Nemesis Games

He swallowed again, grimacing at the ache. His hand terminal beeped, and he looked up at the flight board that dominated the station’s public space. Bright yellow letters against black, a font designed for legibility over beauty. His long-haul flight to Luna was confirmed for a launch window in three hours. He tapped on his terminal’s screen to let the automated system know he’d be on board when it left, and walked off looking for something to kill three hours.

There was a bar by the gate. So that was easy.

He didn’t want to get drunk and miss his flight, so he stuck to beer, drinking slowly and methodically and waving at the bartender as he approached the bottom of one glass so that the next was waiting when he finished. He was aiming for fuzzy and relaxed, and he knew exactly how to get there in the shortest possible time.

The bar didn’t offer much in the way of entertainments or distractions, so he could focus on the glass, the bartender, the next drink. The lump in his throat thickened with each swallow. He ignored it. The other patrons in the bar were quiet, reading hand terminals or whispering in small groups as they drank. Everyone on the way to somewhere else. This place wasn’t a destination; it was something you bumped into in your travels, accidental and forgettable.

Lydia was dead.

He’d spent twenty years thinking about her. The tattoo of her face over his heart was some of that, of course. Every look in a mirror without his shirt on was a reminder. But beyond that, every day had choices in it. And every choice he made started with the little voice in his head asking what Lydia would want him to do. When he’d received the message from Erich, he realized he hadn’t seen or spoken to her in over two decades. That meant she was twenty years older than when he’d left. How old had she been then? He could remember the gray in her hair, the lines around her eyes and mouth. Older than him. But he’d been fifteen, and “older than him” had been a wide space most people fell into.

And now she was dead.

Maybe someone twenty years older than the woman he remembered was old enough to die of natural causes. Maybe she’d died in a hospital, or her own bed, warm and comfortable and surrounded by friends. Maybe she’d had a cat sleeping on her feet. Amos hoped that was true. Because if it wasn’t – if it was anything other than natural causes – he was going to kill every single person even remotely involved. He examined the idea in his mind, rotating it this way and that, waiting to see if Lydia stopped him. He took another long swallow of beer and burned his throat. He really hoped he wasn’t getting sick.

You’re not sick, Lydia’s voice said in his mind, you’re sad. Grieving. The lump in your throat. The hollow space behind your sternum. The empty feeling in your stomach no matter how much beer you put there. That’s grief.

“Huh,” Amos said out loud.

“Need something, buddy?” the bartender asked with professional disinterest.

“Another,” Amos said, pointing at the half-full beer he still had.

You don’t process grief well, another voice said. Holden, this time. That was the truth. That’s why Amos trusted the captain. When he said something, it was because he believed it. No need to analyze it or figure out what he really meant by it. Even when the captain fucked up, he was acting in good faith. Amos hadn’t met many people like that.

The only really strong emotion Amos had felt in longer than he could remember was anger. That was always there, waiting for him. Processing his grief that way was simple and direct. He understood it. The man sitting a few stools away at the bar had the rough, rawboned look of a rock jock. He’d been nursing the same beer for an hour. Every time Amos ordered another, the man shot him a glance that was half annoyance, half envy. Coveting his apparently bottomless credit account. It would be so easy. Say something to him, cutting and loud, put him in a position where backing down embarrassed him in front of everyone. The poor fucker would feel obligated to take the bait, and then Amos would be free to process his grief all over the guy. Some time in stir might even be a nice way to unwind.

That guy didn’t kill Lydia, Holden’s voice said. But maybe someone else did, Amos thought. And I need to find out.

“Need to cash out here, amigo,” Amos said to the bartender, waving his hand terminal at him. He pointed at the rock jock. “Put that guy’s next two on my tab.”

The rock jock frowned, looking for the insult, but when he couldn’t find it he said, “Thanks, brother.”

“Anytime, hermano. You be safe out there.”

“Sa sa,” the jock said, finishing off his beer and reaching for one of the two Amos had just bought. “Do the same, sabe dui?”