overthrow

I glanced at my phone one last time. I'd given her enough time. Angry, I looked at the sky and lit a cigarette. What have I done? This job, these people. Angry as hell, I tossed my cigarette into a puddle of rain, snow, mud, and who knows what else.

I die when I see weather like this. It's December. Transporters fly across the sky. Special helicopters try to disperse the clouds. Cold. Rain and snow fall as if the weather can't make up its mind. Everything clings to my clothes, I'm soaked and frozen, I feel my pant legs stiffen. I light another cigarette. I wait under the transit awning, which offers no protection from anything anyway. Above it hangs a half-destroyed, light-green and orange billboard: "Main Station of Novaya Zemlya – Hotel Services – Toilet." I wouldn't want to use either of them, not an expensive one. I finish my cigarette and go in. The room is small, just as I expected. Stairs lead upstairs. With some damning irony that no one quite understands, a red carpet is spread across the stairs. The entire Nativity scene is crowned by an artificial tree at the top. The virtual image undulates a bit, but at least it's three-dimensional, indicating some kind of success. I even delude myself into thinking this isn't just another dive. After a moment, the image transforms into an old man with a long gray beard, chattering about Christmas. Oh yes, December. My illusions about the place are dissipating, just like the image itself. Across from me is a small office. I stand for a moment, examining the cheap wood paneling. The office door opens a crack. I see a monitor through the gap, and within it, my silhouette. I also see the turmoil outside. I enter, cursing under my breath. Everything in the small room is white. The equipment, the fan, even the gravity-control devices, though those are usually black. An elderly man sits on a swivel chair. I look at him and realize he's a local. I force a smile and look at the empty chair, which surprisingly fits in this room.

"Please sit down, Commissioner."

I'm surprised he addresses me across the step and I sit down. I wonder if I can smoke, I know I can't.

"I came from Poland to make money here on New Earth." He says with disarming sincerity and sets up the strange device, which after a moment begins to bubble.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?" He continues without getting up. Everything is within reach, so he simply swivels around in the pristine white chair. I notice he has no legs. His statement reeks of bribery. I smile wryly.

"He doesn't drink on duty," I say, looking around. The interior isn't modern, and I hear the landowner reply.

"So, tea.

I don't know why they assume that if I don't drink, I can't drink coffee immediately. I don't say anything. I don't have to; the Pole keeps talking.

"I founded this little hotel and that's how it's going. But this isn't a quiet neighborhood; I've asked for reinforcements several times. No one has moved." He muttered, his voice quieter, then finished louder. "I haven't received a response on that matter." I pull out a pack of cigarettes, looking at him. From what I understand, he took care of his own security. Illegally. But he had good security. The Pole sees me lighting a cigarette and automatically turns on the fan. Now he's silent, the unbearable wait interrupted only by a strange device. Finally, I hear a loud pop. He jumps in his chair, looking around anxiously. It sounded like a laser lance being cocked. The Pole takes the device and pours boiling water into glasses. They're ordinary glasses, dirty and unwashed; mine has someone's lipstick on it. Finally, I decide to speak up. There are many cases like these; I'm not spending all day here sipping tea with a legless landowner.

"On October 16th of this year, at your hotel, a girl was robbed and severely beaten.

" "A Venusian woman,"

he mutters, pushing the tea towards me. I look at him, take out my plasma notebook. I punch in the access code, and the case papers appear. True, a Venusian woman.

"What do you know?" I ask, realizing I'm talking to nothing.

"I told the police what I know, and it's not much; I wasn't here." He says, sipping his tea and smiling disarmingly. That bastard is pleased with this.

"Don't you have any suspicions?" I ask again. I look him in the eye. I can see he knows a great deal. I know he won't say anything.

"I can't help you, but the toilet lady, Ms. Grażyna, can." He drawls the word "ma'am." I want to spit. That woman will give me some bullshit he's made up. They fell for it, and I should too. I sip the tea; it's awful. It tastes like metal, some filthy stuff, what they call tea, plus dishwashing liquid. At least I hope what he feels under his tongue is dishwashing liquid.

"Sir..." I look at my notes. "Kowalski." The man responds by straightening up in his chair and sipping his tea, sizing me up. He already knows he has to come up with some serious bullshit. "Where were you then?"

"I already told you, I was in the City of the Archangel Gabriel."

I look at him doubtfully.

"Why?" He asks another dry question. What was such a guy doing in a city of churches?

"It's the anniversary of the election of the greatest Pole as pope, the anniversary of John Paul II the Great."

I think for a moment before the term comes to mind. I remember. My grandmother had a picture of him next to Jesus and Mary. She worshiped him like God. Personally, I had the same attitude toward religion as the rest of the planet. I didn't believe. I feel the bullshit hitting me. I can't do anything. I look at the cameras. Resigned, I stand up, turning off the documents and hiding them in my coat. I drop the unfinished cigarette butt into the glass of tea I've already sipped.

"I'll go talk to Mrs. Grażyna, where is she?"

The Pole stares as if hypnotized by a cigarette in his tea.

"In the restrooms," he mutters.

