Expelled

by Ell Leigh Clarke

He nodded, clearly amused, and also a little suspicious. He extended his hand over the table to Jayne. “Bartholomew Fauchery, the poker guy.”

  Jayne shook his hand. “Jayne Austin, the spy girl. What do I need to know?”

  Bartholomew studied his cards for a moment. It reminded Jayne of the way Merry studied screens. “I thought you were here to tell me what you needed to know.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I mean, what do I need to know to beat you at poker?”

  +++

  Stim Café, Downtown, Avalon Space Station

  Alfonso arranged his belongings on the wobbly café table, tablet on the left and laptop on the right. The café was three-quarters empty and Alfonso recognized two other patrons from the Academy, mostly due to their navy messenger bags with a discreet Academy logo in the lower left of the front flap. He noticed that they too were sitting in their respective corners with their backs to the wall.

  I wonder if we start to look more natural once we’ve been in the field a bit.

  He congratulated himself, grateful he brought the burner gear.

  Alfonso pulled up Chamberlain’s file and took a sip of his kava. The amount of data was almost overwhelming to Alfonso’s racing mind. Shoe size, stim preferences, quirks. It was all in the file. He took another sip of kava as if that would help him assemble all the pieces into a usable picture.

  Chamberlain’s IQ was tested at an impressive 170. He completed a four-year degree by age 18 and finished at the Academy in record time. What a nerd, Alfonso thought. Professors found him “reserved,” but “highly proactive” and “inventive.” Alfonso looked at Chamberlain’s test scores. He chuckled. “Jayne would be so jealous.”

  The first five years of his 20-year career appeared unremarkable. Two medals of valor, probably goodwill gestures, and positive evaluations from supervisors. Alfonso read Chamberlain’s supervisors considered him “eager” and “dedicated to the government’s mission and values.” He was given sensitive missions early on, about a third of which were in Computer Crimes and the more white-collar divisions.

  He felt a brief sinking in his stomach while reading about the early trajectory of Chamberlain’s career. He was so young… What were they grooming him for?

  Alfonso noticed things took a dark turn a little over five years into Chamberlain’s service. The nature of his mission was not recorded, but rather conspicuous by the 18 months of unaccounted for service. This occupational vortex was followed by a psych evaluation recording observations of paranoia and guardedness. The remaining 16 years of Chamberlain’s known government service were comprised of white-collar missions, peppered with gaps between six months and two years long, and one gap of three-years. His supervisors and evaluators often noted Chamberlain was one of the most intelligent and adaptable, but taciturn operatives in the government.

  He locked his screen and got up to stretch. The metal chair was getting uncomfortable. He appeared oblivious to the disgusted looks from the other patrons as he cracked his neck. His mind was on the background check. Although the file indicated Chamberlain technically left the agency over 18 years ago, there were still several behavioral markers. Alfonso remembered what he was told about how one never “leaves” government espionage, but these seemed especially detailed.

  It felt suspicious.

  The tablet was cued to the file Jayne sent on the Tech Treaty. The first doc was a 125-page outline and list of operational definitions used in the treaty, which appeared to focus on rationing and tariffs. Seems excessive for a treaty between Armaros and Tarem.

  There wasn’t much novel information in the doc for the first 45 pages—a ration on steel and other materials was common knowledge on the planet and the ring. Alfonso noticed seeds and nitrates were mentioned more frequently after page 46. The genetic restrictions placed on various types of seed—most of which were necessary to grow food and some herbal medicines—was worth about 10 pages of operational definitions. Alfonso was aware of the need to keep any seeds sent to Tarem pure but felt uneasy when reading about the iron clad restrictions placed on how many of these seeds the Treaty allowed Tarem.

  Alfonso felt his energy dampen. It’s like they don’t want Tarem to eat.

  He searched for clues regarding why Armaros would want to control the food supply. The Treaty stipulated most of the farmers would be located on Armaros, except for a handful strategically placed throughout the ring. The Treaty did not explicitly state this maneuver would effectively put several Tarem farms out of business and, to be fair, it did allow farms to merge.

