Ghosts of the Vale

by Paul Grover

  “I need somewhere to stay, cheap, no questions asked.”

  “That’s anywhere in this town man!” he replied. “But I know a place, they got food, they got girls, boys too if that’s your thing.”

  “I need to find someone…” he said. "He goes by the name of The Magician.”

  “You like magic tricks?” Campbell asked. “Ain’t no cabaret in this town, Pilgrim.”

  “No… perhaps…”

  “Chill, Richmond, I get you. Give me 24 hours and I’ll make enquiries, yah?”

  Campbell threaded his way through the traffic, occasionally blasting his horn at those lingering in the road, sometimes leaning out of the window, cursing in ’tier speak, the common language of the Frontier.

  “So you a Terran, Richmond? What’s your script?”

  “Never call me a Terran…”

  “Cool your rockets, Pilgrim. Mars then? Out here it’s better to be a Terran than a Mars Boy, especially now. Lotta bounties floating around. Lotta hunters looking for a grand scalp.”

  “I understand; thank you for the advice.”

  “All part of the service, Pilgrim. I think I know your script. You’re running and I can help. Shit you ain’t no first son; half the population of this rock are running from something.”

  Richter leaned back in his seat and watched as the city passed by in the tepid twilight. He was tired, grateful for the delay. It would be better to meet his man after a good night’s sleep.

  Vic Rybov watched as the Toyota disappeared in a cloud of dust. The blatting of the hydrocarbon engine still audible long after it was lost in the distance. Richter was here and now it was time to move to the next stage.

  Put a fugitive under pressure and they become predictable. He would not be the only hunter to work it out but he was the first.

  He pushed his way along the main street, heading away from the spaceport, through a street market trading in food and scrap metal. The throng of people continued unabated, growing larger as he arrived in a quarter of the city known as Party One. Kids ran amongst the crowd, handing out flyers for bars and brothels. Neon signs buzzed and fizzed over doorways, offering everything from genuine tank grown steaks to live sex shows.

  Rybov had been on Corso for three days. It was as brutal and visceral as any colony he had visited. Crime was rife and often violent. People did what was necessary to survive. Moral boundaries were crossed in plain sight. To survive on Corso, you had to sacrifice a little of yourself along the way.

  It struck Rybov how there was a certain honesty to life here, an acceptance of who you were and what you would become. It was no different elsewhere on the Frontier, only Corso did not hide its true nature under faux respectability. Scrape beneath the surface of Tellerman or Tarantella and you would find the same sacrifices of the soul happening in every minute of every hour.

  He cut off the strip and into a back alley. A hand-printed sign proclaimed it as Acacia Villas.

  Rybov found what he was looking for. An unassuming cinder block building with a neon sign identifying it as Marie’s. A red striplight encircled the doorway. Like most of the buildings in Thieves’ Harbour the brothel had been haphazardly extended over the years. The architects had built upward with no consideration for aesthetics or safety. Over the thumping Techno-Pulse beat he could hear the sounds of deals being fulfilled. He turned the sensitivity of aural implants down to filter the cries of traded passion from his hearing range.

  He rapped on the door; it was opened by a tall, thin woman with pale skin and long red hair. She wore coloured beads and ribbons pleated into her locks. Tiny bells jingled as she moved her head. Rybov estimated she was pushing her mid-fifties. Her face was hard, yet there was a certain softness in her blue eyes; a spark of humanity yet to be extinguished by life on Corso.

  “I’m looking for a girl. Campbell recommended this place.”

  The door opened further as she allowed him access. The woman led him through an ornate, gaudy hallway. His boots made no sound on the thick, slightly sticky carpet.

  Holograms of naked men and women hovered over projection platforms. Screens dotted around the bar streamed an eclectic mix of sports and porn. A group of excited patrons loudly cheered a live skiff race taking place somewhere in the system. Credit disks and local currency were waved in the air as the countdown to the start commenced.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  “Don’t bullshit me. I’ve been working in this game too long.” The woman laughed.

