Juiced

JUICED

  Patrick M. Boucher

  Copyright 2012 Patrick M. Boucher

  ~~~

  What a shitty place, Perry thought. A perfect end to a shitty week.

  He debated whether to stand within one of the weak pools of trembling industrial light or to hide in the intermediate shadows. The light provided a needed — but false — sense of security. It just put him in an unwelcome spotlight, attracting the attention of occasional pimps and muggers who sauntered by. Besides, the incessant buzz was damned annoying and he needed to hear clearly.

  He patted the chest pocket of his ratty coat before pumping the warmth of his foggy breath onto hands already rendered stiff by the cold. The envelope was still there, of course, and Perry chastised himself for checking yet again. ’Gangers surely spied his every action from the grimy warehouse windows, noticing. Then he tapped it again, but as briefly and inconspicuously as he could. Jesus, just relax, Perry.

  People passed too infrequently along the corridors defined by the endless rows of identical bunkers, but he still cringed every time one approached — whores giggling their taunting flirtations, thugs evaluating his carefully posed attitude, hoodlums openly brandishing knives. They judged him, gauging his apparent lack of any weapons, deciding they feared what he hid more than what they saw before moving on. His instincts repeatedly told him to sink deeper into the shadows whenever he saw one ambling in his direction, the sensation stronger when they came in pairs or occasional trios. But Jake could be any one of them.

  Once more he touched his pocket, without realizing. Fuck, already ten minutes late. He feared he’d been set up. But Ari had warned him to expect Jake to be late. “He’ll be watching from somewhere, making sure he’s not the one being set up. Count on it. You won’t see him until he’s sure you’re alone, no heat lurking in the wings.”

  A stone skittered across the street in front of him.

  Perry looked up and down — not a soul to be seen. As he craned up the street, confirming the distant mannequin shape was nothing more than the blown-out remains of a former streetlight — probably a scanner site — another stone caromed off the curb behind him.

  Who’s there?! He wanted to speak, to ask the question aloud. All he needed was for some other chrongang to decide to toy with him.

  Gathering his courage — or at least the desperation that now passed for it — he held his arms out wide, timidly far from the precious package in his breast pocket. Intended as a display of disarmament, Perry’s outstretched arms gave him a messianic appearance. Christ. Sweet Christ, don’t let them shoot me in the chest. That’s not the way I want to join Dorrie and Luke. Fuck, this was stupid.

  “Ye gots the time, buddy?” The question came from behind, a deep voice that sounded like it belonged to a large man, with a ’ganger’s distinctive clipped accent. Perry’s mind filled with images of him holding a gun trained on his back — or worse. Surely he was armed. Ari said to assume he’d be armed. Perry had to come without so much as a sharpened paperclip, but had to expect Jake to be packing whatever he wanted.

  He stammered the required response, swallowing the urge to turn around — Ari said to be sure not to turn around. “No,” he quavered. “No, I don’t. Do you have the time?”

  “I jus’ mebbe might. Turn around.”

  Moving slowly, Perry kept his arms outstretched. With a shaved head and even larger than Perry imagined, the man wore the typical black, sashed with the color of his chrongang across the left shoulder — red, the color Ari said Jake would be wearing. Thank God for small favors. His scarred face exuded implicit threats even as he smiled, the self-satisfied grin of a predator having cornered its prey. The opaque glasses looked ominously out of place in the night, reflecting the pale glow of a city that no longer fully darkened.

  “Jake?” Perry asked cautiously.

  “Ari said ye be lookin’ fer some ’juice,” the man answered. “How much ye need?”

  Perry wanted to tap his breast pocket, just to be sure his life savings were still there. But he didn’t dare move his hands, not until the chronganger said okay. He saw no weapons. But Ari warned he’d have them — and that his chrongang would be hidden all around, nervous eyes and itchy fingers readied on the triggers of weapons Perry had only read about. The restless way Jake’s eyes constantly scanned confirmed everything Ari warned him about. “They won’t be worried so much about you,” Ari had promised, not that it provided any comfort. “If other chrongangs learn what went down, they’ll be looking for a way to pop back safely before you hand over the cash.”