  Why didn’t any of this make the news? Alfonso quizzed himself. Because it’s agricultural tariffs, nimrod. The news doesn’t want to put anyone to sleep.

  He noticed a scientific study in the stolen documents. It was a longitudinal study regarding soil quality on Armaros and potential environmental threats to Tarem. The researchers justified the Treaty by citing Armaros’ limited resources. But why not build up the ring as an agricultural community?

  A deep sigh brought Alfonso back to the matter at hand. The next document heavily referenced what looked to be a routine conference and series of negotiations between a weapons colony, Tarem, and Armaros. The conference happened 24 years ago and was barely a footnote in most history classes, if it made the curriculum at all. This information would be glossed over even in political science and graduate-level history or economics courses.

  Alfonso’s scalp tingled. 24 years ago…

  He unlocked his laptop and opened another window on his tablet. Chamberlain resigned as a government spy and went off the grid about three years ago, after a respectable 26-year career. Alfonso felt his chest tighten as his mind went to the 5-year turning point in Chamberlain’s service. 24 years ago. Oh no.

  Alfonso narrowed his eyes and set about researching the conference. Although the minutes of the conference were entered into public record, something about the official record left Alfonso feeling cold. He dug further into the government site for the not-so-public records. Alfonso’s hands trembled as he typed in the final command. He had a sickly taste in his mouth as the document loaded.

  There it was, staring back at Alfonso like a stinging indictment. A first, more overt version of this treaty was attempted almost 25 years ago. Alfonso read the words “Armaros military presence on Tarem” at several points during the meeting. No wonder this got voted down… But what’s the difference between this conference and what they’re asking now?

  The gaps in Chamberlain’s file came to mind. Eighteen months, six months, two years, three years… Alfonso wrote down the dates of these gaps before researching each date range on the government website and in the Treaty docs. He felt clammy and could tell his heart was pounding.

  He wracked his brain for a logical explanation for Armaros to attempt to establish greater military presence on Tarem. There were no major interplanetary or intergalactic conflicts over the last 30 years that would require any real increase in defenses. Nothing in the documents indicated whether or not the conference was successful, but it did report an incremental increase in military presence on Tarem.

  Meanwhile, trade tariffs and accompanying tensions between planet and ring increased after each of Chamberlain’s missions. And Chamberlain’s psych evals reported more and more guardedness. Alfonso noticed the behavioral markers in Chamberlain’s chart were disturbingly detailed. The government appeared to be keeping tabs on him until he went off the grid.

  Alfonso entered the first of the commands to access his own file but canceled the command. Every sacrifice Alfonso made for the Academy and government played in his head like a maudlin romance movie. Alfonso shuddered. Don’t go there. You’re not Chamberlain.

  Alfonso’s hands trembled as he opened the comm. He felt adrenaline rush through him. ”Pick up, Jayne…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Stoke-Dorchester Hotel, L75,Theron Techcropolis, Armaros

  Jayne flipped her two cards over on the table triumphantly. “Full house.”
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  “Yes,” Bartholomew smiled.

  “Think I got this?”

  The dealer gathered Jayne’s cards and shuffled them back into the deck.

  Bartholomew’s face was an interesting combination of elegance and age. His bone structure was mildly refined, but with a bumpy nose and prominent cheekbones. His eyes twinkled, but the rest of his face was unanimated. “If you must ask, then you don’t have it. It’s a confidence game, Jayne. Skill doesn’t kick in otherwise.”

  He beckoned the server to refresh his drink. “The players will be here any time now. If you have a book on confidence and bluffing, I suggest you read it.”

  Jayne sprang up, taking her purse with her. “I’m going to the restroom. Nerves.”

  Bartholomew appeared preoccupied with arranging the piles of chips.

  Jayne opened her comm as soon as she neared the bathroom doorway. She fished Merry’s franken-necklace out of her purse and managed to put it on.

