That One Job With the Kid

This is a prequel piece to That One Job In Beijing, which you can read here.  Enjoy!

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The One Job With the Kid

Dayna Doskocil

I pressed my hand against the kid’s mouth, half a centimeter under his nose. I didn’t want the kid to die, I just needed him to shut up for half a fucking second so I could think. This was a cluster fuck if I’ve ever seen one, and I’ve been in plenty of cluster fucks in my day. My mind briefly wondered to Paris, three or four years ago now, but I firmly pushed it away. I needed to stay focused. Stay sharp. Because I was good, one of the damn best in the biz, but I knew this kid was going to be a problem.

How in the hell the little shit got past security was beyond me? Maybe they just let him waltz through because he was only a kid. And the little shit was smart enough to get through the access door into the back area, the Imps only area. But his plan seemed to falter there. The kid was pretty lucky that I’d already been there, lifting the flute.

The kid stumbled and groaned next to me, his foot wavering from the burn mark. He’d stepped off the path. Probably because he didn’t know about the path. Most people didn’t. I wasn’t most people. I knew about the paths the Imps set up in their special storerooms. It was my talent, my gift if you will. Maybe a bit like a superpower, although no one really thought about superheros anymore. It was really a shame because right now I felt a little like Daredevil – blind, in the dark, having to rely on my other senses to get the hell out of this room, fighting against the man… in a sense. If you could call Imps men.

I did cheat a little. Daredevil never had a vibrosuit. The fabric clung to my body, special cells picking up the smallest vibration in the room, the slightest breeze, a hint of a temperature change. It was how I found the kid in the first place.

That and his scream when he stepped across the first tile on his way to his prize.

“I swear on my mother’s grave, if you get me caught, kid, I will leave you for the Imps,” I hissed in the kid’s ear. He stopped his moaning and made an attempt to walk in a straight line. I used my leg to guide him, shifting his damaged foot three centimeters to the right. The exact placement was important. I paused for a moment as our feet came to rest in the correct square of floor. I pictured the room in my mind: the main entrance two meters north, the display I’d just lifted the flute from was eight meters to the west, the vent I’d entered from three meters southwest from the display. It was why I picked that vent in the first place. But it was a long way to travel with a wounded child. I’d need another exit. The front entrance was closest, but it was suicide to take that one. There would be Imps out there and both me and the kid would be humped if I ventured there.

I was a little surprised that we hadn’t been caught already. The kid’s first screams had been loud. Really loud. Planet-blowing-up-force-disturbing type of loud. Either the Imps on guard duty were out at the moment or this room had better soundproofing than I thought.

Or the Imps were on their way right now.

I could ditch the kid, of course. Leave him and let the Imps arrest him. He’d be shipped off planet to one of the asteroid mines for a few years, certainly no more than 10 years. He’d come out a young man still, his life ahead of him. If I got caught… A shiver traveled up my spine. The Imps weren’t as forgiving toward humans who took their fancy toys. And I’d taken my fair share of their fancy toys. There would be no asteroid mine for me.

I couldn’t just leave the kid, though. Wasn’t in my nature to leave a kid, no matter how he might fuck everything up for me, at the mercy of the Imps. No one deserved that. That left one option. I hated this part.

“I need both my hands,” I hissed in his ear, my hand still tightly clamped over his mouth. “If you make a sound, I’ll leave you here.” He didn’t move. “I need some physical confirmation that you understand, kid.”

The slightest of nods answered my question. Slowly, I removed my hand. The kid, to his credit, didn’t move, didn’t make a sound except for the slightest hike in his breathing. The kid was scared to death. Good. That would make this a little easier.

“I have to move over there,” I pointed but quickly realized the futility of the gesture. He couldn’t fucking see in the dark. What was this kid doing in here anyway? If he was here to lift something, he sure was doing a piss poor job of it.

A small hand groped in the darkness until it found my leg. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

Well, isn’t that just heart melting pathetic? I peeled his hand from my suit. “If you want to get out of here, you’ll stay right here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

“Please don’t leave me,” he whispered again. I could feel the moisture on his face through the enhanced abilities of the vibrosuit. “I don’t want to go to the mines. Please.”

Shit. I wasn’t really going to leave the kid anyway. “Yeah yeah,” I whispered back. “I’ll be right back, but you stay right there.” His hand snaked out again. Damn it. I was never going to get us out of here if he didn’t let me go.

