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Lost in Translation

The paperback from DAW Books

Praise for Ed's previous novel, Lost in Translation:

"Edward Willett has arrived, and SF is the richer for it." -  Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award-winning author of Hominids

"A believable, absorbing, thought-provoking and highly enjoyable read." - Kathy Tyers, Author of the Firebird trilogy, Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura, and Star Wars: Balance Point

Andy Nebula: Interstellar Rock Star
Published by Roussan Publishers

Nominated for the 2001 Manitoba Young Readers Choice Award
Named to the Our Choice list by the Canadian Children's Book Centre

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Back to Chapter 14

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The pain grew until I couldn't stand it--and then grew more. It flayed the skin from my body and the flesh from my bones, poured acid through my veins, drove slivers of ice into my eyes, filled my throat with ground glass. And all the time I knew exactly what I needed to end the agony: one little wafer, one insignificant, unimportant wafer, one tiny dose of flash.

I writhed and screamed, blood and spittle dribbling down my chin. I begged Meta until I was hoarse, "Please, let me up! I've got to find--I have to have--" But Meta buried her face in the pillow, her hands over her ears.

After what seemed days, but was probably less than an hour, Fat Sloan opened the door. Adrenaline surged through me. "Sloan, you can get me flash, I know you can, Sloan, please, please!"

Meta's head jerked up. "No!"

Sloan ignored her and came over to me. "Well," he said. "So little Kit, always so afraid of flashmen, is a flashman himself."

"Sloan..." I moaned. "Help me..."

"Of course, gladeye." Sloan drew a glass tube out of his shirt pocket and shook a little green wafer into his palm.

I trembled and drooled like a starving mutt. "Thank you, Sloan," I whispered, like a prayer. "Thank you, thank you--"

"Don't mention it." Sloan delicately took the wafer between his grimy thumb and forefinger and leaned forward. "Open wide--"

I opened my mouth, tongue extended, panting in short little gasps, waiting for the blessed touch of the wafer--

And Meta screamed "Stop!" and threw herself between us. The wafer spun away, smashing to green dust against the wall.

Sloan's smile turned to snarl. "I'm just giving him what he wants--what they all want!" he spat. "You can't stop me."

"Meta, get out of his way!"

She ignored me. "I won't let you do it!"

Sloan laughed, a nasty sound. "I don't think you can stop me." He stepped forward again, a moving mountain of flesh.

But Meta held her ground. "I won't let you," she repeated--and held up the knife I'd put in my bag. She handled it clumsily, but it was very long and very sharp, and Sloan stopped. The sight of it filled me with rage. How dare she use my knife to stop Sloan from giving me what I needed? Who'd asked her to interfere?

Sloan snorted. "Have it your way, little girl. But don't expect him to thank you for it." He went out, slamming the door.

Meta turned toward me with a grin--and I spat at her and called her every obscene name I had learned on the street. "I'll kill you!" I screamed. "You're protein, you filthy little witch! I'll take that knife and--" I went into graphic detail, punctuated by my own moans and gasps when pain crashed over me.

My words drove Meta back against the wall, her knees pulled up tight, but she didn't hide her face this time--she just stared at me, rocking back and forth, tears running down her cheeks.

A century later the pain ebbed, and consciousness with it.

I woke in darkness. Every bone and muscle ached, sandpaper lined my throat, and I stank. But I could think clearly again.

Meta slept, curled up on the bed like a cat, a faint glitter of reflected light from the tavern holosign across the road showing where the knife still lay by her outstretched hand. I shook my head. Little Meta, standing up to Fat Sloan on my account. Now that's what I call a fan. I opened my mouth and croaked, "Meta." She didn't stir. "Meta, wake up!"

"Mmmm?" She rolled over, then suddenly sat up and stared at me, her eyes wide and white in the darkness. "Kit?"

"Yes. It's over. You can let me go."

She didn't move. "How can I be sure?" she whispered.

