"We have to leave by seven at the latest, sweetheart, else we'll miss the shuttle," Tarlan called from the bathroom.
"I know," Aki smiled casually. "I'm packed."
She was laying on the bed, playing absently with one of Miko's dolls while Miko lay with her head resting on Aki's tummy like a pillow, watching some inane children's programme.
Tarl rubbed his back and tried to straighten. It only ended in him hissing in pain and slumping forward again.
He checked the mirror and saw that neither his wife nor his daughter were in a position to see him. Forcing himself as straight as he could manage, he walked back into the bedroom.
"Daddy?" Miko inquired slowly, raising her head and fixing him with those great dark almond shaped eyes that reminded him so much of his mother.
"Yes darling?"
"Why can't I come to Venus?"
"Because I'm working darling," he said sadly as he crouched next to her and planted a kiss on her forehead.
"But mummy's coming?"
He laughed. "Yes she is. Mummy has things to do there too. She needs to go and spend some time at a wonderful spa the have there. They have lots of things that can help mummy and your brother or sister."
Tarlan patted Aki's slightly rounded tummy.
"I want it to be a sister," Miko announced.
Aki laughed now. "Yesterday you said you wanted a brother. What changed you mind?"
“Sato was horrible to us yesterday. I don’t like boys now.”
Tarl looked to Aki and shrugged questioningly. “Sato?”
“He’s in my class at school, he has a big round face,” Miko answered for her.
“Oh,” Tarl said.
A knock at the door stopped further conversation.
It slid open to reveal a woman in her late fifties, Japanese, her hair greying and face lined, but not unpleasant.
Miko’s grandmother shuffled in, bowing slightly to Tarl who bowed back deeper than was necessary despite the pain.
He liked to show Aki’s parents the respect they deserved.
“Come, Miko,” the older woman said quietly. “It is time for your bath and time for your parents to leave.”
Miko leapt up, hugging and kissing her parents and jumped up into her grandmother’s arms.
The Family
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Re: The Family
Tarlan eased himself into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
Aki was keying the address into the navigation system.
“This is a posh car, Tarl. Do we really need it?”
He started the power plant.
“We’re not doing so badly these days. Besides, it pays to create a good impression.”
“Okay, just seems expensive, to which I mean the hire costs.”
Tarl didn’t answer. He eased the lev off the ground, listened for instructions from the nav-system and pivoted the car round to the desired bearing.
It took forty minutes flying from their hotel to the warehouse where the meeting was taking place.
The first thing Tarl noticed that stuck him as odd was the lack of other vehicles around.
There were two parked in front of the building, but none ot the other warehouses.
The second thing he noticed was that none of these buildings had signs on them. Nothing on them that said, ‘such-and-such-a-business-lives-here’.
He’d seen buildings like this before.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said, keeping his eyes on the surrounding area.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Aki asked. “This is the right place, darling, I’ve checked the address several times.”
Tarlan glanced at her, smiled and brought the lev to a stop alongside the other two vehicles.
He sat for a while, looking nervously around.
“What is it, Tarl? What exactly is bothering you?”
Tarlan shrugged. “Don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Aki laughed and squeezed his hand. “This is a big deal for you, honey. Worth a lot of money if you land the contract. So you need to take a deep breath. There’s nothing wrong here and there’s nothing wrong with feeling nervous about it.”
A man, mid-thirties, tough looking, wearing a tight fitting t-shirt that accentuated his huge chest and arms thick with chorded muscles stepped from the adjacent car.
Tarlan buzzed the window down a touch.
“Mr Cobretti?” the man asked with a drawl that bellied his southern United States upbringing.
Tarlan nodded.
“We’re your security detail, sir,” the man said with a smile.
Tarlan looked at Aki questioningly. She shook her head blankly.
“I’ve not asked for security,” Tarl said cautiously.
“No, sir? Your firm have though, in light of recent events I’m informed.”
“What recent events?”
“That I’m not privy to, sir. However there has been some unrest in the local area over the last few months so I would imagine it had something to do with that. A Mr Mackenzie told us to come here and provide you with security.”
“Mac?”
“If that refers to Mr MacKenzie, then yes, sir.”
Tarlan shrugged. “What do I do?” he asked his wife.
She shrugged back. “Mac wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t think it was necessary, but I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”
“You’re right,” he agreed with her.
He climbed from the lev unsteadily, taking the stick that Aki held out for him.
“I’ll stay here, honey,” Aki smiled at him.
Tarl smiled back, closed the door and walked over to the warehouse office.
“Name’s Phil,” the big security guard said as three other men emerged from the parked cars and stepped in behind their employer.
“What’s the deal here, Mr Cobretti? Just so my men are clear on things.”
Tarlan stopped half-way to the office.
“This should be a preliminary meeting with a Currienium supplier. I have clients in the hydrogen mining business who are looking for better deals on their fuel supplies. That’s why I can’t see what you guys are needed for?”
Phil gave a nonchalant lean of his head in answer.
Tarlan proceeded to the office door and was about to knock when it was pulled open.
It was a tall man, his shoulder length hair pulled back loosely, his eyes tinged red, a bye-product of growing up on mars.
“Mr Cobretti?”
“I am, yes,” Tarlan stepped in close and held out his hand.
The man ignored it and pushed passed him.
“Follow me,” he said bluntly.
He led them across the front of the building.
Tarlan noticed that strange bluish leaves grew up from cracks in the aging concrete path.
It was here, on the ground where Tarlan found he was beginning to notice things that seemed out of place and made him consider that his earlier feeling of trepidation was justified.
The warehouses themselves looked normal enough, they were aging, but the Venusian atmosphere, despite best efforts to neutralise it, still retained some corrosive elements. The bye-products of which was an increase in lung disease and premature aging of many basic building materials.
This aging he could explain, but surely there wouldn’t be weeds growing through the pavements.
But there were other things too, like paint flaking from signs, holes in the building cladding that looked remarkably like bullet holes.
Tarlan cast a wary eye over the surroundings. He noticed Phil doing the same thing.
The unnamed man led them to a huge rectangular vehicle door that clunked and juddered as it rolled upwards.
Aki was keying the address into the navigation system.
“This is a posh car, Tarl. Do we really need it?”
He started the power plant.
“We’re not doing so badly these days. Besides, it pays to create a good impression.”
“Okay, just seems expensive, to which I mean the hire costs.”
Tarl didn’t answer. He eased the lev off the ground, listened for instructions from the nav-system and pivoted the car round to the desired bearing.
