Free Children of Junk (Rogue Star Book 3) by James Wisher Page B

mercenaries used on the pleasure planet rumbled down the highway on both sides of him. He felt like a mouse surrounded by rhinos. Even odder, was the complete lack of regular, family sized cars. Maybe everyone was still at work.
    To make his trip more miserable some genius had decided that since all the vehicles had antigravity generators they didn’t need to bother filling the potholes anymore. What he didn’t take into account was the holes collected fetid rainwater that splashed up on anyone driving over them. Not a big deal for the haulers, but soon the stinking, polluted water covered Marcus from the knee down. His skin burned under his heavy pants when the water soaked through. He wondered for the hundredth time what prompted Cade to come to such a horrid place.
    At his computer’s bidding he turned off the highway and on to a crowded, narrow city street. Derelict transports lay on the side of the streets in various states of disassembly. Dark, rotting buildings towered over him, their pitted stone walls like decaying skin. Even with his mask he tasted the harsh, acrid pollution from the factory’s smoke stacks. He left the commercial area and entered the entertainment district. Strip clubs, whorehouses, peep shows, and bars mingled with an occasional by the hour motel. Cade’s hotel slumped between a loan office and a drooping, two story strip club that looked in danger of collapsing at any moment. First class all the way for Mr. Cade.
    Marcus had no trouble finding an empty parking place on the side of the hotel. He got off his bike and activated every antitheft device built into it. He took another look around the decaying neighborhood and sent a silent prayer to the powers that be that when he got back his ride would still be there. The front of the hotel sported a pair of tarnished bronze and glass doors. He pushed them open and stepped through.
    The entrance sported a pair of long dead plants, their dry, leafless branches jutting from a rusty cube filled with dry dirt. A path of dried mud led up to the front desk, behind which a young native slept with his feet up on the counter. Marcus shuddered, what did the rooms look like if this is how they kept the lobby? Then again who cared, he wasn’t planning on staying the night.
    He walked up to the desk and hit the tarnished silver bell. It didn’t make a sound. Someone had removed the striker, probably the unconscious young native in front of him. Resisting the urge to dump him on his bony ass Marcus gave the kid’s booted foot a shake. He snorted in his sleep and slowly opened his eyes. When he spotted Marcus he took his feet down off the desk and leaned forward. “What?”
    The service matched the decor at least. “Which room is Arnold Cade in?”
    “What the hell business is it of yours?”
    Marcus clenched his fist, took a breath and relaxed. He took two twenty credit coins out of his pocket and slapped them down on the desk. “Which room?”
    The kid swiped the coins. “Twelve, third floor.” He put his feet back up and closed his eyes.
    Marcus shook his head and headed for the stairs. There was a lift in the corner, but he didn’t trust it not to go to pieces halfway up. He took the steps two at a time, eager to find Cade and leave the hotel before he caught something. He stepped onto the third floor landing; across from him was room six. To his left was room seven so he went that way. When he reached room eleven he slowed and crept closer, gauntlet raised.
    The door to room twelve stood open a crack and inside someone moved around. He was here, thank the universe. Marcus peaked through the crack, but saw nothing. A stealthy approach might be best. He nudged the door open and it let out a horrible creak. A figure in black spun and leveled a blaster. Marcus dropped and a crimson blast took a chunk out of the casing a foot from his head. He countered with a stun blast that went wide. More blasts came his way, forcing Marcus to role clear of the