I step into the hallway. A woman in a coat passes me. She's so tightly wrapped up that I can't see her face. She reeks of dirt. She's only just arrived. She disappears into the office for a moment, then emerges. From beneath her hood, she gives me a questioning look and climbs the stairs. I follow her, watching her curves undulate beneath her long coat, imagining what might be beneath. We pass a rippling painting, which this time transforms into a house. The woman sneezes. I look at her. I wonder what her face looks like, what she's doing there. A narrow hallway leads from the painting, and at the end is a door. I can already smell the toilets. It's unbearable. A man passes us in the hallway. He looks at the woman, astonished. Her confidence falters. We enter the doorway. There's one wider room, then a longer one. Next to the wider one is a small room marked "WOMEN'S." I continue, leaving my companion to face a dilemma. I see the door is closed. In the second room, the longer one, is a row of toilets, all men's. They all reek. Directly opposite, there's a row of doors with numbers. Suddenly, I hear footsteps, and I turn around. A Martian woman enters the room, her red face contrasting with her black coat and high heels. She gives me a disinterested look and opens one of the doors, marked with a number. She doesn't go in, but I hear her say in fluent Martian, "What are you still doing in this brothel? You were supposed to be up long ago; we're leaving in two hours." I hear someone inside trying to force out a reply, but she doesn't listen. She closes the door. She looks at me and opens the next door, already with her keys, muttering, "Fuck," somewhere in her shoulder. I tear my eyes away from the just-closed door and look at the line of men in front of the toilets. They fell silent when I entered, now looking at me from under their winter hats. A good number are Earthlings. There are also a lot of Venusians here, a few Martians. One is from Jovia. He looks at me with his misty eyes, a plasma hand nervously touching his belt. He realizes what he might have under his jacket. If I weren't here on another matter, I would take a closer look. I look away, searching for the woman I entered with. She seems to have already entered. I approach the door, and indeed, she has. An elderly woman mopping the floor, seeing me, stands up.

"Are you here?" she asks, revealing a less-than-full set of teeth.

"The toilet lady? Mrs. Grażyna?" I ask, glancing at the door. The smell of earth comes to mind. I wonder why she came here.

"Oh, yes," he says, taking a drag. He puts down the broom. "Well, come on, my love, let's talk, we could smoke a cigarette."

"I'm the commissioner, Jack Rout.

" "Grażyna Jurgielewiczowa, everyone calls me 'Old Mickey.'"

Grandma lights a cigarette and leans against the broom. She laughs, looking at me. She has a strange laugh. I detect a strange accent in her, different from the legless head of the entire institution.

"Do you know something?" I ask.

"I know something," she replies, swinging. The door opens. A woman steps out. Her hood is pulled back. I see her face. Two of the largest brown eyes I've ever seen look at me. Her face is pale, her black hair braided upwards, giving her a serious air. Her lips are chapped, without lipstick. Our eyes meet. I see fear, and I sense it in the stranger's demeanor. She washes her hands hastily, not even drying them. She pretends not to see us. It's difficult. My silhouette is reflected in the dirty mirror. She sees me staring at her. She avoids my gaze and walks away. From the way she acts and looks, I realize I know her by smell. I don't. What a shame. I shift my gaze from her to the old woman.

"You told the police everything she knew.

" "Sure..." she says, taking a drag.

"Good." I reply and leave. I run outside, hoping the stranger is still at the station. She is. She's sitting at one of the stops, nervously checking her watch. Time is money. I slow my pace, zip up my jacket. I approach her, and then read the transport schedule. From this stop, transports only depart inland. To the mines. What could possibly be drawing a woman to the mines? The woman glances at me from under her hood. Then looks straight ahead again.

"It's terribly cold today." I toss it aside. The woman nods. Her mysteriousness overwhelms me. I don't know what's happening to me. I sense something in the air. Women look at me and wonder what the chances are that I'll notice them. I don't kid myself that beauty doesn't help me. I'm also aware of her. The woman, however, doesn't feel the same way about me. I look at her again with interest. She glances at me from her hat. The wind has blown stronger. It's brought new scents. Jasmine and excitement. I smile.

"You're coming from a long way," I say, unceremoniously sitting down next to her. I seize the moment and look into her eyes. I see the same fear, and question.

"I do. Here on the new earth, there are also new people." I add sarcastically, realizing I'm calling myself a mutant. Yes. The new earth was created for mutants, outcasts of the old society, and now it's a land flowing with milk and honey. Everyone flocks here. The woman didn't move. She stiffened slightly, straightening up. She burrowed deeper into her black cloak. Her movement caused a new wave of scents from the old earth; I smelled blood. My organs quivered. This scent overpowered the other scents. I glanced at my companion. She was still sitting, trembling. I knew it wasn't from the cold, and since I smelled blood, I could guess why.

"Where are you going?" I asked, leaning back. I looked after her. Beside her stood a small leather suitcase. I realized it was some state-of-the-art technological marvel, its bindings deceptively similar to those of old suitcases. She glanced at me from under her hood. I'd seen that expression many times. She was wondering what I was doing here, why I was asking so many questions, who I was. My questions were completely out of her hands. I glared at her insolently. The woman looked straight ahead, then handed me a piece of paper. "To the central mines. I'm mute, sorry." I stared at the paper, entranced. Good. The bus arrived. The woman stood up. I smelled water. Blood. A man. Fear. A crowd of people, an airport, a flight, cheap cigarettes. The strong scent of a man, as if she were a man herself, and her scent. The scent of sex and something else... the stench of blood. The bus pulled away.