It took forty minutes flying from their hotel to the warehouse where the meeting was taking place.
The first thing Tarl noticed that stuck him as odd was the lack of other vehicles around.
There were two parked in front of the building, but none ot the other warehouses.
The second thing he noticed was that none of these buildings had signs on them. Nothing on them that said, ‘such-and-such-a-business-lives-here’.
He’d seen buildings like this before.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said, keeping his eyes on the surrounding area.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Aki asked. “This is the right place, darling, I’ve checked the address several times.”
Tarlan glanced at her, smiled and brought the lev to a stop alongside the other two vehicles.
He sat for a while, looking nervously around.
“What is it, Tarl? What exactly is bothering you?”
Tarlan shrugged. “Don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”
Aki laughed and squeezed his hand. “This is a big deal for you, honey. Worth a lot of money if you land the contract. So you need to take a deep breath. There’s nothing wrong here and there’s nothing wrong with feeling nervous about it.”
A man, mid-thirties, tough looking, wearing a tight fitting t-shirt that accentuated his huge chest and arms thick with chorded muscles stepped from the adjacent car.
Tarlan buzzed the window down a touch.
“Mr Cobretti?” the man asked with a drawl that bellied his southern United States upbringing.
Tarlan nodded.
“We’re your security detail, sir,” the man said with a smile.
Tarlan looked at Aki questioningly. She shook her head blankly.
“I’ve not asked for security,” Tarl said cautiously.
“No, sir? Your firm have though, in light of recent events I’m informed.”
“What recent events?”
“That I’m not privy to, sir. However there has been some unrest in the local area over the last few months so I would imagine it had something to do with that. A Mr Mackenzie told us to come here and provide you with security.”
“Mac?”
“If that refers to Mr MacKenzie, then yes, sir.”
Tarlan shrugged. “What do I do?” he asked his wife.
She shrugged back. “Mac wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t think it was necessary, but I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”
“You’re right,” he agreed with her.
He climbed from the lev unsteadily, taking the stick that Aki held out for him.
“I’ll stay here, honey,” Aki smiled at him.
Tarl smiled back, closed the door and walked over to the warehouse office.
“Name’s Phil,” the big security guard said as three other men emerged from the parked cars and stepped in behind their employer.
“What’s the deal here, Mr Cobretti? Just so my men are clear on things.”
Tarlan stopped half-way to the office.
“This should be a preliminary meeting with a Currienium supplier. I have clients in the hydrogen mining business who are looking for better deals on their fuel supplies. That’s why I can’t see what you guys are needed for?”
Phil gave a nonchalant lean of his head in answer.
Tarlan proceeded to the office door and was about to knock when it was pulled open.
It was a tall man, his shoulder length hair pulled back loosely, his eyes tinged red, a bye-product of growing up on mars.
“Mr Cobretti?”
“I am, yes,” Tarlan stepped in close and held out his hand.
The man ignored it and pushed passed him.
“Follow me,” he said bluntly.
He led them across the front of the building.
Tarlan noticed that strange bluish leaves grew up from cracks in the aging concrete path.
It was here, on the ground where Tarlan found he was beginning to notice things that seemed out of place and made him consider that his earlier feeling of trepidation was justified.
The warehouses themselves looked normal enough, they were aging, but the Venusian atmosphere, despite best efforts to neutralise it, still retained some corrosive elements. The bye-products of which was an increase in lung disease and premature aging of many basic building materials.
This aging he could explain, but surely there wouldn’t be weeds growing through the pavements.
But there were other things too, like paint flaking from signs, holes in the building cladding that looked remarkably like bullet holes.
Tarlan cast a wary eye over the surroundings. He noticed Phil doing the same thing.
The unnamed man led them to a huge rectangular vehicle door that clunked and juddered as it rolled upwards.
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Re: The Family
It happened fast.
The door rolled up. Their escort had entered, leaving them standing on the kerbside alone.
Inside the warehouse were huge containers. Labels from many different companies adorned the containers, each hinting at the general contents within; pharmaceuticals, machinery, food, water and military components to name a few.
None though hinted at the Curienium that Tarlan was here to discuss. As soon as the man from the office was gone the huge doors at the back of a cargo skiff dropped open with a resounding clang that echoed around the warehouse and bounced back them from several times over.
Two men were there, their faces covered by scarves.
Tarlan’s security guards reacted quickly.
Guns emerged from concealed holsters.
But they didn’t react quickly enough.
The men in the skiff were already prepared. They held automatic rifles that spat and barked like rabid dogs, bouncing rhythmically into set shoulders.
Bullets ripped into the security detail, their bodies thrown backwards like dolls kicked across the floor by a petulant child.
In the mayhem Tarlan fell backwards, landing awkwardly on his side.
Silence followed.
Tarlan looked about as he eased his head from the gravelly ground.
The four men that Mac had sent to protect him were dead, or as good as. There was so much blood. It looked as though someone had sprayed the floor with red paint.
The retorts had been so loud that they had left his ears ringing. He rolled over and looked back at the levs. The passenger side of their hired vehicle was open. Aki was standing, horrified.
She saw him moving. She mistook his waving arm as him summoning her assistance and ran towards her husband.
“No!” Tarlan bellowed. “Aki! Run! Get out of here!”
She heard him. Confused she stopped, unsure what to do, sudden fear of the unknown clouding her mind.
The men were rushing from the huge open doorway. They all had guns.
Tarlan watched them come. He could do nothing as they surrounded him.
Aki panicked, finally turning away as she had been told. But there was someone there.
A meaty fist slammed into her cheek and she crumpled.
The two were dragged back to the warehouse but were held separately.
Aki stared across the gap at her husband, terrified.
Tarlan felt shame as he knelt on the hard concrete floor. He could do nothing to help her.
They were held there for some time in silence, wind picking up and blowing the coppery scent of blood their way.
Aki was pale, silent, shaken. Tarlan could see she had the vacant look of someone in shock. Having been exposed to horrors of the worst kind she had ever experienced, he was not surprised.
His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. His fall and kneeling on the ground for so long were agony to him, but he held himself still. They were not going to get the pleasure of him crying out with the pain of it.
A door slammed, echoing in the cavernous space. The footsteps of several people approached from behind, quick and heavy. Tarlan imagined someone annoyed, stomping quickly towards the source of that annoyance.
A man moved in front of Tarlan. He was of average build with copper coloured hair that sat in a wave across his head. He wore a business suit without a tie. The suit looked expensive, tailored. His diamond encrusted cuff-links glistened, reflecting the bright sunshine outside. He said nothing then stood in front of Aki for a while, contemplative and confused simultaneously.
