Lost Helix E-Book

Scott Coon

• Herausgeber: Dancing Lemur Press LLC
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 431

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Lost Helix is the key…

Stuck on an asteroid mining facility, DJ dreams of writing music. His dad is a corporate hacker and his best friend Paul intends to escape to become a settler in a planet-wide land rush, but neither interests DJ.

When his dad goes missing, DJ finds a file containing evidence of a secret war of industrial sabotage, a file encrypted by his dad using DJ's song Lost Helix. Caught in a crossfire of lies, DJ must find his father and the mother he never knew.

When the mining company sends Agent Coreman after DJ and his guitar, DJ and Paul escape the facility and make a run for civilization. Will DJ discover the truth before Coreman catches him?

Leseprobe

Scott Coon

DANCING LEMUR PRESS, L.L.C.

Pikeville, North Carolina

http://www.dancinglemurpressllc.com/

“This novel is pretty much a model of what YA Space Opera should be: a bit melodramatic, a bit realistic, a bit magical, and very escapist.” – Gordon Long, author

“…a fast-paced sci-fi adventure. Mr. Coon keeps his action sequences moving!” – SF Lakin, author

“It’s not the sanitized idealistic world of a “better future” where we humans have supposedly evolved. Nope, this has corporate greed, space pirates, intrigue, adventure, and plenty of conflict.” – Lynda R. Young, author

“Very enjoyable! I liked the music angle and the pacing was perfect. So many characters to root for and the author wrapped it up great.” – Alex J. Cavanaugh, author of the best-selling Cassa series

“…the ride is an entertaining one.” - SF Reviews - Don D'Ammassa

“This novel will keep you enthralled and guessing what will happen next until the very end. Highly recommended!” - L.G. Keltner, author

Copyright 2020 by Scott Coon

Published by Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C.

P.O. Box 383, Pikeville, North Carolina, 27863-0383

http://www.dancinglemurpressllc.com/

ISBN 978193984699

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system in any form–either mechanically, electronically, photocopy, recording, or other–except for short quotations in printed reviews, without the permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design by C.R.W.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Names: Coon, Scott, author.

Title: Lost Helix / Scott Coon.

Description: Pikeville, North Carolina : Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C.,

[2020] | Summary: "Lost Helix is the key... Stuck on an asteroid mining

facility, DJ dreams of writing music. His dad is a corporate hacker and

his best friend Paul intends to escape to become a settler in a

planet-wide land rush, but neither interests DJ. When his dad goes

missing, DJ finds a file containing evidence of a secret war of

industrial sabotage, a file encrypted by his dad using DJ's song Lost

Helix. Caught in a crossfire of lies, DJ must find his father and the

mother he never knew. When the mining company sends Agent Coreman after

DJ and his guitar, DJ and Paul escape the facility and make a run for

civilization. Will DJ discover the truth before Coreman catches him?"--

Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019053223 (print) | LCCN 2019053224 (ebook) | ISBN

9781939844682 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781939844699 (ebook)

Subjects: GSAFD: Science fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3603.O5813 L67 2020 (print) | LCC PS3603.O5813

(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019053223

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019053224

Dedication

I dedicate this novel to the Writers of Sherman Oaks Critique Group. Especially: Janet Wertman, Julian K Graham, Arthur Swan, Marc Goldstein, Kit Replogle, Rebecca Stanley, Alex Caine, Chelsea Poole, John Mathews, Melanie Howard, Shawn Wilson, Keven Albers, Megan Steron, Gerry Gainford, Scott Hale, Madonna Groom, and L.S. Quigley.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The Piranha and the Goldfish

Chapter 2: Full Contact

Chapter 3: The System

Chapter 4: The New Rules

Chapter 5: The Ghosts in the Walls

Chapter 6: Under Glass

Chapter 7: The Transients

Chapter 8: Rain

Chapter 9: The Smedley Butler

Chapter 10: The Padlock

Chapter 11: Mountaineers and Madmen

Chapter 12: Community Service

Chapter 13: The Other Derik Fletcher, Part 1

Chapter 14: Water Day

Chapter 15: The Battle of the Smedley Butler

Chapter 16: The Other Derik Fletcher, Part 2

Chapter 17: The Box of Damocles

Chapter 18: The FTL Waltz

Chapter 19: The Literal Middle of Nowhere

Chapter 20: The New World

Chapter 21: The Goddess and the Fool

Chapter 22: The Piranha

Chapter 23: The Goldfish

1: The Piranha and the Goldfish

“What do you get when you cross a piranha with a goldfish?”

Coreman refused to acknowledge the absurd question as he stood properly positioned to board the elevator. His trainee, however, stood to his left, blocking any riders who may need to exit. The doors opened to an empty car, but that didn’t excuse Hochstein’s inefficiency.

As Coreman entered, Hochstein followed, answering his own question. “A piranha, because he’s gonna eat that goldfish.” The doors closed. “This guy is a goldfish.”

Coreman continued ignoring him and tapped the icon for residential level nine. The elevator shot them out of the corporate center and into the tube connecting it to the rest of Black Mountain Mining Commercial Space Station IV. While Hochstein gazed out over what he’d described to Coreman as “the magnificent spill of impressionism that is the Milky Way,” Coreman kept his gaze on the ascending numbers above the door. Despite Hochstein’s assertions, the universe was not art. It was a chaotic pool of raw materials in need of purpose.

