she’d looked at him. “Where you been, another planet?”

  “Or thousand,” he mumbled. “Fake’s fine.” He touched the order button and was told his breakfast would be $125. He touched his Yack to the slate, which beeped. The waitress seemed surprised, but she took the slate and walked off. A minute later a serving robot buzzed over on quiet tracks and delivered his coffee. He’d had better, but not many times. “Ahhh,” he said as the hot liquid hit his throat.

  He was just finishing his pancakes when the door buzzed, and a pair of cops came in. He’d been half-expecting that when they raced by heading south. They were both past middle age and had that sloppy look of cops who didn’t take their job seriously. They had new multi-function slug guns on their belts and expensive shoes. Pretty spiffy for a dump like Chattanooga. The one wearing stripes went over to the waitress, and, after a minute, she pointed at him. They sauntered over.

  “Yack?” the one with corporal stripes asked.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” Zeke asked.

  “He said, ‘Yack,’” the sergeant said, and he dropped a hand to his gun. Zeke’s eyes narrowed, but he handed it to them, slowly. The corporal snatched it from him and used a wrist scanner on it. He took a slate and examined the readout.

  “Randy Snyder?” the corporal asked. Zeke nodded. “Says here you’re from Wichita, Kansas. What you doing in Chattanooga?”

  “Traveling,” Zeke said. “I was looking for Wichita and got lost.”

  “Don’t be smart with us,” the sergeant said. “You the one who beat up those boys back by the Choo-Choo?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That so?” the corporal asked. Zeke nodded. “You messed up those TVG boys pretty good.”

  “I might have seen a couple men down that way,” Zeke said. “They looked kind of clumsy. Maybe they fell face first onto the sidewalk a few dozen times.” He’d seen the cameras mounted in their hats, and knew he was being recorded. He considered his timeline and decided he was fine. The forged Yack was better than anything you could buy on Earth. It would hold up for a few days, at least.

  “I figured you’d say something like that,” the sergeant said, then gestured at Zeke. “Give him his Yack back.” The corporal did as instructed. “You best be careful around here, Mr. Snyder. In fact, after that incident, it would be best if you just got in another flying cab and left.”

  Zeke nodded as if he were accepting good advice; instead, he was noting they knew how he’d gotten here. Obviously, he’d been watched since his cab set down.

  “Have a nice day, officers,” he said as they headed towards the door. Through the window next to him, Zeke had a narrow view of the door, but it was enough to see the officers outside talking with six punks, all dressed like the other two he’d beaten the shit out of an hour ago. One of the punks passed the cops something, and Zeke thought he caught a red glint. He nodded again and finished his coffee as the cops overrode the robot, and the six gangers filed in. The waitress looked alarmed.

  “You can’t be in here,” she complained loudly, “we paid already!”

  “Shut up, bitch!” one yelled back. Zeke noted which one. The last piece of bacon went into his mouth. Not bad, for modified plant proteins. He’d had a hell of a lot worse. The gang members moved down to surround his booth, and the patrons began to flee out the exit. The gang watched them leave. When the last one was out, the waitress retreated into a back room, and a loud buzzer sounded. The shutters all clattered down, and an armored door closed over the room she’d gone into. The ornate cake display was covered by a drop-down shield. Good, he thought.

  “You messed up Rocker and Tonka,” one of them said.

  “We gonna mess you up, real bad,” the one who’d yelled at the waitress added.

  “Only chance,” Zeke said. “Walk out the door, while you can.”

  “Or what?” another asked, after they’d all stopped laughing. “You gonna bleed on us, old man?”

  “Or none of you will be walking anywhere.” Their faces went from amused to angry. He reached under his shirt and drew out a coin affixed to a chain. It was made from old, tarnished metal, and had a female Mongol horse archer in mid-stride in relief. The three facing him saw it, one went pale.

  “Scoot, man,” he said towards the leader, “we better go.”

  “You gone fuckin’ mad?” Scoot asked.

  “Dude, that’s a Golden Horde challenge coin. I saw one on a Tri-V show in school.”

  Zeke nodded and looked Scoot right in the eye. “He’s right. So again, just walk out. Your call.”

  “You a Four Horsemen, old fart?”

  “No,” he admitted, “but they owe me a debt.”

  “See?” Scoot asked. “Even if he was some badass merc, he’s old and shriveled up. Let’s do this.”

  “Your choice,” Zeke said. The kid who’d recognized the challenge coin took a step back, but Scoot went in, right hand shooting in low at Zeke’s ribs, a long, razor-edged carbon-fiber knife in his hand.

