Aberrant

Chapter 12

Jinx fled A-Deck before Dem could collar her. She ignored her dull headache and the growing tightness in her chest; she wasn't thinking about what had happened to her on the barge. She had limited time before that's all she'd be thinking about.

Hurrying up a set of metal stairs and along a floating walkway, she tuned out the abuse being hurled at port staff from the public concourse below. Blown schedules and unfair dock prioritisation were the last things she gave a damn about, even if her decision to quarantine the Bullhead had made the situation worse, hampering repairs.

Four large roach vessels were now on or orbiting the planet—a number that would have breached treaty rules except the roaches claimed to be on a salvage and rescue mission. What had they lost in the planet's wastes that warranted that kind of response?

She needed details.

After dropping off a sample of her soiled shirt at the materials analysis lab, she headed for the port's Data and Communications Centre. Locating a shabby set of doors marked 'staff only', she pushed through them.

And found herself in synthetic-coffee- and sweat-scented chaos.

The open-plan area was wall-to-wall with arm-waving people and banks of screens. The noise was unusual. On a standard day, people would have been slouched at their workstations messaging silently and occasionally tossing a junk food wrapper at a workmate. Today, people talked directly to one another.

Not a good sign.

Jinx's nerves ratcheted up. Ducking past arguing staff and tech-laden desks, she searched for the one person on Tirus 7 who could get her any data she wanted—legally or illegally. Spotting a shock of ash-blond hair, she headed for it.

Unknown to most, the unruly mop hid impressive implanted tech, the kind only the truly wealthy could acquire. Its owner, Lenton Solaris, had been an elite brat and overachiever in a past life, prior to his father going bankrupt.

Four years on, he slouched in a frayed, taped-up chair in front of budget screens, no evidence of his highbrow education in sight, no sign of any fancy clip-in tech to enhance both his implant and social status. His primary claim to fame was the cold-blooded slaughter of gaming avatars on the local battle sims. A plain white singlet and loose grey pants covered his lanky body. He wore no shoes.

Jinx frowned as she approached. Even for Lenton the outfit was très casual. She reassessed the crappy day Data Coms was having. Her friend had serious bed hair and appeared to be still in his PJs.

"Looking good this morning, Smarty." Following her usual protocol, she backhanded a stale Caf-X cup into a desk-side recyce port and sat on the edge of his desk, avoiding gadgets and snacks. "Broken capillaries and caffeine really bring out the sparkle in your eyes."

"Piss off, Jinx." Those eyes she admired—an intense blue—moved quickly, tracking three screens of reeling data, neurotech enhancing their analysis. "Go harass some lowlifes on C-Deck or something. This prissy academy graduate has a totalled satellite array, malfunctioning sensors, and a priority inventory search to deal with."

"The term you're looking for is 'prissy grad-boy princess'." Jinx recalled their last bloody simulated battle. Her victory speech had been less than complimentary, but Lenton's only real mistake had been to ask her to supply refreshments. The guy owned serious gaming tech, could use it brilliantly—until the tequila came out. "So, you're still pouting, then?"

An elevated digit was her answer.

"I need a favour, Smarty. Don't make me crawl for it. It'll get ugly." She took in her friend's bloodshot eyes again. "Okay, fine, I'll crawl. You are a god among men, a tower of intellect. I worship your five shiny higher degrees and lust after your tight, tight, tight—"