Here, there are far fewer people, often retired from jobs in the station and wanting to hang out for some weird reason. Otherwise it’s people looking for adventure and trying to get out of Earth and end up stuck. There are kitchens and clinics they can use, and the weather in a station is nominal, so they stick around. Not as many, because they can always get a ride insystem and welfare, but a few.
I saw a couple in an alcove, one sitting on the edge of a dock, and one under a platform in a cubby. Farther ahead, it became a spaceside alley, behind establishments of marginal quality. There were strict loitering laws, but I suspect most of the homeless paid off the inspectors. This was hardly a choice assignment for any government employees. The math was easy.
Between here and there, though, was an unlit and darkened section. It offered visual separation between the businesses and the grunge, though I suspected it wasn’t intentional. I looked and saw where some light rods were missing.
Then I saw the figure walking past an alcove. I recognized the walk before I saw any features. He took a moment longer to react.
He was facing me. Had he been back to me, I’d’ve killed him and been done with it. But he saw me and slipped into a good fighting stance, so I decided some address was in order.
“Hello, Kimbo. How are you doing? You were supposed to be discreet.” I Boosted.
The expression on his face was priceless. He’d known I was still around, but coming face-to-face with me was something else. And, I was always in adequate shape, now back in good shape. He’d aged a bit, too, and hadn’t quite kept up on it. Not fat, but no longer a warrior athlete.
I could see him consider running, and realize he couldn’t turn or back fast enough to avoid me. He almost went for it, then realized that would leave him unguarded for a moment. Each of these was a bare twitch, but I could read them.
He was not a confrontational person. He was a lurker.
Still, he had a good block up, and was slightly younger than me and a little taller. I didn’t want to rush in. If he made a move, I’d take him down, otherwise I’d psych him out and wait for an opening. We had a loading alcove next to us, and he tried to slip into it.
He didn’t panic. He was steady, but I managed to maneuver him into the box and he tried for a feint and a rush. I let him come, twisted around his punch, leapt above the foot sweep easily in the light G, and wrenched.
Then I had a grip on his wrist. This fight was about to be over. I reached out and dislocated his elbow.
I saw his other hand flash back behind him, then come forward. He wasn’t going to dislodge me like that, and I started to twist his damaged arm as he shrieked. My options from there were to strike his rear, force him to his knees and down, break his neck or just shatter his wrist, shoulder and elbow and step back.
Heated pain and wetness splashed over my knuckles. I assumed it was acid, or maybe he had a self-heating vial of something. It was a fast but clumsy reaction on his part, but I wasn’t going to let go.
Except I was. He was twisting free and I couldn’t get a good enough grip. I clenched, but he slipped free. Whatever was over my hand was slick. Hot oil?
Blood. I caught a glimpse of it. Lots of blood. It might be either his or mine, but it wasn’t important right now; he was turning. I followed his hand with mine to keep some semblance of control and shifted to kick his ankles, hopefully shattering one. All I had to do was slow him down.
This kid was fast. He didn’t have a CNS bioplant, and he was almost keeping up with me. I couldn’t have slowed down that much over the years, and he was only a couple of years younger himself. Okay, five. Still, he wasn’t young.
He came back at me with that left hand, and I saw a flash of something dark. Then the nerves in my arm stopped sending signals. Then they sent lots of signals. Pain, heat, cold, electricity. Massive trauma has a sameness to it, though every particular type has its own subtle spice. But I’d been injured and he was disengaging like a pro. I threw a foot out as a trip or strike, and he kicked me, making me yelp and causing my calf to seize up with cramps. Shit, that hurt. Then he was running as I tried to limp upright. I forced through the pain ripping through my ankle and right arm and pumped my legs after him.
There was too much blood. As we clattered along a depressing gray corridor, it all coalesced. He’d opened me up with a korambit. It’s an old Filipino and Indonesian weapon, consisting of a ring for the finger, a short grip and a double-edged sickle blade. It cuts coming and going. And it’s even under the eight centimeters legal limit for personal possession here. He’d sliced it across my knuckles, which was how he could get free—I had no tendons there anymore. Then he’d ringed my forearm just below the elbow, severing veins, muscles, tendons and nerves. Three quick cuts and that was that. Two outside curves, one inside, and Ken Chinran is crippled and leaking like a hydraulic press with ruptured seals.