Behind the elevator’s clear tube, forty stories of craggy asteroid connected the red, disk-shaped corporate center to the giant, white box that composed the rest of BMS IV. Grown out of one of the earliest mining settlements in Stone River, this station started on that asteroid. Dormant drill holes peppered its face; its valuable minerals long ago extracted and turned into useful objects.

Hochstein huffed at Coreman’s silence. “He lived with that woman for three years. Bringing him into our division is a bad idea.”

“He turned her in.”

Hochstein loosened his blue and gold tie. “He doesn’t know that he turned her in.”

“All the better. It shows that Fletcher wasn’t working with Brennan.”

The elevator zoomed into the central shaft of the massive metal box made of thousands of smaller metal boxes. As the elevator came to a stop, Coreman moved to the right side of the door. He spared a moment for a stern glance at Hochstein. “We have attended to Brennan, and Director Bradley has approved Fletcher. End of conversation.”

The doors opened, and they stepped out into a bright white corridor with a scuffed metal floor. Two kids rushed past, shooting each other with toy versions of the gun hidden under Coreman’s black jacket. One kid fired three shots at Coreman’s head, two more than necessary. Smirking, Coreman fired back with his finger. That kid was certainly no goldfish. Stone River needed more like him because, out here on the edge of human exploration, people like that kid, people like Coreman, were civilization.

Coreman marched ahead, and Hochstein meandered behind him. Reaching residential unit SJ-923b, Coreman turned sharply and stabbed a finger at the approaching Hochstein. “You’re here to learn. You can answer any technical question, but that’s all.” When Hochstein finally joined him at the door, Coreman waved his hand over the buzzer.

Someone inside stirred.

Coreman tightened his tie and put on his public relations smile.

* * *

Derik had called Norma’s work and Security. He'd pretty much called everyone they had ever met. Now he paced through toys scattered around the metal floor of his white apartment, not sure whom to call next. Derik’s mind had become locked in a loop, as had his body. He traveled the length of his apartment in an orbit around his little boy. He paced until he stubbed his toe on a model of an egg-shaped mining vessel. Foot in hand, he dropped onto the blue couch.

On the metal table before him, a small box projected a hologram of the news. The anchor shrank away so the image of a damaged mining vessel could take its place. Derik’s eyes grew wide. His heart raced. There’d been another accident.

The doorbell rang.

In boxers and a worn T-shirt, Derik stumbled through the toys and opened his apartment door to find two men in company-approved business suits. That couldn’t be good. Derik gripped the doorframe, as if bracing for a tsunami, and said, “Are you here about Norma?”

“I am Agent Coreman, and this is Agent Hochstein,” he said, with a shallow smile. “Are you Derik Fletcher?”

Derik leaned toward the tall, slender agent. “Is she okay? Was she on that rig? Her name is Norma Brennan.”

Agent Hochstein looked away, but Agent Coreman maintained eye contact as he said, “Rig?”

Derik stepped aside, so they could see the image hovering over the holovision in his living room. The projected hologram showed a McKenna-owned mining rig, not unlike the toy that had attacked his toe. A rupture ran down a side of the large, white egg as it clung to its asteroid by one smoking leg. In the background, an anchorman described the scene as, “a software error turned tragic with as many as twenty dead.”

Derik put the holovision on mute. “Norma hasn’t come home, and no one knows anything. Did Food Services have anyone out there?” He picked at a nervous itch on the back of his hand. “Was Norma Brennan on that rig?”

Hochstein started to reach for Derik’s shoulder, but he pulled his hand back. “Our Food Services wouldn’t be on a McKenna rig.”

Derik raked his fingers over his scalp. The agent was right. It was a stupid question. He needed to get his head together.

Agent Coreman craned into view. “We’re here on behalf of Black Mountain, Mr. Fletcher. We’re here about that unauthorized access you detected in your files. Can we come in, please?”

Derik went back inside and dropped onto his couch. As they followed, he clung to the couch’s gold piping. Where could Norma be?

People vanished out here all the time. There were many seedy sections of this space station where the unemployed did whatever it took to survive, and plenty of airlocks where someone could jettison anything or anyone. Three floors up, a whole residential level remained under renovation. Multi-use spacecraft outfitted with mandibles plucked off three-thousand-square-foot apartment modules all month. They were visible from every window in the station. The remaining modules had to be full of people with no jobs and no possibility of getting jobs—or of even getting off the station.

But that wasn’t the only way people went missing; some left. But Norma wouldn’t leave DJ. Their son sat at the center of her universe. And she didn’t have that much money anyway. Or did she? At least Norma wouldn’t take the stowaway’s route out of Stone River, hopping from ship to ship to illegally cross the void. She wouldn’t even know how to do that. Would she? Derik wasn’t sure. The more he thought about it, the less sure he was about everything.

He placed a finger on the St. Barbara medal around his neck. People used to believe the ancient talisman protected workers with dangerous jobs. Norma had brought a whole box of them with her when she came out to Stone River. She’d given one to every miner that she’d met. The last one, the one that she meant to keep for herself, she had given to Derik. They started talking, then dating, and soon they were living together, and had a son together…but now…

Agent Coreman beamed another smile at him. “That’s some boy you got there.”

Derik’s mind snapped back into the moment. The two agents sat across from him on metal kitchen chairs.

“I said, that’s some boy you got there.” Coreman continued to smile. “His name is Derik Junior, yes? That Junior shows that you’re committed to your son, that you are a man of commitment. I like that.”

