Free The Luna Deception by Felix R. Savage Page B

championships. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    “Ah ha ha ha,” Mendoza said. A free-range peacock strutted into the alley. It arched its neck and let out an “Aaark! Aaark! Aaark!” that sounded exactly if it it were shouting for security.
    “I don’t think the bots would have killed us,” Father Lynch said. “More likely, your friend Lorna was trying to scare you. I may have overreacted.”
    “No, Father! You were heroic.”
    Fr. Lynch shook his head. The look of worry on his face undermined Mendoza’s relief at having reached a place of safety. After all, Cherry-Garrard was not a place of safety. Even though Mendoza had disabled his network connection, Lorna would still be able to find him by locating his BCI. It would just take more ingenuity, and Lorna had plenty of that.
    “Come on,” the Jesuit said. “Quick.” He led Mendoza into the alleys behind the station. Lean-tos, awning-shaded patios, balconies, chicken coops, and rabbit pens narrowed the already-narrow canyons. This was one of the “Free” areas where people could indulge their inner architects, as long as they selected one of three approved patterns of fake brick.
    “Father, what were they throwing at us? I thought those things were grenades, but they didn’t explode.”
    “Shit,” Father Lynch said.
    “What? What?!”
    “Shit. That’s what they were throwing at us. Compacted, dehydrated fecal matter. Local agriculture doesn’t need as much manure as we produce, so the recycling facilities process the excess into tiles for insulation and rad-shielding. Some facilities outside are entirely built of the stuff.”
    “Huh,” Mendoza said. “And I always thought they added flavoring and sold it as ReadiPak meals.”
    They both laughed aloud, a release of tension.
    The Jesuit ducked into a curbside pho restaurant. Mendoza followed him past the kitchen and up a pulley-style zipshaft. You stood on a plate and hauled yourself up. Easy when you weighed 1/6 th of what you would on Earth, and had just sweated off another couple of kilos, running for your life. They got off on the third floor. WITHNAIL & I. WHO-CERTIFIED THERAPISTS.
    “This is where I was going to bring you, anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to explain. Withnail and I—well, there’s no Withnail, but I Cheong is a good friend of mine. She’ll be able to help you.”
    The Jesuit spoke into a hidden intercom. The door valved. A spaceborn East Asian woman came from behind her desk. She wore a cross around her neck. Her smile crumpled when she saw Father Lynch’s expression.
    “It’s urgent,” the Jesuit said. “Can you do him immediately?”
    “Of course,” I Cheong said. She switched on a professional manner. “Please go through to Consulting Room B. A therapist will be with you in a moment.”
    Mendoza went into the cubicle she indicated. It held a cot and nothing else. He wondered what kind of therapy this joint provided. Some places flaunted WHO certification, but exploited needy patients, trapping them in a cycle of emotional addiction at fifty spiders a pop. He was sure Father Lynch wouldn’t have anything to do with such a racket, but …
    The door opened and a therapist entered. It was a granny-class geminoid bot with a wispy white bun, wearing surgical scrubs.
    “Hello, John,” it said. “Try to relax. You won’t feel a thing.”
    It pushed him down, yelling and clawing, on the cot. It slapped a patch on his neck. Before he could rip the patch off, blackness swallowed him.

vii.
     
    Mendoza awoke on an unfamiliar bed for the second time in 24 hours. But this was nothing like waking up in Derek Lorna’s guest bedroom. The bed was hard and scratchy. Also, he had the worst headache of his life.
    A shadow moved across the dim light source. Fr. Lynch stooped over him. “Good, you’re awake. Lie still while I finish packing.”
    “Thirsty.”
    “I Cheong told me to give you this when you woke up.”
    Mendoza’s