I opened my mouth to say, don't be silly, you can be sure because I'm telling you--but the words stuck in my throat. I had to swallow hard before I could speak. "I'm sorry, Meta. I'm so sorry." Remembering the names I had called her, I wanted to sink through the floor. "That wasn't me talking--it was the flash."

"You said you'd kill me."

"Meta, it's late, and we've got to get out of here tonight, before Sloan hands us over to Qualls. If you don't untie me, they'll catch me--and they'll put me back on flash again first thing. And then all this will have been for nothing."

She hesitated a moment longer, then grabbed the knife, sliced through the cloth strips tying me down, and stepped back warily, holding her weapon at the ready in case I leaped at her.

I couldn't have leaped from that chair if it had been on fire. Every movement hurt. Very slowly I straightened my stiffened legs and managed to stand, then hobbled over to the door and turned on the light. I surveyed myself in the cracked mirror--not a pretty sight. Dried blood and spit covered my blotchy face and the front of my torn synthileather shirt. Slowly and painfully I pulled it off, washed as best I could in the sink, then toweled off and limped over to my bag for a clean shirt--simple white cloth this time. Meta watched me, never lowering the knife. When I'd finished, I held out my hand. "I think I should carry that."

For a moment she didn't move; then, abruptly, she held it out to me, hilt-first. I took it. "You were very brave," I said.

"I couldn't let you take it, not after...what I'd seen."

"Would you have actually used the knife on him?" I held it up so the blade flashed. "Could you do something like that?"

"I--I think I could. To protect a friend." Her mouth quirked upward. "Anyway, he sure thought I could."

To protect a friend. I thought again of what I had called her, of everything she'd been through because of me. Some friend. Ashamed to look at her, I slid the knife into its sheath and clipped it to my belt, then closed the bag, picked it up--and stopped, reconsidering. Nothing in it was really important, and I could do without the weight. I opened it again, took out my Andy Nebula credit chip, and kicked the bag under the bed. "Orbital," I said. "Our next trick is getting past Fat Sloan."

"Won't he be asleep?"

"His security systems won't. He doesn't like people coming and going without him knowing. Especially us. We're worth money."

"So how do we get out?"

"I'm not sure yet." I looked at the window, toying with the idea of turning the rest of the sheet into a rope, but thought better of it. The tavern across the street would still be full of people and we didn't want a crowd of witnesses.

So if we couldn't go down--we'd have to go up. "The roof."

I turned off the light, slowly opened the door and peered both ways. It was unusually quiet, for Sloan's; nobody arguing or screaming. I slipped out, Meta behind me, and crept to the stairs as silently as the rickety old floor would let me. Dim yellow light shone into the stairwell from the lobby; I wondered if Sloan was down there, overflowing that stool of his.

I wasn't about to creep down to find out. Instead, we crept up, step by creaking step. I expected every minute to see Sloan appear at the bottom of the stairs, blocking out the light like an eclipsing moon, but everything remained quiet. Two flights up the stairs ended in a red wooden door with no handle. A single dim glowtube barely lit it.

"Dead end?" Meta glanced down the stairs.

"No," I said. The door probably had a sonic-activated lock--but the wood around it was as rotten as Sloan's heart. "Stand back." I braced myself against the stair railing and kicked as hard as I could. The door crashed open, splinters flying, and from somewhere below us a piercing beep! beep! beep! began. "Oops," I said, grabbed Meta's hand and ran out onto the flat roof, toward the fire escape that led down into the back alley.

Sloan had been in the lobby; as we reached the fire escape he appeared, puffing, in the shattered doorway. "Stop!"

"I don't think so," I yelled back, grabbing the railing.

Something in Sloan's hand cracked and spat fire, and a large chunk of the knee-high wooden wall girdling the roof exploded in splinters, one of which scored my cheek, bringing a warm trickle of blood. "Next time I won't miss!" Sloan shouted.

I pushed Meta onto the fire escape. Crack! Another bullet whined past, so close my insides quivered. "Move!" I shouted to Meta, and swung onto the fire escape myself.

Before I could start down it the gun cracked one more time--and something smashed me over the railing into empty space.

#

On to Chapter 16..