He returned to Tarlan, flanked by three armed escorts.
“Cobretti,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Tarlan confirmed.
“I wasn’t asking, Mr Cobretti. You look like the old man, so you do.”
Irish, Tarlan noticed the accent now.
The door rolled up. Their escort had entered, leaving them standing on the kerbside alone.
Inside the warehouse were huge containers. Labels from many different companies adorned the containers, each hinting at the general contents within; pharmaceuticals, machinery, food, water and military components to name a few.
None though hinted at the Curienium that Tarlan was here to discuss. As soon as the man from the office was gone the huge doors at the back of a cargo skiff dropped open with a resounding clang that echoed around the warehouse and bounced back them from several times over.
Two men were there, their faces covered by scarves.
Tarlan’s security guards reacted quickly.
Guns emerged from concealed holsters.
But they didn’t react quickly enough.
The men in the skiff were already prepared. They held automatic rifles that spat and barked like rabid dogs, bouncing rhythmically into set shoulders.
Bullets ripped into the security detail, their bodies thrown backwards like dolls kicked across the floor by a petulant child.
In the mayhem Tarlan fell backwards, landing awkwardly on his side.
Silence followed.
Tarlan looked about as he eased his head from the gravelly ground.
The four men that Mac had sent to protect him were dead, or as good as. There was so much blood. It looked as though someone had sprayed the floor with red paint.
The retorts had been so loud that they had left his ears ringing. He rolled over and looked back at the levs. The passenger side of their hired vehicle was open. Aki was standing, horrified.
She saw him moving. She mistook his waving arm as him summoning her assistance and ran towards her husband.
“No!” Tarlan bellowed. “Aki! Run! Get out of here!”
She heard him. Confused she stopped, unsure what to do, sudden fear of the unknown clouding her mind.
The men were rushing from the huge open doorway. They all had guns.
Tarlan watched them come. He could do nothing as they surrounded him.
Aki panicked, finally turning away as she had been told. But there was someone there.
A meaty fist slammed into her cheek and she crumpled.
The two were dragged back to the warehouse but were held separately.
Aki stared across the gap at her husband, terrified.
Tarlan felt shame as he knelt on the hard concrete floor. He could do nothing to help her.
They were held there for some time in silence, wind picking up and blowing the coppery scent of blood their way.
Aki was pale, silent, shaken. Tarlan could see she had the vacant look of someone in shock. Having been exposed to horrors of the worst kind she had ever experienced, he was not surprised.
His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. His fall and kneeling on the ground for so long were agony to him, but he held himself still. They were not going to get the pleasure of him crying out with the pain of it.
A door slammed, echoing in the cavernous space. The footsteps of several people approached from behind, quick and heavy. Tarlan imagined someone annoyed, stomping quickly towards the source of that annoyance.
A man moved in front of Tarlan. He was of average build with copper coloured hair that sat in a wave across his head. He wore a business suit without a tie. The suit looked expensive, tailored. His diamond encrusted cuff-links glistened, reflecting the bright sunshine outside. He said nothing then stood in front of Aki for a while, contemplative and confused simultaneously.
He returned to Tarlan, flanked by three armed escorts.
“Cobretti,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Tarlan confirmed.
“I wasn’t asking, Mr Cobretti. You look like the old man, so you do.”
Irish, Tarlan noticed the accent now.
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Re: The Family
“What the hell do you want?” Tarlan asked venomously.
The Irishman smirked and shrugged. “I want your family to get the bloody message, Sonny Jim.”
“What message?”
The Irishman’s boot lashed out, connecting between Tarlan’s legs.
He doubled over in pain, curled into a ball and whimpered.
Looming over Tarlan’s form the man said, “That you lot aren’t the big boys anymore. You can’t just ride in all rough-shod over us. You know the Syndicate rules better than most. This is our patch; you aren’t welcome. And this,” he swept his arm at the crates and boxes within the warehouse.
“This certainly doesn’t sit with Syndicate rules, you plotting to steal our business away. So this is just a warning, on account of the Syndicate not allowing us to get all in your face and everything.”
“The warning, it goes along the lines of – you can’t have stuff that isn’t yours. Keep your filthy Italian mits off.”
The Irishman spat at Tarlan. He turned and looked at the oriental woman, studying her for a moment before turning to Tarlan once again.
Tarlan’s breathing was steadily coming back to normal, the ache in his groin subsiding.
“That reminds me, so it does!” the Irishman announced.
“We was told by the kind soul that let us know you were coming here today, that you’d been and taken something else that didn’t belong to you. Tut, tut! You thieving wop bastard! Mind you, she’s a looker, I’ll give you that. Can see why you’d want to keep her.”
“She’s my wife,” Tarlan hissed as he tried to stand. His back was in agony, far outweighing the pain in his balls.
The Irishman grinned as he watched Tarlan struggle.
“She’s not though, is she? I’m told she wasn’t yours to start with. She’s someone’s property, and they want her back.”
“What are you talking about?” Tarlan was on his feet now, unsteadily, flinching as lightning bolts of pain racked his spinal column.
The Irishman ignored the question and pulled at his sticky shirt. “Boy, it’s damned hot here. Reminds me of the Middle East. You ever been to the Middle East, Cobretti?”
Tarlan shook his head, glanced down at his feet, and then sideways at the man to his left, to the pistol in the man’s holster.
“Let my wife go,” Cobretti said firmly, now staring the Irishman in the eye.
“Don’t think so, Sonny Jim. She’s got a claim on her that I have to honour, you see.”
“You’ve made a mistake here,” Tarlan argued. “I’m not with the Cobretti family business. I thought this was a legitimate deal. Phone my father and he’ll clear this up.”
“Call your dad? What, are we at school or something?”
Tarlan said nothing.
“You know what they do to thieves in the Middle East, Cobretti?”
Tarlan remained silent.
The Irishman nodded to the men guarding Tarlan.
They grabbed him hold as the Irishman took a huge machete style knife from one of the other armed men.
Tarlan began to panic. He pulled at the guards grip but they were too strong.
The Irishman got closer.
Tarlan relaxed suddenly, his weight dropping him in the guard’s grasp. One let go.
Tarlan’s fingers closed around the grip of the pistol and he yanked it from the holster.
The first shot sent the guard whose pistol it was reeling. The other guard leapt away.
Tarlan turned the pistol and shot again. One of Aki’s captors fell.
The Irishman dodged away from the business end of the gun.
