Pawn quest book 1, p.1
Pawn Quest, book 1, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Pawn Quest
Dedication
PART ONE - DODGE
CHAPTER 1 - Ran
CHAPTER 2 - Hallie
CHAPTER 3 - Pel
CHAPTER 4 - Mysteries
CHAPTER 5 - Searches
CHAPTER 6 - Changes Brewing
CHAPTER 7 - Atlas Corp
CHAPTER 8 - Worries
CHAPTER 9 - Saturday
CHAPTER 10 - Saturday, Continued
PART TWO - FRIENDS
CHAPTER 11 - Sunday
CHAPTER 12 - Picnic
CHAPTER 13 - Real Trouble
CHAPTER 14 - Waiting
CHAPTER 15 - Exile
PART THREE - ORPHEUS
CHAPTER 16 - Spaceport
CHAPTER 17 - Space Dock
CHAPTER 18 - Challenges
CHAPTER 19 - Awakenings
CHAPTER 20 - Counsel
CHAPTER 21 - Hyperspace
CHAPTER 22 - Metal Lollipops
CHAPTER 23 - Nightmares
CHAPTER 24 - Escape
CHAPTER 25 - Aftermath
Copyright © 2019 by Kate Harrington
Dodge City, Kansas, two hundred years in the future—
Ran has escaped fostercare and wants a job. He can talk machines into repairing themselves, but the only offers this fifteen-year-old gets come from labor pirates wanting to use him for nefarious purposes.
Pel arrives in Dodge seeking better Net access to track down missing people—people who supposedly are dead.
Hallie witnesses a bombing, and against orders investigates.
When these three team up to figure out what’s going on, they attract the interest of a powerful artificial intelligence system with secrets of its own.
Nearly kidnapped, blown up, and tried for murder, the three are forced to board a starship—a starship never meant to arrive at its destination.
For Terry,
who was there at the beginning
DODGE
He was Spider. He wielded the remaining threads of his grandfather’s empire.
At his command, the opaque wall of his penthouse apartment became transparent to reveal a gradually brightening sky and the rooftops of neighboring arcologies, each arcology a stepped pyramid, each step obscured by trees. They should have retained their original stark Meso-American flavor, but no, the residents demanded their gardens.
Spider sipped his java (though Java the island had not grown coffee in well over a century). Gourmands claimed coffee and chocolate were nothing like they’d been in the past. No matter. He knew what he liked. His food fabricator produced the perfect hot drink every time.
With a thought, he activated his tooth phone. “Tech.”
“Here.” The answer came, slow, sluggish. Caught Tech sleeping, had he? So what? He owned Tech, who was his lifeline to the National Online Data Exchange. He owned the NODE, though the country might disagree!
“What news?” Spider asked.
A stifled yawn. “Your data checks out. All but number eight. That one just declared emancipation and moved to Workless. Age . . . fifteen.”
Spider reviewed his list. “Have a watch set on him, via your usual channels.”
When Tech remained silent, Spider began to pace. A slosh of java hit the creamy carpet, to be sensed and obliterated by his house system. “Well?”
“He has to check into the employment office twice a week.” Tech sounded reluctant. “And he’s far from being of age. No need for haste.”
“I said a watch. I want to know who he sees, what he does, where he goes. He could be useful.”
“Will do.”
Tech was too squeamish. A pity those kids had been allowed to live. But this particular disposable kid had certain talents and might prove useful.
Ran
Ran Kenelm stomped out of the Dodge City Employment Office. “Nothing today, kid.” Always the same. So what if he was only fifteen? He could fix any machine—intelligent or mechanical.
He’d left his foster home on impulse, fed up with being bossed around. After all, everyone was guaranteed food and shelter.
Big mistake.
Dodge City did indeed provide shelter and two meals a day—but not forever.