  Merry’s voice piped up almost immediately. “I knew you couldn’t quit me.”

  Jayne’s gaze rose spontaneously to the ceiling. “Yeah, Merry, you’re terminal.”

  “Awwwww…”

  “Anyway, I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I got talked into playing poker...”

  Merry’s keystrokes tapped a quick marching rhythm in the background that reminded Jayne of troops going into battle. “What happened to seeing the poker guy for intel?”

  Jayne spoke in a hurried whisper. “Job hazard. Came for the intel, stayed for the poker.”

  “Sounds like one-stop shopping to me.”

  Jayne focused on reflective surfaces, watching the shadows of the other players. “I need to get back to the table for the buy-in.”

  “And you need money?”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Not so fast, speedy,” Merry inhaled deeply. “Explain to me how poker chips are currency for intel. Did you even get the information you were after?”

  Jayne watched from the outer door of the rest room now. She saw two more players—an older man and his 30-something son—greet Bartholomew. “C’mon, Winterbourne. I need to get to the table,” she hissed as quietly as she could.

  “Don’t ‘c’mon Winterbourne’ me, Austin. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to explain why I should forward you money we may not have.”

  Jayne watched the next three players arrive. She was filled with a mixture of hyper vigilance and dread. “3,600 I think.”

  Merry’s voice rose an octave. “Six-months rent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You are wagering six-months rent in a poker game? Un-fucking-believable! I need to let this sink in a bit,” Merry gulped her kava. “Okay, so what are the stakes here? Do you get the intel if you win?”

  Jayne moved so a female patron could pass. “I think we get what we need either way—”

  “You THINK?! Do you even know how to play poker?”

  “I read a book.” She paused. “I’ll be fine. Anyway, I gotta go.”

  Jayne heard the militant keyboard tapping slow to a more pensive rate. “Okay. I’ll transfer the credits, on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “The necklace. You leave it on, and let me help.”

  Jayne sighed. “Ok.”

  She nervously fiddled with the video button until she felt a subtle click from the center stone. Jayne smoothed her dress over her body and attempted her best ethereal strut towards the table.

  She headed out of the rest room back towards the table. The necklace felt cumbersome and obvious on her neck.

  Bartholomew indicated Jayne’s necklace with a nod. “Lucky charm?”

  Jayne smiled meekly and gently touched the center stone of her necklace. She wondered if she could use the nervous girl act to her advantage. Maybe she could use it to throw them off. She briefly remembered a lesson from the ancient Art of War: appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.

  Jayne was feeling both.

  She surveyed the other players. There were seven now, mostly male and over the age of 40. Jayne scoped the other two females at the table. One was an older blonde woman, perfect purple pantsuit and expression that made her look like she had been hardened by life. The other female looked about 35, black hair, black turtleneck dress, dominatrix-like high ponytail, and a dispassionate energy about her.

  Jayne could hear Merry’s keyboard tapping in her earpiece. “How many whips do you think turtleneck owns?”

  Jayne resisted the urge to respond and continued to survey the competition. There was the older gentleman and his son, a man in his mid-forties with casual clothes and an expensive watch, two young men wearing the same Tesla U frat shirts, and an elderly gentleman wearing a bow tie. The frat boys and father-son duo talked amongst themselves, while the rest of the players appeared to be inwardly focused on their pre-game focus rituals.

  Jayne cleared her throat. “So where should I sit?”

  Bartholomew watched the dealer shuffling the cards. “That depends,” he said without raising his gaze to her. “You sit at the table if you pay, but in the next room if you can’t. Do you have the buy-in?”

  Jayne checked her account on her tablet. The balance indicated 4,000 credits.

  She nodded, and keyed in the digits on the dealer’s display to transfer the credits over. He pushed a few piles of different colored poker chips towards an empty seat.

  “Try not to lose all of them at once,” Bartholomew teased.

  “Oh, is that not the goal?” She continued her act, grinning broadly as she looked around the table. “Where’s everybody from?”