“Yeah, thanks. DJ’s big for seventeen months, huh?” Derik’s spine reflexively straightened as he glanced at Derik Jr. banging away on an overturned bucket with two toy shuttles. “With those arms, DJ’s gonna grow up to be a ZeroBall player for sure.”

Hochstein shrugged. “Looks like DJ wants to be a musician.”

Agent Coreman leaned into view. “About that unauthorized access you detected in your files…the company is grateful for your diligence. You never know what the pirates out here are going to do next.”

Derik brought his focus back to Agent Coreman. “That was a pirate breach?”

“Yes, and if not for you, that McKenna rig could have been a Black Mountain rig. All of us at Black Mountain recognize and appreciate that.” Coreman gestured toward the lingering image on Derik’s holovision. “That is why we have a new job for you, a promotion to a special division. We can’t tell you everything about it, yet. You would have to wait until your formal security paperwork was processed and so forth, but I can tell you that the job is in information security—a special division of information security.”

Derik squinted at Coreman. “Like counter-espionage? Keeping other companies out of our servers or something?”

“Or something,” Hochstein chuckled under his breath.

Coreman spoke over him quickly. “There is paperwork first. Assistant Agent Hochstein can tell you about the types of software and languages you will be working with. But first, let me tell you that this is an employment opportunity unlike any other in Stone River.”

Derik stopped listening as Agent Coreman went in for the hard sell. His mind drifted back to Norma. Where was she? How could he find her? Then it hit him—he could find her! Information Security proved a haphazard situation for Black Mountain. Some things were locked down tight, like the shuttle manifests, but other things were wide open, things like security cameras. He could hack them easy, but not with two Agents in his living room. He needed to get them out of here fast.

“I’ll take it.”

Agent Coreman stopped talking and blinked.

“I’ll take the job,” Derik repeated as he stood and inched toward the door. “Just email me the information. I can’t wait to learn more, but DJ needs to be fed and changed, and I’m sure Norma is gonna show up any minute, so if you don’t mind…” He opened the door.

After handshakes, the agents left.

Derik sat on the couch and switched his holovision over to the apartment’s built-in computers. Within minutes, he gained control of the residential level security cameras. Digging through the footage, Derik found the start of Norma’s trail. She left the apartment shortly after he had that morning, leaving DJ with Mrs. Schumer next door, right where Derik found him nine hours later. Norma wore her Food Services uniform, and she didn’t have any bags with her.

He tracked Norma from camera to camera, following her ten decks down into the Waste Management sections, some of which were being refitted. Norma entered a meeting room module that had been disconnected from the network. Dead modules like that were cannibalized by maintenance crews before being plucked from the structure for recycling. From what Derik could see on the footage, this one had its wall plates and electronics in place.

That’s where he lost her. She went in but never came back out. While DJ slept beside him on the couch, Derik spent the rest of the night fast-forwarding through file after file, pressing on long after his eyes burned and black rings surrounded the sockets. But no camera on the station ever saw Norma again.

When morning came, Derik left DJ with Mrs. Schumer and headed for the meeting room itself. He wove through the dank, dark corridors ripe with garbage, past the management offices and the waste processing modules, until he found it. Staring through the door’s tiny porthole, he saw nothing but blackness and stars. All three thousand square meters of module were gone.

Norma was gone. He didn’t know where, and he didn’t know why. All Derik knew was that, even if Norma was alive, she wasn’t coming back; none of the hundreds of people who went missing each year from Stone River came back.

Derik fell against the door and sank to the floor. His guts sank further. Pressing his back against the door into nowhere, he gazed down the dingy white corridor. What could’ve happened to her? How would he explain it to DJ? How would he take care of their son alone? The impossibility of it all enveloped him, releasing a shuddering sigh through his body.

Hearing his own sickly sound, he forced himself to his feet. He took a long, slow breath. Norma was gone and he could do nothing to change it. Crying about it helped no one, certainly not DJ. DJ needed a dad, not a blubbering lump. Although he wasn’t sure how, he decided that he would take care of DJ alone.

Wiping his face, he stared out the empty window once more. From now on, no matter what, his entire focus in life would be looking out for DJ. He would teach his son how to survive out here, and someday, somehow, he would find a way to get his son out of Stone River.

* * *

Sixteen years later…

DJ’s dad was away again, upgrading someone’s software, auditing someone’s systems, or doing whatever emergency fix Agent Coreman needed him to do. DJ didn’t know and didn’t care. It all meant the same to him—frozen meals for the fifth night in a row. The vitamin-enriched, synthetic meals were why DJ had grown to a healthy six-feet tall, but the flavor-vacant, pseudo-food explained why DJ had also grown into a beanpole. He wasn’t meaty enough for something like ZeroBall like his dad had hoped.

Dinner had been reduced-fat roast beef with brown sauce, but it sat in DJ's gut as if it was roast brick with cement sauce. DJ ignored the lump and focused on his music. Still, the feeling dragged down his rhythm as his fingers worked the sixty dark-blue buttons and twelve red slides on his black Rigozy Data Strummer stringless guitar. It wasn’t a real Rigozy, though, just a student-grade knockoff, but it had a distortion bar and a hard drive big enough to download any sound profile. Tonight, it filled Recreation Room Eight of the Unclaimed Youths Ward with heavy metal as DJ and Paul played one of DJ’s originals, “White Walls.” Paul did his best on drums, but DJ had to carry the melody and the rhythm.

