Hearts Akilter Read Free Page A

sickbay?”
    “Negative. No. He was released. I saw him daily during his stay in sickbay and dressed his wounds. He did not treat me like a drone. I like him.”
    “But the question is, can you trust him?”
    “I do not know. His next scheduled checkup is in three days. Considering the bomb, that is a very long time to wait to talk to him, is it not?”
    “Yes, it is.” Marlee laced her fingers together. Resting her hands on the top of her head, she leaned all the way back in her task chair, the pivot joint softly creaking. “Let me think and see if we can come up with a plan or two that won’t get me reprimanded and busted down to a drone dispatcher, or worse—you shipped off to Razl.”
    ****
    0230 Hours, Deck 11, the Lamplighter Saloon
    Deacon Black sat at the far end of the bar in the semidarkness of the American, Old West themed saloon. He sipped his third DW. The DeLupian Whiskey hit his stomach with a smooth warmth. A memory surfaced of his first night on the space station. In this saloon, he’d drunk a dock worker under the table and won over a thousand drails in the betting.
    Such credits were a nice perk for being one of those rare individuals DeLupian Whiskey didn’t make drunk. Oh, he might end up happy by the tenth one. Still, it didn’t do to out-drink too many men, or women. Particularly tonight. Tonight he must be extra cautious, extra observant, because liquor and meds rarely mixed well, and he had an objective.
    He glanced down at his left forearm. Beneath his brown Centauri uniform’s sleeve, a hard-shelled, transparent cylinder protected his second and third degree burns so they would heal without scarring. An instant later, he felt the tingling of the atomizer inside the container spray meds over his wounds.
    None of the other med vials had created a tingling sensation. But this was a new cartridge, and his burns were healing, so maybe the CMO changed the prescription. Besides, he hadn’t noticed any adverse reactions to the meds and drinking DWs, now had he?
    He shifted his gaze to his liquor. A few more sips and he’d call it a night. To anyone watching, his self-imposed three-drink limit would make them believe he was a staggering drunk when he left. But would his drunken act succeed in bringing out the lowlife who was trying to kill him?
    A twangy piano tune wafted out of the bar’s hidden speakers, followed by the caterwauling of the beer-glutted foursome nearby. He was used to military uniforms and ranks, but here on Kifel, the uniforms were a color-coded caste system. The foursome’s denim-blues meant they were spacedock workers. They huddled around a small gray table. Two men, two women—all singing off-key and butchering the lyrics.
    Across the way, two heavy-set men in a booth put their heads together, whispering then chuckling. Their beige jumpsuits designated them as food service workers.
    Hearing the rattle of glassware, Deacon eyed the bartender. The thin man, in circa 1800’s attire, stacked clean shot glasses into the auto-dispenser of a one-armed liquor servobot.
    Deacon took another glance about the saloon. No one looked like a killer. Then again, few killers ever looked like killers.
    With the next lull between tunes, the patrons silenced their chatter.
    The bar seemed too quiet, the patrons too subdued. Okay, so the bartender mentioned this was a slow night, the usual for two days before cargo handlers got paid.
    The saloon’s side doors shushed open, and a slender woman, in a rumpled, russet maintenance tech’s coveralls, walked in. Sticking out from under several denim-blue pocket flaps were tools of her trade.
    She swiped her fingers through her long mahogany bangs, raking them to the right and behind her ear. As she continued to the other end of the bar, she glanced at him but didn’t make eye contact.
    Yet, it was enough of a glance.
    He recognized the mirror-blackness of her eyes. Both eyes were implants. Usually such implants were a one-eye necessity for the