Chapter 10: Non-person

Despite the wake, despite the funeral, Alicia just refused to believe Rico was really gone. It had been a little over a week since her man had died and she still couldn't get her mind around the situation. He'd always seemed so strong, so in control. She had always known that his world was violent and that there were dangers in it but she'd never truly believed the violence would touch the man she loved. With her, with Amelia, he had always been so gentle that it was sometimes possible to forget he dealt with violence and death every day.

This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out. They were supposed to be getting away. They were supposed to be making a new life for themselves out there, out amongst the stars. Rico had a good enough CAP score to take both her and her 14-year old sister Tamara. They were going to be together, a family. She groaned in frustration; this wasn't supposed to be how her life turned out.

She'd always been able to get her own way. Always. From the moment she was born she had her father wrapped around her finger – and her mother would do anything her father said. Growing up, she learned to be manipulative; through coercion, tantrums, persuasion or even bribery and blackmail, she learned to get others to do what she wanted.

It was how she'd gotten Rico. She'd stalked him, practically, since she was 11. From the time she'd met him, she knew that they were meant to be together. He was strong enough to protect her, important enough to make others bend to her will and malleable enough that she could bend him to hers.

Plus, his eyes told her he liked what he saw when he looked at her. She had blossomed early – tits that looked larger than they were on her slim frame and an ass that defined the term bubble-butt – and had found her body was just another way to get people to do her bidding. Men, certainly, but women, too. She'd spent more than one pleasant afternoon with her 33-year old next door neighbor's head between her thighs.

She loved receiving oral; giving, not so much. It's why her neighbor was so perfect. The older woman loved licking her – and didn't expect Alicia to lick her back. The older woman would occasionally make sounds about how horny she was but Alicia always ignored them. In her mind, they had the perfect relationship – and it wasn't really cheating on Rico. After all, the woman didn't have a cock.

Of course, she'd never bothered to mention it to Rico. He'd always had enough on his mind, she was sure.

Now, she'd welcome the anger he'd probably feel if she were to tell him. She'd welcome just seeing his face one more time. To hear his voice tell her he loved her. To see him playing with Amelia; he could always sit for hours and play with their daughter. She'd never see that again.

He would never see their baby, now four months away from being born. Worse, her baby would never know his father.

Someone had to pay. Someone had to be held accountable for the death of her husband. Someone had to die just like her husband had died.

Thanks to her contacts, she knew who it had to be. Tomas had confirmed it. He had come to her offering his condolences, asking her if she'd heard from Rico's cousin. He hadn't wanted to say anything but Alicia knew how to get men talking. She knew how to get what she wanted.

She'd broke the man down until he'd confessed. He'd seen Calix that night; he'd seen him get captured by the Confederacy soldiers – and then they'd just let him go? Everyone knew the Confederacy didn't do that. If you left with them, you never came back. They kidnapped people all the time – oh, they called it pretty names like 'extractions' or 'a pick-up' but they all knew it was just another way of saying 'kidnapping people to give to the so-called volunteers'. Everyone knew the score; those rich enough to afford it got a high CAP, high CAPs got slaves and they were kidnapped at those random 'extractions'.

It was how she knew the Cholos were doing so much better than Rico had told her. Rico had a high CAP which meant he either had money or influence – either way, it was enough for her. She could use either to become the person of power and influence she so richly deserved.

No, the Confederacy took you and you never got back; except for Calix. Calix came back. Tomas told her how he had changed, how Rico had begged for his life and Calix had just laughed at him even as he shot him. The man cried when he told her how he and some of the other Cholos had tried so hard to stop Calix and then, after, to kill him for what he'd done. He got on his knees and begged her forgiveness for not being strong enough to stop Calix. For not being strong enough to bring him to justice.

She could believe it. She'd always hated Calix. He didn't act like he was supposed to. He refused to fall under her thumb. She'd flirted, brow beat, and even screamed; he'd refused to knuckle under. He'd even taken her aside, when she was flirting with him, and told her that married women shouldn't act that way.