As the last notes reverberated through the room, the lights blinked, indicating the end of their session. Paul stuffed his sticks in the cargo pocket of his blue and gold coveralls and started collapsing his drum kit into its carrying case. “I keep telling you, you should quit playing with a hack like me and find some guys to form a real band,” Paul said. “You’re good enough to play your way out of this place.”

DJ almost laughed. A vast expanse of blackness separated the Stone River Asteroid Belt from the rest of civilization—as did an expensive, one-way ticket. Some miners saved their whole lives for that ticket and still couldn’t afford it. “There’s no money in it,” DJ mumbled. “This is a hobby.”

“That’s your dad talking.”

DJ scowled. “Screw you. How am I going to make money on my music from out here?”

Paul folded his arms. “You know how. You just gotta get over your stage fright.”

DJ looked away. “It’s a hobby, dude.”

The timer on Recreation Room Eight ran out and the door slid into the wall. The next group of kids stood in the hallway, gripping their instruments impatiently. All four wore coveralls and grow-shoes, identical to Paul’s. The grey-blue blobs grew with your feet, lasted forever, and got you beat up at school. They were what the company gave to kids in the system, kids stranded out here without parents. All four of them glared at DJ, while ignoring Paul; this section of BMS IV belonged to kids who wore grow-shoes. DJ wasn’t technically allowed to be in this section, but he came with Paul, and rules tended to bend around Paul, who was the high school ZeroBall hero.

DJ slung his guitar over his back and slunk out of the room. He crept past them and stood in the recessed doorway of the Virtual Reality Game Room, where they used to play Four Corner Brawl before the room “broke” and got shutdown. In the I-suck-at-this mode, Brawl painted a target for the player on your virtual opponent’s chin. And you didn’t click a button to throw the punch. Instead, you had to throw the punch and hit air. Bonus points for good form. DJ rarely got the bonus, and he never tried to replicate it in real life, but Paul kept trying to provide him with opportunities to do so. While DJ cowered against the locked VR room door, Paul closed his drum kit slower and slower. The harder the other kids glared, the slower he moved. Why did Paul always have to push his luck—and DJ’s?

Barry, the leader of this band of the Unclaimed, stepped forward. With his black bangs clinging to his furrowed forehead, he pointed at the blinking number over the door. “Time’s up, jack-knob!”

“Indeed, it is.” With his kit collapsed, Paul folded his arms and stood there. “I guess I’m eating into your time the way you’re eating into my happy mood by being jerks to my friend. You owe my guest an apology.”

All four of the waiting kids groaned. Barry threw his hands up. “Screw this. Get him!”

The boys rushed in and tackled Paul. Paul tried to wiggle free. DJ remained cringed while the kids hoisted Paul by his arms and legs and tossed him into the hall. Paul landed hard on his butt. His drum kit followed, sliding across the floor and into the wall beside DJ.

As the door slid shut, Paul collected his kit from the floor. “Well, that was fun.”

DJ shoved his hands into his pockets and grumbled, “You’re gonna get our butts kicked.”

“So, you’re gonna be a data jockey like dear ol’ dad?” Paul said, ignoring the interruption in their conversation.

“What?”

Paul leaned in. “Have you figured out what you want to be when you grow up? You’re blowing off that talent I wish I had. I hope it’s for something better than a life of searching for your donor mom. High school is coming to an end. It’s time to make a plan before Black Mountain makes one for you.”

“You’re one to talk. Your plan is suicide. Stowing away is insane!”

Paul waved the words away with the back of his hand. “People do it all the time.”

“And they get killed all the time. Even if you don’t die trying to get out to the domes, do you really think you’ll get all the way to Middle Black? And then what? Never mind corporate security, customs…”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Blah, blah, blah.”

“Even if you make it to the other end, they’ll send you back as a contract deserter.”

“I’ll get there. Unlike school, I’ve been studying for this. I don’t know why I’m waiting around for graduation, really. I'm already eighteen. What will I need a diploma in the mining arts for?” Paul shrugged. “I’m building a money cushion at this point.”

DJ shook his head. “Seriously, dude, who saves up to be a farmer?”

“Speaking of which…” Paul grabbed DJ by the wrist to check the time. “I gotta go!”

“Poker?” As if DJ had to guess. It was 23:00 on a Friday. A game awaited Paul somewhere.

“Henry’s playing. I’ll have enough to buy two landers after tonight.”

DJ had always found landers to be ugly things—tightly-packed metal boxes half-covered in heat-resistant tiles. They dropped from space during a planet-wide land rush, carrying up to four people and their gear. On the ground, they unfolded into a homestead ready to convert untamed acres into fields of food. Even when reconfigured into small houses, they still looked like ugly metal boxes.

DJ and Paul had first seen them when they were eight, lying on DJ’s living room floor, watching holovision. The newly terraformed planet, Everett, had opened for settlement. Paul couldn’t close his eyes as the steady stream of landers cut bright streaks into the atmosphere, descending upon the unspoiled planet below. Everett’s dark continents came to life as farmers staked their claims and lit their landers like a billion little candles in the dark.

With the news of Everett had come the news of New Greene, the next planet in this region scheduled to open for settlement. Upon hearing that, Paul announced that he was going to be a farmer and started saving. Now Paul’s stack of data chips held more than enough credits to buy a lander. Paul knew this because he’d crawled all over the stowaways’ secret websites, learning how to cross the void and what to expect on the other side. Paul was ready to light his own candle in the dark.

