Free Black Hole Sun by David Macinnis Gill Page A

armalite out of its holster. Set it in the box. Gently. Then start to close the lid.
    â€œI’ll handle it from here, Regulator,” he says, then reaches for the grip.
    â€œNo!” I grab his wrist. Feel the soft flesh give as I pinch too hard and catch a nerve.
    He grunts, his eyes widening. With his free hand, he fumbles for his sidearm as I slam the lid shut. Then release him.
    â€œOn the floor!” He’s found his pistol, which is now in his shaking hands. “On your knees!”
    The woman laughs. “Quick one, innit he? Like a ruddy viper. Had you dead to rights before your beady eyes could blink.”
    â€œSarge!” the guard says. “He assaulted me!”
    â€œSaved your worthless life is more like it.” She takes his pistol away from him. The safety is still on. “About to grab an armalite. Don’t you know what happens if you do that? The things are rigged with explosives. One touch from you, and we’re both dead.”
    â€œReally?” he says.
    â€œReally,” I say. “The armalite’s coded with my biorhythmic signature. Standard Regulator stuff. Can I go in now?”
    â€œFive minutes. No more.” She opens a door leading to a long corridor. As soon as I step inside, the door clangs shut behind me.
    At the end of the corridor, there’s a chair and a window. Nothing else.
    â€œMimi, could you give me a few minutes of radio silence.”
    â€œAnything for you, cowboy. Tap when you want my attention.”
    I take a seat. A sheet of Plexi separates me from a man. He’s sitting in a chair like mine, his chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. I tap on the window, and he looks up.
    He’s lost weight. His cheeks are hollow, the wrinkles on his forehead too loose, and his skin is blotched red. There’s no sign of physical abuse, though. No bruising. No wounds. No scars, either, except the old ones under his right eye and the crooked nose, trophies from the beatings he took from the mob that dragged him from the stand during the trial. It’s the cancer that’s shrinking him. The treatments I’m paying for are enough to extend his life but not to cure him.There’s not enough money on Mars to do that.
    He’s sixteen centimeters shorter than me, and the years in solitary confinement have bent him. Still, he feels taller.
    â€œYou need a haircut.”
    â€œHello, Father.”
    â€œJacob.” His voice is monotone.
    â€œIt’s been a while, sir.”
    â€œSix months. One week. Four days.”
    He forgot hours.
    â€œSeventeen hours.”
    Or not.
    â€œBut who’s counting?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
    â€œI am,” he says. “All I have to do is count. Bunch of derelicts won’t even let me have a book to read except the Bible, and I can quote it chapter and verse.”
    It cost me the payday from a primo job to buy the Bible for him. “You’re looking tosh. The food must be—”
    â€œAwful. Didn’t you say something about bribing the trusties in the kitchen? About time you did something about that, if you have the means.”
    The bribes I pay puts extra in his bowl. Otherwise, he’d be living off gruel. “I’ll see if I can find the means, Father. Good commissions are more difficult to find than—”
    â€œYou disappoint me, Jacob.”
    Here it comes.
    â€œYour biological mother was chosen for her intelligence and physical prowess. A PhD in molecular biology who wasan Olympic swimmer. The surrogate who birthed you was the finest available. Your birth was without event. Your education demanding, your training flawless. This is not your destiny, Jacob. It is your destiny to become the leader of Mars, not a common dalit mercenary.”
    For a moment I say nothing. Look down and away from his relentless gaze, the way I did as a child. “You made me a dalit , Father.”
    At the end of his trial, he was forced to