  Zeke caught the man’s hand with his left hand, arresting the momentum an inch before the blade reached his coat. He squeezed and crushed every bone in Scoot’s hand. The sound of snapping bones was hideously loud, as were Scoot’s screams. Several of the gang drew firearms. Zeke rotated his body and pulled Scoot in front of him, and the bullets punched into the gang leader’s chest. Zeke pushed up and out of the booth, using Scoot’s body like a battering ram to send the men flying.

  Less than a minute later, he was working out a kink in his shoulder as he walked over to a booth and knelt next to it. The kid who’d recognized him was cowering there, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Please don’t kill me,” the kid begged. Zeke reached in, lightning fast, snatched the kid’s left foot, and dragged him out of his hiding place. He screamed like a girl as Zeke hoisted him off his feet and held him one-handed completely off the ground.

  “Your friends upset me,” Zeke explained. The kid looked at the diner from upside down; five bodies lay sprawled around the interior. “I didn’t mean to kill any of them. Sorry about that.” The kid was turning red-faced. “I need to know who you work for.”

  “The cops paid us,” the kid moaned.

  “No, I don’t mean the cops.” Zeke reached behind his back with his free hand and drew a half-meter of blackened combat knife. Alien script was laser etched into its alloy surface. “Who’s your boss? Give me a name.”

  Five minutes later the shutter opened on the back room, and a set of eyes looked around for any signs of movement. Not finding any, the door rotated up. The waitress, two cooks, and the owner who’d been in back doing paperwork came out carefully. The waitress gasped when she saw the TVG gang members scattered, sprawled, and broken. There were copious amounts of blood on the floor, and a cleaning robot was making macabre, bloody swirls as it tried vainly to clean the carnage. To all their surprise, the old man was back in his booth sipping the half-finished orange juice.

  “More coffee?” he asked. The waitress just stared in stunned horror, so he raised his cup and waggled it impatiently. A long, bloody black knife sat on the table, across the empty breakfast plate. The coffee robot was near the service area, its little rubber wheels spinning in a puddle of blood, unable to reach him. The waitress didn’t move, so the owner picked up the coffee pot and carried it over to refill Zeke’s cup.

  “Much obliged,” he said as he took a sip. “Ahh.” He put the cup down. “Can I ask you something?”

  “S-sure,” the owner answered, managing it with only a sight stammer.

  “This establishment was once owned by the Avander family?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his face scrunching up in concentration, “but that was like seventy, eighty ye
ars ago.”

  “What happened to Molly Avander?” The man told him. Zeke took in the information, then nodded. “My thanks. The back exit still next to the freezer?” Surprised, the owner nodded.

  Zeke got up and stretched; the kink in his shoulder still hurt. The big knife disappeared, then he took his shoulder bag and went around the bodies, the blood, and the frustrated cleaning robot and walked back behind the counter. The cooks moved out of the way; he slid by the waitress. She looked at him with eyes wide with terror. He stopped at the counter, fished into a special pocket in his bag, and took out a credit chit, sitting it gently on the counter.

  “For the mess,” he said, “and probably the lawyers.” Then he was gone. The owner walked over and looked down at the plastic Galactic Union credit chit, a tiny red diamond embedded in see-through plastic in its center. It was a 5,000 credit chit. They found the youngest gang member where Zeke had left him, unconscious and hung upside down by his shoes from a coat rack.

  A few blocks away Zeke decided he couldn’t stay on foot. The town was so poor, though, it didn’t seem right to deprive one of the denizens of their transportation. He passed under the partially collapsed Highway 27 bridge toward the old Mitsubishi dealer, only to discover it was now a Binnig dealer. Of course, this one didn’t sell CASPers, combat assault systems, personal; instead, it sold robots much like the one probably still trying to clean up the blood in the City Café Diner.

  A motorcycle was parked out front; it was probably only half his age. It seemed well-maintained, so he went into the dealer. The bike belonged to the service technician. He hadn’t wanted to sell, but a 1,000-credit chit changed his mind. Another hundred got him a gas voucher and a helmet.

  Zeke took the time to disable the tracking device, then slung his bag across the low saddle, fired up the bike, and got on Highway 27, heading north. There were no other vehicles, and he found out why when he reached the P. R. Olgiati Bridge. Only one span remained standing over the Tennessee River, and it was cracked and crumbling. He went across it at nearly 90 miles per hour. Back in town, he heard the first sirens.