He always acted so self-righteous, so holier-than-thou. Now, though, she could see what he was really made of. She needed someone to blame; she needed Rico's death to be someone's fault. Not someone 'out there', nameless and faceless. She needed it to be a real person. So, since she already hated Calix, it was easy for her to put him in that spot.

Tomas told her that they'd probably already gotten revenge on the boy. He explained that he'd used people loyal to Cal to place a false message for him. To lure him to Phillip Rodriguez's house where he'd planted a trap for the boy. They'd planted some C4 in the house and then disconnected the gas line and attached it to a large plastic container. He was pretty sure Calix had set it off – and had died in one of the resulting explosions; the first from the C4 which knocked the gas line out of the thick plastic container and the other from the gas main. No one had seen him for the past week. He couldn't be sure, though. No body had been found. He begged her to call him if she heard from the young man.

Alicia knew better. If there was no body, Calix was alive. Rico had confided in her; he'd told her everything. She knew about the armor that Calix made. She knew about the boy's talent for making alien tech work. She knew how proud Rico was of the boy, of the near reverence Rico had for him. Rico had talked about Calix as if he were the second coming of Christ, able to walk on water and wake the dead.

She also knew that Rico was afraid. Afraid for the boy, sure, but afraid of him as well. He had always said that Calix would go where he wanted, do what he wanted to do. Rico knew he led Calix not by the fear or respect that the other Cholos showed him, but only by the tenuous grasp of being the boy's family. Her husband had always said that there would come a day when he'd wake up and Calix would be gone. Rico had said it was because he knew that Calix was destined for greater things but she knew the truth. She knew Rico feared the boy was untrustworthy. She hated that he'd been proven right.

She parked the car across the street. It was an old house, a house much like the one she'd grown up in. She saw the boards across the doors and windows but she wasn't fooled. This was where Calix was. This was the only place he could be. The place where he had lived with Rico's Aunt Lucia. The place where he was going to die.

She walked up the dilapidated, decaying front porch, looking carefully at the boards in place over the door. Rico had said that Calix was clever; that he could hide a mountain in broad daylight and no one would see. Well, if the boy was hiding something here, she certainly couldn't see it.

She made her way around the building, disgusted by the overgrown path along the side and out back. The grass and weeds back here were almost as tall as she was. She shuddered just a little at the wildlife – rats, snakes, mice – that were probably nesting in the tall grass.

She got up onto the back porch as quickly as she could. The back door was boarded up just like the front door. So were the windows.

She snarled as she started back – and then stopped. She looked down for just a split second, just long enough to watch where she was placing her feet ... and saw a footprint. It wasn't much and she obviously couldn't even be sure it was Cal's but it meant someone had been here. Someone had gone to all the trouble of fighting their way through the overgrown grass and weeds. Her eyes narrowed as she turned back.

It took her about five minutes of running her hands along each of the boards to find it. A simple latch made out of a nail that hadn't been hammered in too deeply. When her fingers pulled on it as they were feeling their way down one of the boards, it clicked and the boards pulled away from the door ever so slightly.

Clever. Calix was certainly clever. The boards were a single unit mounted on hinges. A door in front of the door.

Of course, the back door itself was locked but Alicia didn't care. She'd been born and raised in Southwest Detroit, a locked door didn't constitute much of a problem. She used her shoe to break one of the panes in the door, carefully running her heel along the edges to remove all the glass shards, then reached in. One ruined pair of shoes, one opened door; it seemed a fair trade.

It took her eyes a second to get used to the dimmer light. She was in a barren but remarkably clean kitchen; everything that made a room a kitchen was gone – no table, no refrigerator, no appliances of any kind – only the sink remained. She'd never met Rico's Aunt Lucia but Rico had pictures of the woman; Alicia could imagine her, standing at the sink, doing the dishes. It was a happy picture but now, shrouded in shadow, it no longer looked like a happy room.

Alicia closed the door without turning, settling the room into a graver darkness. She needed to remove light from this room. Her plan almost required darkness; killing the boy should only be done in the dark.

