Tropical Punch by S.C. Jensen

Author:S.C. Jensen [S.C. Jensen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: S.C. Jensen
Published: 2022-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

I exited the holobeach, towelling imaginary sand from my suit as if I’d just been swimming. Three guards in powder-blue uniforms waited for me on the deserted Memory Lane boardwalk. “Nice gig you’ve got here. A girl could get used to the beach life. I could have sworn I had sand all up in my—”

“Bubbles Marlowe?” A tall, blonde security guard stood there, tapping a baton against her palm. She had the body of a prizefighter and a face to match, with a mashed-up nose and quick, mean eyes.

I dropped the towel to the ground and scooped Hammett off the shelf. It popped back into its piggy skin and shook itself like it was trying to get the fit right. I set it on the ground and put my metal hand on my hip. “That’s me. Are you the room service? I asked Whyte to get rid of the—”

“You’re supposed to be in Game Room Twelve,” the woman said. “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last hour.”

“I don’t remember signing any paperwork to that effect.” I checked my tattler. “Comms are functioning and pings are on. Why didn’t you—”

“We’ve been calling,” she snapped. “You’ve got us blocked.”

“You have a nasty habit of interrupting.”

Hammett snorted. “Now you know how I feel.”

“Not now, pig,” I said. “These fine security guards seem to have a problem. It’s our job to drop everything and help them, don’t you know?”

“Whyte is waiting for you in Fortune’s Favour.” The guard narrowed her hard green eyes at me. “We’ll escort you.”

“That rates. It really does. Class service. But I need to get back to my room to change first. I can find my way to the gaming district myself. I’m a big girl. I can read maps and everything.”

“You’re coming with us.” The baton tap-tapped a little faster, like she was getting warmed up.

I sighed and bent down. I picked Hammett off the ground and tucked the towel under my arm. The skin blinked off as I slipped the sphere into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I said, “Alright.”

The towel flew through the air like the money piece in a high-end strip tease, more style than substance. But it hit the front woman in the head and wrapped around her lumpy face. The two younger guards blinked in confusion as the brains of their operation cursed me with every colourful word she could think of in at least three different languages. In one hand, her baton started to buzz and glowed with an ominous blue light. She grabbed at the towel with her other hand, swinging wildly in front of her in case I was stupid enough to walk into her batting zone.

The guard on her right, a cute number who was still growing pimples in the place of facial hair and whose greasy red hair didn’t quite seem up to the admiral’s standards, was that stupid. He lunged for me with eyes wide in that I-don’t-know-what-to-do-but-I-have-to-do-something brand of panicked determination just as the woman swung back for a mean crack.

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