Whiskey Romeo

by James Welsh

  “Oh,” Pascal said, suddenly feeling stupid for not recognizing one of his leaders. He extended his arm instinctively to shake his hand. “My name is…”

  “Trenton Pascal,” Tumbler said, completing the sentence. “I know. You’re one of the new recruits.”

  Pascal nodded dumbly. “I just got off the frigate a few days ago – but I guess you already know that.” Then, he abruptly changed the conversation. “What are you going to do to me?”

  Tumbler looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I must be in some sort of trouble.”

  Tumbler paused for a moment, and then he laughed. “For what, you getting Sonya mad? If I were going to punish you for that, I would have to punish everyone in the colony. She’s always been angry, for as long as I can remember anyway. But, she’s brilliant at what she does, so who am I to argue with her?”

  “I don’t understand why she got so angry, though. I just wanted to know how I was doing…”

  “Don’t think that just because she got angry at you, that you did something wrong,” Tumbler said. “You did nothing wrong. Everyone should ask for feedback every once in a while – it does the soul good. Besides, the team back there can only work as hard as you, and so we need you working as hard as the team.”

  Pascal threw his hands up, helpless. “I want to be everything to my team, really. But I don’t think they want anything to do with me.”

  “It’s because you’re fresh – the people here have measured out their lives by how long they’ve been working on the drills. They think that just because they’ve seen more of the drills than you have, that somehow means they’ve seen more of life. They’re narcissists, just like everyone else. It’s a shame, really – our world is small enough without us being so close-minded.”

  “You’re different,” Pascal blurted. “I mean, you don’t seem to be like them. You’re the only one who stopped her from breaking me down.”

  Tumbler laughed. “I just wasn’t looking forward to all of the paperwork if you had died on my shift.” He killed his laughter and turned more serious. “But I think you have potential, though, to be good and to do good. And believe it or not, the miners on the bridge are decent too. I want to prove you to them, just as much as I want to prove them to you.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “We’re going to be putting together a union, a miner’s union. We found some old books on the unions from a few centuries back, and we’ve been working from there. It’s not official, yet – we have to win over a few more of the miners first. But once we do, we’ll be strong because we’ll be many. And when we’ll shout, the charter will hear us.”

  Pascal looked hopeful. “It could work…”

  “It will work,” Tumbler corrected him.

  “But wouldn’t there be some sort of backlash? I mean, surely the charter won’t like someone challenging them. Would it be worth the trouble?” Pascal asked.

  “There was never pushback against unions in the past – they always won in the end,” Tumbler lied.

  “Okay…but why should I join a union filled with people who hate me?” Pascal asked. He thought of Canto and all of the miners who didn’t step between him and her fists.

  “If you’re willing to fight for them, they’ll fight for you too,” Tumbler reassured him. Pascal did not look entirely convinced by this, and so Tumbler continued. “The stakes are high enough that they magnetize us together. You haven’t been here long enough to see what the charter’s done. They say we’re important to them, but they don’t act like it. You know, thousands of years ago, the pharaohs built the pyramids, the tallest buildings in the world until our industrial revolution. The pharaohs built them with their thousands of hands, with every worker lugging stone bricks on their backs. And they built those pyramids, because even though they broke their backs, they didn’t break their spirits. The pharaohs loved their workers with food and gold, because the workers mattered that much to them.

  “But these days, the charter starves us in so many ways, and it shows. Now, all the workers are good for is digging holes: they bury seeds in the ground, and they bury bodies in the same ground where the seed fails. The charter loves the idea of a worker rather than the worker. Every person matters and this union’s going to prove that, not only to the charter but to ourselves as well.”

  Pascal believed.

  ***

  2199 AD

  “You’re going to call me a hypocrite for finally seeing what’s right?” Pascal snapped at Bach. “At least I’ve made my change. You all are still trapped in the quicksand of your sins!” He aimed his sights on Canto. “Just look at you, Sonya…”

  “Don’t you even dare…” Canto growled.

  “No, how dare you! You think you’re so powerful all because you have a fist and know how to throw it. You would murder a man if he stood between you and what you wanted. And what do you want? To be feared! And there’s only one thing in this universe that is meant to be feared, and that is the charter! So go ahead, threaten me, break me down. But I can guarantee you this – I’m not afraid of you and I never will be. And you know why? It’s because you don’t have the right to be strong…”

  Before Pascal could finish, he was down on the ground. All he could smell was iron and he realized that Canto had crushed his nose. He sputtered and stumbled backwards as Canto stormed towards him, ready for war. She snarled, “Get up so I can knock you down again!”

  When Pascal didn’t rise, Canto dragged him up to his feet with just one arm. “I never ask twice!”