I looked up at the sky. It was sleet. It was December. I lit another cigarette, wrapped myself in a jacket, and entered the station hotel. The office was white. I sat at the desk, looking at the Pole. After a moment, I drew my pistol and fired at the cameras. I got what I wanted. I left, stubbing out my cigarette on the white table, stained with blood. As I left, the image wavered; I didn't see the old man with the gray beard; I saw the biggest brown eyes, I smelled blood. The Pole's blood had a different scent. I could smell a woman's blood on the woman—hers or someone else's? The scent of a man.

It was steamy. The bar reeked of alcohol, sweat, and creatures having sex. I went in because it was the only bar in the area. I was in civilian clothes. I sat behind the counter. The bartender approached me.

"Hi, Jack."

I nodded, holding out money.

"It's Valentine's Day, Jack, sniff out some chick." He winked at me, touching the bottom of my clean glass. It was covered in frost. Perfectly chilled. He's gay. Only they and the women remember such holidays. To make matters worse, they don't let normal guys forget it. My wife threw a pot at me as I was leaving. Now I was drinking vodka, looking at the crowded bar. The middle mines, a gathering of thugs and thugs. All hungry, hungry for money and fame. Me too. I was assigned to security. After an incident with a certain Pole. Well, my nerves were frayed. He had no legs; missing a part wasn't news to him. That's how I explained it when doctors tried unsuccessfully to reattach his shattered arm. I ended up here because I was right. He was the one who ordered the Venusian woman to be robbed and almost killed. I've been working here for a month, but Niko, the bartender, I've known practically since childhood. He's the one who got me a job here too. My wife agreed. Wiola is an accountant. She doesn't understand my business, and that's fine. She doesn't understand why she acts the way she does. I don't demand that of her. We have a son. I demand that little Gabriel be a good child.

Suddenly, the bar darkened, and a woman appeared on stage. Appeared—that's not the word. She emerged. With a slow movement of her hand, she touched the microphone and lifted her eyelids. She had large brown eyes. I'd only seen eyes that size once before. After a moment, she began to sing. I watched her, enchanted, listening to the singing. The words came to mind... "To the middle mines. I'm mute, sorry." I waited, finishing the last cigarette in my pack. Niko threw a new pack, smiling. I looked at her. He understood. He approached, wiping down the table.

"She's been working here since December. She's from the earth. They call her Almette.

" "Nice name," I reply.

"For a prostitute." I hear, from over the counter. Niko grimaces. "She's fresh, so she's in demand; later she'll be like those over there."

I follow his gaze. There are indeed women sitting against the wall, some of them Martians. Earthlings are rare, but they do exist; they're safer than those from New Earth. There are almost none of them. Venusians don't exist, but that's understandable; they have their own business on their home planet. I light another cigarette.

"How's Wiola?" he asks, offering me another glass with the same expression he used to toss me the pack. On the house. I smile. I take the glass and stare at him for a long time.

"Niko?" The bartender looks at me intently, a smile never leaving his face. "Just try it, and I'll stick my gun in your anus and pull it out down your throat."

The bartender's seriousness faded. He's calmed down.

"I asked how Wiola is doing." He says defiantly.

"Nothing. I told you we had a child. A cunning boy." At these words, I see something change inside him. He looks at the glass, giving the impression of someone who's made a mistake. Almette raises her voice, and I tear my gaze away from the frustrated bartender. When I return to him, he's handing a glass to two Martians. They glance my way and raise their glasses. I smile politely. We're actually drinking at the same table. Niko steps closer. I

nod to him. "Make me an appointment," I mutter, watching the flames engulf the tobacco at the end of the cigarette.

"Are you crazy?" Niko looks at me indignantly. "Desperate. Why should you pay? You're not lacking anything.

He says, looking at my zipper. I approach the bar and grab him by the tailcoat, lifting it slightly. This cools him down, and he raises his arms. I let go, and he almost hits the ground. He quickly stands, buys me a drink, tells me it's on the house, and walks away. The girl finishes singing, and a moment later Niko disappears. I wait, ready to go to the dressing room any minute. I don't have to leave. She moves slowly, notices me, but doesn't recognize me. He smiles and sits very close. I smell her perfume. Jasmine, earthy. Her brown, wavy hair falls over her tanned shoulders. The heavy green makeup highlights what she's wearing. She has very little. A sequined bra and a sheer skirt, ankle bracelets that make a delicate tinkle as she walks. Now I hear her feet tapping on the chair; she sits down, looking into my eyes.