It followed him, fired again. Yet another thug went down.
Something hit Tarlan’s back. It felt like a bat but hurt like a sword slicing him in two.
His legs were instantly numb and couldn’t support his weight.
He toppled like an old chimney stack brought down by demolitions experts.
The Irishman skipped in close and kicked the pistol away from Tarlan’s hand. Then he stamped down with all his might on the hand, just for good measure.
Tarlan’s vision came in sporadic glimpses, blackened out by pain. Flashes, as though he was in a dark place and someone kept flicking the light on and off at random intervals.
His mind raced. He’d been here before and it hadn’t gone well for him.
The meaty sound of boots hitting flesh echoed constantly in his ears, pierced only by the impotent pleas of his wife begging them not to hurt her husband.
Blow after blow after blow.
Bones breaking.
Flesh tearing and organs rupturing.
Tarlan somehow managed to stay conscious throughout most of the ordeal, but eventually it got too much and the living world slipped away from him.
The Irishman smirked and shrugged. “I want your family to get the bloody message, Sonny Jim.”
“What message?”
The Irishman’s boot lashed out, connecting between Tarlan’s legs.
He doubled over in pain, curled into a ball and whimpered.
Looming over Tarlan’s form the man said, “That you lot aren’t the big boys anymore. You can’t just ride in all rough-shod over us. You know the Syndicate rules better than most. This is our patch; you aren’t welcome. And this,” he swept his arm at the crates and boxes within the warehouse.
“This certainly doesn’t sit with Syndicate rules, you plotting to steal our business away. So this is just a warning, on account of the Syndicate not allowing us to get all in your face and everything.”
“The warning, it goes along the lines of – you can’t have stuff that isn’t yours. Keep your filthy Italian mits off.”
The Irishman spat at Tarlan. He turned and looked at the oriental woman, studying her for a moment before turning to Tarlan once again.
Tarlan’s breathing was steadily coming back to normal, the ache in his groin subsiding.
“That reminds me, so it does!” the Irishman announced.
“We was told by the kind soul that let us know you were coming here today, that you’d been and taken something else that didn’t belong to you. Tut, tut! You thieving wop bastard! Mind you, she’s a looker, I’ll give you that. Can see why you’d want to keep her.”
“She’s my wife,” Tarlan hissed as he tried to stand. His back was in agony, far outweighing the pain in his balls.
The Irishman grinned as he watched Tarlan struggle.
“She’s not though, is she? I’m told she wasn’t yours to start with. She’s someone’s property, and they want her back.”
“What are you talking about?” Tarlan was on his feet now, unsteadily, flinching as lightning bolts of pain racked his spinal column.
The Irishman ignored the question and pulled at his sticky shirt. “Boy, it’s damned hot here. Reminds me of the Middle East. You ever been to the Middle East, Cobretti?”
Tarlan shook his head, glanced down at his feet, and then sideways at the man to his left, to the pistol in the man’s holster.
“Let my wife go,” Cobretti said firmly, now staring the Irishman in the eye.
“Don’t think so, Sonny Jim. She’s got a claim on her that I have to honour, you see.”
“You’ve made a mistake here,” Tarlan argued. “I’m not with the Cobretti family business. I thought this was a legitimate deal. Phone my father and he’ll clear this up.”
“Call your dad? What, are we at school or something?”
Tarlan said nothing.
“You know what they do to thieves in the Middle East, Cobretti?”
Tarlan remained silent.
The Irishman nodded to the men guarding Tarlan.
They grabbed him hold as the Irishman took a huge machete style knife from one of the other armed men.
Tarlan began to panic. He pulled at the guards grip but they were too strong.
The Irishman got closer.
Tarlan relaxed suddenly, his weight dropping him in the guard’s grasp. One let go.
Tarlan’s fingers closed around the grip of the pistol and he yanked it from the holster.
The first shot sent the guard whose pistol it was reeling. The other guard leapt away.
Tarlan turned the pistol and shot again. One of Aki’s captors fell.
The Irishman dodged away from the business end of the gun.
It followed him, fired again. Yet another thug went down.
Something hit Tarlan’s back. It felt like a bat but hurt like a sword slicing him in two.
His legs were instantly numb and couldn’t support his weight.
He toppled like an old chimney stack brought down by demolitions experts.
The Irishman skipped in close and kicked the pistol away from Tarlan’s hand. Then he stamped down with all his might on the hand, just for good measure.
Tarlan’s vision came in sporadic glimpses, blackened out by pain. Flashes, as though he was in a dark place and someone kept flicking the light on and off at random intervals.
His mind raced. He’d been here before and it hadn’t gone well for him.
The meaty sound of boots hitting flesh echoed constantly in his ears, pierced only by the impotent pleas of his wife begging them not to hurt her husband.
Blow after blow after blow.
Bones breaking.
Flesh tearing and organs rupturing.
Tarlan somehow managed to stay conscious throughout most of the ordeal, but eventually it got too much and the living world slipped away from him.
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Re: The Family
White-washed walls, harsh overhead lights with fluorescent tubes, green linoleum floor – easily cleaned.
The room was square; it had one door with a full height window alongside it so that the doctors could look in and judge the mood of the awaiting family.
It was the type of room that Martha Cobretti had spent too much time in already. It was everything she hated about hospitals.
They had been here for five hours and still they had not seen their son. Marlan paced around the room regularly, every five minutes or so, Martha reckoned. It was driving her mad.
Marlan rose up from the burgundy coloured armchair.
Martha couldn’t see him striding like a caged bear, not now, not again.
“For pity’s sake, Marl!” Martha hissed.
Her son stopped, looking questioningly at his mother.
She looked old, world weary. Her eyes were rimmed in red, sunken in shadow in a grey mask.
He’d seen her like this before, many years ago. Same situation.
A polite knock disturbed them, interrupting Martha’s annoyance and Marlan’s discomfort.
The doctor was a petite woman, Indian or Pakistani, the Cobretti’s couldn’t tell just by looking.
“Hello,” the doctor said softly as she entered the room.
The woman’s tone hinted at hope and Martha’s breath caught.
“Your son,” the doctor said in a Venusian accent, “is in a serious condition, but no longer life threatening.”
Martha sagged, a balloon with a slow puncture.
“Thank god!” Vitto said. They were the first words he had spoken in all the time they had been here.
“Can we see him?” Martha croaked.
The doctor fixed her with an impassive stare, like she was sizing her up.
“Your son is lucky to be alive,” she said. “He has suffered some horrific injuries. He looks….”
