Outward Bound Read online

  Outward Bound

  by

  James P. Hogan

  Table of Contents

  OUTWARD BOUND

  A Jupiter™ Novel

  James P. Hogan

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1999 by James P. Hogan

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Ebook

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  ISBN10: 0-312-86243-1

  ISBN13: 978-0-312-86243-5

  Jacket art by Vincent di Fate Jacket

  design by Drive Communcation, N. Y.

  First Printing, September 1999 by Tor Books

  First Edition: September 1999

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Maggie

  Chapter One

  ONE day, Linc Marani voiced to himself, he would drive a car like Kyle's and wear five-hundred-dollar suits. He moved out from the shadow beneath the trees where he had been waiting and stood under one of the lamps along the lakeside drive as headlights appeared on the ramp leading down from the bridge. It was after nine. The park's daytime population of joggers, strollers, ballplayers, and duck feeders had retreated to their homes and the safer nightspots, leaving the territory to the alkies, junkies, and other nocturnal urban, life forms. Linc would have gotten a kick out of meeting Kyle openly on the street, where everyone would see he had connections and was heading for the better life. But it wouldn't be that way, of course. Something you just didn't advertise to the world. The first lesson was to be professional. Always professional.

  Eighty thousand dollars' worth of Cadillac eased to a halt in front of him, showing white panels and side stripe on pale yellow in the glow from the lamp above. City lights from the far shore reflected in the shine. Kyle Nass lowered the window and rested his elbow on the door, and Linc stooped to bring their faces level. The girl in the passenger seat sent him a cool look that didn't quite mask her curiosity. Linc had a quick impression of a heavily made-up mouth and eyes, hair streaked with blond flashes against hues impossible to distinguish in the shadow.

  "So, how ya been?" Kyle opened.

  "Oh . . . getting by," Linc answered.

  "I got a job that needs doing," Kyle said. "You want some work? We wouldn't want to think of you starting to get hungry out here."

  "I do okay. Hey, if it's something that needs doing . . . " Linc turned a palm. "That's good enough."

  Kyle looked away to talk to the girl. "See what I mean? Dedicated. This is Linc. He's gonna be a great soldier one day. Linc, say hello to Mitzi. She's the new light of my life. Ain't she really something, though, huh?"

  Linc peered past him to take in the red leather coat thrown open, revealing a low-cut white top, barely clinging to the ends of ample, outthrust breasts. He nodded expressionlessly, complying with Kyle's request but offering nothing anyone could take exception to. "Hi."

  "So, we have business? Okay, let's talk." Kyle climbed out from the car, letting Linc close the door for him, and crossed the riverside walk to the water's edge. Linc followed. The yellow waves of Kyle's hair bowed as he paused to light a cigarette, his features illuminated briefly. He blew a stream of smoke into the night and resumed in a lowered voice.

  "We've got an overdue collection for two grand. The mark is a spick who goes as Gabriel Colomada. Fleshy, with a beard, some kind of accountant with habits that eat money, rents in a greaseball apartment house called Amigo's on Twenty-third off Canal, number C-8. Most Friday and Saturday nights he puts in an appearance at that Irish bar that those two brothers run—a couple of blocks away, on Griffin."

  "Cleary's?"

  "That's the one. The message needs to be delivered this week."

  Linc nodded. "Sure. Nice and clear." He knew the routine.

  Kyle reached inside his coat. Gold rings flashed in the lamplight as he produced an envelope. "The Man likes the way you've been operating, Linc. There's a hundred here over the last figure. Same terms. You cover your own expenses."

  Linc took the envelope and pocketed it. "The same bonus?" he said, checking.

  "Ten percent extra if you collect before Sunday," Kyle confirmed.

  "Fine."

  "Any other questions?"

  Linc shook his head.

  "Well, that's just great, kid. You're gonna go far." They walked back to the car.

  Mitzi looked across again as Linc held the door open for Kyle to get in, perhaps trying to reconcile the image of a fifteen-year-old, which she had been expecting, with the person she glimpsed outside in the night: muscular frame touching six feet inside a black suede jacket and gray turtleneck; hair cropped short and glistening; not bad looks, but with features hard and unyielding, darkened at the chin and upper lip by stubble already proclaiming the man.

  Linc caught her eye as he closed the door. There was an interest there, yet restrained—not quite hidden by the aloofness she was trying to project. Maybe one day, the look seemed to say. Try me again when you've made the grade, kid.

  Damn right, Linc told himself as he watched the Cadillac reverse, turn, and drive away back up the ramp. One day he'd have a chick like that in his car too.

  Chapter Two

  TWO evenings late, in the streets by the river on the South Side, Linc reappeared at the low-rent monument to abandoned delusions that was all his parents had to show for twenty years of drink, drugs, and being suckered into every promise of a quick fix to life's ills that the ad lines had to offer. In the earlier days there had been a succession of "business things" that somebody or other his father knew had had gotten going, inevitably with the assurance to his mother that "you won't believe what's gonna happen!"; except that it never quite did someone, apart from the debts they were left with and another screaming fight that would carry on intermittently for weeks.