"You need to close the boards, too." His voice came from the darkness in front of her, startling her. She kept her face even but inwardly she rejoiced; she'd been sure she would find him here but there was just a hint of doubt in her surety. It was a relief to know she was right. "Someone might notice them being open."

His voice sounded colder than she remembered; more distant. It wasn't the strong, amiable voice of the young man who'd chastised her about the way she acted. It wasn't the sure voice of the young man whose every move seemed deliberate and planned. It sounded haunted and pained.

Well, it would definitely be haunted soon enough. She was going to send the boy to hell and his voice right along with him.

She turned back slowly, deliberately. Her every move was exaggerated and precise. Her heart beat like a trip hammer, threatening to derail her plan. She used the re-opening of the door to hide her nerves. She pulled the hammered boards of the faux door closed, her right hand easily slipping down into her purse. She had just the hint of a smile as she felt the hard plastic handle of the gun; a sense of peace came over her as she hefted its weight. The gun was an old, outdated Gen5 Glock 21 but it was the lightest gun she could find in Rico's things. She thought it only fitting that the man who killed her husband be killed by one of his guns.

She turned back into the house, her movements at peace. With the hint of a smile, she waited the second or three it took for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She breathed in the darkness, letting it calm her and give her strength as she waited for the perfect moment.

He stood there, not more than two meters from her, resting his shoulder against the corner pillar of a meeting of two doorways, one leading straight into a living room and one to the right leading to a dining room. The young man calm, at ease. He seemed not to have a care in the world. He would, though; she swore that he would care before she was through.

Her anger came to her, a raging fire being fanned by her hate. How dare the smug bastard stand there so calmly; how dare he stand there at all while her husband – her Rico – lay dead under a blanket of dirt. She felt her teeth grit as she looked at him, committing him to memory. She wanted to remember this, remember him, so she could send the memory to heaven to be with her Rico. The memory could go to heaven, the man was going to hell.

For as long as she'd known him, Calix had always been tall. He never seemed to downplay his size, never tried to hide it; unlike many tall men, who slumped and tried to present a smaller frame to the world, Calix had always stood straight up with his head high. It was another sign of his arrogance; refusing to act like a normal person. He couldn't act like a normal man – not him. He was Calix and other men should bow to him and his ego.

As her eyes adjusted, though, she took in little things. Things that ran counter to what she knew of the boy. He was slumping, almost bent over at the waist. He wasn't standing there like God's gift, he had his right hand holding his left arm at the elbow, his right arm crossed over his torso. He looked – normal. Calix had never looked normal. He'd never looked unsure. He'd always been a force of nature.

Her eyes narrowed and she looked closer. Calix had always been handsome; it was part of his arrogance. He had a strong, thick jaw; the foundation of a hard, almost square face. The jaw she was looking at was hollow, though, not strong and firm. Calix's nose had always been straight and firm and strong – but now, it wasn't. His nose looked thick and swollen. His eyes had always been icy blue, piercing straight to your soul and judging you unworthy; now, though, they looked lost and confused. The light she'd always seen in his eyes was faded and dull. With a start, she realized the left side of his face was a slightly swollen mass of yellows and greens with the hint of a new, deep cut sewn together. It also looked like his lips were swollen and even cut in a few places. Even his sandy brown hair was different; it was longer than she could ever remember it being and it was dirty and limp. At least the clothes were the same; as usual, he was dressed in dark sweats. He'd always dressed in big, bulky clothing. She never understood why.

"You wouldn't look so good either if you'd had a house fall on you," the young man in front of her chuckled wryly but his voice was reedy and thin.

The chuckle, though, was enough to re-ignite her simmering anger. How dare he laugh! He had no right to laugh; not anymore. Not after what he'd done to Rico.

She took two steps toward him and pulled the Glock out of her bag. She wasn't a good shot; Rico had never wanted her to handle guns. He always said that if any violence ever needed to be done, he would do it. He wanted to keep her away from his other life; wanted to keep her pure and innocent.