"Will you buy me something, handsome?" she asks, smoothing her hair with her hand. She tilts her neck back so I can see her shape and the small ribbon around it. My throat goes dry. She's gorgeous. I can't smell blood. I can smell sweat. Perfume, her apartment. She lives near the mine. I can smell that specific scent of ore and coal. Today she was also at the bakery and some cheap restaurant; she didn't drink anything, but she smoked marijuana. I can see it in her eyes, too. The first time I saw her, I didn't smell drugs. I smelled death, fear, escape. Without a word, I order a drink. I look at her, inhale her scent, wanting to get to know her. She leans even closer. Then I smell a man. I bury my face in her hair and smell it more clearly. The familiar, sweet scent of a man. I pull her closer. She's disoriented. I smell two men and jasmine. After a moment, however, she hugs me. She still doesn't recognize me. I feel indignation, but the scent of a man… I drink it in greedily, I know him. The girl, sensing my nervousness, gently pushes me away. She finishes her drink and takes my hand. Her small hand disappears in my large paw. She leads me through the bar. I gaze at her body. It gently sways to the rhythm of the waves of a fabric that I feel is made of moonlight, and she is the goddess of the moon. A fairy from the bedtime stories my mother used to read to me. I follow her, uncomprehending. My head is buzzing, the scents that reach me intoxicate me. The smell of marijuana. We climb the stairs; it's narrow. Beyond lies a hallway. Red and narrow. It reeks of bodies, sweaty bodies, and sex. It's sweet and hazy. I can't breathe. I cough as she opens the door and pushes me inside. It smells of jasmine in here; it's her boudoir. I struggle to hold back a cough, inhaling the scent. There wasn't a man here. But I can still smell it. Where, then, were they doing this? I recover enough to look around the room. It's dimly lit. Heavy curtains hang from the ceiling, dividing the room into several smaller ones. The woman guesses her way perfectly through the maze of luxurious garlands made of expensive fabrics and pillows. She lets go of my hand and pours the alcohol into glasses. We stand before a crystal table. Everything is red, Valentine's Day. She hands me the glass and looks into my eyes. I take it hesitantly. I can't tear my eyes away from her. She steps closer, wraps her arms around my neck, and kisses her lips. Her kiss tastes of alcohol, juice, marijuana, and him. I can smell his scent. She kisses her back hungrily. I press against her. With difficulty, she manages to stop me and force the glass of alcohol into her. I drink it down and lunge at her. I throw her onto the bed. She's terrified. I'm aroused, I don't understand what's happening, but I can't stop it. The world is spinning. I understand it's a drug, where from? I think she wants to break free. I feel my head spinning. This alcohol… yet I touch her skin, lower my hand behind her stomach, pressing against it to feel how fast she breathes. I spread my legs.

"I want you to be mine today. I don't care what you did on Earth," I wheeze, grabbing her hands as they wander around my zipper. My head spins, the image swirling before my eyes. I smell a thousand scents and recognize the scent of a man. Niko. It doesn't matter. I smell another scent; I remember him from the station. It's a man. I deduce he's alive. Who, then, died? I crush her with my body; she seems to be screaming. I reach out to cover her mouth, ripping off my bra. The sequins make a tinkling sound like bells; I hear the bells constantly; she seems to be kicking. Pain overwhelms me. I smell Niko strongly. Behind me.

The gutter reeks of the city, people, and beings from other planets. I smell a dying rat somewhere in the distance. Its dead body releases a stench as if it were right under my nose. The damp puddle my face is buried in isn't water at all. Someone has defecated here. I struggle to get up. I feel my ribs bruised. I can barely move. I start to vomit. Suddenly, a kick reminds me I'm not alone. Someone twists my arms painfully and cuffs me from behind. I look at the puddles of piss, I feel like vomiting again, I smell Niko and jasmine. Someone lifts my head by the hair and hits me with the edge of a gun. Two of my teeth are missing. I spit blood and throw up. Someone lets go of me. I hit my face against the pavement. The female dog has slipped a muscle relaxant into the alcohol. I feel warm urine sloshing down my pant legs. It's my urine. All my orifices are open, and I'm limp as a sponge. Now Niko can shove whatever he wants up my ass, and all I can do is drool. Someone lifts my head and puts on a black blindfold. Someone else kicks me in the kidneys. The pain rips through my body, but I know it's nothing. The real pain will begin when the drug wears off. Two men smelling of sweat and cheap deodorant throw me into the car. I hit the floor. It reeks of coal, ore, and mud. It's a mine car. When I start the engine, I smell gasoline. Urine is running down my pants again, the scent is strong. I can't smell Almette or Nik. Suddenly, someone climbs down beside me. I feel the floor shift, I smell jasmine and something clean. I hear something crack, and the smell of a sleeping pill spreads. I want to move. The smell is getting closer, I try to say something, but I can't through the constant saliva. A cold needle sinks into my neck. For a moment, I smell jasmine, her hair on my cheek, then nothing.

I wake up in a dark room, chained to a chair. It's quiet and cold. I'm wearing clean clothes, washed, and all. I'm still blindfolded, but the smells tell me I'm in a warehouse. It smells like a mine. Someone has undressed me and taken all my toys. This doesn't bode well. I'm wearing a flame-retardant miner's suit. I can smell it, new, but worn by someone who died. I can still smell blood and his urine, worn out by the laundry. I'm surprised they washed a dead man's suit especially for me. It's bad. I'm still blindfolded. I feel excruciating pain. The medication has stopped working. The blood in my mouth has dried. My lips are parched. I want to smoke. I smell the depths of the earth. A cold wind has blown through the room, bringing the scent of the shore. I'm in one of the mines, near some water, salty. I can hear and smell the sea, the sharp smell of fish. Lamps burning in the distance. I can smell the hovercraft. There's only one mine near this area – the New Tokyo Mine. This is where the bomb exploded, wiping out half the yellow-collar district. I can smell the breach. Someone's smoking a cigarette in the harbor, somewhere farther on, carp is roasting on a fire, I can smell tea and alcohol, lots of incense. To the east, a brothel. To the west, I turn my head, the sea. From there, silence, I can smell two people. Closer to me. I concentrate and smell jasmine. When I concentrate, I even hear him breathing steadily. He's behind a wall. I can smell asbestos. A radioactive material, unused in the old Earth. Still in demand in the new. Cheap and relatively comfortable. Suddenly, I smell gasoline and hear a car. Through the exhaust, I smell gunpowder and Niko. Two men are sitting with him, both Martians, their red bodies giving off a peculiar odor. The car stops in front of the mine. The door opens and Niko enters. He smells jasmine. Treacherous scumbag, probably not even gay. He brutally unties my eyes.

