After a minute, Svoboda opened the door. He wore full-body pajamas, because apparently he had just traveled to the moon from 1954. He looked at me through bleary eyes. “Jazz?”
“I need—” My throat closed. I almost fell prey to hysterical crying. Get your shit together! “I need to sleep. Svoboda, oh God I need to sleep.”
He opened the door farther. “Come in, come in.”
I trudged past him. “I’m. I need. I’m so tired, Svoboda. I’m just so tired.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” He rubbed his eyes. “Take the bed. I’ll set up some blankets on the floor for myself.”
“No, no.” My eyes had already closed of their own accord. “Floor’s fine for me.”
My knees buckled and I collapsed. The moon is a nice place to pass out. You hit the ground very gently.
I felt Svoboda’s arms pick me up. Then I felt the bed, still warm from his body. Blankets covered me and I nuzzled into the cocoon of safety. I fell asleep instantly.
—
I awoke to that few seconds of pleasant amnesia everyone gets in the morning. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.
I remembered the previous night’s antics and winced. God. It’s one thing to be a pathetic weakling, but it’s another to do it in front of someone.
I stretched out in Svoboda’s bed and yawned. It wasn’t the first time I’d awakened in some guy’s place worn out and full of regret. But I’ll tell you what, it was the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time.
Svoboda was nowhere to be seen. A pillow and blanket on the floor showed he was quite the gentleman. It was his bed—I should have been the one on the floor. Or we could have shared.
My boots stood neatly together next to the nightstand. Apparently he’d taken them off while I slept. Other than that, I was fully clothed. Not the best way to sleep, but better than having someone undress my unconscious body in the night.
I pulled my Gizmo from my pocket to check the time.
“Holy shit!” It was well into the afternoon. I’d slept for fourteen hours.
The nightstand next to me had three Gunk bars in a neat stack with a note on top: Jazz—Breakfast for you. There’s juice in the fridge.—Svoboda.
I noshed on a Gunk bar and opened his mini-fridge. I had no idea what the juice was, but I went ahead and drank it. Turns out it was reconstituted carrot-apple juice. It tasted like shit. Who the hell puts those things together? Ukrainians, apparently.
I pondered ways to pay him back. A really nice meal? A cool piece of lab equipment? Have sex with him? Just kidding on that last one, of course. I snickered at the thought. Then I stopped snickering but hung on to the thought.
Whoa. I needed to finish waking up.
I took a nice long shower and reminded myself what I was really working toward: a shower of my own. It’s damned pleasant to walk three meters and be in a private shower. Damned pleasant.
I didn’t want to wear my grungy, slept-in clothes so I raided Svoboda’s closet. I found a suitable T-shirt and threw it on over my underwear (sadly, Svoboda had no women’s undergarments in his closet. I would have had some questions for him if he had). The shirt hung on me like a short dress—Svoboda’s considerably taller than I am.
Okay. I was rested, clean, and had a clear head. Time to settle down and do some serious thinking. How would I get out of this? I sat at the desk and plugged in my Gizmo. The desk’s built-in monitor rose from its cubby and showed my desktop icons. I cracked my knuckles and extended the keyboard tray.
Over the next few hours, I sipped carrot-apple juice (it grows on you) and researched Sanchez Aluminum. Their operations, leadership, revenue estimates, you name it. Since they were a private company (owned by “Santiago Holdings, Inc.” which I assumed was Brazilian for “O Palácio”), there wasn’t much publicly available information.
I looked up Loretta Sanchez and found a paper she’d written about her refinements to high-temperature smelting. I had to take a break to learn some basic chemistry, but I found all that online pretty easily. Once I understood it, I had to admit: She really was a genius. She’d revolutionized the whole system and made it practical for use on the moon.
I’d still beat her ass if I met her. Don’t get me wrong.
I must have been at it for a couple of hours because Svoboda finally came home from work.
“Oh, hey,” he said. “How are you feeling—uh…uh…”
I tore my attention away from the monitor to see what had caused his mental reboot. He was just kind of staring at me. I looked down. I was still wearing just the shirt I’d liberated from his closet. I was pretty sexy, I have to admit.
“Hope you don’t mind.” I gestured to the shirt.
“N-no,” he said. “No problem. It looks good. I mean, it hangs well. I mean, how your chest makes it, um…”
I watched him flounder for a second. “When all this is over, if I’m still alive, I’m going to give you woman lessons.”
“Whu—huh?”
“You just…you really need to learn about women and how to interact with them, all right?”
“Oh,” he said. “That could be really helpful, yeah.”
He took off his lab coat and hung it on the wall. Why did he wear his lab coat home instead of leaving it at the lab? Because men like fashion accessories too. They just don’t admit it.
“Looks like you slept well,” he said. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking into Sanchez Aluminum,” I said. “I have to figure out a way to shut them down. That’s my only hope of survival at this point.”
He sat on the bed behind me. “Are you sure you want to screw with them?”
“What are they going to do? Kill me harder? They’re already after me.”
He looked at the screen. “Ooh. Is that their smelting process?”
“Yeah. It’s called the FFC Cambridge Process.”
He perked up. “Oh, that sounds cool!”
Of course it did. Svoboda’s just that kind of guy. He leaned in to get a better look at the screen. It showed the chemistry at each step of the smelting process. “I’ve heard of the process but I never learned the details.”
“They’re guarding the harvester now,” I said. “So I’ll have to go after the smelter itself.”
“You got a plan?” he asked.
“Yeah. The start of one,” I said. “But it means I have to do something I hate.”
“Oh?”
“I have to get help.”
He held out his arms. “Well, you got me. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, buddy, I’ll take you up on that.”
“Don’t call me buddy,” he grumbled.
I hesitated. “Okay, I…won’t call you buddy. Why not?”
“Man lessons,” he said. “Someday I’ll give you man lessons.”
—
I rang the doorbell for the fourth time. She was in there; she just didn’t want to answer.
The main entrance to the Landvik Estate stood littered with flowers from well-wishers and mourners. Most of the flowers were synthetic, but a few wilting bouquets revealed how truly wealthy some of Trond’s friends were.
I never thought I’d miss the sight of Irina’s scowling face, but a sadness overwhelmed me when I realized she wouldn’t be the one opening the door.
Then again, maybe no one would answer at all.
I rapped the door with my knuckles. “Lene! It’s Jazz! I know this isn’t a great time, but we need to talk.”
I waited a bit longer. I was about to give up when the door clicked open. That was as much invitation as I was going to get.
I stepped over the consolation bouquets and through the door.
The once brightly lit foyer stood dark. Only the dim light from the sitting room filtered in to give any illumination at all.
Someone had drawn a dozen or more circles on one wall—where the blood spatter used to be. The actual blood was gone, presumably cleaned by a professional service after Rudy and Doc Roussel were done with the scene.