  “A month,” Perry said. “At least three weeks for sure.” He’d received Dorrie’s note almost a week ago, so anything less was useless. But he wanted extra time. With a couple of weeks, he could take things slowly, do more to prepare her, have a better chance of averting her from the awful thing she did. Without the extra time, it’d all be up to Marta.

  The ’ganger whistled, shaking his head. “A month. Ye be talkin’ a pretty sum fer a month.” The confidence in that whistle unnerved him, made him think he’d miscalculated and asked for too much. But Ari said to go high at first, that he’d be lucky enough in the end to get as much as he needed. “How much ye got?”

  Swallowing hard, Perry told him the exact sum stashed in the envelope. He no longer needed to check it; he felt it hard against his chest as his heart pounded. Beads of sweat formed on his brow despite the cool temperature. Except for a few dollars for “incidentals” shoved into his jeans, everything Perry had in the world was in that envelope.

  A disparaging chuckle accompanied the almost sad shaking of Jake’s head. “I be ’fraid that ain’t nearly enough fer a month. Not nearly. Mebbe a week.”

  Panic consumed Perry’s eyes. A single week wouldn’t be enough time. She might have gotten word two or three days before she acted. That’d be like Dorrie, to take a few days with the sadness, get her affairs in order, write letters like the one she’d sent Perry.

  “No! A week’s not enough.”

  The pleading, desperate tone of Perry’s voice seemed to please the other man, signalling he’d hit the mark close. The man would have all of Perry’s money, everything he’d worked his life to save, but wouldn’t part with a drop more of the precious timejuice than Perry truly needed.

  “Ten days. I’ll sell ye ten days. Not a drop more.”

  Perry’s calculations showed clearly in his eyes. Ten days cut it awfully close, too close, but it might be enough. He’d need Marta to agree quickly. The chronganger knew even before Perry that he’d given in. It showed in the defeated slump of his shoulders and in his frustrated, but accepting, sigh.

  Perry didn’t know what to expect after reaching the deal. Jake made a slow show of counting the money, satisfied Perry hadn’t shaded in telling him the amount. He measured an exact volume of the timejuice into a thimble-sized vial. Perry had seen pictures, of course, but the brilliance of the viscous turquoise fluid captivated him more than he expected. It captured light that appeared to swirl powerfully within, a reflection of its potential still being discovered by scientists.

  “Time’s awastin’,” the ’ganger said, watching as Perry held the mesmerizing vial. And of course he was right. Perry had somehow imagined he’d find a quiet spot to take it, someplace out of the way and where he wouldn’t be seen. But every second delayed was another second lost.

  He held the vial to his lips, not knowing whether to expect the ’juice to have any taste, nor what it would feel like to be transported ten days back in time. He knew the theory. No one on the planet was unfamiliar with the discovery of tachyonite in the Amuq Plain, nor of Korsmo’s discovery isolating and binding the elemental tachyonium with lipids. Scientists may still have called it tritachyonium lipidase but everyone else called it timejuice.

>   He’d seen docuvids of the miraculous time-reversals of tumor growth, saving those few cancer patients with sufficient wealth to afford the treatments. And like every American, he’d felt nationalistic pride after the detonation of the timebomb over the remains of the terrorist attack at Resurrection Stadium. Many had condemned it as ostentatious, a profligate and overly symbolic use of a substance too rare in the world and the source of too many conflicts — brutal wars still being fought on The Plain, in Syria and Turkey. But what American hadn’t felt his heart swell when he saw the damage undone, the building restored, the horrific destruction reversed? “The world will know that we will never yield to terror,” the President had insisted just before the detonation. “What was once Yankee Stadium will henceforce be known as Resurrection, an enduring symbol of American resiliance.”

  Seeing Perry’s lips on the vial, Jake