I dug into my pouch and found an ancient card that my grandfather gave me when I was a boy. It had a faded picture of Han Solo on it. I didn’t believe in good luck charms. I believed in skill and practice and patience. But it reminded me of my grandfather so I carried it with me.

I pressed it into his hands. “This is my good luck charm, “ I lied. “As long as you have that, I’ll come back for you. Ok?” He clutched the card and nodded, his hand leaving my pants. I straightened, tilted my head to get my place and took off to the south.

Three small steps, one large step, right, right, right, left. The pattern was etched into my mind and I followed, always staying within the path until I was under the vent in the center of the room. It was 50 meters up, which is why I never used the central vent. Too high, too much rope needed, too high a chance of falling, too high a chance of getting caught. Nope, side vents were the best. But, when the only other option is getting caught, you take the least desirable alternative.

The tensile I always carry with me only has enough strength to carry me. But I could drop it back down and get the kid. If we moved quickly, maybe we could both-

A sharp vibration rippled through the air towards the front of the storeroom. I spun, swore. The Imps were on their way. That was the vibration of a door sounding somewhere close by, maybe the lobby door for the storerooms. They’d be here soon.

Shit, fuck, damn, fuck.

On to alternative plan D.

I ran as fast as I could back to the kid, who stood stock still, still clutching my Han Solo card. I cringed a little at the damage he must be doing to it.

“Okay, kid,” I hissed as I took my card back from him. He jumped a little and clutched at my leg. I pushed him away. “We’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to carry you.” Without waiting for an answer, I picked the kid up and swung him on to my back, desperately glancing around for a way out.

There wasn’t- Holy fucking shit, I’m such a dumbass!

“Kid,” I hissed, “I have a way to get us out of here, but you have to do exactly what I say. Can you do that?” A nod.

Ok. This would work. “Count to 120. Then start crying. This is really important. I need you to do this or you’re going to the mines.” The kid starting tearing up.

“Not yet,” I hissed. “Count to 120.” Then I took off, praying to…well, hoping that the kid wasn’t as stupid as I had first thought. I made it to my entrance point, crawled through the vent and retrieved my bag from the ventilation shaft.

“50, 51, 52,” I counted silently as I rummaged through the pack, plucking out street clothes and stashing the flute in the secret pocket sewn in just for jobs.

“73, 74, 75” I didn’t bother removing the vibrosuit. It took too long and my clothes would cover it. The last part was street shoes and a ball cap. I walked out of the closet without looking, a little risky but the clock was ticking.

“102, 103, 104.”

I ran down the hall, working up a sweat before I can across the first Imp.

“Oh thank God,” I cried out, trying to put as much fear in my voice as I could. “I can’t find my son. He was standing right next to me one minute and then he was gone. We’re here for a school assignment. He was supposed to stay with me.”

The Imp put its hand up, the claws at the tip reflecting in the florescent hall light. “One moment,” it said, its voice like a fingernail rubbing against a microphone. It moved its head to the side, the large black shields over its eyes glinting and the white of its breather reflecting the light from above. It nodded.

“We may have found him. Follow me.” Their gait was awkward, their backward knees making their stride smaller than expected for their size. I followed, trying not the mimic the way it walked, a gait I have practice for hours and hours in order to follow the paths in the storerooms.

It led me to the storeroom lobby, where the kid was standing, his arms wrapped around him as an Imp knelt besides him examining his foot.

“Christian!” I yelled as I ran to him, pulling him into a hug, hoping like hell the kid got what was going on.

“Dad!” He yelled back. I smirked. The kid wasn’t as stupid as I first thought. I put him on the floor and turned to the Imp.

“Thank you so much. I was worried sick about him.” I turned to the kid. “Don’t you ever wonder off again. I was so worried about you.”

The kid turned him face down, his hands winding in the fabric of his shirt. “I was just looking for the bathroom.” The Imp next to him stood.

“His foot will be fine. Please be mindful of the signs next time. You will be escorted out of the museum.”

“Of course, of course,” I agreed eagerly. An Imp escort out of the place I’d just robbed. Now that was a first.

The one who helped me, I think – all the damn Imps look alike – walked us through the halls and out of the main entrance. I carried the kid until we were around the corner from the joint before I set him on the ground.

“All right, now scat. You almost cost me the job. Be glad I didn’t leave you there.” I said before turning and heading the other way. I had a drop to make.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” the kid called after me. “I was breaking in there to prove I could do it for Mr. Kelp.”

I paused. “Mr. Kelp?’

“Yeah, he’s gonna let me be part of his gang. He said I needed to break into that place to show him I was worthy.” The kid puffed his chest out.