"What are you doing?" I hear a shout behind me, and the smell of jasmine fills the room.

"He's a mutant. He has an extraordinary sense of smell. That's why he's a cop, a tracking dog, right Jack?" He leans over me and smiles. "You've known who did this to you for a long time, Jack, you just don't quite know why yet, do you? You probably even know where you are, right?"

The Martians are standing behind me, glaring at me. Niko steps closer and lifts my head. I look at him and spit, right in the face. He gets a punch in the eye. I can't see anything for a moment, I lower my head, trying to control the shock and dizziness. I hear the Martians approaching, appalled.

"We won't take damaged goods."

I hear them, and almost scream. The goods. Almette steps closer.

"He knows something."

"We'll find out if he knows or smells it, bitch." Niko spits and walks up behind the chair. I look up at him.

"You'll pay for this, gay."

I hear the bartender's hands tighten on his gun. He feels the impact. It knocks me off my chair. I start coughing. My lungs ache, I can't breathe, sand and dust fill my nose and mouth, mixing with my saliva. Niko runs up to me and starts kicking me. The Martians pull him away. One of them takes him aside, explaining something to him. The other approaches me. He writhes on the floor in pain, trying to catch his breath and stand. He grabs me by my clothes and lifts me. He recognizes him. At the bar, he raised a glass at me. I give Niko a murderous look. He doesn't see it. He argues fiercely with the other Martian. The one holding me finally shouts.

"Before you massacre him, we'll see if he's fit." He lisps in unison and looks at me with those fishy eyes of his. He forces me to my knees, nearly breaking my knee. I fall into the sand and dust. His buddy approaches from ahead. The bastards are strong, I can't move. One of them inserts a metal tube into my nose.

"Don't move, mutant, or they'll pierce your brain and you'll spend the rest of your life as a plant."

What was I supposed to do? I felt his arguments were unassailable. I stiffened, waiting. The metal tube was cold, and I could feel it flowing through my sinuses to my brain. Suddenly, I felt my body begin to quiver. The Martians looked at each other and deftly lowered me to the ground. This wasn't the first time they'd done this. I'd read about it. It was completely illegal. I was in the hands of organ traffickers. These guys were most likely interested in my brain and my olfactory mutation. Their job was to find out how far the mutation had progressed. Then, most likely drugged beyond endurance, they'd take me to an illegal lab, turn me into a plant, and sell me at market price to a legal lab. I'd end up as some doctor's bargaining chip in a war to keep mutants in the books. To walk the streets stigmatized like animals, because they're dangerous and everyone has the right to know who's a mutant and who isn't. Probably for the first time in my life, during this trip, I'd be on Old Earth. When I was little, I really wanted to go there; apparently, it's much better there than here, with more smells, but mutants aren't allowed there. Well, unless it was in formalin, or as a "living plant experiment." After the metal tube, they injected the liquid into my second nostril. I gasped and began to salivate. My body reacted more and more spontaneously. I'm strong, so they had a hard time keeping me grounded. My future now depended on these convulsions; I had a stark choice – formalin or "plant."

"I told you not to move." He lisped, hitting my kidneys. I groaned in pain, feeling the lack of air. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my frontal lobe, the world flickered with a thousand colors, and I lost consciousness.

Sleep is good medicine; my grandmother always said it was the best medicine she knew. The old lady died in the hospital, so there's probably some truth to that. Personally, I'm having less and less good dreams. This one wasn't one of them either. I woke up half-paralyzed. That is, I couldn't move the left side of my body. I looked around, disgusted. The same room, the door slightly ajar, letting in some streetlights. It was still night. That was good news. What's more, I wasn't chained, free as a bird.

In the warehouse, I smelled the same scents before I lost consciousness. One of them was intense. Jasmine. The rest seemed to drift to me from behind the door. They left. I was left alone with the woman. My attempt to see her was successful. She sat sideways, clutching a mug in her hand. I smelled strong coffee. How much would I give for a cup of coffee? The woman turned to me and spat. I hadn't expected anything else; I tried to rape her. She sat there quietly for a moment. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was coming; we were alone. She walked up to me and kicked me in the groin. I groaned

, unable to move. "Tell me what you know," she demanded, standing at my groin. The sensations were going to be intense if I didn't think of something soon. I should think of something if I was still going to pee standing up.

"What are you talking about?" I muttered, salivating and coughing. Another blow told me I was lost.

"What do you know about me?

" "That..." I began clumsily. "You came to New Earth in December. You were running from what happened on Earth."

The girl stood there, stunned. She covered her mouth with her hand. After a moment, she knelt, raising a cloud of dust. I started coughing.

