Zero Zero Zero
Page 3
Philippe gulped and reached up to his neck port and extracted a data shard.
“Read my paper, if you need more details.”
Sebastian eyed the shard, weighing the possibility that another dubious shard would clog his software against the possibility of another drink. He sighed and took the shard. When he inserted it into his wrist port, streams of data sprawled across his optic display, none comprehensible. He narrowed his eyes as he searched for a place to start.
“Go to the summary,” Philippe said.
A schematic of a giant atom circled on Sebastian’s optic display. Fragments broke away and reassembled into another, smaller form. Information flowed by him: isotope sequences, atomic structures and much more that he had no hope of understanding. Sebastian sent the commands to stop and eject.
Philippe retrieved his shard. “Are you impressed?”
“No, but I’d guess you’re an expert.”
Philippe rubbed his chin and swirled his drink.
“I’m Professor LaGrain, to use my official title. I’m putting my theoretical knowledge to the test in the real world.”
“Why?”
“There are lots of reasons, boredom included. Academics at New Sydney working on pure theory don’t fare well and they ridiculed my theory that this asteroid belt was a potential source of unbihexium. The professional pleasure alone would suit me, but the financial rewards defy description.”
Sebastian shrugged. “With those riches on offer you could pay up front.”
With a long finger Philippe tapped his forehead.
“My problem is that I’m theoretical. I underestimated how much everything cost, so I’m short of the money needed to fund even a simple expedition. I’ve been trying all week to raise credits, but I’ve found little call for theoretical physicists here.”
“How much do you need?” Sebastian asked, doing his best to sound naïve.
“Five hundred credits.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Philippe leaned over the bar. “Perhaps if I could find a partner, I could mount a proper expedition.”
Sebastian gulped the last of his drink. “Then I wish you good luck, and I hope you find someone.”
Philippe smiled, his blue eyes watery. “Are you interested?”
Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. “Nope. I don’t own anywhere near five hundred credits.”
“Three hundred would do.”
Sebastian set his hands on his hips. “I’ll give you some free advice: practice your routine. You embarrassed yourself. If there was a guild for conmen, you’d be barred for bringing it into disrepute.”
As Philippe’s mouth fell open with a silent, confused question, Sebastian slung his pack on his shoulder and strode out into the night. Another night on the recruitment bench outside the spaceport awaited him.
Chapter Four
“COME ON, YOU, MOVE on,” the spaceport guard said and then kicked Sebastian’s leg.
“I’m waiting for opening time,” Sebastian said.
For the past two days Sebastian had tried to secure a pilot commission, without luck. Without any other choice he’d slept on the bench outside the spaceport.
“You’ve been here for three nights, so you’re a vagrant. Either get a job or I’ll arrest you.” The guard kicked Sebastian’s shin again, to reinforce the point.
Sebastian didn’t fancy the latter. Arrest would mean they’d ship him back to New Vancouver, where he was likely to meet old colleagues such as El Duce. As he left the spaceport, he accepted the fact that he wouldn’t find suitable work.
He needed a berth to somewhere where the advertising pitch matched the location. As a berth to anywhere would cost more than he owned, he’d need to risk using his talent, and the possibility that a victim would work out what he’d done.
With that decision made Sebastian invested twenty credits in the cheapest suit he could find and a further five credits in a sonic bath, shave and haircut. He loitered in an Info Dock all day and when it closed at nine o’clock he strode out.
He had sixty-five credits in his pocket, but he could earn twice the amount in a few hours. Sebastian wasn’t sure why he feared that his talent would be discovered. Over the years he’d heard of people who claimed a variety of mental abilities, but he assumed they were tricksters.
Sebastian had long ago decided that, if they could do what they claimed, they wouldn’t earn a living as DatShow attractions. He’d once read of an institute that offered a million credits to anyone who could prove they had a psi skill.
He hadn’t been tempted. He could prove his skill, but he didn’t fancy what they might do to him afterward. Instead, he gambled, dropping hints to fellow punters to reveal clues about their card hands, but always in ways that the punters either wouldn’t notice, or would decide were due to their own lack of skill.
As long as they never worked out that he’d duped them, he would remain free. Sebastian stopped outside the Purple Roger casino, one of the few real brick buildings in the colony. Stark and formal, the plain walls and unobtrusive sign outside didn’t entice punters, suggesting to Sebastian that the proprietors might let him leave with any credits he won.
He slipped into the cold, tiled entrance room where pictures of winners waving credit wads adorning the walls. After paying the ten-credit entrance fee, the ushers shepherded him through to the packed interior.
A variety of patrons in sequined suits – apparently the latest fashion – swaggered around the casino. Credits were apparently not in short supply for some in Absolem, although Sebastian didn’t understand why anyone would choose to spend their time in a place festooned with tacky, purple drapes and imitation-marble floors.
With a measured stroll he toured the tables, searching for the level of skill that was appropriate to his funds. He’d learned poker worked best for pushing. Of all card games, poker relied on skill rather than probability and Sebastian could usually find amateur players who believed they had that skill.