“Didn’t do that great of a job,” I remarked as I turned. The kid deflated, his head hung.

“Mr. Kelp said I had to.”

I sighed. I knew Kelp. He ran a gang of trouble makers and common thieves. Most of his boys were on the asteroids or dead by the time they were 15. This kid couldn’t have been more than 10.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Hey, kid, know anything about Batman?’

“Who?” Kids these fucking days. No one knew any history.

“Batman. He was this crime fighting guy. Had a sidekick named Robin who helped him out.” A tiny light flared to life behind the kid’s eyes.

“A sidekick.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, yet. You’re barely apprentice worthy.” I sighed again. “Kelp will just get you killed, kid. If you want to learn the trade-“

“You’ll teach me!” The kid jumped up and down. “You’ll really teach me?”

“You have to do exactly what I say. We’ve got to teach you some brains. Can’t just break into an Imp storeroom without some plan.”

“I promise. Whatever you say.”

I sighed again. “All right. Come on. What’s your name?”

“Zek.”

That One Job in Beijing

I shouldn’t have taken the job.  I released this now.  It was crystal clean in my mind as I crouched 50 feet up, perched against the ceiling like Spiderman.  If Spiderman was a middle-aged balding man, well past his prime.  I’d felt it when they came to me with the job.  And I would have said no if anyone else has asked.  But Zek had asked.  Zek, my apprentice, my protégé, hell, practically my son.  Zek had come to me and begged.

“Please, man, we can’t do this without you.  You’re the only one with the skill to pull this off.  Just this last job then we’ll leave you alone to your retirement in peace.”

So I’d come out of retirement.  To help pull a job only I could pull.  Which was true, if I was 20 years younger and 40 pounds lighter.  Fuck, I should have said no.  I should have turned them away, told them to find someone else.  But I knew the truth: there was no one else who could help them.

I could have trained them on the use of the technique, but it would have been too late by then. The window would have closed and the job gone.  And Zek, the young man had explained, needed this job.  He’d gotten into something bad, Goddamn it.  The kid was gifted in the craft but stupid in matters of business.  Besides, teaching the technique wasn’t easy and if I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure Zek was ready for it.  I’d teach the young man when he was ready, of course, but now wasn’t that time.

So I’d taken the job, against my best judgment, and now I wasn’t sure I could finish it.  There was a reason I’d gone into retirement ten years ago; muscles were weaker and not as flexible, joints were stiffer.  I could feel my age every morning when I got out of bed.

Fuck, bed sounded nice.  I was too old for this crap.

Beneath me, an Imp continued on its stroll.  Not everyone called them that, of course.  Officially, they were called Sopterans.  They came to Earth before I was born, leveled a couple of cities, and took over the neighborhood.  Generally, after the sacking and raiding of prominent cities, and according to the history books I’d read in grade school, the Sopterans were peaceful.  They gave humans technology and longevity.  They had colonies on the moon, Mars, Titan, and a few of Jupiter and Saturn’s other moons where humans and Sopterans worked side-by-side.

Almost side-by-side, anyway.  The Sopterans kept the best things for themselves, naturally.

But that wasn’t why I called them Imps.  I called them Imps because they reminded me of Imperial soldiers from the ancient Star Wars movies that my grandfather loved so much.  We’d spent hours watching those films when I was a boy.  And the Sopterans, they dressed just like the Imperial Stormtroopers did in those old movies.

So I went into the business, calling the Sopterans Imps and thought of myself as some Han Solo hero working against the man.

But that was a long time ago.  And here I was, perched 50 feet above the floor, a floor that would burn me to a crisp if I didn’t step exactly where the Imp stepped, snagging some Imp trinket so that my adoptive son didn’t end up buried up to his ears in fire ant infested territories.

The things I’d do for love.

I shook my head, clearing it of nostalgia and worry and focused on the task at hand.  I moved my gaze back to the Imp, not really watching the Imp, but focusing on his path.  I burned it into my memory, tracing it over and over again in my mind’s eye.  Each step had to be precise; each placement of the toe and heel exact.  The Imp’s had some way to sense it, some extra sense that allowed them to walk the path without fear.  It’s how they kept humans from entering places they didn’t want humans to enter.

But I, I figured it out.  That was my talent, my technique as the kids called it.  The Imp left the room, continuing his rounds in the rest of the collection.  I climbed down from my perch, every joint aching with the effort, my muscles straining.  Carefully, ever so carefully, I stepped down on to the floor, matching my footfalls exactly to where the Imp has stepped.  Any deviation would kill me.

