The split second decided everything in the face-off: the squinting of the subject’s characteristic blue eyes and the way his lips pressed into a half smile as the muscles in his arm and wrist began to tighten around the revolver’s grip were enough for me to squeeze the trigger and end the Subject’s life for the third time.
Brain matter stains the rusted steel wall of the poorly lit service hallway. The brain belonged to Subject Nine, also known as Derek Stills, who’s now a bloodied and faceless heap in the shadows. Decomposing waste from an overturned trash bin fouls the sterilized air with an acidic flavor. Opposite the wall, barren-class planet Yamashita III peeks through the tall window from space, unblinking save for the few mining colonies that dot its brown and cratered landscape.
I flip the safety on my handgun—a beautiful remake of the historical Colt M1911—the barrel still warm and smoking. Briefly admiring the heft and polish and expressiveness of the work of art, I replace it in its cowhide shoulder holster. Like those Wild West films in museums.
My new partner Miles enters the spectacle, a pale and bewildered puppy run ragged from the earlier chase through the Market District. His curly black hair is matted to his forehead, shirt and tie damp with sweat. “What the hell? What the hell, Karin? You almost hit his MTU.” Miles faces me with wide brown eyes as he tentatively approaches S-9’s corpse, his left wrist computer responding to rapid finger gestures and illuminating the hallway with a jumble of letters and numbers. Meeting his stare, I’m not sure whether he’s angry with me, in awe of my marksmanship, or simply frustrated at the difficulty of tracking a hacked Memory Transfer Unit for the third time in a week. He probably felt all three.
Yamashita Station’s announcement service crackles to life with the familiar voice of a woman, deep and rehearsed: “Market District Sector Two is currently locked down for the duration of the Yamashita System Police investigation. Please remain calm and do not attempt to leave the sector.” I roll up my leather jacket’s right sleeve and start the timer on my wrist computer. The holographic countdown is projected in mid-air: nine minutes.
The same scene, different time and place. Miles is hunched over the husk of S-9—first life: interplanetary smuggling; second: double homicide; and now third: slave trading, attempted murder. But Derek Stills was no longer here with us on the station. In eight more minutes, he’ll be waking up in another clone vat within the same solar system. Subsequent deaths after the first did not guarantee a full memory transfer rate, but that did not stop S-9 and those before him. In fact, it made the cases more complicated: what if the accused did not remember any of their crimes?
I wave my hand over the timer, a knot in the pit of my stomach, and draw my attention to the crowd gathering at the mouth of the hallway. The same crowd, different faces: men, women, young and old, a child on a father’s shoulder, market security guards keeping them at a distance before back up arrives—the unnecessary but inevitable infection of curiosity. Without looking at Miles, my mind elsewhere, I call out to him: “Time’s ticking, rookie.” He does not reply. I know he is well aware of what is at stake, the importance of tracking down where S-9’s data is being transferred, the need, the desire, to make Derek Stills pay for his crimes.
Five minutes. I realize the importance of the split second, the inch of my aim, capable of dispensing an entirely different notion of peace and order. My thoughts return to the faded and frayed Wild West films in Yamashita Station’s Culture District.
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