While Paul headed off to earn, DJ trudged into the late evening silence, heading for his empty apartment. He imagined his dad asleep somewhere, probably in a server room, as a progress bar gradually filled on the screen before him. DJ didn’t have a clue about what he wanted to do for a living, but he knew it wasn’t that. But DJ didn’t want to be a farmer, either, and the idea of making a living in music… Graduation loomed four months away. He needed to figure something out, but those were the options that appeared on his horizon, and DJ wanted neither of them.

By the time DJ reached his residential level, the mind-numbing whir of air rushing though the dusty vents filled the halls. Under the ceiling’s LEDs, DJ stopped at an intersection within the eight-by-eight grid of corridors. He peered down each hallway. Nothing moved. This offered the perfect time and place. He popped an access panel off the white wall.

If Security walked up on him, they’d turn him over to his dad for another endless lecture. If one of the desperate and hungry unemployed found him, DJ might wake up in the hospital or not at all. He wanted to do this from his apartment, a couple of corridors down, but his dad would find his digital footprints, no question. The network cable junctions located at corridor intersections provided his one chance.

Lightyears away, on planet Hestia, inside a stone building at the heart of Hestia City, DJ expected the government’s Consumer DNA Registry database contained his name right next to the name of the woman who gave him half of his DNA. She was DJ’s lost helix. All DJ wanted to know was why she sold the egg that became DJ. Was it about the money? Did she wonder about the kid she helped make? Did she even know that DJ existed? All DJ knew about her was what every donor baby knew—she was most likely a grad student who sold her eggs to help pay for college, and neither DJ nor his dad had any legal right to know her name.

Purchasing an egg through a commercial service was a common practice amongst the male miners of Stone River, a symptom of the significant gender imbalance. The companies claimed women didn’t apply to become asteroid miners, just men. The male miners complained about the lack of women in Stone River but then they’d ask the DNA services for sons instead of daughters, thus adding even more males to population. To DJ, it was a Mobius strip of bullshit.

Tapping across the virtual keyboard hovering above the computer-watch on his left wrist, he cut through the local security locks. In no time, he gained access to the server where messages gathered for transmission back to civilization. He found the 23:30 data transmission and implanted his worm, a program designed to move across networks.

Hopefully, the new protocol wrapper that he stole would make his worm look harmless, getting it past the firewalls at Black Mountain Headquarters on Hestia and out to the rest of the Internet. As it breached each barrier, the worm would return a report until it either came back with his mother’s name or an error code telling him that his worm got caught. The first report would come at 23:30, but he wouldn’t be able to time it after that.

The holographic screen floating over DJ’s wrist counted down, and DJ kept an ear out for anyone coming around one of the many corners. With under a minute to go, he thought he heard the squeak of a sneaker. He looked in all directions but saw nothing. At the half-minute mark, another squeak sounded. It was definitely a sneaker, and Security didn’t wear sneakers. DJ listened hard, but he only heard his own heartbeat. His display counted down the last seconds and the first report came in. His worm was away. The next report would come from the other end of the void.

“Hey!”

The single word echoed from all directions. DJ crouched like a spooked rabbit, scanning for predators. If he disconnected, he’d miss his report and would never know if it had worked. If it did work, they’d know it on the other end, which meant they'd shut the door on that worm forever. He couldn’t miss a chance to find his mom’s name. He had to stick with it.

The second report hit his watch. The worm had crossed the void. Now it battled across the server room of Black Mountain Headquarters on Hestia. While DJ waited, someone squealed, a kid. DJ's gut soured as he imagined what unfolded in the corridor around the corner from him. If right, he didn’t have much time. Where was that next report?

A voice roared, “Give me the shoes, sysie!”

DJ froze, pressing himself flat against the wall as tremors rolled through him. That second voice belonged to someone that DJ knew all too well. You’d think that the two kids who were regularly up after midnight would become friends, but not when one of those kids was the psychopath Bill Krieger. Bill’s favorite sport was hunting “sysies,” kids in the system, as if their lives weren’t crappy enough.

The next report came and so did the error code. The network caught his worm. DJ needed to get closer to the source, as close as the server itself, to get into that database. But how could he ever escape this gerbil maze and get to Hestia? He had no idea, but he had a more pressing problem at the moment.

After stashing his guitar behind the service panel, DJ peeked around the corner. A few feet away, Bill’s wide torso crushed down on a hapless middle school kid wearing blue and gold coveralls. The kid kept squirming, but Bill wanted his grow-shoes. DJ knew exactly what Bill would do with them. He’d done it to DJ’s sneakers when there were no grow-shoes around to target.

DJ clenched his fists and whispered, “Not tonight.”

Dancing his fingers across his light keyboard, DJ broke into the maintenance controls and shut the doors located a meter inside the necks of the garbage chutes, a feature that allowed residents to continue dumping trash while repairs were being made on lower levels.

As Bill’s coarse laughter filled the metal halls, DJ glanced around the corner again. Bill pressed his foot into the kid’s back while he fed the grow-shoes through the elastic mouth of the garbage chute. But that would not be the end of it. DJ needed to get help.

Taking control of the security software, DJ unlocked every apartment door on the entire floor. A collective thunk resounded through the halls as eighty-eight magnetic locks released their bolts at once. None of the residents poked their heads out but hopefully it woke someone in Security.