“Like salami?” Marlan inquired.
“Erm!”
“It’s okay, doc. I think we know what to expect.”
She nodded slowly. “Very well, but only briefly. He’s not conscious yet.”
They followed the doctor through the halls to the recovery room. A nurse stood alongside his bed, taking observations, so they couldn’t see him until she moved away.
Vitto had been expecting to see his son in a bad way, that had been the plan, but the battered lump of meat before him even made him stagger.
Martha wept again.
Despite Tarlan being near to forty, she still saw her boy, fourteen years old, with his life stretching out before him. Such potential destroyed again.
The doctor stood back, allowed the family their moment.
It was ten minutes before Martha asked.
The doctor swallowed hard. She didn’t like this part. She always thought she sounded like her mechanic, listing all the faults on her car and desperately sought another way of putting things.
How is he? It was a fairly innocuous question and one which she was expecting, but still she took a moment to think how best to reply.
“Oh, you know,” she considered saying. “looking like a sausage on the barbeque, missing body parts, some vital, but he’ll get over that. Oh and don’t forget the not walking ever again. Other than that he’ll be fine!”
But the doctor knew she couldn’t say any of that. What the family were expecting now was clinical efficiency. So, she listed Tarlan’s injuries, just like her mechanic, and hated herself for it.
It was the news of the broken neck that got to Martha.
She wanted them to turn off the support machines and let her son die a dignified death but of course, they wouldn’t.
Martha cried into her husband’s chest.
The room was square; it had one door with a full height window alongside it so that the doctors could look in and judge the mood of the awaiting family.
It was the type of room that Martha Cobretti had spent too much time in already. It was everything she hated about hospitals.
They had been here for five hours and still they had not seen their son. Marlan paced around the room regularly, every five minutes or so, Martha reckoned. It was driving her mad.
Marlan rose up from the burgundy coloured armchair.
Martha couldn’t see him striding like a caged bear, not now, not again.
“For pity’s sake, Marl!” Martha hissed.
Her son stopped, looking questioningly at his mother.
She looked old, world weary. Her eyes were rimmed in red, sunken in shadow in a grey mask.
He’d seen her like this before, many years ago. Same situation.
A polite knock disturbed them, interrupting Martha’s annoyance and Marlan’s discomfort.
The doctor was a petite woman, Indian or Pakistani, the Cobretti’s couldn’t tell just by looking.
“Hello,” the doctor said softly as she entered the room.
The woman’s tone hinted at hope and Martha’s breath caught.
“Your son,” the doctor said in a Venusian accent, “is in a serious condition, but no longer life threatening.”
Martha sagged, a balloon with a slow puncture.
“Thank god!” Vitto said. They were the first words he had spoken in all the time they had been here.
“Can we see him?” Martha croaked.
The doctor fixed her with an impassive stare, like she was sizing her up.
“Your son is lucky to be alive,” she said. “He has suffered some horrific injuries. He looks….”
“Like salami?” Marlan inquired.
“Erm!”
“It’s okay, doc. I think we know what to expect.”
She nodded slowly. “Very well, but only briefly. He’s not conscious yet.”
They followed the doctor through the halls to the recovery room. A nurse stood alongside his bed, taking observations, so they couldn’t see him until she moved away.
Vitto had been expecting to see his son in a bad way, that had been the plan, but the battered lump of meat before him even made him stagger.
Martha wept again.
Despite Tarlan being near to forty, she still saw her boy, fourteen years old, with his life stretching out before him. Such potential destroyed again.
The doctor stood back, allowed the family their moment.
It was ten minutes before Martha asked.
The doctor swallowed hard. She didn’t like this part. She always thought she sounded like her mechanic, listing all the faults on her car and desperately sought another way of putting things.
How is he? It was a fairly innocuous question and one which she was expecting, but still she took a moment to think how best to reply.
“Oh, you know,” she considered saying. “looking like a sausage on the barbeque, missing body parts, some vital, but he’ll get over that. Oh and don’t forget the not walking ever again. Other than that he’ll be fine!”
But the doctor knew she couldn’t say any of that. What the family were expecting now was clinical efficiency. So, she listed Tarlan’s injuries, just like her mechanic, and hated herself for it.
It was the news of the broken neck that got to Martha.
She wanted them to turn off the support machines and let her son die a dignified death but of course, they wouldn’t.
Martha cried into her husband’s chest.
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Re: The Family
A tear formed at the corner of Tarlan Cobretti’s eye and slid down his cheek to pool in his ear.
He was staring up at the ceiling, his body wracked with pain, but that was not the cause of his tears.
“I’m sorry, Tarl,” Vitto Cobretti said squeezing his sons shoulder reassuringly.
“How did she die?”
Vitto stared at his monitor that showed his son’s vital signs. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his boy.
He knew what he’d done and why he did it, but right now he thought that if he was to look into Tarlan’s eyes then the boy would see his guilt.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t long after they found you on Venus, that she died I mean. They must have dumped the body, once they knew they had got away. Venus wasn’t kind to it, her.”
Tarlan swallowed.
“Miko?”
“At home, with your mother.”
Silence. Fifteen minutes that felt like days to the old man.
“I want you to kill them, dad.”
“Who?”
“Whoever did this.”
Vitto looked away.
“What? Who was it?”
“Jesus, Tarl. We think it as RSB,” Pauli answered.
“I want them dead.”
Vitto’s jaw clenched.
“So do we,” Pauli said. “They’ve been nothing but trouble for years now.”
“I don’t care about the business,” Tarl snarled. “I need them to pay for what they’ve done.”
“I’m sorry, Tarl,” Vitto said quietly. “We can’t do anthing.”
“Can’t?” Tarl shouted, “Or won’t?”
“Both,” Pauli answered for this father. “Both, Tarl, alright. We won’t because we only think it was them. We can’t because they are Syndicate.”
“That didn’t stop them. They killed Aki, my wife. Your daughter-in-law.” Tarlan spat the words at his father.
“Christ, Tarl,” Vitto said with a sigh. “I’d like nothing more than to go up against those Irish bastards for this. But our hands are tied. We can’t move against another member.”
“But they moved against you,” Tarl pleaded. “They thought I was there for you, and they attacked. Why won’t you do something? Why won’t you stand up for me?”
“It’s your own damned fault!” Pauli yelled.
“Mine?”
“Yes! Even if the Micks mad a move against us knowingly, it turns out thay didn’t. You aren’t us? You’ve spent years asserting you independence. I mean, hell, dad even asked the Syndicate members not to put any pressure on you even though you had declared yourself an outsider. You’ve been your own worst enemy, you idiot.”