She had been born and raised in Southwest Detroit, though; just how innocent did he think she was? She'd handled a gun before, of course. It hadn't been often and she was out of practice, but her father had taken her to the gun range when she was 10. He wanted his daughter to be able to protect herself from all the evil in the world.

She stood there, gun raised, and brought her off hand to firmly grasp the base of the grip; to steady the weapon just like her father had taught her. She might not be good with a gun but she was no more than a meter or two away; she knew she wouldn't miss.

"So, you've come to kill me." The boy's voice had changed. It had gone cold and lifeless, just like his eyes. His arm dropped down to his side and he straightened just a bit. "Who sent you? Why?"

Unbidden, tears started streaming down her face. "You killed Rico," her voice would only come as a whisper at first but a whisper wasn't enough. "YOU KILLED MY HUSBAND!"

"I..." Calix began but she would not let him try to talk his way out. She would not let him beg. She had come here for one thing and one thing only. She pulled the trigger twice, aiming for center mass, determined to kill him just like he had killed Rico. The joy and satisfaction she felt as she saw him falling back, into the darkness, was indescribable.

She moved forward slowly, following his body. She wanted to stand over him, to kick and spit on him. She wanted to curse him so his soul would burn in hell for all eternity. She snarled as she moved, her face an impossible mask of joy and loss.

She was so intent on following his dead body, she never saw him come at her from the right doorway. She felt a sharp pain in her right hand, knocking the gun away, and then she was wrapped from behind, one of his arms laying across the side of her head and the other across her throat, holding her tight. She struggled and kicked; she was sure she made contact a few times – she heard him cry out and moan – but he never let go. After a few minutes, the darkness came for her.

Calix sat, looking at the woman lying in his bed. She was beautiful, of that there could be no doubt. Rico's girlfriends had always been beautiful but this one, Rico's wife, was probably the most beautiful of them all; at least, on the outside. Long, dark, almost-black hair with light blonde highlights that she kept braided over her shoulder. Thin, angled face that still managed to look soft and inviting, especially in repose. A simple, majestic nose that might have been just a little too long for her face but got lost when she turned her smoldering brown eyes on you. She had just the right curves up top and, though he couldn't see it now, he remembered always being a little envious of Rico when he saw her from behind.

She ruined it when she opened her mouth, though. She was spoiled and thought she should always get her way. She was abrasive and abusive to those who she felt were beneath her – which was, as near as Calix could tell, everyone. Unless, of course, she needed something from you; then she could be so charming that you almost forgot how mean, arrogant and rude she was at other times. Almost.

Or, at least, Calix was not able to forget. As he watched other men and women drooling while doing her bidding, the young man had to laugh. Alicia certainly had a way about her; she always seemed to get what she wanted. It was one of the reasons Calix avoided her like the plague.

And she had shot him. Twice. He was lucky that he had taken to wearing his armor underneath his clothes. The world was a very dangerous place for him right now; there were far too many people wanting him dead. Including, it seemed, his cousin's widow.

He grimaced at the memory. Rico was dead. He still hadn't been able to adjust; he still had nightmares about failing the older man. Rico wasn't his only cousin, of course. He really hadn't been his only relative. He'd just been the only relative he talked to; the only relative who seemed to care. In this world with the coming Sa'arm and the Confederacy and the crazy CAP system, it seemed more than ever that everyone was only out for themselves.

Except for Rico. And now he was gone.

He leaned back in his chair and winced, his hand moving up to his side to feel at his cracked ribs. He'd actually been incredibly lucky; the blast in the house had knocked him through a door and against the outside wall. The second explosion had brought most of the upstairs down on him; the debris, though, shielded him from the worst of the fire.

He had been extremely cautious but there had been no warning; he'd seen no sign. He still wasn't sure what had set off the explosives – he couldn't recall any trip lines, motion sensors or anything. The light in the dining room was on but he saw no one; maybe that should have been the first clue.

