Tatsu smiled. One her rare, secret smiles. "You're late for work."
The voice was robotic, alien. Jett drew back in surprise. "What's wrong, Tatsu?"
Her blood-streaked face gazed back at him, eyes filmed over in death.
The dream shattered.
"Jett Wolfe, you are late for work."
Jett sat up, nearly screaming from the flare of pain that started from his back and flared across his entire body. He raised a hand to his throbbing temples and glanced at the blinking clock panel on the wall.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"I woke you several times. You used foul language and requested more time to sleep."
"Still need more time."
"I'm afraid I will have to inform Mr. Brown of your refusal to appear."
Jett's teeth clenched. "You know what — go ahead. Tell him I'm not coming in today."
"Is that your final decision?"
"Yeah. Now quit bothering me."
Jett slumped back down, trying to burrow his face into the flat, hard pillow. He knew exactly what would happen next.
The narrow window next to the bed fizzled; static dancing across the surface before morphing into a heavyset, scowling face.
Harry Brown squinted his beady eyes. "What's this about you not coming into today, Jett?"
"Don't feel good."
"Don't feel good? So what? You know I got a million scabs waiting in line for your job. If you don't show, you go. You know the rules."
Jett groaned and sat up. "Not like I don't want to come in. I can't."
"Can't? You can walk, can't you? What else do you need?"
"Look, I was mugged last night. I can barely move. I need some time to recuperate."
"You were mugged? For what — your pocket lint?" Harry guffawed at his quip. "Well, I still need you at your station, Jett. Tell you what — I'll send you something to take care of your pain, and you get your ass over here ASAP. Deal?"
Jett sighed. "Deal."
"It's still coming out your v-notes. I'll take it back in installments. You know, to make it easier on you."
Jett gingerly rolled out the bed as the screen went blank, becoming a window again. The headgear and gauntlets were where he left them at the foot of the pull-out bed. He pushed the bed up and into the wall, then dropped down to open a hidden latch that the last owner had built into the floor. Dropping the gear into the safe, he closed the latch back and pulled a faded, frayed rug over it.
His boxpad was a rusty, refurbished shipping container, stacked on top of hundreds of others in his area of the Warrens. Eight feet wide, twenty feet long. Shower, toilet, kitchenette, bedroom, all in one rectangular, poorly insulated shell.
A tap on the door was followed by a parcel shoved through the mail slot. Harry's gift, flown by one of the thousands of drones that zipped across the city. Jett opened it. Two containers of pills — one for instant pain relief, the other for platelet cell acceleration, guaranteed to triple the healing period for anything but grievous wounds. He took the pills with water and his breakfast of powdered eggs and a square, hard, blackened ration bar the locals called shit bricks. The quivering sensation of his wounds knitting was nearly as painful as the injuries. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the feeling. He had work to do.
"Okay, Zip. I need a weld right here." Jett pointed to a large pipe, where brownish liquid steadily dripped. His voice echoed in the dark.
"Zip happy. Zip work hard."
Zip's jets sputtered, making his shell rattle like an empty trash can. The cylindrical robot was a rusty hunk of junk that constantly needed repairs, but Harry's Plumbing didn't upgrade or buy anything new until the old equipment literally fell apart. Zip hovered up to the pipe, ejecting an arm that applied a metallic patch. A soldering limb jerked out of another slot, hissing as it ignited a blue flame. Jett slid dark goggles over his eyes as sparks rained down, skittering across the tunnel walls.
He stood ankle-deep in brownish slop that slowly streamed through the tunnel. Somewhere in the process the waste was recycled, some used for fertilizer and slow-burning logs and candles. He didn't want to think about it. He tried to keep his mind focused, ignoring the stench and nearly overpowering sensation of claustrophobia that pressed down on him like a steel vice. He never had a problem with enclosed spaces. Not until the stasis chamber. Locked inside a tiny capsule. Centuries of being sealed in some metal coffin while the world went on around him. Forgotten. Lost.
His holoband buzzed, snapping him out of his dark thoughts. Harry's sour face fizzled onto the screen."
"What the hell have you gotten me into, Jett?"
"What do you mean?"
Harry's beady tiny eyes widened in outrage. "What do I mean? I got the RCE in my office looking for you, ya big buffoon. A dick and her robot partner. You need to get your ass here pronto."
Jett's heart thudded against his chest. "The RCE? What did I do?"
"Don't know. Don't care. You scabs are more trouble than you're worth. You know I got a million other losers waiting for your job. A job that only exists because signals are hard to catch in those tunnels. You babysit a robot, that's what your skill set is. A complete imbecile can do what you do, understand?" Harry rubbed a chubby hand through his comb-over. "Just… don't try to run, okay? If it's a misunderstanding, you can get it straightened up. If not… well, it goes better if you turn yourself in. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it."
"Then you're coming in?"
"Yeah. Soon as the tram can get me there."
"Just get to the nearest exit. They're sending a unit to your location."
Jett signed off, feeling sick. He knew exactly why the RCE wanted to talk to him. How much did they see? How much do they know?
There was no way to find out other than comply. He glanced at Zip. "Hang it up, Zipster. Head to the charging station. We'll pick this up tomorrow." If I'm not locked up by then.
"Zip not finished."
"Just do it, Zip." Jett splashed toward the wall ladder, where he could ascend to street level.
"Jett Wolfe. Black male. Thirty-eight years old. Six feet, three inches. Two hundred thirty-six pounds. Employed by Harry's Plumbing, who has a city contract repairing sewage pipes." Ronnie glanced up from her tablet. "Scab work."
The big man sitting across from her didn't appear afraid or nervous. Listless was the word that sprang to her mine. He didn't have the look of someone who'd just entered a high-security building with prospects of leaving anytime soon in doubt. She didn't know if that was foolish or brave. Maybe he just didn't know the stakes.
He didn't appear to hear the last dig, aimed at getting him riled up. Off balance. He just sat there, looking into space with deep brown eyes, face locked in blank mode. He had the chiseled profile, thick neck and broad shoulders of a man who worked out, or worked hard. She figured it was the latter. The scent of his recent sewer dive still clung to him like cologne. His head was shaved, and a thin goatee framed his lips and chin.
He was badly bruised. One side of his face was half-swollen, and purplish-black bruises stood out on his arms. She figured his entire body was covered in injuries. His blood work showed healing accelerators, which meant he had looked much worse earlier.
"Here's the more interesting part. Says here that you're a layover."
He looked puzzled. "Layover?"
"Technical label for recovered hibernation survivors."
"You mean a Defrost."
She smiled. "So you've heard the term. It's considered derogatory; we don't officially use it. Your file states you spent over three hundred years in a stasis pod. You were there." Her voice dropped to a hushed tone. "At the Cataclysm."