Tarlan was quiet. Stared at the ceiling of his hospital room.
“I want vengeance.”
His voice was bitter and cold.
“I know what you are asking, boy,” Vitto said. “But it’s not just about you. We have responsibilities to a lot of folks. If we attack RSB, unprovoked, as it would appear to the Syndicate, the rest will come for us. Then we would be putting the lives of everyone in danger. Me, you brothers, your mom, Marlan’s wife and their unborn, even Miko. Are you asking us to put all those lives on the line, including your daughters, and don’t forget all those who work for us and their families too. All that for revenge?”
Gulls cried out somewhere outside the hospital window. Tarlan turned his eyes towards the sound. He could see blue sky and white cotton wool clouds; a beautiful day.
“Kill me,” he whispered.
Vitto shook his head silently.
“You’re a dick!” Pauli said as he walked out of the room.
He was staring up at the ceiling, his body wracked with pain, but that was not the cause of his tears.
“I’m sorry, Tarl,” Vitto Cobretti said squeezing his sons shoulder reassuringly.
“How did she die?”
Vitto stared at his monitor that showed his son’s vital signs. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his boy.
He knew what he’d done and why he did it, but right now he thought that if he was to look into Tarlan’s eyes then the boy would see his guilt.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t long after they found you on Venus, that she died I mean. They must have dumped the body, once they knew they had got away. Venus wasn’t kind to it, her.”
Tarlan swallowed.
“Miko?”
“At home, with your mother.”
Silence. Fifteen minutes that felt like days to the old man.
“I want you to kill them, dad.”
“Who?”
“Whoever did this.”
Vitto looked away.
“What? Who was it?”
“Jesus, Tarl. We think it as RSB,” Pauli answered.
“I want them dead.”
Vitto’s jaw clenched.
“So do we,” Pauli said. “They’ve been nothing but trouble for years now.”
“I don’t care about the business,” Tarl snarled. “I need them to pay for what they’ve done.”
“I’m sorry, Tarl,” Vitto said quietly. “We can’t do anthing.”
“Can’t?” Tarl shouted, “Or won’t?”
“Both,” Pauli answered for this father. “Both, Tarl, alright. We won’t because we only think it was them. We can’t because they are Syndicate.”
“That didn’t stop them. They killed Aki, my wife. Your daughter-in-law.” Tarlan spat the words at his father.
“Christ, Tarl,” Vitto said with a sigh. “I’d like nothing more than to go up against those Irish bastards for this. But our hands are tied. We can’t move against another member.”
“But they moved against you,” Tarl pleaded. “They thought I was there for you, and they attacked. Why won’t you do something? Why won’t you stand up for me?”
“It’s your own damned fault!” Pauli yelled.
“Mine?”
“Yes! Even if the Micks mad a move against us knowingly, it turns out thay didn’t. You aren’t us? You’ve spent years asserting you independence. I mean, hell, dad even asked the Syndicate members not to put any pressure on you even though you had declared yourself an outsider. You’ve been your own worst enemy, you idiot.”
Tarlan was quiet. Stared at the ceiling of his hospital room.
“I want vengeance.”
His voice was bitter and cold.
“I know what you are asking, boy,” Vitto said. “But it’s not just about you. We have responsibilities to a lot of folks. If we attack RSB, unprovoked, as it would appear to the Syndicate, the rest will come for us. Then we would be putting the lives of everyone in danger. Me, you brothers, your mom, Marlan’s wife and their unborn, even Miko. Are you asking us to put all those lives on the line, including your daughters, and don’t forget all those who work for us and their families too. All that for revenge?”
Gulls cried out somewhere outside the hospital window. Tarlan turned his eyes towards the sound. He could see blue sky and white cotton wool clouds; a beautiful day.
“Kill me,” he whispered.
Vitto shook his head silently.
“You’re a dick!” Pauli said as he walked out of the room.
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Re: The Family
It was dark outside. A clear night full of stars that twinkled like only stars could.
The moon was out too, Tralan could see the tall building in the distance lit up by its muted glow.
He heard the door open but couldn’t turn his head to see who had entered.
“Evening, son,” Vitto said.
Tarlan didn’t reply.
Vitto ignored the slight and pulled a low chair up alongside the bed.
He thought how ridiculous it was that the hospital furnished these rooms with such low seating when the beds were always elevated to a height that was convenient for the doctors and nurses.
However, the seat did put his face level with his son’s.
“Have you considered my request?” Tarlan asked abruptly.
“Which one? Kill them or kill you?” Vitto’s voice conveyed no humour.
“Either.”
“Yes. I have considered both. You are my son so there’s no way I am going to kill you.”
“So you’ll kill them?”
“No,” Vitto sighed. “But you can.”
Tarlan snorted a bitter laugh.
“That’s great, dad. You get them here and I’ll talk them to death, one by one. Or maybe you’ll think they’ll die laughing when they see this useless cabbage body before them?”
Vitto said nothing, just frowned at his son.
“Tarlan Cobretti,” he admonished his youngest boy, “you’re being a child.”
Tarlan made to reply but his father cut him off.
“I am not going to wage a war on RSB and endanger the lives of hundreds. But we are going to have our vengeance, if you are prepared to do what you have to do.”
“What can I do like this?” Tarlan was incredulous.
“Nothing, not like that. But what if you weren’t like that?2
Vitto expected the silence.
“I know you didn’t want anything to do with cybernetics before, and I got your reasons for that. But they have changed. The advances in technology for the augmentations and the nanites that enhance them have come on in leaps and bounds.”
“I’ve considered your request, Tarl, and whereas I can’t see how I can legitimately confront RSB without incurring the wrath of the Syndicate, there’s no reason you can’t. you’ve declared yourself independent and everyone on the board knows that. RSB know that your independent status is the only reason we aren’t attacking them alongside the rest of the members. You could do it though.”
“How?”
A smile tugged at the corners of Vitto’s mouth.
“There are these prototype cybernetics, all full combat specifications. They can turn a soldier into a one-man army. They’re incredible, Tarl, I’ve seen them.”
“I’m not a soldier, dad.”
“No. but the mods include skill ware. They basically program the knowledge in.”
“I’m not going to be a robot,” Tarl said angrily.
Vitto shook his head. “Of course not. It’s not like that. They basically create the memories that make up the skills, just as though you had been trained.”
“Wouldn’t this be like going up against RSB by proxy?”