  “Trust me, it’s relative. I've seen my fair share of shit holes over the years,” Rybov replied, his eyes surveying the lobby.

  The woman’s makeup did little to hide her weathered complexion. She had once been pretty; in a way she still was. She had seen her fair share of Corso’s long nights.

  “So now the winter is coming, you’re looking for someone to keep you warm, right?” she asked, her voice deep and raspy. “That’s the usual story.”

  “I have a special requirement.”

  “There isn’t much I haven’t been asked for, so spit it out. Not that you strike me as the bashful type.”

  “Before I do a deal, I want to talk to one of your people, in private.”

  She snapped her fingers.

  “Robert,” she called to a young man in shorts. His oiled, muscled torso glistened under the lights.

  “Marie?” he asked.

  “This offworlder would like a word before he spends his fuck bucks in our establishment. I guess he wants to check we have standards.”

  “Follow me,” he said. “Outlander?”

  Rybov had worked hard to lose his Frontier accent.

  “In this game you get an ear for voices. I hear the Frontier in your voice, see it in your face.”

  They walked in silence through the crowd to a booth on the far side of the room. A candle in a jar danced in smoke stained glass, painting the young man’s face with shadows.

  A girl brought a tray of drinks. Rybov grabbed a whiskey; Robert declined.

  “So you like boys?” Robert asked.

  Rybov shook his head.

  “Girls then? Jacqui is a good girl; face like an angel and the body of Venus, except she has arms.”

  “No,” Rybov said. “I’ll level with you. With my augmentations, some things don’t work as they used to.”

  It was his stock excuse. Even Manson had bought it; sometimes it paid to look older than you really were.

  “Oh. So conversation then, someone to spend an evening with, a lot of old guys like that.” He faltered “Sorry, no offence…”

  “None taken. I’m an old guy.”

  Rybov smiled his grizzled smile, the friendly face he kept for special occasions.

  “Your Madame, her name is Marie yeah?”

  Robert nodded.

  “Is she fair? Does she treat her people well?”

  Robert confirmed she did.

  “She acts tough. She grew up on Stanley’s Hope, worked those streets for a while; it takes bigger balls than mine to do that. She came here on a freighter and ploughed every buck she had into this place; she won’t see any of us on the street. Her cut is fair and if we turn down a client, she sides with us. I know she had a family once. I guess she looks on us the same way.”

  “By whoring them out?”

  Robert shrugged.

  “We know the score. We’d be doing this, anyway. It’s just good to know someone has your back. Marie is a good judge of character. She would have never let you through the door if she had doubts about you.”

  “Okay.” Rybov pulled out his credit disk and slapped it in Robert’s reader. He deposited 1,000 bucks.

  “That’s too much…”

  Rybov shook off the young man’s protest and made his way to the bar. Madame Marie was waiting.

  “So this girl you want?” she said. “See anyone who takes your fancy?”

  Rybov scanned the room.

  “Too old, I need young; you know what I mean.”

  “
Not cheap.”

  “I’ll pay you four times your cut and she makes enough to get an education.”

  Rybov saw no cracks in her resolve.

  “Look Mr… whatever your name is… I run a good place.”

  “Robert told me as much. Proved it when he tried to turn down my tip.”

  “So you know I have standards. I have girls who look young and can dress young. You want a fantasy I can supply it. You want something real you go somewhere else.”

  He was playing this the wrong way.

  “Listen,” he said. “I am working to take out a bad man. A man with a lot of blood on his hands and a man from whom I will make a lot of money. Your girl will not be in any danger; no one will touch her. You have my word. Talk to Campbell, if that’s not enough.” He glanced around the room. “I’ll be back in twelve hours.”

  With that he opened the heavy door and walked into the cold air of the back alley.

  Twelve hours, he thought.