When Bill jumped, the middle school kid made a run for it. Sliding around the corner in his socks, the kid saw DJ and his floating screen. He clearly knew what DJ had done, but he wasn’t about to stop and thank him. He kept running.

Bill ran after him but stopped cold when DJ flattened against the wall—as if that would make him invisible. A sneer stretched across Bill’s face. “Donor baby!”

DJ couldn’t move. He wanted to run. He wanted to fight back, but he couldn’t even shield his face. His muscles were locked.

Bill grabbed a wad of DJ’s T-shirt. “What the hell was that noise? What did you do, donor baby?”

DJ’s lip quivered.

Bill threw DJ across the hall, bouncing him off the far wall. He landed flat on his face, and Bill’s barrel of a chest dropped on him. “Cry, donor baby, cry!” He laughed as he turned DJ over and pinned his wrists. His fist drew back. DJ winced. This was going to hurt. Then his dad would see a big black bruise on his face.

Another hand appeared. It seized Bill’s wrist, freezing his chubby knuckles in the air. “What the hell are you kids doing out this late? Where the hell are your parents?” The guard yanked Bill to his feet and aimed his stun gun at DJ. “Get the hell off the floor before I buzz you!”

DJ complied. While the guard berated them, Bill’s grim gaze cast dark promises to DJ. When the guard finished telling them how they were screwing up their lives, they marched down to holding. DJ had escaped without a bruise, but he wasn’t going to hear the end of it.

* * *

DJ sat in a white chair in the corner of a long, white room, as far from Bill Krieger as the room would allow. He stared at the floor while the security camera stared at them. Its unblinking eye pinned Bill in his seat with promises of additional charges. Nonetheless, DJ didn't dare provoke him with eye contact.

On his watch computer, DJ tapped out a message to Paul. Someone needed to recover that kid’s grow-shoes. And, with his dad coming back the next afternoon, DJ needed that Data Strummer back as soon as they released him in the morning.

Right after DJ hit send, the door slid open and Bill’s mom wobbled through, yelling, “What the hell you been doin’!” Even from five meters away, DJ could smell the cheap, synthetic gin seeping from her pores. “I tol’ you, stay in the apartment!” She smacked Bill across the back of his head. “I tol’ you! I tol’ you!” Smack. Smack.

The guard followed her in and said, “Please, Ms. Krieger. You can kick his butt at home, but you have to sign for him first.”

With one smack after another, Ms. Krieger chased her son from the room, and the guard shut the door behind them. Alone, DJ waited for his turn. He could already hear it—the lecture from his dad. It would be like the last one and the one before that.

When the door opened again, DJ expected the guard coming to lock him up for the night. Instead, there stood Derik Fletcher Sr., his worn backpack slung over his shoulder and the usual disappointment on his face.

DJ slunk low in his chair. “What are you doing back?”

“I got done early. Apparently, not early enough.” Derik dropped his pack to the floor. “I can’t even get my shuttle signed in before I’m getting a call from Security.”

The guard pushed a datapad under Derik’s face. “Mr. Fletcher, I need your thumb on this and then you can take the kid. He’s getting too old for this. If I have to pick him up again, I’m putting him in front of the Arbitrator, and he’ll be getting a few days in the Hall.” The guard stabbed his datapad at DJ. “You hear that, kid?”

DJ stared at the floor again. Just like last time, his dad wouldn’t even want to hear his side of things and he knew it.

* * *

Derik rode the elevator to residential level nine with his son. His travel bag hung on his shoulder, and his last mission weighed heavy on his mind. Even if he ended up in jail for it, Derik had done the right thing. He had to keep telling himself that, but right now, he needed to deal with his son.

Eyeing the back of DJ’s downturned head, Derik said, “Is it true what the guard said about you showing off for your friends? I didn’t teach you hacking so you could screw around. I taught you so you could protect yourself. It’s dangerous on a station this big, with a couple hundred thousand people and unemployment being what it is. And what the hell were you doing out that late? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Playing with Paul.” DJ jabbed at the floor with his toe, scuffing the white steel. “It’s Friday.”

“Why can’t you play at our apartment?”

“Mrs. Schumer,” DJ mumbled, barely audible over the whoosh of the elevator.

“Then play softer!” Derik yelled before he could stop himself. He had done it again, redirected his anger at his son. His anger wasn’t about DJ. It was about his job—his inescapable job and the inhumane things they made him do.

Derik’s job was to plant viruses in the computers of other companies’ mining vessels, damaging them to free up valuable asteroids. They targeted anything drifting out of McKenna or Western Consolidated territory and into Black Mountain-owned space. That’s all it was supposed to be about, right, knocking the other guys off? Why did people have to die for that? Why did Derik have to live in fear for not killing people?

Someone at Black Mountain must have noticed that he switched out the last computer virus assigned to him. Derik needed to get out of Stone River—to get DJ out. His son deserved a life on a real planet. No kid should have to grow up out here, but DJ did because Derik signed a contract when he was twenty-freaking-two! And at the end of every cycle the company renewed it, forever delaying the promised free ride back to civilization. Derik figured it out too late—his contract would never end. And then came the “promotion.” They promoted him to mandatory murderer. Kill or go to Black Mountain jail.