Vitto shrugged. “Sort of. Well, no. I’m going to give you money, a lot of money, to help with your medical care. It’s what any parent would do for their son.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“But money’s no good. I need to get the augmentations.”
Vitto smiled.
“You can get them?”
Vitto nodded. “I know some people. And if I was to point you in the direction of a surgeon whose team could rebuild you in whatever manner you required, the there’s no harm in it. And if you chose to have experimental military augmentations instead of the usual type, then that’s none of my business and really, who could blame you? You’ve been attacked and crippled twice in your life, you’ve the right to defend yourself, don’t you think?”
Tarlan was silent, breathing deeply, thoughtful.
“Think about it, son.”
Tarlan was already thinking. He could see Aki’s terrified face. It was his last living memory of her and he hated that it was such a terrible and final moment.
Again his remorse trned to hatred, his hatred to anger and his anger to a cold desire for revenge.
Vitto had put the chair back in the corner and was at the door by the time Tarlan spoke.
“I’ll take your money, father. And your advice.”
Vitto smiled. “Alright, son. I’ll arrange the transfer, and send you details of the clinic.”
Shutting the door with a quiet click Vitto gave his eldest son a nod.
“He’s going for it.”
“Yes!” Pauli jumped out of his seat and punched the air. “We’re in business!”
The moon was out too, Tralan could see the tall building in the distance lit up by its muted glow.
He heard the door open but couldn’t turn his head to see who had entered.
“Evening, son,” Vitto said.
Tarlan didn’t reply.
Vitto ignored the slight and pulled a low chair up alongside the bed.
He thought how ridiculous it was that the hospital furnished these rooms with such low seating when the beds were always elevated to a height that was convenient for the doctors and nurses.
However, the seat did put his face level with his son’s.
“Have you considered my request?” Tarlan asked abruptly.
“Which one? Kill them or kill you?” Vitto’s voice conveyed no humour.
“Either.”
“Yes. I have considered both. You are my son so there’s no way I am going to kill you.”
“So you’ll kill them?”
“No,” Vitto sighed. “But you can.”
Tarlan snorted a bitter laugh.
“That’s great, dad. You get them here and I’ll talk them to death, one by one. Or maybe you’ll think they’ll die laughing when they see this useless cabbage body before them?”
Vitto said nothing, just frowned at his son.
“Tarlan Cobretti,” he admonished his youngest boy, “you’re being a child.”
Tarlan made to reply but his father cut him off.
“I am not going to wage a war on RSB and endanger the lives of hundreds. But we are going to have our vengeance, if you are prepared to do what you have to do.”
“What can I do like this?” Tarlan was incredulous.
“Nothing, not like that. But what if you weren’t like that?2
Vitto expected the silence.
“I know you didn’t want anything to do with cybernetics before, and I got your reasons for that. But they have changed. The advances in technology for the augmentations and the nanites that enhance them have come on in leaps and bounds.”
“I’ve considered your request, Tarl, and whereas I can’t see how I can legitimately confront RSB without incurring the wrath of the Syndicate, there’s no reason you can’t. you’ve declared yourself independent and everyone on the board knows that. RSB know that your independent status is the only reason we aren’t attacking them alongside the rest of the members. You could do it though.”
“How?”
A smile tugged at the corners of Vitto’s mouth.
“There are these prototype cybernetics, all full combat specifications. They can turn a soldier into a one-man army. They’re incredible, Tarl, I’ve seen them.”
“I’m not a soldier, dad.”
“No. but the mods include skill ware. They basically program the knowledge in.”
“I’m not going to be a robot,” Tarl said angrily.
Vitto shook his head. “Of course not. It’s not like that. They basically create the memories that make up the skills, just as though you had been trained.”
“Wouldn’t this be like going up against RSB by proxy?”
Vitto shrugged. “Sort of. Well, no. I’m going to give you money, a lot of money, to help with your medical care. It’s what any parent would do for their son.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“But money’s no good. I need to get the augmentations.”
Vitto smiled.
“You can get them?”
Vitto nodded. “I know some people. And if I was to point you in the direction of a surgeon whose team could rebuild you in whatever manner you required, the there’s no harm in it. And if you chose to have experimental military augmentations instead of the usual type, then that’s none of my business and really, who could blame you? You’ve been attacked and crippled twice in your life, you’ve the right to defend yourself, don’t you think?”
Tarlan was silent, breathing deeply, thoughtful.
“Think about it, son.”
Tarlan was already thinking. He could see Aki’s terrified face. It was his last living memory of her and he hated that it was such a terrible and final moment.
Again his remorse trned to hatred, his hatred to anger and his anger to a cold desire for revenge.
Vitto had put the chair back in the corner and was at the door by the time Tarlan spoke.
“I’ll take your money, father. And your advice.”
Vitto smiled. “Alright, son. I’ll arrange the transfer, and send you details of the clinic.”
Shutting the door with a quiet click Vitto gave his eldest son a nod.
“He’s going for it.”
“Yes!” Pauli jumped out of his seat and punched the air. “We’re in business!”
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Re: The Family
He stared at the bright lights, huge, intensely white. They hurt his eye but he couldn’t blink.
Tears streamed down his cheeks because of it.
Figures, like green ghosts moved about in his peripheral vision.
Hushed, calm voices whispered just within earshot. Requests for something or other, checks being made and re-made, questions asked and answered.
Then a woman leaned over him from above it seemed to him.
He face was mostly hidden behind a surgical mask. It was round, showing that the woman was a little overweight but she had pretty eyes.
They creased at the corners as thought she was smiling behind the mask.
“We’re ready to begin, Mr Cobretti,” she said softly. “We’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Nodding to someone out of sight she backed away, faded into blackness.
The lights dimmed to a strange shade of purple and then vanished completely.
And Aki Cobretti smiled at him.
Tears streamed down his cheeks because of it.
Figures, like green ghosts moved about in his peripheral vision.
Hushed, calm voices whispered just within earshot. Requests for something or other, checks being made and re-made, questions asked and answered.
Then a woman leaned over him from above it seemed to him.
He face was mostly hidden behind a surgical mask. It was round, showing that the woman was a little overweight but she had pretty eyes.
They creased at the corners as thought she was smiling behind the mask.
“We’re ready to begin, Mr Cobretti,” she said softly. “We’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Nodding to someone out of sight she backed away, faded into blackness.
The lights dimmed to a strange shade of purple and then vanished completely.
And Aki Cobretti smiled at him.
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Re: The Family
2 YEARS LATER
It was true that life liked its curve-balls. It had certainly thrown a few in the Cobretti family’s direction.