  Out here time was irrelevant, yet still measured in Terran units. A day on Earth was barely a minute on this forsaken rock. It reminded him of just how remote the Frontier was and for a moment he wondered if he should have taken the offer of company.

  No one should have to sell themselves to survive, he thought. Isn’t that what you do Vic? Pimp your skills to the highest bidder? Instead of trading sex, you trade in death.

  He tried to fool himself there was a difference, but he was increasingly unsure.

  I’m trying to be better.

  And so are they…

  Vic Rybov walked into the gathering twilight. His breath clouded the air. He adjusted the temperature of his armour to offset the chill seeping into his bones.

  Richter emerged into thin daylight. Even Corso's late season sunlight seemed strong after the darkness of the Sunset Cantina.

  The deal was done. The Magician had been accommodating. His fees were high but not unreasonable. In three days Anders Richter would become Andrew Richards: a new identity with a new face, new fingerprints and a new iris pattern. He would have all the records needed to back it up, a passport, a social security number and even a history of back taxes.

  Vito Sanchez was truly one of those individuals capable of living up to his alias.

  The square on which the Sunset was located lay on the outer fringes of Party One. It bordered the bauxite mines that formed the backbone of Corso's legitimate economy. The bar existed between two worlds; miners would come here to blow their overtime payments, and Corso’s underworld would come to help them.

  Richter walked into the square. It was busy. He assumed a shift change in the mines must have coincided with the city’s transient population waking up. He pushed his way through the crowd; the crowd pushed back.

  He spotted Campbell, leaning on the bonnet of his Toyota. His parka was pulled tight around him, a woollen knit cap wedged down over his ears. Campbell pulled out two energy bars and gave them to a pair of street kids. It was almost touching to see the act of kindness from a man who purported to be as hard as this world.

  Richter stopped.

  It was off, out of character. Campbell treated the locals with indifference.

  Perhaps it was nothing… he didn't really know the man and after all and there were a million reasons he might perform such an act of kindness.

  People do things for a reason. It tells you who they are.

  He shrugged. It didn't matter. He did not need Campbell for much longer.

  He pushed forward.

  “So you get all you need, Pilgrim? You ready to disappear?” Campbell asked, when Richter approached.

  “He will have all I need tomorrow. He needs to change my fingerprints and my iris pattern. It will be a painful process, I will need your help while I recover. It will be two or three days.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Pilgrim.” He slapped him on the back. Richter’s body tightened in response. “You have paid me well so far. It will be a pleasure.”

  Campbell unlocked the car.

  “You know Richmond, if you are in for few days of discomfort, why not treat yourself tonight? I know good places.”

  “You get kickbacks, no doubt.”

  “Commissions, Pilgrim, commissions. But you can choose. Whatever you want this city has it.”

  Richter reached for the door handle and froze. His eyes alighted on a young girl standing on the street corner.

  “There…” he said.

  Campbell followed his gaze.

  “Pilgrim, you are a wrong one.”

  Richter studied the kid. She was young. Standing on the intersection, she wore a blue dress and pink down jacket. Like most colony kids she was a little malnourished. Her eyes were buggy and peeked out from beneath a squared fringe. The way she stood told Richter all he need to know, except for the price.

  “You want me to set you up?” Campbell asked.

  Richter licked his lips and gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Campbell slammed the door of the car and crossed the street.

  Richter watched as Campbell approached the girl. He knew he was taking a risk, but in risk there was opportunity. Martian Law regulated the sex industry and street patrols made it impossible for unlicensed girls to work. Licences had a minimum age requirement of 21 years and that did not suit men like Anders Richter.

  Campbell returned a few minutes later. “Okay, here is the deal Pilgrim. Five hundred bucks for an hour. You get whatever you want for that. She has a place to go.” He pointed to an alley surrounded by corrugated fencing, holed and streaked with rust. “That way.”

  “Wait,” Richter said. “Is it… safe… I mean this place is rough? Can’t she come to my hotel? I’ll pay more.”