Derik tried to calm down and think of something helpful to say to his son, but all he could think about was going to jail for not killing people, and DJ would end up in the Unclaimed Youths Ward, or worse. It was one thing if Derik condemned himself to slavery in a corporate prison, but what if he’d done that to DJ? Derik had to stop thinking like that. They wouldn’t arrest DJ. They probably wouldn’t even arrest him, because Black Mountain would never know. He hoped.

Derik told himself he had no evidence his switch had been discovered. He just needed to calm down and keep it together.

Finally, the elevator doors opened, and DJ and Derik walked in silence to SJ-923b. Inside, Derik found the holovision on…again. Reflexively, Derik grumbled, “Really, DJ?”

“I forgot,” DJ replied, with his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Come on, DJ!” Derik threw his bag at the couch. “You’re seventeen for crying out loud. You’re graduating. It’s time to grow up!”

Derik marched over to the HV. The news reported another mining accident for McKenna. His eyes stretched wide as he stared at the hologram of the Cronus Class mining vessel, Derik’s most recent target. The assigned virus would’ve overloaded the antigravity well, destroying the entire mining rig and killing everyone inside it. Derik’s replacement virus caused its legs to let go of the asteroid, letting the vessel float away. He meant to save the miners and free the asteroid, but the news reported they’d lost contact with the miners. Something had gone wrong. What had Derik done? Every part of him shook.

Derik couldn’t deal with this while DJ stood there. He tapped the hovering pause button and turned away from the HV. Again, he tried to say something calm and helpful, but it came out as, “I thought I raised you better than this!”

DJ looked up slowly. His face burned red. “You didn’t raise me. You’re never here. I don’t even know why you bought me.”

The insinuation sank through Derik’s chest like a spear of ice. When donor babies said bought, that word meant, you don’t care about me, I’m an accessory to you, a thing to own, a box to check on the to-do list of life. But DJ wasn’t any of that to Derik. DJ wasn’t even a donor baby.

“DJ, I didn’t. You don’t understand…” Derik urged himself to tell DJ, tell him that he was not an egg bought through a service. He had a real mother, and Derik loved her, but he had no idea where or how or why. “Dammit, DJ, I put my life on the line to take care of you!”

“Whatever, Dad.” DJ stomped off to his room. Before the door closed behind him, Paul’s face appeared over DJ’s wristwatch computer.

Derik dropped onto the couch and pressed the St. Barbara medal against his chest. Other than DJ, it was all he had left of Norma—that and the lie he told their son. Derik swore he’d tell DJ about his mother when he was old enough, but DJ had been old enough for a long time.

At first, it had appeared to be the lesser of two evils—either his biological mom sold him as an egg, nothing unusual out here, or she vanished without explanation, possibly by choice. Which would hurt less? Derik didn’t know anymore. And after Derik's latest mission, DJ might not have his father for much longer, either.

Derik looked at the HV and ordered, “Unpause.”

As the news report of McKenna’s latest accident continued, the holographic image of the mining vessel shrank to make room for anchorman Chandler Kai, who sat in a studio on planet Hestia, lightyears away. “There are unconfirmed reports that a second craft may have been involved. A midsized, multi-use spacecraft, also registered to McKenna Mining, was in the area and may have collided with the mining vessel after it dislodged from its asteroid. Pirates were also reportedly active in the area.”

Another spacecraft? A collision? Instead of saving the miners by not blowing up their rig, he’d killed even more people by accidentally sending them on a collision course.

“McKenna officials released this image of the pirate ship.” A poorly lit, low-resolution blob that may or may not have been a brown or orange ship appeared. “Known to have attacked mining operations in May of 3592, this pirate ship, known as The Smedley Butler, was recorded by a security buoy hours before the mining vessel went silent.”

Kai’s image shrank to make room for his guest as he moved smoothly into the introductions. “Ten years after this same pirate ship was involved in another tragedy, The Smedley Butler remains at large. What is being done about this ship and others like it? Here to discuss the issue, we have the Director of Communications at The Way Home Foundation, Cassandra Mitchell. Ms. Mitchell, in the past your organization has defended these pirates.”

Ms. Mitchell glared at Chandler Kai, but she regained her interview-appropriate poise. “I am not here to defend pirates. I’m here to ask you why you consistently defend the corporations. Your whole story is based on reports from McKenna. Do you have any idea who these ‘pirates’ are? Have you even…”

“Off,” Derik ordered, and the hologram vanished. Derik wiped his face, as if he could wipe away his thoughts and memories. He needed to think about something else.

“Computer.” The holovision created a computer interface of hovering icons that surrounded Derik on the couch. They gave him access to the computers built into his apartment—the HV, his datapad, the walls, the refrigerator, and even the kitchen sink. Reaching in, Derik pulled the myriad of tiny floating images past himself as if he were a giant swimming through a galaxy. Weaving through an intentional maze of folders linked by luminous threads, he eventually reached an old, large file.

The file contained a diary of crime. Derik had started it shortly after his first mission for Agent Coreman. It contained copies of viruses and, whenever possible, orders telling Derik where to plant those viruses. He even had a vaguely congratulatory memo from ISO George Ulsterman for a mission that had killed four miners and injured two executives from Mercury Ore and Refining. Mercury pulled out of Stone River after that, freeing up trillions of credits worth of ore for Black Mountain, and Derik got a memo and another dark mark on his soul.