Of course, his armor was what kept him alive. It distributed the force of the original blast across his body – but that just meant his body became one giant bruise. The blasts – he seemed to recall two, but he wasn't certain – were one thing; those were just kinetic energy in a large field (with flying debris). The suit could handle that – just not well. The real problem was having the ceiling collapse. The armor wasn't designed to handle falling debris; without any kind of exoskeleton, there was only so much it could do about weight falling on him.

He was pretty sure he was unconscious for a time. He sort of remembered waking up with half a wall on his torso and a big beam half on his head. He was thankful the beam hadn't fallen on his head completely; it would have crushed his skull like a grape. As it was, he could barely move. His body hurt, the pressure on his chest was enormous, his right arm was stuck under his body and his left was stuck under the remainder of the wall that lay on top of him. He seemed to have blank spots at that point, places where he might have blacked out.

He recalled thinking that he might have used up the last of his luck; it had certainly been going south on him lately. First the Confederacy extraction while he was at GlobalTech, then Rico getting killed and now the house blowing up. He was starting to wonder if someone up there was trying to tell him something.

Up there. The thought crossed his mind as he lay there. He was relatively certain the Confederacy had bugged his suit; he certainly would have if the tables were turned. They probably knew about the explosion; probably knew that he was in trouble. He chuckled as he realized that there not being a rescue party picking through the rubble was likely a testament to his place in the order of things, 8.4 score or not ... but the chuckle turned into a cough. And he couldn't be positive but he thought he tasted blood. And that fire seemed to be getting closer.

"Listen," he said and was surprised at the dull rattle of his voice. "I know you can hear me. I know you bugged the suit. You had to have. I understand..." he coughed again. Definitely blood. "I understand that I'm on my own; I got myself into this and I need to get myself out of it. I just ... I want your word that if I die – here or anywhere – you'll grab my tech – ALL of my tech; what I've got here and what's back at my lab – and make sure none of the gangs get it. I don't want to go to my death wondering if I'm going to be the cause of Detroit going to hell with me."

He'd done his best. He hoped that someone would get the message before anything dangerous could get out. He didn't expect an answer; they were likely listening or recording.

So he was shocked as hell when the suit responded with a single word. "Agreed."

The implications of that one word were more than a little scary. He didn't mind the Confederacy tracking him – but paying that degree of attention? It didn't make sense – and Calix hated having a puzzle he had not yet solved.

Still, he had bigger fish to fry. He compartmented the inconsistency. He wouldn't have to worry about the conundrum if he didn't get out of there soon.

Getting his head out was actually rather easy; he just bent at the neck. The beam lying on his head was actually braced against the partially collapsed outer wall. It was the fully collapsed wall on his torso that really had him worried. It felt like it was slowly crushing him.

In the end, he had managed to rock himself out from under it. It set him free – but he had other problems. He was having a hard time breathing – and he was coughing; he was rather sure he was coughing up blood.

The problem was that someone had very deliberately tried to kill him; he couldn't go to a hospital and chance letting them find him and finish the job. He also couldn't go to the doctor that the Cholos paid under the table for emergencies just like this one. The Cholos wanted him dead – and they needed to think he was dead, at least until he healed up a bit. He doubted he could take a marshmallow in a fight just then.

He was all set to leave when the mystery of the shadow on the second floor reared its head. Someone could still be alive and hurt in here. All he really wanted to do was head out and find a doctor – but he couldn't let someone die. Whoever it was wasn't likely to be complicit in this; otherwise, they would have left. He spent the next few minutes crawling through the burning house, looking for anyone that might have survived – but he didn't find anyone. He tried using the thermal vision in the suit but that was next to useless. Finally, he had had to leave when he heard the sirens; it would definitely not help to be caught here. Besides, he could barely walk; if he waited any longer, he would not have been able to get away.

It had been a long, slow journey back to the house. In the end, he'd had to take a chance and ride the motorcycle to the hospital down in Wyandotte. He lied and told them he'd fallen down a set of stairs. He could tell they didn't believe him; but having a crushed chest wasn't something they could really take to the police.