"What happened on Earth? What do you know?" she roared, lifting my head by the hair. She happened to grab the part of me that wasn't paralyzed. Still, as she grabbed my head and shook it, I felt my sensation slowly returning. She shook it again, triggering pain and vomiting. When I started to vomit, she released me. Very cleverly. The path my head took to the ground was the shortest, dictated by gravity—straight into the vomit. As I slapped the waste I'd just expelled, I almost suffocated. After her first, rather unfortunate reaction, the woman almost redeemed herself with her second and pushed me away. She sat down in the sand and asked in a trembling voice,

"What do you know? Admit it."

I lay still for a moment, savoring the blood flowing through my limbs and arm. Feeling was returning. How did that happen? Who cared? I counted to three. The scent of the other three was fading; they had gone somewhere. I stood up slowly, feeling dizzy, but I stood. I looked at the woman. She stood with the gun pointed at my head. Terrified.

"What do you know?" she screamed. It was a cry from the depths of a soul torn apart by fear. I'd heard thousands of such screams. In that moment, I was able to move. I felt like never before, capable of action, not in the past tense. In one movement, I snatched the gun from her. Too big for her, by the way. I tilt the holster and check if there are even bullets. There are. She screams. I hit her with the edge of the gun. She falls, her lip split, slightly dazed. She listens and smells, no sounds or smells, they're not coming. I pick her up and throw her onto the chair.

"Now, talk, little one, everything, like you're in confession."

She looks at me with fear. I turn the gun from the red light to the blue. It's a modern model, a police model at that. It has bullets installed, which cause a lot of pain, but they don't kill, unless you put a full magazine in. I wasn't going to put a full magazine in.

"Listen, blue ones, those are awfully nasty bullets. I see you're making a mistake. "

The woman cringed.

"Don't worry." The pin clicks. He waves the gun right in front of her eyes, and I lean in close to his ear. "Let me put it this way. I recently met a very religious person, a Pole. He made a mistake, but I helped him. The cause of his sin was his hand. The scripture says, 'If your hand is the cause of your sin, remove it.' What is the cause of your sin?" She capitulated. I look at her pointedly. I know she knows about the Pole; it was all over the news. I'm amazed at her own resourcefulness, but it all started with that station.

"I didn't want to kill him," she muttered, pulling the velvet ribbon from her neck and switching to a velvet bass. I step back. I'm devastated. The man sitting in front of me. He swallows and looks at me again; I see the pain on his face.

"I'm an actor by profession," he begins, stretching his legs and rubbing his lip. "My father was basically a mafia boss. I didn't intrude on his life, he didn't intrude on mine—it was a pretty straightforward arrangement. Until he discovered I was homosexual.

" "Gay," I mutter under my breath, trying not to vomit. I look at him and can't believe it. If such a change has devastated me, someone who didn't even know him, I wonder how his father reacted. Maybe it's this brat's hobby, fooling others." He gives me a dirty look but continues, occasionally glancing at the gun in my right hand.

"So when he saw that he wouldn't give up on him just to stop his workmates from laughing at him—as he so subtly put it, "workmates," he probably has no idea what "workmates" are like in the mafia. If I were his father, I'd kill him. But I listened, silently, regretting I didn't have anything to record. "My father decided to get his ass kicked by my lover." "Romanticism," I thought, hiding a smirk. Yes, I understood that rather ambiguously, but no wonder, I only talk to my son." "He paid him to dump me, and that scumbag, that slacker, would be nothing without me." He agreed. "He saw a few tears running down my cheek, almost bursting into laughter myself. Yes, I feel very sorry for my neighbors, especially those who have been screwed over by their own will." Mr. Injured Soul continued. "When I found out what happened, I couldn't take it anymore and went to my father. We had a bit of a fight and I killed him. My old man was in the mafia, running off to another country wasn't enough. "

"And that's why you scum decided to run off here?

" "I knew Niko." I looked closely and wondered who didn't know this son of a bitch. "I knew he'd find me a job. Besides, I'm unpunished here."

I hit him in the face with the gun, and he fell over. From the neck down, he still looked like a woman.

"Reflex, sorry," I muttered, changing the bullets. I lifted my head, smelled Niko. I picked him up and headed for the warehouse door. Run.

" "Leave me alone, you can't do anything, you can't arrest me because you have no evidence, you're a mutant and they'll find out quickly, so you'll be fired from the police force and that's it."

I squeezed him tighter and opened the door. I hear threats like that every day; besides, I got fired from the police force in December. A car was parked in front of the warehouse. I could smell the strong smell of gasoline. I throw him onto the seat, taking the driver's seat myself. There are no keys, but no one needed them. This one was a touch away. I look at him expressively. He touches the steering wheel and the car starts. We drive off with a screech of tires, accompanied by the sound of gunfire. Just how I like it.

Wiola is standing in the kitchen, holding Gabriel in her arms. I approach them, wanting to remember this sight. She kisses her son on the forehead, her wife on the lips.

"Will you come back?

" "We'll see," I say, looking at Gabriel. The little one smiles and holds out his hands. They are so small.

"It's a hideout, why don't you hide? The New World will take you in, just like they did us." I see tears in her eyes. I hug her and kiss her one last time. I smile.