  Sadie, one of Linc's two older sisters, had left town with a sugar daddy who drove a repo Honda and was going to put her in a penthouse. That had been before the family moved out of the house they'd had off Central. Afterward, the other sister, Marcella, moved in with a creep who fenced electronics and pushed weed in the projects—and whom Linc had once been obliged to visit and "educate" a little after Marcella came home in dark glasses with a swollen mouth and the story that she'd walked into a door. Now only Linc was left to stomp the roaches around the cartons of empties in the kitchen and watch the gaudy furniture coming apart while he served out his time of mandatory social processing masquerading as schooling, to become an aid-program statistic or wage serf on the corporate plantations. At least that was the presumed pattern. Linc Marani, however, had other plans.

  His mother was zonked on the couch in the living room with her head in a VR helmet, muttering to herself. Not bothering to rouse her, he went through to the back, showered, and selected a tan zipper jacket and charcoal jeans from his closet. His pocket phone beeped just as he finished changing.

  "Yeah?"

  "Linc? Clay here."

  "What gives?"

  Clay and Slam were young muscle from the area, whom Linc had hired as backup for the job. He'd used them before. Clay was black, fast, and mean but liked girls and powder too much to be capable of hanging onto money. Slam wasn't over-endowed when it came to smarts, but he followed instructions with the diligence and predictability of a washing machine, and the size of him was sometimes enough to induce quick settlement of an account with no more than a mild reminder on the meaning of punctuality. It was Friday. Linc had left them staking out Cleary's bar. A twenty slipped to the bartender would gi
ve them the identification if Colomada appeared.

  "The beard just showed, solo," Clay's voice informed. "He's inside now. Slam's watchin' the turf. Seems we've got ourselves a party in the makin' here."

  "I'm on my way over," Linc answered. "Call you when I'm on Griffin. Let me know if the scene moves."

  "Gotcha."

  Linc disconnected and put the phone back inside his jacket. Then he took down a box he kept on the top shelf of the closet, and from it transferred a pair of thick, leather-backed work gloves to one of his pockets, and a set of brass knuckles to the other. He'd never actually had to use the knuckles, since the sight plus the circumstances had always been sufficient to intimidate a victim into "negotiating." And that was just as well. To Linc the work was a ticket up from life's basement level, not something he did for the love of it. Given the choice, he would prefer to do without messiness.

  As Linc came out from his room, locking the door, his father appeared in the hallway. He was wearing his expression of exaggerated friendliness that always set Linc's teeth on edge—partly an apology for intruding, partly that inane grin he put on to show he was harmless. See, I'm not bothering you, it seemed to say. Not asking questions. Don't you owe it to like me a little, at least? It usually meant he wanted a favor.

  "Say, Linc, you're back. When did you get in?"

  "A while ago."

  "Does your mother know you're here?"

  "There wasn't any point in telling her. I'm just going back out."

  "Oh . . . Okay" A biting of the lip and an awkward momentary flexing of fingers signaled how to bring this up before he leaves? "We, er, had a visit from the school inspector's office. Seems they've been missing you again for a couple of days . . . I didn't tell 'em anything, though. Said I thought you had personal problems you're having to work out, that might be affecting things." See how I'm on your side. We can be friends, eh?

  "Okay." Linc shrugged indifferently, looking in the direction of the door.

  His father moved a pace closer. "Say, uh . . . something came up, and I didn't get around to cashing my check today. You wouldn't be able to help me out with, say, twenty toward a little drop of something for tonight, would you? Only temporary—till I see Andy tomorrow . . ."

  "Andy's out of town. You know he is, because Marcella called three days ago to ask if we had his number. She said then that he wouldn't be back for a month."

  "I can tap George at the deli. He owes me—"

  Linc waved the rest aside with a shake of his head and peeled a fifty off a roll he produced from his belt.

  "Say, are you sure? . . ." But his father was already reaching for it. "I'll have it back for you by—"

  "It doesn't matter. Keep it," Linc said curtly.

  And he left before the taste in his mouth could get any worse. Bad luck could happen to anybody, and anyone might be in need of a helping hand one day. But to have no pride. That was something else.

  Chapter Three

  THE two street hookers regarded him approvingly as he came around the corner from Broad, a block short of Griffin. "Hey, Big Guy wanna go out tonight? Looking for a good time?"

  Linc permitted a smile that stopped short of condescension "I got business tonight. Maybe later." He didn't mean it. Girls were another thing, like dope and Booze, that took over guy lives and ate into their brains. Not that Linc was opposed to a little fooling around when the opportunity was there and made sense. But it wasn't something you shopped for along the street like some kind of acidhead, cyberzom, or other t-dep being milked by every kind of pusher. It wasn't that the girls were at fault—what else were they doing, after all, all but what they had to get what they could, just as he and the rest of the world did? But when something in that line made a dent in his life, it would be in a situation where there could be a little more respect—both ways.

