Null Vector: Joe Ballen, #0

By David M. Kelly

First they framed him. Now they want him dead.

After an accident in space cost Joe Ballen three of his limbs, he's finished as a space engineer—the only job he ever wanted. Now, with a replacement arm and legs that don't work so well, all he has to look forward to is life on basic income and a small medical pension that he drinks his way through all too fast.

But when Joe helps a beautiful woman who's desperate and needs somewhere to hide, he ends up losing four days out of his life. What's more, he wakes to discover he's wanted for murder and the theft of a space freighter with a cargo worth millions.

Now the police have all the evidence they need: fingerprints, his security access codes, video of him committing the crime, and even his DNA from the crime scene. Joe's only chance of proving his innocence is to track down the woman he helped. But he's not the only one looking, and the corpses are piling up.

Get in on the action and find out how it all began in this prequel to David M. Kelly's popular Joe Ballen series.

Fall guys don't come any snarkier!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nemesis Press
• Release date: Mar 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781998409006

David M. Kelly

David M. Kelly writes intelligent, action-packed science fiction. He is the author of the Joe Ballen series (Mathematics of Eternity and Perimeter) as well as the short story collection Dead Reckoning And Other Stories. Originally from the wild and woolly region of Yorkshire, England, David now lives in wild and rocky Northern Ontario, Canada, with his patient and long-suffering wife, Hilary. He’s passionate about science, especially astronomy and physics, and is a rabid science news follower. When not writing, you can find him driving his own personal starship, a 1991 Corvette ZR-1, or exploring the local hiking trails.

Book preview

Dedication

For Michelle, my friend and editor, who makes these books possible.

Chapter One

What does a girl have to do to get screwed around here?

The voice was feminine, high-pitched, and squeaky, in a fake little girl manner. It was a way of talking that had come into fashion recently, and meant to be sexy, but sounded to me like a chipmunk on neopenth yelling through a straw.

I was drinking my way through my medical pension in Hagar's, a cheap bar with delusions of low-life on the corner of Cathedral and Preston. Decorated in tenth-century Viking re-imagined by Hollywood, it came complete with fake aged-knot-wood cladding, printed axes glued to the wall, and faux iron cannons idiosyncratically poking out from portholes close to the ceiling. I'd wandered in after seeing an ad in my inbox and was curious about the boast of all-Geneered staff.

Just order a drink, I said, not caring if she heard or not. Like all theme bars, the liquor was overpriced and watered down.

The thumping metal-rock soundtrack was muted around the bar to facilitate ordering, and she looked over. Her too-bright sapphire eyes locked with mine, and she pushed her over-curled blond hair back from her face. Her makeup and the fifty grams of purple mirrored dress, complete with dramatic slashes in all the right places, marked her out as a working girl, while the small traces of scars around her lips and eyes and the slightly stretched look to her skin said she'd been cosmetically Geneered—undoubtedly older than she appeared.

You buying, spaceman?

She was good, I had to give her that. I wasn't a spaceman, not anymore, and the scars on my arm and legs tingled painfully at the memory. But how she'd picked me out was a mystery. She saw me looking her over and slipped onto the stool next to mine like a cat settling on a tree branch to hunt its prey, a slit in her dress sliding open to reveal a long, toned thigh.

So how about that drink?

I checked my chip. To my surprise, I had enough credits and waved a finger at the grizzled barman who'd been Geneered to look like a troll.

Another Freiskein for me, and whatever the lady is having.

Lady? She lifted her eyebrow and looked from me to the barman. A Dirty Peach. Make it a large one, Stan.

Sure thing, Tawnee.

The barman knew her name, which meant she was a regular, so maybe this was one of her frequent hunting spots. It didn't matter to me one way or another. I had neither the inclination nor the funding to sample what she was selling. I swallowed half my glass of Freiskein, the amber liquid burning through my larynx as it went down. Cheers... Tawnee?

She picked up her tall glass of pinky-orange slop and took a sip. You know the best thing about being Tawnee?

I wouldn't dare guess.

Her voice lowered to a semi-whisper as she leaned closer, the slit in the upper part of her dress stretching open to display a generous amount of cleavage. "It rhymes with horny. How about you?"

"I'm Ballen, it rhymes with broke." I held up my credit chip to display the big fat zero indicating my credit status.

Tawnee pulled back slightly, her lips tightening momentarily, then she smiled again. You really spent your last credit buying me a drink?

"No. I spent it buying me a drink. I held up my glass. Yours was second to last."

She laughed and raised her glass. What are you? The world's last gentleman?

I hope not, or we're all in big trouble.

Tawnee took another sip and slipped down from her stool, ending the flesh display in a shimmer of glinting fabric. The show was over now she knew she had more chance of getting blood out of a politician.

Business calls, she said. Thanks for the drink.

She sidled off toward the more crowded areas of the bar, and I watched her sway until she vanished from sight. Think pure thoughts, Joe, I murmured. It's cheaper, and healthier.

Despite being muted, the vibrations from the music shook my barstool as the barman-troll came up, actually paying some attention to me. Up to now our interaction had been strictly supply and demand.