  And with that, she dug her right fist into the dirt of Pascal’s stomach. He fell to his knees and vomited on instinct. Canto looked down with disgust. “I was going to make you bow down before me, one way or another.”

  “Stop! Stop right there!” The thunder called.

  Canto raised her hands and took a few steps back as the guards finally arrived on the scene. Two of the guards wrestled Canto’s hands behind her back and cuffed them. Two more guards helped Pascal to his feet – his legs felt like oil, though, slipping out from beneath him. He struggled to breathe through his broken nose, and it felt as if he had just drank fire. Through his shaken eyes, Pascal could see that a crowd of colonists had gathered. He could hear their screeching whispers and their blinding stares. But his eyes drank their antidote as Chief Latch stood in front of him.

  Looking at him with genuine concern, Latch asked, “Are you okay, Mr. Pascal?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Pascal said, shaking off the guards’ helping hands as he learned how to walk for the second time.

  “I’ll have you escorted to the clinic,” Latch said. “We’ll have the good doctor take a look at your nose. Just like Ms. Canto, your nose needs to be straightened out.”

  She nodded to the two guards, who guided Pascal away from the crowd of stares and in the arrow’s direction towards the clinic. Pascal left, but not before he saw who was one of the guards arresting Canto. Martinique was looking back at him with laughing eyes, his weak goatee stretched from a smile. Martinique’s face was what someone saw when they looked into the darkness. Pascal had no reason to fear Canto, but he had every reason to be terrified of the devil in Martinique.

  As Pascal quickened his pace, Latch called out after him non-ironically, “When you’re at the clinic, Mr. Pascal, try preaching some of the good word to the patients! They need someone like you to brighten up their day!”

  Latch was right in a way – Pascal was the breath that spoke of the charter’s might. But if he was the voice, then Martinique was the hand at the throat, ready to squeeze at the wrong word.

  ***

  2198 AD

  “Trenton! Trenton, wake up.”

  Pascal’s eyes flickered open, only to find he was still blanketed in darkness. It took him a moment to realize that it was a person and not a dream that was shaking him awake. He sat up in his bed and was about to yelp when he felt a warm hand pressed against his face.

&n
bsp; “It’s okay – it’s me, Craig.”

  Pascal calmed down as he realized who it was. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just barely see Tumbler, who was wearing a cape of twilight from one of the skylights above. Tumbler said sheepishly, “I’m sorry. I should have knocked first. I just didn’t want to wake up anyone else in the longhouse. I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?” Pascal asked.

  “The union is becoming too strong.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  Tumbler nodded in the blind darkness. “Before when we spoke, we didn’t make a scratch. Now though, the charter’s starting to become concerned. I was expecting this to happen, but not so quickly. It’s only been a few months, and already we have most of the miners onboard.”

  Pascal was silent for a moment. He had never heard fear in Tumbler’s voice before. “Whatever’s going on, it sounds serious.”

  “It is.”

  “So why come to me? Aren’t any of the others qualified?” Pascal asked. He couldn’t understand what he had that the other union members did not.

  “If only you understood how loyal you are. You’re the only one I could trust for this.” Tumbler hesitated. “Over the past week, I’ve begun to have the feeling that…well, that someone is selling us out to the charter.”

  “Who would do that?” Pascal asked, shocked.

  “I don’t know who it is, but I know who it isn’t – you. Some days, I think you’re the only one who has faith in this endeavor of ours. But sometimes I think the others are in it for the money, and the charter is what makes the money.”

  “You’re right – I don’t have a price tag.”

  Pascal could hear the smile in Tumbler’s voice. “I know, that’s why I trust this with you. Now listen, about five minutes ago I picked up a conversation on my radio scanner. The guards are going to pick up Imogen Breaks from the hospital shortly.”

  “What do they want with her? Didn’t the doctor say that she’s contagious?” Pascal had never met Imogen before – she had been locked behind a door at the clinic ever since he landed. From what he heard of her, though, he knew her to be one of the more outspoken colonists. It was convenient for the colonial government that she had contracted such a dangerous illness.

  Tumbler was apparently thinking the same thing as well. “There’s something wrong about this whole situation with Imogen. I’m thinking they’re going to exile her and claim she died. It makes sense – doesn’t it? I mean, there was that frigate that just arrived the other day, and it will be heading back to Earth tomorrow. I guarantee you, it’s going to be leaving with her as its cargo.”

  “So, what do you want me to do? You want me to follow them?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. I need you to shadow them as far as you can. I need proof that they’re taking her away, and your word is as good as any evidence. And I need names. If there is something going on, I want to know who’s involved. And I’m not just talking guards – I want to know if one of our own is working with them.”