He clenched his fists. He had dug this hole himself, his very own black hole of stupidity. Helping out at Sam’s Antiques, the one bright spot of his days, didn’t solve his problem. He had to get a job. Two more months without finding a job and he’d end up on the road crew demolishing old Highway 70.
“You don’t look ahead,” his foster father always said. Yeah, but he had. Maybe he’d looked too far ahead. Maybe he didn’t know anything. Nothing of use, that was sure. Neither his real name, nor his genetics, nor why . . .
He headed back down Gunsmoke Street, where corner news boxes blared out headlines, enticing passersby to pay for details, humming with the faint vibration that said all was well. But the You Are Here map guide was dark. Ran paused, slid his hand along the underside of the unit. Nope, nothing he could fix. The power pack had been ripped out. Probably stolen by noids—the only people not chipped, untraceable—though they didn’t usually steal this close to City Center.
A pedal-powered sausage cart squeaked past. It needed oil. His mouth watering, Ran angled across Boot Hill Plaza, drawing side-glances and some double takes at his gray coverall because school kids wore blue. A group of primary school children followed their teacher into the museum that enclosed ancient storefronts inside climate-controlled walls. Ran had done the same at that age, an actual non-virtual experience. Shops lined two other sides of the plaza and on the fourth side was the library.
A bearded man in old-fashioned cowboy vest talked from the soapbox, though people passing by paid him no attention. “Half of Earth closed off to human settlement—”
Yeah, yeah. Kids accepted that reality, but adults still protested the decades old World Court order to vacate half of every continent, allowing plants and animals free access to spread and evolve in the new norm.
--“so now they fill more and more arcologies with their families”—
Well, duh! Rising oceans, coastal storms, who could blame people for moving—within human boundaries, of course. Ran’s respect for machines extended to arcologies, those self-sufficient communities consisting of quarter-mile-square, truncated pyramids. Their inhabitants never had to touch the ground, free to fly away, or walk connecting bridges to other arcologies.
“Ship ’em off-planet instead.”
Ran groaned. Ship them where? In spite of great strides in space flight, locating habitable planets was another matter.
Leaving the plaza meant leaving the sunshine. Back in the shade he waved off biting gnats and rubbed his neck when one slipped beneath his coverall. The streets of Dodge formed a ravine of steep walls where no sun’s rays could penetrate.
Two kids in blue school uniforms burst out between the first of the stepped arcologies, riding bikes. Clumsy things. Printed out by hardware fabricators. Ran itched to design something better—sleeker, speedier. Another kid in matching blue jeered down at his schoolmates from an airboard. Ran’s lips twitched. He could even up that race by making that board move as slow or slower than those crappy bikes.
Sam’s Antiques was on the ground floor of one of the oldest arcologies. But when Ran peeked in the window, the old man shook his head. Nothing for him to fix today. Disappointed, he turned away, only to step back to avoid bumping noses with a man in a glossy tan suit and unblemished face.
“You must be Mr. Kenelm,” the man said in a smooth voice with a self-satisfied smile.
Ran took another step back. What a faker. “How d’ you know my name?”
“You want a job, no?”
“What kind of job?” Free fixes? He wasn’t about to be used by this Mr. Smooth.
Tapping his fingers together, the man said, “I could use someone to make the occasional mechanical adjustment. I understand from your coach at Eisenhower Secondary that you kept the school airboards in good shape.”
Yes, he had. Mr. Smooth had that right. “So, have you talked to the employment office?”
The man pursed his lips. “No, I wouldn’t say so. We have ways of getting around obstacles like EO regs.”
Labor pirate. Ran shook his head. “I want a real job with real machines.”
“The EO’s already blacklisted you, haven’t they?”
All because of a stupid supervisor. He could’ve cleared the jam in the trash compactor if the super hadn’t shoved him away. Instead, trash had spewed all over. If he worked for a pirate, he could do what he loved . . . Except this guy acted like he already owned him.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Ran said slowly. “What’s your name? How can I reach you?”