You missed out there, buddy. He gestured toward the back of the bar. Tawnee's a nice girl. Expensive, but real nice. And she looks after her men, she ain't one of these pay-as-you-go types.

Thanks for the tip, but I'm not in the market. I held up my credit chip again so he could see the display.

He nodded sympathetically. Too bad, you still missed out.

I emptied my glass in a gulp and put it down on the holographic bar top that resembled a lava flow. Thanks for the information. Time I was leaving.

The barman nodded, looked around shiftily, then back to me. That was a nice thing you did for Tawnee. Not many guys would do that with their last dime.

Then he surprised the hell out of me by lifting the bottle of Freiskein and pouring me a generous glassful.

On the house.

Cheers. I lifted my glass to salute him. Very good of you. Amazing, in fact.

I like to look after the girls who come here. Some of them... Well, they ain't had much good in their life, ya know? He poured himself a half glass too. Some guys think a girl ain't worth nuthin' if she works the streets.

I knew what he meant and ignored the likelihood that he probably looked after them because the girls brought in the guys. I'd seen some guys on the High-Rig or Luna Free State get tired and emotional and take it out on some woman whose only crime was trying to earn a living. It wasn't pretty. And the best thing I could say about such men was that they usually didn't last long in those environments. Most spacemen appreciate female company, and accidents happen so easily in ZeeGee and vacuum.

One of the things I hated about being forced back to Earth was the monitoring and legal setup that pervaded the USP, making such personalized corrections almost impossible. The surveillance typically meant that offenders were caught and forced to undergo attitudinal re-adjustment, but it didn't have the same sense of satisfaction.

Stanis Ridge. The barman held out a thick-fingered, green-tinged hand, and I shook it. Most people call me Stan. I heard what Tawnee said. She's a good judge of character. How come you're down here? Thought the space business was booming with all this starship stuff.

It is. The starship was the reason I was down here. I'll tell you, those parties up in orbit—they never stop. It's like New Year's Eve every day. Got to be I needed a vacation. Name's Ballen.

Ballen? Ridge's wide mouth screwed up, exposing his prominent Geneered incisors, and his thick brows bunched together—making him look like a puzzled walrus. That sounds famil... Wait a sec, you that guy who was chopped in half or something?

Or something. My accident had made the news even here on Earth. I had the extremely dubious distinction of being the most badly injured person to have been rescued in space and survived. "I changed my name to Lucky."

He laughed. Nahh. I remember now, John Ballen.

Close—it's Joe.

We talked for a while, in between Ridge serving others. Like all bar staff, he had a million and one stories about customers past and present. Tending bar gives you a window into people's lives that few jobs do. I finished my drink, refusing his offer of a second freebie. My body might have been wrecked, but a tiny fragment of my pride was still intact.

I staggered a little as I walked out to the Jump-Off platform, partly from the booze, but also from the still-reconnecting nerve fibers sending neural tremors through the freshly grown limbs. I had a medical free transit pass and opened my Scroll to call a cab when a voice hissed from the shadows behind me.

Still lonely, Joe?

I turned clumsily, narrowly avoiding pitching myself from the platform. The bar was on L8, and even Lucky Ballen would find it hard to survive a ninety-meter drop at one gee onto the concrete below. I stabilized myself with the handrail and looked to see who'd spoken.

Tawnee stepped into the garish exterior lighting, her skintight dress picking up the red and green lights to outline the lithe shape of her body. I hadn't noticed before because she'd been more side-on to me, but her waist had been pulled in to further enhance her hips, whether through Geneering or something less permanent, I couldn't tell.

I don't have any more money now than I did earlier. I shrugged. And, no offense, but all I want to do is get home.

Me too. She stepped closer, her eyes wide and almost black in the harsh lighting. But I can't.

If you're behind on the rent, sorry, but I—

You're a nice guy, aren't you, Joe?

Sure I was, mostly. Well, sometimes. Okay, make that occasionally. Didn't you hear? Last nice guy died in seventy-eight saving a cat stuck in a box.

Tawnee smiled, but it was forced. There are some men...

There sure are.

Serious men...

I'm not much of a comedian either. Where was she heading with this? Her hesitation was making me nervous, and I wasn't going to make it easy for her.

"Dangerous men..." She made a sign with her hand, curling her thumb and forefinger into a circle and fanning the remaining fingers out to form a spiral.

The Silent are after you? What the hell for?

The Silent was a notorious gang-clan that controlled much of the illicit activity in what was left of downtown Baltimore. Rumor had it they operated out of a base in the tumbledown maze of row houses that was all that remained of the historic Pigtown neighborhood. Even the Argus surveillance system that blanketed all of Baltimore hadn't allowed the police to corner more than a handful of unimportant members.

I'm not the type to kiss and tell. Her teeth grazed her lower lip. But someone doesn't believe that.

Sure, I'll help. Her face lit up, then fell again as I held out my Scroll. Call the police.

Tawnee backed away a half step. I can't. She took a deep breath. They might be involved...

The cops are hooked up with The Silent? That would explain how the gang got away with serious crimes right under the noses of the authorities, and would be as explosive as a mining charge if it hit the newsfeeds.

Yes... maybe... Oh, I'm not sure... but some of the things I heard suggested there might be a connection.

The spasms in my arm and legs