  Respect was a big word in Linc's vocabulary. It meant being selective and paying attention to things that mattered and people who made differences. And respect for oneself meant being valuable enough to make sure they would notice you. That was the key to doing better than just getting by and surviving, which was something even the rats in the sewers under the city managed. The value of kids like Linc to the people Kyle worked for—and whom Linc would work for directly one day—was that their own enforcers were known, filed, cataloged, and watched, and a finger trail put together by a sharp DA with big ideas could bring grief and ruin to some important people. But juveniles enjoyed a wider definition of rights and more fundamental presumptions of innocence, with the attendant risk of conviction ranging from more difficult, at worst, to improbable. And even if a bad hand did turn up, the money was there for attorneys who specialized in bargaining this kind of rap down to minimum or nothing. The best there were. Kyle had said so.

  Linc's phone beeped. It was Clay again. "The beard's just comin' back out on the street now. Gotta purple kinda parka and a green hat. Slam's right in there behind him, and I'm closin' after 'em. Headin' your way. You made the Griff yet?"

  Even better than planned. Linc wouldn't have to spend time hanging around. "Two blocks along," he responded. "Take it like we said."

  "Right on."

  Had Colomada gone the other way, Linc would have crossed and overtaken on the far side, then doubled back to intercept them from the opposite direction. As things were, he made fast time along the block of shuttered storefronts, a dingy Chinese restaurant, and a late-night food mart, and then crossed the avenue while Colomada and his two tails were still halfway along the block ahead, coming the other way. The street was darker and emptier here, with locked entrances to dirty office buildings, and garbage Dumpsters standing by a truck-loading dock closed behind heavy steel doors. Past the loading dock an alley opened off to the left, opposite a vacant lot being used for parking.

  Pulling on the gloves as he walked, Linc paced himself to approach the alley while keeping the same distance from it as Colomada. At the same time Clay and Slam moved up from behind to flank Colomada on either side. Linc was placed to block him if he sensed something amiss and tried to run.

  They all reached the mouth of the alley together. As Clay and Slam drew level with the hunched, shuffling figure, they seized his arms suddenly and changed direction to propel him out of sight off the street.

  "What—" The beginning of a shout died in a gasp as Linc thudded a solid punch into Colomada's midriff. Colomada slumped back against the wall, arms pinned by the two holding him on either side. Linc hit him several more times to the body—just softening-up blows. With luck, fear would do the rest.

  "You've been getting forgetful, Gabriel," Linc said.

  Colomada answered in short, heaving bursts. "How. . you know me? Who are you? . . . I don't know what you talk about."

  "I think you do. Some friends of mine are short of somewhere around two thousand dollars. They're getting impatient."

  Colomada was breathing shakily. In the glow from the street, Linc could make out his eyes wide and staring, mouth gaping as he fought for air. He slipped on the knuckles, making sure to keep his movements slow and visible in the light.

  Something that hadn't felt right should have warned him. Something too stiff and unyielding about Colomada's body when Linc hit it.

  Linc didn't see exactly what happened in the darkness, but there was rapid, sudden movement and the sound of blows, and Slam doubled over with a gurgle, clutching his throat. Clay's reflexes kicked in at once and he tried to split, but light flooded the alley and two unmarked cars blocked the end, already disgorging uniformed figures. Linc started to wheel the other way.

  "Freeze! Right there!"

  He found himself looking at the muzzle of a .45, a Police Department shield being brandished, and the face of a very different, mean and nasty-looking Gabriel Colomada.

  Running footsteps; a fleeting impression of Clay spread-eagled against one of the cars; Slam being hauled to his feet, retching and choking. Hands were seizing Linc and shoving.

  "Against the wall,
punk. Reach up it, high." Pain, as a nightstick struck into his kidney; then being frisked, head jerked back and held by the hair. "Both hands down and behind your back." Cuffs jammed on roughly, cutting into his wrists. Lights and sirens. More pushing and shoving, toward one of the cars . . . A blow from behind sent him staggering into the backseat, causing him to hit his head on the top of the door painfully.

  "Hey, Chas, don't get too eager there," someone called out sarcastically. "Don't you know he's only a juvenile? We might have to put you on a refresher for sensitivity training."

  "He can file a complaint at the station," Colomada's voice snarled from outside as the door slammed shut.

  Chapter Four

  THERE are ways, using wet towels wrapped around the knuckles or blows delivered with other parts of the hand, of working a body over thoroughly without leaving marks that would provide provable complaint. Linc had experienced the joys of this form of supplementary education the last time he was picked up by the police. His two arrests before that had been when they were called out to the school: first, two days after he was transferred there when the grade bully tried teaching the new kid the lesson on who was boss and wound up with a wired jaw; and second, when he lost patience with a teacher who wanted to hang equal blame on one of the younger kids for defending himself when he got picked on. (Getting rough with a teacher hadn't been really smart, Linc later admitted to himself. They were just stuck with the same stupid rules as everyone else. The problem was, you could never find or get near the people who made them.) On both those occasions he'd ended up being lectured by a counselor who'd probably never been on a street after dark, and had to answer endless dumb questions put by a psychiatrist who assured Linc that none of it was his fault. (Great, Linc had thought. If none of it was his fault, why were they wasting their time with him instead of going after whoever's fault it was?)