Mirror Target

By David Schibi

Framed for crimes he didn’t commit, Markus is on the run. His plan - to melt into the crowds at Way Station Forty Two (halfway up the space elevator) - is derailed when, on a passing shuttle, he spots a familiar face -- his own face! Caught up in a conspiracy theory he doesn’t remember and with assassins closing in the one thing Markus knows for sure is that his time is running out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gambler Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458191472

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Mirror Target

by David Schibi

Copyright 2010 by David Schibi

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Markus chewed at his bottom lip which was still sore from the punch he’d taken in his apartment.

He wondered if the police had found the body yet.

Markus un-clicked his seatbelt and stood, his eyes locked on the space shuttle just outside the round window.

He pulled the dark blue hood of his sweatshirt further over his sweating scalp, shading his face so no one would recognize him. Cotton scratched over the whiskers on his unshaven face sounding like sandpaper in his ears. The pair of borrowed micro binoculars was still clutched in his right hand.

Oy, mate, said the scrawny man in the window seat. Personal space, yeah?

A ding toned and the smooth, monotone voice of the computer spoke, Passenger seven-four-one-two, please remain in your seat until the car reaches dock. If you need assistance I can dispatch a car attendant.

Markus raised the binoculars again, ignoring the scrawny man and the computer as he peered at the bullet-shaped, metallic blue and silver, shuttle passing by. Behind it, the mushroom-shaped orbital habitat it had just left turned softly, operational lights blinking red, blue, and yellow against the blackness of space.

Through the powerful binoculars, he scanned the windows on the long shuttle.

A blonde woman with too much crimson lipstick.

A fat woman with too many warts.

A chubby man drooling down his own shoulder, his head against the window.

And there – there he was again.

Markus swore under his breath as he stared at the visage again.

Hey, wanker, I’m talkin’ to ya.

Sitting in a window seat on the passing shuttle was a man with sandy blonde hair parted sharply, a clean shaven face, and blue eyes. He smiled and nodded at a flight attendant as they handed him something to drink.

Then he turned his face toward the window and stared in