From his pocket, Derik pulled out a plastic chip, the same size and shape as a standard poker chip. Like a legendary tale, Derik’s diary had grown larger with each retelling, and the chip contained its latest addition. He placed it next to the HV, making the chip’s contents available to the apartment’s computers. Then he needed to decrypt the ancient file and copy the new data in.

From memory, he rewrote a little program that would use DJ’s song, “Lost Helix,” to generate a 183-character encryption key based on the computer’s numeric representation of the song’s core melody. The program would then combine the key with the encrypted diary to create a text file that could be read and updated. The key’s 183-character length was overkill, but it didn’t feel like it to Derik, especially not today.

The song, “Lost Helix,” was about DJ’s allegedly anonymous mother. It was the worst lie Derik had ever told, captured as an instrumental using a classical acoustic guitar sound profile. Derik couldn’t bear to listen to it, but he’d been using it to encrypt his diary ever since DJ wrote it at the age of fourteen.

Reaching over the end of the couch for DJ’s Rigozy Data Strummer, Derik found nothing but air. “Mask,” he ordered, and the holographic computer interface turned fuzzy. Looking over the end of the couch, Derik found an empty stand. “DJ!”

“What?!”

“Where is your Rigozy!”

A pause. Then, “What?!”

“Your guitar! Are you playing it in there?” He waited, but DJ didn’t answer. “DJ!”

“Paul has it.”

“What? Why in the name of…Why?!”

Again, DJ didn’t answer. With his fists balled, Derik stormed over to DJ’s door. How could he explain to DJ the importance of that guitar without explaining why? “Dammit, DJ, do you know how hard it is to get a Rigozy out here?!”

“It’s with Paul!”

The doorbell rang. Derik froze, and his gaze locked onto the door. Black Mountain knew he’d switched the virus. They knew he’d caused that collision. Every part of him shook. He tried to calm down. It didn’t have to be Black Mountain coming for him, he told himself. It could be anyone.

At two in the morning? Yeah right.

In a trance, Derik moved across the living room to the door. He could open it with a word from back there, so why go to the door? Derik bent his neck. He knew why—to surrender. He could already feel the plastic straps cinch around his wrists. There was no fighting it.

“Open.”

The door slid open and before Derik’s downturned eyes was someone wearing grow-shoes. Derik looked up, and there stood Paul with DJ’s Rigozy in his hands, a datapad under his arm, and a stupid grin on his face. “Mornin’, Mr. Fletcher!”

Relieved but also baffled, Derik demanded, “What the hell are you doing out at two in the morning?”

“Oh, just dropping this off on my way home from work,” Paul said as he put the long-necked instrument in Derik’s hands. He then typed something into his school datapad.

From the bedroom, DJ yelled, “Told you so!”

Paul threw a salute and sang, “Have a good one, Mr. Fletcher!” Then off he strolled, as if it were two in the afternoon, not two in the morning.

Derik locked the door and got back to work. He ran “Lost Helix” through the program, generating the encryption key and finally decrypting his diary. With a wave of his hand, he scooped the contents of his plastic chip into the ever-growing file before encrypting it once more. Then he paused. He needed to stop leaving this file in the walls. It was too big, too old. It would start showing up on random network audits.

He moved the file to the chip and picked it up. Between his fingers he held a decade and a half of evidence against his employer. Perhaps he should use it immediately, send it to a lawyer on Hestia, and then offer it and himself to Black Mountain in exchange for a ticket out of here for DJ. Should he do it? Would it work, or would he and DJ end up in prison? Staring at the chip, Derik took a long, unsteady breath, and then he stuck it back in his pocket.

The file’s broad shadow remained in the apartment’s hard drives, and they were recoverable. It wouldn’t be until Monday before an automatic cleaning process completely deleted it. That would have to be soon enough. Derik didn’t want a report of him clearing away a giant, old file showing up in someone’s Information Security Review. That meant he couldn’t leave the song in the walls with that shadow. Nor could he keep it on a chip in his pocket. For security, he had to keep his diary and the decryption key separate. The single copy of the song would remain in DJ’s guitar, at least until Tuesday.

With that done, Derik found the icon for his bank account and opened it. He moved ten percent of his latest paycheck over to a secured trust account and reset the timer that he’d added to the trust account. If Derik was ever unable to reset the timer before it ran out, it would send a message and the money to DJ. It wasn’t enough to get out of Stone River, but close. The rest of Derik’s pay would go back to Black Mountain for rent, food, and anything else he bought from the company store.

Derik glanced at the clock. It read three in the morning. With the weight of the day hanging on him, he felt ready to black out. “Holovision off,” he muttered as he pulled himself off the couch. But the HV stayed on. The holographic head of Agent Coreman hovered above it—an incoming call.

Derik’s whole body clenched. This was it. They knew. They would arrest him.

By phone? Derik asked himself. Don’t be an idiot.

Derik took a long, slow breath and answered it.

2: Full Contact

DJ’s eyes opened to a dark room. On the nightstand, a holographic Ms. October in her miniscule bikini held up a placard that read Saturday, April 5, 3608, 10:08 AM. DJ had kept that clock locked on October for months, ignoring the ladies of the other months. Like the rest of Stone River, it operated on Hestia Standard Time, a twenty-five hour, forty-three minutes, and eleven second cycle. About once a month, the Hestia calendar dropped a day to keep in sync with Earth. But the calendar adjustment proved far easier to handle than all the computers running on twenty-four-hour Earth time, something often griped about by DJ’s dad, Mr. Hochstein, and the rest of IT.