My calves were killing me after being perched against the ceiling for so long.  I wavered, almost tripped.  Arms waving, I fought back, pulling my center of mass back toward the correct path.   A step, almost outside the path.  I could feel the heat of the tiles, but I stepped true.

Almost there.  Another five steps then I would complete this crazy mission and be back in the mountains of Colorado, my feet up on my coffee table, a fire in my stone fireplace, my favorite cat in my lab and my dog on the carpet basking in the warmth.  Four more steps.  Three.  Two.

I lifted the glass case.  There were no alarms here.  Imps didn’t steal from each other.  It just wasn’t done.  But they learned quickly that humans did.  Thus the deadly floors.  But for some reason they never installed alarms.

I grabbed the device, some laser gun thing that would probably fetch a tidy sum on the black market.  I tucked it a pouch I’d had made especially for these types of jobs and turned.  And froze.  There were footfalls in the other room, coming my way.

Shit.  Twenty years ago, hell ten years ago, I would have ran for it.  I could have retraced my steps exactly from memory and been up the wall before the Imp was anywhere near the room.  But now… Shit.  I was too old, too slow, and my memory was not what it used to be.  I needed to retrace my steps slowly, wasn’t quite as sure as I would have been as a young man.

The footsteps were nearer now.

I had two options: risk it and run for it or hide and pray to – well fuck, I wasn’t sure who to pray to because I didn’t believe in anything other than myself.  Guess that really left only one option.

I darted from the case and sprinted, and calling it sprinting was being very generous, across the floor.  The side of my left foot stepped over the invisible line.  Shooting pain laced up my leg, but I forced myself to ignore it for the moment.  To be caught was certain death.  The Imps did not take kindly to their things being stolen by humans.

I leapt at the wall, the leap hardly taking me three feet off the ground.  But the material of my gloves, designed from studying gecko feet, allowed me to hold against the surface and I started to climb.  It was difficult, the burn on my left foot melted the fabric into my flesh and it wouldn’t hold.  Plus the pain.  Jesus Christ, the pain almost made me black out.  But if I blacked out, they would find me.  And if they found me, they would certainly kill me.  And if they killed me, well, Zek would have a plot next mine shortly.

Fuck, the things I did for love.  When this was over, I would have a serious fucking talk with that kid about picking his jobs better.

The strange flashlights, more blue and indigo than white, swept into the room in front of the Imp.  I was almost at the ceiling.  If I could wedge myself between the ceiling and the wall, Spiderman-like again, I had a chance.  The stupid Imps never had understood the concept of the old square buildings.  Everything new they built was round, no corners to hide in.  It’s like they didn’t think corners existed.

Made it just as the Imp’s head came into view, the weird light of the room gleaming off the white helmet and black eye slits.

We noticed at the same time.  I hadn’t put the glass case back.  Shit.  Fuck.  Damn.  If I’d put it back, they might not have noticed anything was missing for at least a few hours.  More than enough time for me to sneak back out and be on my way home.

Shit. Fuck. Damn.  I was too old for this crap.  That was a rookie mistake.  I would have boxed Zek’s ears if the kid did something that stupid.

The Imps make this noise.  Oh, they speak English well enough.  Really, they could learn any language and speak it pretty well.  I once met an Imp would spoke 14 different Earth languages (the Imp’s phrase, not mine) plus a dozen or more galactic languages as well.  But their own language was… I’m never sure how to describe it.  Some mix of a dog’s bark, a jet engine, and the sound a quick little fart makes.  And then there was this noise they made.  Not painful, exactly, but damn odd.  Crunching and clacking and licking all rolled into one.

I knew I was boned if I didn’t move fast.  Corners or no, they would find me soon enough.  The vent I used to get in their warehouse was at my eye level.  I just needed to readjust my hand.  Flip my body so it faced the wall.  Shit, needed to do something about that foot.  It slipped and I lost a little purchase, sliding down an inch or two, but my hands were at the vent and it was – correction, it was not easy pulling my ass into the vent.

Goddamn that little bastard.  I was definitely having a talk with Zek when we returned to my cabin.  And maybe I should really think about losing a few extra pounds.

My backpack lay where I left it in the vent.  Sweeting, panting, I pushed it in front of me and crawled back through the tunnel to the maintenance shaft I’d entered through only thirty minutes ago, hoping like hell that the Imps hadn’t called out the Sniffers yet.