The pirate no longer smiled. Turning away, he said, “I’ll be around. You don’t have much time.”
Ran stared after the man. “Blast!” He had to find work before they transported him north to that road crew. Hard labor. No machines. No future.
He’d thrown away his chances the day after he’d graduated from secondary school. The day his foster father, Doug, interrupted his repair of his foster mother’s clothing scanner to ask, “Now what do you plan to do?”
Unthinking, he’d answered, “Start tertiary.” The next level up. Of course. What almost every secondary graduate did.
“How? Did you submit your application?”
“Thought I’d do that today.”
“Teacher recommendations?”
He’d stared down at his hands. His teachers had been too glad to see him go, the drag on their classes, the one who caused them all that extra work.
“I thought not,” Doug said. “Two simple things you could have done months ago. I grant, you work hard. You graduated early. But with your handicap, you can’t let up. No amount of fixes around here will take care of the other things you need to do.”
Push, push, push! Even though he stood almost a head higher than Doug, the man made him feel like a little kid. He’d had enough.
“I did it on my own. I’ll do the rest that way too.” That same day he took himself to the employment office and moved into Workless.
But that labor pirate had talked to Coach.
Why hadn’t he asked Coach for a recommendation? Except then he would have to face the other snag—his real obstacle.
With no repairs for Sam, the day stretched out before him. He walked for miles until, tired, he leaned against the blank north side of an arcology, soaking in the building’s hum of ventilation and water recycling machinery.
“CURFEW BEGINS IN ONE HOUR,” his implant announced. Oops. He broke into a trot passing beneath trees hanging over the streets from the arcologies’ gardens.
Maybe he’d take that pirate’s offer, he was sick of looking for stuff to fix.
Arcologies made way for municipal buildings.
“CURFEW BEGINS IN TEN MINUTES.”
Better take a shortcut. With a deep breath, he cut through the last alley to reach Gunsmoke Street.
Two steps in, his neck hairs prickled—someone in the alley was wearing a cloaking device—but the soft whistle reassured him.
“Typhus? Another repair? I don’t have time.” Ran kept moving.
“No, we gots something for you.” The young noid sounded excited, pleased. His shadowy hand came into view.
Ran paused to look. His breath caught. “A smart tool?”
“We owes you.”
“I didn’t do much.” Only fixed Ty’s vita-med fabricator.
The tool, shaped like a fat metallic pen, drew him. He flicked it on. Older model, still useful, humming with aliveness. Handy for diagnosing machine problems for Sam, or for Mukerji at Workless. Or Ty, if his fab went out again.
“Nice. Where’d it come from?” Ran asked.
“Swops clan said it fell off a garbage haul.”
“Somebody must be looking for it then. No one would throw it away.” Ran wanted it, badly, but noids lived by stealing.
“Swops clan said it were clean.”
“FIVE MINUTES TO CURFEW,” his implant announced.
No time left. “Thanks then. I’ve got to run before they close the doors.”
He pocketed the smart tool and picked up speed through the alley, accompanied by Ty’s cloak vibrations. Midway, he heard the distinctive growl of a high-powered Security vehicle as it settled on the street ahead. Another vehicle blew dust and stink through the alley to block the far end.
“Sludge and blast!” Ran walked forward on stiff legs to face two officers in black uniforms. One held a tracking device, face obscured by black helmet.
“You. Down. On your knees.”
Ran knelt. Worshiping Security now. He risked a glance behind, seeing only blinding lights from the other end of the alley. Where was Typhus?
“Empty your pockets.”
A setup. Thankless noid! Should’ve tossed that smart tool. Should’ve run back to Workless. Ran pulled out the smart tool and his little utility knife with its handy attachments.
“That’s it,” said the officer with the scanner. “Where’d you get it, kid?”
“It was just given to me.”
“Likely story. We’re taking you in.”