These he could take money from without needing to push. He could persuade the more professional players to shuffle their cards in a way that indicated whether they held the cards he thought they did.
Sebastian passed the main one hundred credit table and headed to the entrance area. Here, less gaudy drapes surrounded two tables and the fee was ten credits. The punters matched the price.
Five shifty-eyed individuals clad in suits even cheaper than the one Sebastian wore were at each table. After half an hour, he decided neither the house nor the punters were cheating and he could earn enough to play on the big table.
A punter staggered to his feet. “Enough is enough,” he announced in a slur.
Sebastian slipped into the free chair. He’d joined the table with the drunkards who viewed gambling as an evening’s entertainment, with none of them obsessed by winning or with enough skill to realize what they did wrong. He had his stake for the hundred-credit table in an hour and he didn’t need to push once.
“Goodbye, folks,” Sebastian said as he reached the table’s limit for winnings and swung himself away.
As he fingered the two hundred credits, which was enough for a short berth already, no one paid him any attention. If he returned another night, the ushers might bar him as a professional, or he could risk everything on the big table tonight.
While he pondered, he squandered a credit on a glass of beer and enjoyed the decor. He’d seldom visited such a clean establishment. Beyond the drapes, the floors were regularly cleaned, the ushers were unobtrusive and the guards weren’t obvious.
He sipped his tasteless drink, the cloying bubbles making him wish he’d remained thirsty. Although he’d won enough for a berth, he would have little to spare and in another month he’d be in the same mess.
Still undecided, he monitored the big table, which was surrounded by expensive suits. One punter was now sweating profusely over his few remaining credits.
“Sebastian, you’re well-dressed tonight.”
“Do you want a drink?” Sebastian said.
Philippe nodded so Sebastian signaled for service.
“You’re good at these games.”
“It’s just practice.”
Philippe selected his drink, a two-credit whiskey, and swirled the colorless liquid that passed for liquor here.
“I wish I had your talent. I’ve come here for the last five nights and I’ve only lost steadily.”
“I thought you understood theory better than the practical side of life. Doesn’t mathematics include probability?”
Philippe took a gulp of his drink. “Physics is my particular skill. I study atomic structures.”
“Physics, mathematics, they’re all the same to me.”
Philippe patted him on the back. “You’re right. You can reduce the whole world to mathematical equations. We’re just a collection of wave formations trying to collapse, an endless regression equation cascading toward our own infinite resolution.”
Sebastian turned to find out how the sweating man had fared on the last hand, but he still sat behind his small chip pile and Sebastian would need to wait.
Sebastian nodded. “Is luck down to mathematics?”
Philippe shook his head. “If you’re going to play the main table, you need more than luck, but you must have the skill and I envy you. I wish I knew how to win so easily.”
“We’ll find that out shortly.”
Sebastian rummaged in his inside pocket, sorted his credits into order and stood up, but Philippe gripped his arm.
“Would you consider a proposition?” he asked.
Four hours later Sebastian sat behind approximately a thousand credits, his best win in seven years of gambling. His head throbbed with an intensity that no amount of aspirin would relieve.
He’d pushed five times as he forced stern, unresponsive punters to provide additional signals as to their hands. The cumulative effect had destroyed his control. He’d held on for the rest of the evening, but five big pots had swung the balance to him.
The real difference came from playing with Philippe’s five hundred credits – his last, he claimed. Philippe had offered to split any winnings, but only Philippe would suffer any losses. The offer finally broke Sebastian’s belief that Philippe was a conman.
The no-lose strategy revealed a ruthless streak that Sebastian never knew he had. He always balked at a crucial moment, when losing meant the difference between eating or starving. Freed of any care about losing, he played detached, concentrated poker.
Sebastian lost a hand with a simple mistake, so he didn’t appear too professional, and stood shakily. The remaining punters ignored him and continued the next hand without a pause.
Sebastian sucked in a deep breath, fighting the disorientation and exhaustion caused by his psi headache. He focused on the doorway and swerved approximately in the right direction, ready for the trickiest part of the proceedings: keeping his winnings.
He’d assumed the casino was respectable but, if not, someone would request that Sebastian return the money. Then, if he passed that hurdle, he’d discover what Philippe really wanted, but he’d be at his most vulnerable, unable to push and with barely the strength to walk straight.
He got lucky. The ushers led him outside and one even patted him on the back.
“Be careful how you go now, sir. Can I order your transport?”
Sebastian staggered a few paces into the street as Philippe hove into view in a hired hovercar.
“No.”
Sebastian fell into the car, let his eyes sag closed and wished the world to leave him alone as they scooted to Philippe’s own hotel apartment. At the hotel Sebastian ignored the plush interior, collapsed onto the couch in Philippe’s room and let sleep steal him.
Some time later Sebastian awoke with a start. Light streamed in through half closed blinds. Deep red dust motes danced rhythmically in the shafts of light. After wheeling his feet to the floor, he massaged his forehead.
