Descending Road - THE SHOP OF NEXI HARREN by Dana W. Paxson

THE SHOP OF NEXI HARREN

1560 4D

Nexi‘s shop was a corridor, almost a tunnel, fading off the understreet and curving left out of my line of sight. Its walls were lined and thatched with armament: stickweapons, body and head armor, beam and ballistic guns, medpacks, wryshields, and every other conceivable piece of fighting apparatus. Everything was blazoned with style colors, coll-clan insignia, fashion splashes, corp slogans, rebel graffiti, in an eye-muddling blaze of chaos.

I’d never come in here, always hurrying on my own errands, my mind on my father or on any of the hundreds of grub jobs I’d held scrubbing disinfectants on walls, carrying small packages for a coin or two, shooing street children away from vending stalls. Andro jobs, almost. Everything in this store was way over my little stack of metal.

A trio of City police, two women and a man, looked over a top-of-the-line counterfire gun, dickering with a powerfully-built red-tan man wearing a skinsuit of dark flexhide and a short knotted braid. I wrapped myself closely in Thringe‘s long cape, and ran my hand over a heavy beamer, its white cerametal fins glassy-smooth under my fingertips. The police, leaving, shouldered past me without a word; I headed for the rear of the shop.

“Han, Winje,” the red-tan man with the braid said to me, smiling.

“Han, Nexi,” I tossed off as I passed him. No cape-off-the-shoulder trick this time.

He looked downcast. What would Thringe do? I stopped, turned, reached up and took down an armorplast warhelm in white with narrow black stripes. It wouldn’t fit over my headgear, but I’d improvise. I posed with my cape swept back and the helm under my arm. “Got a shield to go with this?” I growled.

He cocked his head and started laughing. “You never stop making me guess,” he said. “Three visits and you say nothing, play the bitch, then this.”

I grinned, tossed my head, turned, hung the helm on its peg, and walked to the rear of the shop. This was more fun, if I could just zag the fear.

The reader was just where the man had said. I plugged in its earpiece, and a woman’s voice said, “Fourth shaft east past Brownhollow Score, down two, closet AB-1702. Code is Eleven Eleven Qualified Chatbird.” The voice repeated the message, then a pair of clicks. Erasure.

I walked out past Nexi with another toss of my head. As my foot hit the understreet outside, a terrible chain of logic strobed me: The man at Caladrina‘s had said ‘Barrow Iron Wing’ to me, as if I were Thringe. But that had sent the others on a chase for Thringe, and left me alone. Then the man had come back, and told me that the drop had failed. That had sent me on this errand. If the drop had failed, why hadn’t he told all of us the first time? Why bother with the first message? He must have known I wasn’t Thringe, then, so why tell me about a contraband drop, if that’s what it was?

I had assumed he was working with Thringe, but that wasn’t necessarily true. He might have set all this up, split us up, for the police, or for someone else.

My mind raced. My destination was a utility closet, not far from my home. But he’d set that up.

I had to warn the others. Where had they gone? I didn’t know the lyrics to the Iron Wing song, but I knew Barrow Arc. Afraid for Thringe, I sprinted for the nearest stair, dodging party people. Thringe‘s cape flew out behind me, my slippers ticking along the hard street surface. Fest music banged in my ears.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	THE SHOP OF NEXI HARREN 1560 4D Nexi‘s shop was a corridor, almost a tunnel, fading off the understreet and curving left out of my line of sight. Its walls were lined and thatched with armament: stickweapons, body and head armor, beam and ballistic guns, medpacks, wryshields, and every other conceivable piece of fighting apparatus. Everything was blazoned with style colors, coll-clan insignia, fashion splashes, corp slogans, rebel graffiti, in an eye-muddling blaze of chaos. I’d never come in here, always hurrying on my own errands, my mind on my father or on any of the hundreds of grub jobs I’d held scrubbing disinfectants on walls, carrying small packages for a coin or two, shooing street children away from vending stalls. Andro jobs, almost. Everything in this store was way over my little stack of metal. A trio of City police, two women and a man, looked over a top-of-the-line counterfire gun, dickering with a powerfully-built red-tan man wearing a skinsuit of dark flexhide and a short knotted braid. I wrapped myself closely in Thringe‘s long cape, and ran my hand over a heavy beamer, its white cerametal fins glassy-smooth under my fingertips. The police, leaving, shouldered past me without a word; I headed for the rear of the shop. “Han, Winje,” the red-tan man with the braid said to me, smiling. “Han, Nexi,” I tossed off as I passed him. No cape-off-the-shoulder trick this time. He looked downcast. What would Thringe do? I stopped, turned, reached up and took down an armorplast warhelm in white with narrow black stripes. It wouldn’t fit over my headgear, but I’d improvise. I posed with my cape swept back and the helm under my arm. “Got a shield to go with this?” I growled. He cocked his head and started laughing. “You never stop making me guess,” he said. “Three visits and you say nothing, play the bitch, then this.” I grinned, tossed my head, turned, hung the helm on its peg, and walked to the rear of the shop. This was more fun, if I could just zag the fear. The reader was just where the man had said. I plugged in its earpiece, and a woman’s voice said, “Fourth shaft east past Brownhollow Score, down two, closet AB-1702. Code is Eleven Eleven Qualified Chatbird.” The voice repeated the message, then a pair of clicks. Erasure. I walked out past Nexi with another toss of my head. As my foot hit the understreet outside, a terrible chain of logic strobed me: The man at Caladrina‘s had said ‘Barrow Iron Wing’ to me, as if I were Thringe. But that had sent the others on a chase for Thringe, and left me alone. Then the man had come back, and told me that the drop had failed. That had sent me on this errand. If the drop had failed, why hadn’t he told all of us the first time? Why bother with the first message? He must have known I wasn’t Thringe, then, so why tell me about a contraband drop, if that’s what it was? I had assumed he was working with Thringe, but that wasn’t necessarily true. He might have set all this up, split us up, for the police, or for someone else. My mind raced. My destination was a utility closet, not far from my home. But he’d set that up. I had to warn the others. Where had they gone? I didn’t know the lyrics to the Iron Wing song, but I knew Barrow Arc. Afraid for Thringe, I sprinted for the nearest stair, dodging party people. Thringe‘s cape flew out behind me, my slippers ticking along the hard street surface. Fest music banged in my ears.