“What for? Take the tool. And give me back my knife.” He started to his feet. A baton cracked on his head. His ears rang.
“Get up when I say!”
“CURFEW IS NOW IN EFFECT.”
He groaned. Workless was locked tight.
Hands jerked him to his feet and pushed him into the Security vehicle. He lost count of the number of arcologies they flew over.
In a claustrophobic room at Security headquarters, Ran found himself surrounded by hulking black uniforms.
“I don’t know!” he protested. “I was told it came off a garbage haul. Use your brain scan. It’ll show I’m telling the truth. And if you want to know where I’ve been, all you have to do is play back my records.”
“Smart guy, huh? And any time you go down an alley, you have an excuse when we lose your trace. Sure. You’re so bright you’d know how to use that tool, wouldn’t you?”
Huh? Anyone could use a smart tool—
Oh. A smart tool could turn off the guidance systems of aircars so they could fly outside of controlled traffic lanes. That was what that labor pirate had wanted him for.
“And how many vehicles have you tampered with lately?”
“None! I haven’t been near one. I haven’t ridden in one.”
“No need to ride. We have you on record as saying you can fix anything.”
“I didn’t turn any aircars into direfliers!” Ran’s voice rose. “All I want is a job. All I want is to work with machines. I want legitimate work.”
They didn’t believe him. He was stuck here for a night or for a lifetime, whichever lasted longer.
“Lockup’s crowded tonight,” the guard said.
Ran found a seat where he could keep an eye on the other occupants. Street people, crazy but not violent. They didn’t bathe much either.
A zombie shambled over. “Go away,” Ran told him. At least, zombies did what they were told. Workless had them too.
Periodically shifting his legs, he used his fingernails to scrape gunk from the pitted plastic of his bench. One man slumped on the floor in the corner. Others slept or pretended to. Each time Ran’s eyelids grew heavy, he startled upright, remembering where he was. He should never have left his foster family. He should have gotten a recommendation from Coach. He should have begun tertiary, even though he’d have to never miss a live class. All missed classes were replayed in virtual. And he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t use VR.
“You, Kenelm.”
Sullen with fatigue, Ran looked up. Gray light penetrated the high windows.
“Yeah?”
“You get to go now.”
Some of the sleepers stirred.
Ran dodged the zombie’s arm and left the cell. His stomach rumbled. “What about food? You kept me overnight. I’m entitled to food and shelter.”
“You had your shelter. Come on.”
At the front desk a woman said, “Sign here and you’re free to walk.”
“Walk?” He lurched against the desk. “They flew me here.”
His escort hauled him away from the desk. “Stand back.”
He twisted out of the guard’s grasp, addressing the woman, too tired and desperate for politeness. “It’s miles back to Dodge Center. I have to walk back?” He had to get back to Workless or lose his things. Miles on an empty stomach.
“And what about food? No meal last night. I know my rights. Oh, sludge and blast. It’s my work day. How‘m I to get to the EO in time? You’ve really messed up my record!”
“We messed up? What about you?” said the guard.
“Give me back my knife.”
“After you sign,” said the woman calmly. “Won’t hurt you to walk. Hey, Min, get the kid a breakfast ration.” She gave Ran’s thin frame a second look. “Make that two.”
Out on the street a bus hovered past, throwing bits of grit. They could have given him a bus token. Then he’d have a chance at arriving on time. Miles later, the breakfast bars were scant memory. At the employment office, the clerk said, “Too late. You missed your crew. This goes on your record as a second warning. A third note and . . .”
“And what? I still have my rights.”
“A third and you get checked in for treatment as an antisocial deviant.” That veiled threat to turn him into a zombie wasn’t likely. Courts re-gened only for violence, but after last night, he’d gladly hit something. Anything.
“You will work tomorrow to make up for today’s lapse. And you need to show up for your regular day in line the day after, or you won’t be registered for another week at Workless.”
He hoped he still had a bed there after missing last night.