The action never helped, but he always tried. Before him on a smooth plastic table was a flask of orange juice and a note telling him that Philippe would return soon. After sipping some juice and clearing his throat, Sebastian stretched to his full height.
He searched for his overcoat and then wondered if he even owned a coat. Disoriented, he stumbled and found a jacket instead, lying in a heap beside the couch. He hefted the jacket and rummaged in the pockets.
Credit bills came to hand. He flicked through them, but didn’t count. Philippe hadn’t robbed him, yet, so with his curiosity assuaged Sebastian waited.
“Are you feeling better?” Philippe said, an hour later on his return. “You were in a bad state last night.”
“I faced some serious gamblers and concentrating wiped me out.”
“Whoever you faced, you did well. So do you want the job now? I can pay you the whole two hundred up front.”
Sebastian pondered. He could travel a long way from Absolem, perhaps to the rim, with his share of the winnings.
“Does that mean you have enough for your quest?”
Philippe smiled. “With your help last night I have enough for a month-long expedition.”
“Will a month be long enough?” Sebastian realized that for the first time he believed Philippe would go on a quest to find his isotope.
Philippe sipped some juice. “It’ll have to be.”
Sebastian felt his jacket pocket and the credit wad stuffed there.
“If you had more credits, could you stay longer and have more chance of success?”
Philippe rubbed his chin. “I can’t risk another gambling night like last night. I aged ten years watching you.”
Sebastian massaged his forehead, but the dull ache still dimmed his senses. Even when refreshed he would have nowhere to go and no plans for the future but, strangely, he’d enjoyed spending time with this quiet man even though he didn’t understand him.
“I have a few hundred credits myself. Would you consider a partnership?”
Philippe smiled, and Sebastian felt the deep throb of his headache twinge in his skull.
Chapter Five
“ARE THE THRUSTERS IN place?” Sebastian asked.
Silence greeted him. Sebastian turned to Philippe, who was slumped in his chair at the back of the spacehopper with a journal held close to his face.
“Are the thrusters in place?” Sebastian said, louder this time. He tapped his fingers against his pilot’s chair.
Philippe dragged himself upright. “I’m sorry?”
“Are the thrusters in place?”
Philippe shrugged. “How do I know?”
“Look at the light under the sign marked ‘Thrusters’.”
Philippe gestured vaguely around the spacehopper. “Where is it?”
Sebastian pointed. “Right there, on the control panel in front of you.”
“Is it this one?” Philippe asked, pointing at the only control panel at the back of the spacehopper.
“Yes. If the light’s green, you say ‘check’ and if not, you say ‘negative’.”
Philippe leaned toward the control panel. “All the lights shine green, so check to everything.”
Sebastian sighed. “All right, leave the preflight checks to me.”
“Sure.” Philippe smiled and returned to reading his journal.
“Booster back up, check,” Sebastian said to himself.
AFTER SIX WEEKS OF searching for the isotope, Sebastian’s frustration at Philippe’s less than enthusiastic interest in the mechanics of space travel finally diminished to vague amusement. Whenever they camped Philippe bumbled about the spacehopper, reading journals and checking his dozen or so pieces of equipment while Sebastian completed the few hundred checks and balances that ensured they didn’t die in their sleep.
The R
igel system contained millions of asteroids, which ranged from dust to small planetoids. The accretion disc around the sun was thin by normal stellar standards, producing the most densely packed asteroid belt in known space.
The bulk of the asteroids were spread in a twenty million kilometer wide disc. As a result, the frequent collisions between asteroids continually changed the orbits logged in Sebastian’s charts, making this expedition the most dangerous navigational challenge he’d yet faced.
With his careful approach six weeks of investigation had only covered a fraction of one percent of the available targets. This time Sebastian logged the final check and settled in his pilot’s chair.
They floated next to a pitted asteroid, but they were all the same to him: dull, lumpy blocks of hard, shadowy rock without any aesthetic value, or apparently monetary value, either. Sebastian had expected a few false alarms, but they hadn’t had even a hint of success and the sampling equipment was as clean as the day they’d bought it.
“Sebastian, I’ve completed some interesting calculations,” Philippe said. “Based on our current levels of food and fuel, we’ll have to return in two weeks.”
“It’s only a week. We can’t wait until the last possible moment.”
Philippe threw his notepad on the panel. “You’re probably right.”
“Are you disappointed?”
Philippe twirled the notepad around on top of the control panel.
“I honestly expected to find the isotope, but I suppose not all experiments work first time. It’s just disappointing that I’ll have to return to teaching.”
“At least you have a job,” Sebastian said.
“That’s true.” Philippe frowned, his blue eyes hooded. “Assuming we don’t find anything, what’ll you do when we return to Absolem?”
“I don’t know. Will you try again?”
Philippe scratched his chin. “After another year in Montreal to build up funds I might. I didn’t plan this mission too well, so next time I’ll take more care.”
“I thought you taught at New Sydney?”