Curve-ball number one; the youngest of three brothers with a bright future ahead of him gets attacked and paralysed.
Curve-ball number two; the youngest son, after undergoing dangerous surgery and painful rehabilitation decides to buck tradition and stand alone from the family business.
Curve-ball number three; the youngest son, now married father to a beautiful daughter, successful businessman in his own right gets attacked again. His wife is murdered and he is paralysed for a second time this time from the neck down.
Curve-ball number four; the youngest son is told that after thinking all hope was gone, that they could fix him and ‘upgrade’ him. They could turn him into his own avenging angel. Which is what he becomes – fury incarnate.
Only, curve-balls three and four weren’t curve-balls at all, at least not to the whole of the Cobretti family.
To one Tarlan Cobretti they certainly were.
Children screamed and laughed and giggled as they ran around the garden outside the study window. The window was ajar and the sound of their voices echoed around the now empty room.
They were Angel’s children, Monica, Andre and Lucia, entertaining themselves as Angel helped their grandmother pack her things in the hundreds of boxes and crates the removals firm had provided.
She couldn’t have stayed here, the widow of a man who had led the family on a road from down which there would be no true return.
That was not the reason the authorities would come for her though. It was everything else her husband had done since he was a young man. They were keen to root out whatever they could of the criminal families that had long plagued their utopian ideals of society.
Her husband had sat at the helm of one such family. But he was dead now.
So they would want the man who took over from him, when they realised who that was.
Would they ruin her to get to him? Undoubtedly they would.
A faint almost inaudible hiss sounded as a black metallic hand moved the picture it held to a better angle.
It was taken many years ago. The whole family; Vitto, Martha, Pauli, Marlan, Tarlan and Angel. Not one of them had ever been confined to a wheelchair. It was a good time.
They were family. They were my family.
But not anymore, not all of them.
My mechanical hand flipped the picture into a box and I sealed the lid.
Things had changed. We’d had another curve-ball or two.
It was true that life liked its curve-balls. It had certainly thrown a few in the Cobretti family’s direction.
Curve-ball number one; the youngest of three brothers with a bright future ahead of him gets attacked and paralysed.
Curve-ball number two; the youngest son, after undergoing dangerous surgery and painful rehabilitation decides to buck tradition and stand alone from the family business.
Curve-ball number three; the youngest son, now married father to a beautiful daughter, successful businessman in his own right gets attacked again. His wife is murdered and he is paralysed for a second time this time from the neck down.
Curve-ball number four; the youngest son is told that after thinking all hope was gone, that they could fix him and ‘upgrade’ him. They could turn him into his own avenging angel. Which is what he becomes – fury incarnate.
Only, curve-balls three and four weren’t curve-balls at all, at least not to the whole of the Cobretti family.
To one Tarlan Cobretti they certainly were.
Children screamed and laughed and giggled as they ran around the garden outside the study window. The window was ajar and the sound of their voices echoed around the now empty room.
They were Angel’s children, Monica, Andre and Lucia, entertaining themselves as Angel helped their grandmother pack her things in the hundreds of boxes and crates the removals firm had provided.
She couldn’t have stayed here, the widow of a man who had led the family on a road from down which there would be no true return.
That was not the reason the authorities would come for her though. It was everything else her husband had done since he was a young man. They were keen to root out whatever they could of the criminal families that had long plagued their utopian ideals of society.
Her husband had sat at the helm of one such family. But he was dead now.
So they would want the man who took over from him, when they realised who that was.
Would they ruin her to get to him? Undoubtedly they would.
A faint almost inaudible hiss sounded as a black metallic hand moved the picture it held to a better angle.
It was taken many years ago. The whole family; Vitto, Martha, Pauli, Marlan, Tarlan and Angel. Not one of them had ever been confined to a wheelchair. It was a good time.
They were family. They were my family.
But not anymore, not all of them.
My mechanical hand flipped the picture into a box and I sealed the lid.
Things had changed. We’d had another curve-ball or two.
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Re: The Family
It was bright and sunny outside, a typical day in Rome.
Cars buzzed by or roared overhead, people laden with shopping walked serenely along the baking sidewalks.
Two men in grey uniforms strolled sedately into view and I tensed, my espresso cup paused at my lips.
The two men continued on their way, not even glancing in my direction.
Across the street an old guy was opening up his restaurant. I’d seen him before, eaten there many times over the course of my life. It had always been the same short man, though he used to have ore hair and it was less grey when I first came here.
Depending on how things went today, I might eat there again tonight.
The restaurant owner placed a board on the wall outside, showing that he had a two-for-one offer on today. That was new.
I guessed times must be hard for the old-timer, or perhaps custom had diminished since the Annex.
I envied the guy in a way. He’d been here serving wonderful home-made food forever. A constant it what seemed to be an ever changing world.
I wished my life had been like his; steady, safe, honest. But my life was never going to be like that. Destiny, through my very birth had already chosen a harsher more chaotic life for me.
As I sat gazing out at the everyday hubbub, I found myself reminiscing about days gone by. About good times; Akiko, Miko, our holidays to Italy and Mars. Even the uphill struggle that was my business was a good memory.
The trouble with good memories is – there is always some fucker waiting to pull them down. Someone waiting in the wings to ruin everything.
Cars buzzed by or roared overhead, people laden with shopping walked serenely along the baking sidewalks.
Two men in grey uniforms strolled sedately into view and I tensed, my espresso cup paused at my lips.
The two men continued on their way, not even glancing in my direction.
Across the street an old guy was opening up his restaurant. I’d seen him before, eaten there many times over the course of my life. It had always been the same short man, though he used to have ore hair and it was less grey when I first came here.
Depending on how things went today, I might eat there again tonight.
The restaurant owner placed a board on the wall outside, showing that he had a two-for-one offer on today. That was new.
I guessed times must be hard for the old-timer, or perhaps custom had diminished since the Annex.
I envied the guy in a way. He’d been here serving wonderful home-made food forever. A constant it what seemed to be an ever changing world.
I wished my life had been like his; steady, safe, honest. But my life was never going to be like that. Destiny, through my very birth had already chosen a harsher more chaotic life for me.
As I sat gazing out at the everyday hubbub, I found myself reminiscing about days gone by. About good times; Akiko, Miko, our holidays to Italy and Mars. Even the uphill struggle that was my business was a good memory.
The trouble with good memories is – there is always some fucker waiting to pull them down. Someone waiting in the wings to ruin everything.