  The frat boys were unabashed in giving Jayne a once-over, but promptly returned to their own conversation. The purple pantsuit lady flashed a patronizing smile, while everyone else appeared to look through her. The pantsuit lady turned towards Jayne. “First time playing poker?”

  Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Nah. She’s an old pro. Isn’t that right?”

  Jayne laughed nervously. Bartholomew winked at her.

  Another patronizing smile from her purple-clad cohort. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  Self-doubt bubbled up from the pit of Jayne’s stomach.

  The dealer cut the deck onto the cut card and scanned the table. He turned to the ponytailed lady to his left. “The game is Armaros Hold‘em. The blinds are 1 and 2. Please post the blinds,” he instructed.

  The ponytailed lady did not bother looking at the other players. She simply held her nose up as she pushed a one-credit chip forward. The older gentlemen loosened his bowtie and threw down two credits.

  The dealer passed cards out clockwise in a manner surprisingly machine-like for being a non-AI.

  Jayne felt slightly winded. This was happening. She searched her memory for anything Bartholomew may have told her about Armaros Hold’em but found nothing.

  The dealer turned to Jayne.

  He indicated to her position by using his hand in a striking downward motion on the table. “First to act,” he said.

  Jayne felt her hands grow clammy.

  She glanced at her cards. “Raise. Eight.”

  +++

  Stoke-Dorchester Hotel, L75,Theron Techcropolis, Armaros

  Jayne looked at her cards, feeling absolutely deflated. Her head felt heavy. She scanned the other players’ faces, but they were all perfectly stoic. Everyone else at the table had won at least one hand.

  Bartholomew drew the top card from the deck and placed it facedown under the pot. He drew three cards and placed them faced up on the table. Jayne took note that the Ace of Clubs, Two of Diamonds, and Five of Clubs were drawn.

  The betting continued.

  Jayne felt perspiration on her forehead and armpits. She glanced at her pile of chips, noticeably smaller than the other players’.

  She tried to ignore Merry hissing in her earpiece. “Don’t raise. Don’t you dare raise.”

  “Check,” said the pony-tailed lady. Her face hard
ened into a stony expression. Jayne didn’t have enough data yet to know what that meant, but she just clocked it to add to the other information she was gathering.

  The larger of the two frat bros attempted to hide a smug smile. “Six.”

  Bartholomew smiled knowingly. The pony-tailed lady’s face flickered in disgust.

  The middle-aged man with the expensive watch scratched his left ear.

  Jayne started thinking about what Bartholomew told her about tells. “Watch your opponents. Eventually they’ll break character. It won’t be big, but one of those reactions we aren’t conscious of. Think of it like an allergic reaction when they see something they really like or can’t deal with.”

  She took a fresh look at the table. Don’t think so hard she told herself. As she calmed down, the same stoic faces revealed little tics. Purple pantsuit lady had licked her lips slightly before she won the last hand. And that wasn’t the first time she had seen the middle-aged man scratch his ear. Bartholomew briefly gave her a quizzical look. Jayne refocused on her hand just before she felt her comm vibrate in her purse.

  Jayne faked several sneezes and placed her cards face-down on the table. She excused herself from the table, claiming to need a tissue.

  Merry’s voice came through clear. “Jayne? Jayney? Jaynarino?”

  From a few paces away from the table, Jayne draped her tissue over her mouth and pretended to wipe her nose. She whispered, “I’m in the middle of a hand.”

  “How’s it going? I can’t see a thing. You must be sitting sideways.”

  Jayne sniffled. “Sit straight. Got it.”

  “You didn’t answer my question…”

  Jayne sighed. “Dismally. I have to get back to it or they’ll be suspicious.”

  “Understood. I’m calling Vlad, as much as I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Hear what?”

  “You honestly think we’ll hear the end of it if Vlad saves the day?”

  Jayne faked more sneezes. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach as she listened to Merry. “We can deal with Vlad being an asshole or we can deal with getting evicted. Your choice.” And Merry hung-up.