"That wouldn't make sense." I leave before she says anything else. But I hear her whisper, "I love you." I love her too. I leave to get in the car and drive to the Port. Here, at the station, she's renting a studio apartment. I'm waiting for her call.

The phone rings. I reluctantly answer. I see who's calling on the hologram. I realize I love my wife very much and have no intention of playing by the rules.

"Jack?

" "I'm listening."

"You were right. The boy confessed. Are you a mutant?" I hear a nervous voice on the phone.

"What the fuck do you think, Tim?" I mutter into the phone and look at my packed suitcases. I'll leave the studio apartment without any sentiment, a run-down apartment in a run-down neighborhood. I hear silence on the line.

"You have an hour."

I hang up and run out. I want to see my son grow up. The car is already parked. I get in, close the door, and curse the day I saw the jasmine-scented dugout. The highway will stretch on. Where will I run, and why? I can't go back to my wife right away. I light a cigarette. I have a significant choice: dope or formaldehyde. I press the accelerator to the metal. I slow down as I pass the police cars. They're going fast, in the opposite direction of me. I stop at a gas station. I fill the tank, spending the last of my money. I pull out and light a cigarette. I smoke, trying to think about what I should do next. The situation resolves itself. Niko stands by the highway. In his hands is a cardboard sign reading "New World - Edo." A good direction as any. Unexpected. Basically, it's the backwater of the universe. It's home to nothing but mutants, gays, murderers, scum from all over the galaxy. I stop and open the door. Niko has a satisfied expression. I throw away the cigarette and turn to that stupid face. The smile disappears, and he lunges for the door, but it's already automatically locked. There's no escape. I see his bruised face and the broken fingers on one hand. I know whose fault it is, but I don't feel sorry for him. I start the engine and drive off without a word. Niko is practically sitting on the passenger door. Disoriented, he doesn't know what to say. I light a second cigarette and smile to myself.

"Got any money?" I ask, turning the corner. There are no locks yet. I'm waiting impatiently, but I still have about half an hour. I press the gas pedal. I hope this piece of junk can handle it. Niko, terrified, shouts.

"Take what you want! Everything mine is yours, just don't kill me.

" "Very sensible," I say, looking at my watch. Twenty more minutes. I have to get out of the city limits. To relax, I have a quick chat with my girlfriend, because I have no doubt she'll become a murder victim. Doubts, however, creep in when I consider the murderer.

"Don't be afraid. You're my friend.

" "Really?" I hear a cowardly groan. I'd love to punch him. But I focus on the road and getting out of this damn place in... fifteen minutes.

"Listen, what happened last night, you know. In the bar." Sending me a crooked chick, handing her over to organ dealers, mutants in formaldehyde—that's—I look at him, I think I have a rather pleasant expression on my face. At least I'm trying. "This, so to speak, could have happened to anyone. Right?"

Niko doesn't have time to answer me. He stops in front of the kiosks. Two guards stand there from morning till night, guarding the nearby doughnut factory. A typical doughnut shopper. I check my watch. Three minutes. In three minutes, my face will appear on one of the panels in these kiosks. Not that I don't like fame, but it will mean returning to the city, in handcuffs. An old woman stands in front of me. She has a small red purse. She takes out a note.

"I think that's it, officer."

The officer smiles at her. She looks at the note. Two minutes. I feel sweat trickling down my neck. Grandma is waiting. The note flashes green, and the old woman walks away. She gets into the car parked next to her, carrying her grandson.

"Have a nice weekend, on the moon!" the policeman shouts, waving to the old woman like a mother. I pull up, interrupting the tender scene of our government's partnership with our society. I slap my card on him and check the time. One minute and three seconds. The card runs through the readers, the light turns green. My breathing slows. He receives the card back. He's about to drive away, when suddenly I hear,

"Commissioner Jack Rout." I turn around, feigning relaxation.

"Be careful, apparently the killer of that mob boss from Earth is on the new Earth."

I nod. Zero. His dashboard flashed, and I pressed the gas pedal. I see the guard looking after me. He waves his hand and slowly approaches the dashboard. The gate starts flashing red, alarms blaring. I press the gas pedal, grateful that I spent my last penny on a full tank of gas. Niko sits calmly. I glance at him surreptitiously. He hasn't shown his ID. No one even asked. I look at him more closely and see the molecules in his body changing from visible to invisible. I felt it the whole time; they had no idea I had a passenger.

"What else does your mutation conceal?" "I ask, glancing in the rearview mirrors. We have a hot pursuit.

"If I help you, will you let me go?" he asks, looking in the mirror, seeing as I do that we won't escape. The bastard has the nerve to haggle; if I were him, I'd hang my head and shoot myself.

"Fine." I grit my teeth and stare at the road.

"Open the door."

I open it and wait. Ice and snow appeared out of nowhere. Right behind our car. It was impossible to drive. In front of me, a black road. I look at Niko, exhausted, struggling to balance the open door. I catch him at the last second and sit him down on the seat. The door closes on its own. I look at him. He's lying on the seat, almost white. Saliva drips from the corners of his mouth, blood trickles from his nose, he's unconscious. I almost feel sorry for him.

I sat on the cliff and looked at the stars. Niko hadn't woken up yet. I lit my last cigarette. December. A splash. I remembered the woman at the station. It couldn't be her. Niko stretched. He peeked around the car. He looked around. He jumped out.

