Re-Coil - J.T. Nicholas Page 0,16

wear away at even the most stable person’s patience and sanity. But those crimes tended to be crimes of passion—expressions of rage or lunacy that resulted in death… for a time. Planned murder simply wasn’t as effective as it once was, with most victims making a return. Death might not have been permanent, but the deep mental conditioning that most habitats imposed upon those convicted of murder most certainly was. And if he had been successful… well, my premiums were still paid. Even if the killer popped my core, the med staff would have stuffed me back into a new coil from backup, just as they had in the first place. They would have had to wait for a new coil to be available, so I could end up archived for a few more weeks. It seemed like a lot of effort to take me out of play for a while.

Assuming, that was, that whatever “systems glitch” they had encountered was fixed. That thought sent a chill coursing down my spine.

Given the circumstances, I needed to get my new ass off Prospect and back to Daedalus, where my residency status would protect me from prosecution from another habitat. Each independent habitat was a country unto itself and only the most heinous of criminals had to worry about the idea of extradition. I continued to slip through the press of humanity, moving without purpose or direction. I kept my eyes open, checking for any signs of pursuit, and I kept pinging the local Net, scanning the news as I walked, looking for any mention of a dead man found in a hospital room. So far, the failed assassin appeared to have gone unnoticed.

Sarah, what’s the status of my accounts?

Your current free balance is five thousand three hundred and twenty-seven credits, after meeting the deductible for the backup and re-coil.

I winced at that. Whatever the other me had been doing, he hadn’t been earning much in the way of creds. Find me a shuttle out of here, preferably to Daedalus, but anywhere that can connect to Daedalus within the constraints of my credit limit will work, too.

Understood, Langston. Processing.

Shuttles required vacc suits, and my backup insurance didn’t have any lost property coverage. Most months, I could barely scrape the credits together for the base package, never mind the additional riders that those better off could afford. Which meant that my already paltry funds were about to take another hit. I started scanning the market in earnest, not just for signs of possible pursuit by station security, but also for suit vendors. Every hab had them in abundance, since no matter how good the safety features got, it was impossible to forget that you were basically living in a giant tin can floating in the vacuum of space with a few inches of composites separating you from sudden decompression.

It didn’t take long to find what I sought. A stall cobbled together from scrap metal and plastic sheeting bearing a table covered with an array of cheap suits. More expensive models hung behind the table, neatly displayed and Net-loaded to pop up their specifications if my eyes lingered too long on any of them. Given my credit situation, the best vacc suits the stall had to offer were well beyond my price range. I started rummaging around through the ones on the table, Net-linking with them to run basic diagnostics, making sure suit integrity still held. Most were cheap fabricated knock-offs of the big conglomerates, serviceable enough to get you through an emergency situation, but not the kind of thing you’d want to trust to regular EVA work.

Toward the bottom of the pile, though, I found an old VaccTech 2200. The space-black fabric had faded some, and the suit was slightly bulkier than the newer models scattered around it, but it boasted several integrated tiedown points and a higher tear rating than even some of its modern competitors. I almost held my breath as Sarah ran the diagnostics, but the suit checked out green. Its internal oxygen supply was even charged.

“You like that one, yes?” the man behind the counter asked. He had vaguely Anglo-Chinese features with a broad, shark-like smile that drew his eyes into narrow lines. “It is a good choice. Old, but well cared for. Like us, eh?” he said with a significant glance at the hospital-issued clothing I wore.

The specifications on the Net tag didn’t include a price. “How much?”

“For you? I can let it go for five hundred credits.”

Nearly