At least, he used to think he would have. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Being far away from her had made him realize that he could breathe fine on his own. He still loved her, but he didn’t think about her every waking moment like he used to.
The night of their medical cache raid, he waited in the hallway, feeling comfortable and less hungry now that he wore his jumpsuit again. This hall was one of the few with a window to space. With the lights out, standing there was standing in nothingness. Only a dim, peach glow came from underneath the door. They could hear Razz slowly breaking the door’s seal from within.
“I don’t want to do this,” said Timothy. “We shouldn’t do this.”
The Sticker said nothing. He was not going to insist on their plans to kill him, not by any stretch.
The padding sound of a robot’s footsteps came from down the hall. The two men froze. With a sucking sound the door to the medical cache opened and Razz poked his head out. The Sticker put his finger to his lips.
The robot’s footsteps faded and they retreated inside the room. Litter and assorted junk spread out over the floor like a small cyclone had gone through the room. Several drums had been knocked over amidst the mess. The Sticker stepped on a pile of thin aluminum and cringed at the crumpling sound he’d made.
“What the hell has gone on in here?”
“Oh, too much to explain, boys, but I’ve been having some fun.” Razz looked excited, out of breath and like he hardly knew where to start. “Tim,” he finally said, “Remember what Harper said about membrane transport?”
“That DNRM-33 stuff?”
“Yeah, the transport stores all biological profiles using that stuff to translate our DNA, blabbety-blab.”
“Ok.”
“He said that in times where astrodynamic computers were down, he knew people who took double doses of the stuff, stepped in and it kicked them back to their original location.”
Timothy nodded, though his face was dubious. “It might be an urban legend, but yeah, Harper thought the membrane’s internal memory cannot possess identical biological data. Another couple doses of DNRM-33 will instruct it to code something previously coded, not once, but twice. This is registered as an anomaly error, a safety measure is supposedly then taken by the system and a forced return occurs.”
“Is there enough of that stuff here for us all to go back?” asked the Sticker.
“There’s a drum of it.” Razz smiled. “We’re good.”
The Sticker ran his hands through his shaggy hair and entwined his fingers at the back of his head. “Holy shit.”
“Hold on though.” Timothy’s face took that ghostly look as he turned from them in the dark. “We can’t fool ourselves. Only one of the robots has a physical key to the membrane station door. If it was a code or a keycard, I could probably work it out, but it’s an old school iron key, as primitive as primitive comes. We don’t know which robot holds it either. They aren’t going to tell us, and if you hadn’t noticed, the robots all look identical. Believe me, I like your idea, but I’m just sayin’…”
Razz glanced at the Sticker. “No worries. I’m not banking on my luck this time.”
“No?”
From his pocket, Razz pulled out what looked like a piece of black trash bag. It curled as he took it out, a living, moving thing.
“You stole one?” Timothy asked.
The Sticker tried to adjust his eyes in the dark. “Stole what?”
The black material bent around Razz’s hand and formed like a glove. His hand grew four more fingers, turned into a ball with spikes, and then into a foot-long machete. After a moment, it dissolved down to a bar shape with a key at the end.
“How did you steal one of the Fanjlion’s gloves?”
“I didn’t,” explained Razz. “These robots aren’t much for discerning treasure from trash. But as you can see from my mess, I am.”
After a moment, Timothy forced a smile. “I really hope this works. I don’t want to be right.”
“Don’t trust your gut. You have that irritable bowel syndrome thing anyway.”
The Sticker laughed.
“Ha-ha-ha. Fuck you.” Timothy scowled. “So what do we do then?”
“Take that bag of syringes there on that drum of DNRM-33 and fill them at the port on the side. We’ll need two each, so fill six. The stuff looks like water but it’s as thick as tar, probably will take some time.”
“Piece of cake.” Timothy picked up the sealed bag of syringes.
Razz looked to the Sticker. “Back me up while I get the Membrane station open. I need eyes in the main hall.”
“Wait!” Timothy went stiff. “What about eyes out in this hall?”
“Hide behind the compactor; believe me, they don’t look there.” Razz flashed a grin.
With the aid of the Fanjlion glove, the membrane station lock turned over so easily that Razz and the Sticker stood, gaping, for a couple minutes. Timothy arrived soon after and they helped each other take their doses of DNRM-33. Razz turned on the membranes and let them warm, then disconnected the terminal, just in case the thing had some strange origin plugged in, which hopefully wouldn’t alter the course of Harper’s theory.
Or myth.
“How much longer do they have to warm up?” asked Timothy.
“Probably fifteen minutes.” The translucent flaps patterned unnatural light over Razz’s face and sloped down his nose.
“I gotta go.”
“You’re kidding me, right? This is no time for your irritable bowels.”
“Membranes aren’t going anywhere. They’re just warming up. The lav is just across the hall.”
“Good God, just go on, hurry up, damn.” Razz waved Timothy away.
Timothy took off into the dark hallway, the sounds of his huffing breaths soon vanishing.
The Sticker leaned against the wall and shut his eyes a moment. It was unreal. The past week he’d thought only about his impending death sentence. Now this. Escape. Even after all he’d been through, he didn’t feel he’d earned this. He was lucky to have been put on board with someone as clever as Razz.
The Sticker picked up the Fanjlion glove and put it on. Razz had let him fool with it a little earlier, changing his hand into different shapes.
“What’s on your mind?” asked his friend, who admired the membranes, head cocked curiously to one side.
“Wondering what you’ll go back to. You were almost through with your contract.”
“Well, there are more important things.”
“Yeah, but… this is one hell of a job. You’ve earned your money. What if they say you’re in breach and don’t pay anything?”
Razz shrugged. “We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
“I guess.” He stopped playing and let his hand resolve back into four fingers and a thumb.
“So what are you going to do? With all that shit waiting for you back home?”
The Sticker had forgotten he’d told Razz about Annette and Trevor and how he’d left his last job. It was just as well, but still embarrassing to be worrying over those things in the face of all they’d seen. “I haven’t got it sorted out. Maybe Limbus will find me another job. Forgive and forget?”
Razz shook his head. “I don’t know. I cannot predict that company’s motivations. I will say this: I always have a contingency plan, and nobody gets to know about it but me.”
“Pretty slick dude, you.”
“Like buttered Vaseline, baby.”
They laughed and then waited in silence for ten minutes. Razz started pacing over to the door to search outside for Timothy.
After another five minutes, his voice edged with panic. “What the hell is he doing taking so long? This isn’t some casual trip we’re taking. Shit!”
“I’m going to go get him.” The Sticker started off and Razz took his arm. “The membranes are warmed up. We can go. Maybe you shouldn’t risk it.”