"He confessed!" He shouted. Tears welled in his eyes, begging for his life. I don't know what he was hoping for, that I wouldn't be here when he woke up. He continued. "He confessed to that murder, that girl. Why are you bringing me here?"

I look at him, astonished. I don't know what he's talking about, but I quickly connect the dots. Rain, water, man, and blood. Those smells on the woman, who by then was already the man who killed her.

"He confessed to everything. I was supposed to hide the body, and no one looks here, the perfect place for..." He trails off, as I finish.

"A hideout." I stand with my legs slightly apart. Waiting.

"You were bluffing, they're not looking for you at all! You were acting like a prankster because he told you it was me, that it was us..."

Niko wrung his hands and fell to his knees, sobbing.

"You killed her," I said, taking a drag on my cigarette. Niko nodded.

"Sam."

He replied similarly.

"Armad needed a disguise, and she sang at our bar. She seemed perfect, Armad's build, her posture." He sobbed. "She seemed perfect, but when Armad found out, he panicked. The girl was his twin sister, a mutant, and her father sent her here.

" "Could she turn invisible?" I asked. Niko nodded.

"Those dealers removed her brain and implanted that gene in me, for a lot of money. I've been saving for this gift for half my life.

" "Anything else?" I went to him and knelt down.

"Armad took it hard. He pulled himself together, though, and was able to play Almette." Everything was going well until you showed up and he recognized you. He said you were really nosing around the station. Niko started to sway, the ground around him turned frosty. I stepped back; I'd seen this before. The combination of several gifts makes one of them defy its owner. "We deduced you know something, that his old man sent you. I know you, when you know something, you don't back down, you never give up. The best dog in all of New Earth."

The cigarette finished. I threw out the butt and saw the disturbed ground. I slowly walked toward the car. I took out my gun. I turned it to blue. I aimed at Niko's chest and fired. The boy fell, clutching his chest; the pain was tearing him apart, but it stopped the gene from working. I took my phone from the compartment. I stared at his little transmitter for a moment, a perfect teardrop-shaped structure with a blue symbol. I pressed the symbol, and Tim's hologram flashed against the car.

"Jack?" They're looking for you, turn it off.

- Quiet. I have the second piece of the puzzle here. Send someone here.

Tim looks around.

"Damn it, Jack, I'd have chosen this place for a hideout too."

He shoots again, and the hologram disappears. A moment later, helicopters appear overhead. They crash into the cliff, carrying away a groaning Nik. Someone puts a gun to my head, making car-sized holes. I hold my hands up. I wait. One of those damned anti-terrorist men hits me in the knees. I fall. Someone cuffs his hands behind his back, someone else shouts, "Right." Suddenly, Tim interrupts the uproar. He orders me to lift them, but doesn't uncuff them.

"Tell me what you know." He reports matter-of-factly, trying to position his hands so some blood flows into them. As I finish, they hurry. They dig up the ground and pull out a plastic bag. Inside is a girl. I turn my head; I've never seen such pain on a face. One eye is missing. Her hands are clenched in a claw-like spasm; she was dying in agony. I turn away and try not to look at it. It's over. I see Niko recovering. He looks at me. He smiles, thanking me for saving his life. I hear them closing the plastic bag. Tim approaches me.

"Thanks, Jack. A lot of good work." He takes out a pack of cigarettes. I look at him thoughtfully. Something stinks here. The police slowly leave the crime scene; we're almost alone. "So good, in fact, that he probably even turned a blind eye to the fact that you're a mutant and they'll let you back on the force. Especially because of that last heroic act."

He smokes nervously, and something still bothers me. I feel the handcuffs falling off my wrists. I look at him, astonished. He takes out his gun.

"I'm doing just fine without you, though. I don't want to work in Jack the Magnificent's shadow all the time." "I've had enough, you hear me!

I know what I want to do, but I can't move.

" "There's no room for heroes in this world. You know who they are. Heroes are us. They're behind you." They're bringing you coffee, cigarettes." He throws the pack at me and steps closer, still waving his cigarette. "They'll build a monument to you, no one will remember us. I wanted to get rid of you willingly, but it's impossible. It's hard."

Before he can finish, he fires a gun. I'm too surprised to do anything. I fall. I feel pain in my chest. I hear gunshots above me and his stage-like scream.

"Jack, no, Jack!"

He leans over me. He presses the gun into my hand. Then he tosses it aside and looks at my face. I'm probably wearing a hopelessly astonished expression.

"I know you loved her very much, but suicide isn't an option. You have a son and a loving wife," he groans treacherously above me. I look at the ditch from which they pulled the woman; something green flickers at its edge. It's starting to rain. It's February. It was Valentine's Day not long ago. I look at the snow and the flickering green object. Tim groans. "Jack, don't worry, I'll take care of her and him." I turn my head toward him. I feel a pain in my chest. I remember my son. I clench my fists. Someone lifts me, they put me in the ambulance. I see Tim's face. Someone applies oxygen to me, they administer medications. Semi-conscious, I realize they're performing surgery. The ambulance is open. Snow falls on my cheeks, I can't breathe anymore. I see Tim's face. Then darkness falls... Everything is equally black and warm. I leave because the door has closed. There's nothing I can do. "New World," a destination like any other. I see the light convention... fuck conventions, but I can't sit here, can I?