Bypass Gemini

Epilogue

“What’ll it be, T?” asked the cook.

“The usual, Marv, and call me Lex, would you?”

“You look like hell.”

“I’ve been hanging out there for the last couple of weeks.”

“Smells like it.”

Lex had taken his time coming back to Golana. It wasn’t that he wasn’t eager to come back. It is just that spending a month terrified that someone is chasing you had a way of making you hesitant to lead them to places you are fond of. So instead he had been puttering around in his ship, flying in random loops and jukes until the MTE rations Ma had given him ran out. He left his slidepad off, watched his back constantly, and generally lived as though the government, a corporate syndicate, or the mob were after him, mostly because they probably were. Eventually, though, he decided that if they were going to find him, they might as well get it over with. There is only so long that a human being can stand washing with moist towelettes or in the no-tell motels of the cosmos.

A bowl of chili and a bag of corn chips were placed before him, and he shoveled them down with more enthusiasm than any meal he’d eaten in a long time.

“You gonna pay me? Or is this the beginning of a new tab?” Marv asked.

“Here,” he said, tossing the last chip of his advance on the table, “Keep it. You know something, Marv?”

“I know lots of things, T.”

“It is good to be alive,” Lex said, ignoring the quip and the stubborn refusal to adapt to his new nickname, “I’m heading home now, Marv.”

“I don’t see your bike anywhere.”

“I figure I’ll walk. I’m through flying for a few days.”

“Got some messages for you here.”

“Hang onto them. If I come back tomorrow, I’ll worry about them then.”

With that, he headed off for home. It was a long way, over sixty miles. Longer than he could realistically walk, but he spent as much of the time on foot as he could. He flipped the slidepad wireless on and began to sort though the messages he’d been too scared to look at before. Spam and the like were trashed. He had seventeen angry messages from his landlady, but hadn’t gotten one for the last three days. His boss at the livery garage left a sequence of messages in which he fired him and rehired him at least three times. He always was the most requested driver over there. The courier boss wasn’t quite so fickle, and had only gone so far as to warn that he was supposed to request sabbaticals, not just take them. Detective Barsky had left a few more vague warnings, threats that seemed almost quaint in comparison to what he’d been having to deal with.

Karter had sent him a pile of feedback forms to fill out regarding the performance of the various gadgets, a task which he managed to do while riding a mag-lev train until they kicked him off for not having a ticket. Ma had sent him a separate message with contact information. She was new to the idea of casual conversation, it seemed, since she’d included a numbered list of possible topics of discussion for him to choose. Evidently multiple choice was the AI equivalent of small talk. He sorted through the remaining messages, the sort of random debris that accumulates in your inbox that isn’t interesting enough to read but too useful to trash. Lots of things from lots of people. Nothing from Michella.

Next he poured through the news, half expecting to see his face and name plastered all over everything. Instead, he was practically absent. Here and there was a mention of “rumors of a masked stranger” or “an attempted suicide from the VC tower,” but little else. Not even a blurry picture of him wearing his fancy balaclava. There was plenty to read, watch, and hear in reference to his antics, though. William Trent was currently in custody, pending an investigation into his involvement and actions regarding the “Weaponized Wormhole” as the press had taken to calling it. Lex had managed to deliver the stolen file to Michella via a random computer terminal in a library on a planet he’d never been to before and never intended to go again. She’d put it to good use, picking names and places, finding people to interview. She spoke to residents of Operlo and ADC. Her name was everywhere, and her investigative skills told more of the story than the criminal investigation probably would ever have turned up. It had gotten her much praise, and caught the eye of some of the more prestigious journals and broadcast outlets. Police and press alike had asked where she’d gotten her information, but she only ever cited a “trusted source who wisely wishes to remain anonymous.” Finally he’d reached his door.