Only people in the business called them Sniffers.  Everyone else called them Trackers.  They were giant jackal-looking creatures only, they weren’t jackals.  Their joints were backwards, their noses too big, their eyes too big, their ears too big.  Genetically modified specifically to hunt humans.  And once they were on your scent, you were damned.  Very little could remove them from your trail.

Luckily, there was something that could fool them.  And I never left home without it.

I shoved the backpack through the opening and squirmed my way through.  I ripped the zipper down with one hand and unbuckled my special pouch with the other.  In went the pouch, followed quickly by the gloves and one booty.  The other, well, I’d deal with the other later.  For now, I pulled a small canister out of the bag and sprayed the contents on my damaged foot.  The foam cooled, formed, and solidified all in under ten seconds.  It also, yep, the painkillers were kicking in.  I could walk on it almost normally.  I exchanged the canister for a ball cap, a ratty plan red shirt (the Imps had trouble seeing red), and an old pair of jeans that easily slide over the skintight black burglar outfit I wore.  Old tennis shoes completed the outfit, making me look like any other tourist.  Last, I pulled out a large spray bottle and doused myself and my bag with the contents.

The Sniffers wouldn’t find me.

I opened the door a crack and glanced into the dim hallway.  No Imps or other personnel.  The door shut softly behind me.  I walked as calmly and normally as possible, but my foot still hurt despite the painkillers and I knew if someone spotted me now, I wasn’t sure I could talk my way out of it.

But no one came into the maintenance hallway.

I stopped at the end of hall and listened at the door.  Controlled panic on the other side.  Messages to stay calm rang out in a dozen languages.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then pulled the door back just enough for me to peak out.  People where being lead toward the exit.  All bags were being searched by Sniffers.

Shit.

But no Imps where by my door and this was the only way out.  I closed the door again, doused the contents of my bag and myself with the liquid in my spray bottle once more for good measure and squeezed out of the maintenance hall and into the flow of pedestrian traffic.

Just another tourist come to visit the Sopteran Government mansion on Earth.  I walked with the crowd toward the Imps with their Sniffers, trying to keep my breathing under control.  Sweat dribbled down the back of my balding head and pooled at the collar of my shirt.  I didn’t dare wipe it off.

I’d been in worse situations, of course.  Twelve years ago, or was it thirteen?, I’d almost been caught by the Imps.  There was a daring chase through Paris, always Paris.  Back alleys and kitchens and hiding in the dark parks.  I was a younger man back then.  There was no way I was running through the streets of Beijing at my age.

My turn.  The Imps, polite as ever, asked/demanded that I open my bag.  One Sniffer, uglier up close than I remembered, stuck its bobble-head-sized nose into the backpack and took a long wiff.  A second ran its snout up and down my body, taking huge gulps of my scent.

I didn’t tense.  I swear on my mother’s grave that I didn’t tense.  The Sniffer in my bag lifted its ugly head and turned to the next guest.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” one of the Imp handlers said in its almost metallic English.  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.  To think, in my younger days, I would have made small talk with the Imp.  Fuck, I used to be a ballsy idiot.

Down the steps and down the block.  The painkillers were wearing off and every step lit a tiny fire over my arch.  But I did not run.  I did not look over my shoulder.

Three blocks straight and four blocks to the right and I was limping pretty badly.

A car pulled up next to me, a kid with bright blue hair was driving and a girl with a shaved head and hologram tattoos was in the passenger seat.  The back door opened as the car back to a stop.  I hoped in and they pulled away from the curb.

“Fuck,” a young man with cybernetic eyes breathed.  He leaned back in the seat.  “Fuck.  I thought you were humped.”  Lingo from an older age.  I smiled as I pulled the sneakers from my wounded foot.  I really enjoyed the hell out of all that retro crap.

“Shit,” the girl exclaimed.  “What the fuck happened?”

“I’m old,” I replied, suddenly tired.  “Not as nimble as I used to be.  It’ll be fine once a doc looks at it.”

“Sure man, where’s a hospital?” the driver asked.  I almost snacked him.  Zek got there first.

“You stupid or something?  Can’t do it here.  Once we’re back in Greater California.  We know a guy in Colorado.”  The kid did know his shit, even if he didn’t know what jobs to take.

“But seriously.  When I saw the Sniffers, I thought you were humped.  How the fuck did you get away from them?”

“Kid,” I ask as I leaned back in the seat, “I haven’t taught you everything yet.  Listen, did I ever tell you about this one job in Paris?”

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