So, they'd fixed up 'Alex Reynolds' – the name on his fake ID – gave him some prescriptions and sent him on his way. After he paid them, of course. 'Alex Reynolds' didn't have insurance.

He'd wound up with three cracked ribs on his right side, 4 on his left, a broken nose, sprained wrist and a concussion. The blood he coughed up appeared to be the re-opening of the wound in his cheek, luckily enough. They wanted to keep him over-night, but he refused. He didn't think the Cholos knew about his 'Alex Reynolds' ID but he didn't want to take the chance.

The figure on the bed pulled him from his recollections. She was moving, starting to wake up.

"Easy now," he said quietly. "You're going to have a bit of headache."

"What'd you do to me?" Alicia spat.

"Sleeper hold," he replied simply. Then he rolled his eyes and elaborated. Might as well get her questions out of the way so he could get to his own. "It's a choke hold that cuts off the oxygen to your brain. It was the only thing I could think of to put you out without hurting the baby. It shouldn't cause any damage though you probably have a bad headache right now."

"Yeah?" she challenged. "Well, baby or no baby, I'm going to get up and kick your fucking ass you ... you ... you murderer!" The young woman tried to sit up only to find that her hands and feet were tied to the bed. "Let me go, you fucking dickhead!"

"I don't think so," Cal replied softly. He didn't care for Alicia, her mercurial nature and arrogance gave him headaches, but he had a promise to keep; he promised to get Alicia and Amelia off-planet. It was the last thing Rico had asked of him and he'd do everything in his power to make it happen. "I don't want to hurt you and I certainly don't want you to hurt me. So how about we start off by you telling me who told you I killed Rico."

"No, motherfucker!" Alicia screamed, pulling at the ropes holding her arms and legs. Despite herself, the tears started rolling down her cheeks. "Let me fucking go so I can kill you, motherfucker! Help! Someone help me!!"

"If you keep that up, I'm going to have to gag you for a while," Calix replied calmly. "I don't want to – but I will. I don't think anyone will be able to hear you but I can't take that chance."

Alicia continued screaming, alternating between cursing at Calix and calling for help. With a sorrowful sigh, Calix stood up and grabbed a long clean cloth, spending a second to tie a knot in roughly the middle. As Calix tried to wrap the gag around Alicia's head, the girl tried desperately to bite him. In exasperation, Calix finally just pinched her nose and shoved the knot into her mouth when it opened. She tried to spit it out (and bite his fingers) but he ended up getting it tied tightly just behind her ear. When he was satisfied she would be relatively quiet, he moved over to his workbench where he was examining the pod thruster pieces.

Alicia yanked and pulled at the bonds holding her but the bastard had tied her tight. She wasn't doing much anymore except ripping the skin around her arms and ankles. She tried bouncing on the bed, hoping it might break or come loose but nothing seemed to work.

She couldn't believe she hadn't killed him. What did she have to do? How could she live with herself knowing that she could not avenge herself on the man who'd taken her husband from her? She needed him dead. She needed to show what happened when anyone hurt her.

She should have just hired someone – or told the Cholos where the bastard was. She couldn't do either, though; this was personal. He had to suffer and die for how she had suffered. It had to be by her hand so that he would know that she was better than him.

Slowly, she settled down. This couldn't be good for the baby – and the baby was all she had left of her Rico. Well, Amelia and the baby. She couldn't lose it as well.

She'd play possum. She'd just lie here quietly and wait for her opening. Eventually, he would make a mistake. Eventually, he would turn his head at just the wrong moment – and then, she would kill him. Only now, she'd kill him slowly. She'd tie him up like he had her tied up and start cutting pieces off of him. Maybe she'd just make a eunuch of him but let him live; she couldn't help the smile that came to her face as she thought of it.

Cal looked over at the sudden lack of noise; his eyes narrowed as he took in the still form on his bed. It was too soon. Alicia shouldn't have given up this soon. She wouldn't cede her control this quickly or this easily. She needed to be at the center of everything; she would not allow herself to give that up and come to terms with her predicament so quickly.