  “Girl has a pimp. He won’t let her off the street; protecting his investment. Who wouldn’t? This ain’t the Core Systems. Hell this ain’t as civilised as the Frontier. You want to play with the devil, you play by his rules.”

  Campbell put a hand on his shoulder. Richter flinched under his touch.

  “Look man, like I said, I know places. You can kick back, have a drink, have a fantasy. How about I take you to Marie’s? She has a lot of nice girls there. Won’t bust your credit disk with overpriced drinks either. She’s fair…”

  “I want real…” he whispered. His hands were shaking; it was more than just the cold. “You don’t understand how this works… it has to be real…”

  “Okay, well I’m here to cover your Martian arse if anything goes wrong, okay?”

  “Follow me… but give me space. The hunt is important.”

  Campbell shrugged.

  “I am not looking for your approval.” Richter hissed.

  “Pilgrim, you are a wrong one, but she gotta eat. Seems like economics. You Core Systems people fuck us ’tier folk all the time; you get an easy life and we survive another day. What I think don’t change that. It ain’t right, but it’s economics, yah?”

  Richter stepped off the kerb, heading toward the girl. As he crossed the street, she ducked into the alley, momentarily disappearing from view. His heart quickened; he lived for the chase.

  The sound of a vehicle horn burst through his thoughts and he leapt out of the way of a battered Scania Truck. The bald-headed driver yelled obscenities from the window. Richter flipped him off and followed the girl.

  She kept her distance, always staying a hundred metres ahead, closer if the line of sight were broken. She was easy to follow. Her clothing stood out against the drab brown walls.

  The alley opened into a small square, littered with garbage. Industrial buildings surrounded him. The girl broke into a run heading for an opening of the far side of the square.

  Richter stopped. The corrugated walls pressed in on every side. The exits were being closed off. His predatory instincts whispered that something was wrong.

  He paused and glanced behind him. The alley was empty. His unease persisted. It had been too easy. The girl’s dress had made her standout, draw his gaze… Campbell’s act of kindness
replayed in his mind… Campbell isn’t all he appears.

  “What are you waiting for Mister? I ain’t got all fucking day!” the kid shouted from the far side of the alley.

  Richter’s suspicions were crushed by his dark desires. He broke into a run. Already his mind was planning his evening ahead. It would end badly for the colony kid, it always did; her pimp as well if he took exception.

  Richter’s hand slipped behind his back, brushing his blade, ensuring it was there. Ahead of him the girl stumbled on the broken concrete path and he was on her.

  She was younger than he had first thought. She blinked frightened blue eyes.

  His lip twitched.

  “How old are you?” He hissed.

  “14…”

  “True?”

  She nodded. Her eyes fearful.

  “Follow me,” she said. “There is somewhere safe.”

  “I’ll decide where is safe and where is not.” He snarled, dragging her to her feet. He pulled her toward a side alley. His eyes darting left to right, looking for desperate seclusion.

  “No…” the kid screamed. She struggled and tried to break free of his grasp.

  “Shut up!” Richter snarled.

  He tightened his grip and continued to drag her. She lost her footing and it made his task easier. He was in the shadow of a cinder block building; it was perfect, no sight lines. He slammed the kid into the wall. She was crying.

  “This isn’t the plan.” She sobbed. “Vic! Help Vic...”

  This one knew the game well. He wondered about her pimp, perhaps he could take her off his hands. In places like this everything could be bought.

  He knelt.

  “Shh,” he said, trying to sound gentle. “Everything will be fine.”

  Her words jolted him from his thoughts, his suspicions rekindled. Who was Vic? What plan?

  Richter stood. His hand went to his knife. He lunged forward, holding it under the kid’s chin.

  “What is going on?” he demanded. “Who is Vic?”

  “He is,” she said, pointing to someone behind him.

  A shadow fell over him and before he could turn volts coursed through his body. He fell onto the cold, hard ground and passed out.