  Tumbler could sense that Pascal was nervous. “You know I wouldn’t ask something of you if I didn’t think you could handle it. As long as you keep your distance, you’ll be fine. I would have done it to save you the trouble, but the fates won’t let me. As the union spokesman, I’m too visible – and I can’t prove it, but I think that the guards have been tailing me. All it would take is one slip, and they’ll bring me and everyone else down. These are the risks that come with being the face of the union.”

  “And what am I?”

  “Why, you’re the hands. At the end of the day, all I can do is talk. You’re the one who can actually get things done. I can’t say that about anyone else without lying. Now, can you do it?”

  “Yes, I will,” Pascal said, more confident than ever. If he had ever had a friend before Tumbler, he would have known that this was what friendship felt like.

  ***

  2199 AD

  “Craig, are you up?”

  Tumbler’s eyes were asleep, but his voice was awake. “Yes, I’m up.”

  “You’re not trying to sleep, are you?” Pascal asked. “I can come back later if you are…”

  Tumbler groaned as he pulled himself upright on the hospital bed. “I’m not tired. It’s just that one can only look at the white in a ceiling for so long. I figured that if I closed my eyes, it’d be a nice change in scenery.”

  The old friends were in one of the rooms at the medical clinic. Like the rest of the clinic, the room was sparse, decorated with just a bed and a cabinet. There was no chair for Pascal to sit on, and so he had to perch at the foot of the bed. He squirmed where he sat, the mattress feeling raw beneath him. Pascal couldn’t imagine how the bed must have felt to Tumbler, who had been laying on it for months now.

  And the bed was a torture on his friend’s soul. Like an oil painting over the centuries, Tumbler’s canvas was cracked, his skin chipping away at the slightest breath. If there was some way to paint life back into Tumbler, Pascal would have already done so. Instead, he had to sit and watch his friend dissolve, tear by tear, into the acid of their world. Tumbler looked at Pascal with jaundiced eyes, the whites camouflaged like a squeezed lemon, and said, “Tell me, Trenton, how bad do I look?”

  Pascal couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. Instead, he looked at the pinched corner of the room and said, “You look stellar as always.”

  “If that’s so, then prove it – get me a mirror.”

  Pascal cleared his throat. “I would, but I don’t want your beauty to get to your head.”

  Tumbler’s laughter tripped into a hard cough. He leaned over and spat onto the clean floor. As Tumbler did so, Pascal noticed that there was a dusting of hair on the pillow, as the sick man was wilting his black leaves of hair. Tumbler collapsed back into the bed, looking disgusted with himself. Pascal tried to distract Tumbler. “So, Grant was telling one of his stories the other day.”

  “Was it a good one?” Tumbler asked, drying his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Pascal laughed a little. “It was, but you wouldn’t know by me saying it. I can never do his stories justice.”

  “Of course you can’t do them justice,” Tumbler said. “That’s because every story he’s ever told was a lie. I haven’t heard an honest word out of him yet. But tell me it anyway.”

  “He was talking about when he was back on Earth, and how he was working at a mining outpost. He and the overseer never got along very well, and one time, Grant went snooping through the overseer’s office because he needed something to blackmail him with…”

  “Why did Grant need to blackmail him?” Tumbler wondered out loud.

  “I know better than to ask for details like that from him. Anyway, he comes to find out that the overseer has been greedy. You see, they had hit a thick vein of platinum just a few weeks before, and that stuff sells well. And apparently, the overseer had been altering the records to make it seem like the miners were digging up less platinum than they actually were. Grant reasoned that somewhere along the line, the overseer was pocketing the excess platinum and making it disappear on paper. This got Grant mad, but not because the overseer was being a cheat. It was because the bastard had been telling the miners that they have to dig more and more, else they’re going to miss their quota. And so, one night, Grant got his revenge. He intercepted the records as they were being transferred to the charter auditor, and you know what he did?”

  “What?” Tumbler said with a watered smile.

  “He changed the numbers, so that it appeared that the mine was digging up a lot more platinum than it actually was. He figured that once the charter got the documentation, they would realize that they were being cheated out of platinum and knock the overseer’s head off his shoulders. But instead of the overseer getting arrested, Grant was the one who got in trouble, getting slapped with a charge of forgery.”

  Tumbler was quiet for a moment. “Is that it? Is that the end of the story?”r />
  “We were interrupted before Mr. Orange could finish his story.”

  Tumbler paused, and then he asked, “You know why the charter went after him rather than the overseer?”

  “No, why did they?” Pascal asked.

  Tumbler’s eyes were closed again, although this time it seemed to be out of meditation. “It’s because it wasn’t the overseer who was the criminal – it was the charter. The charter would have needed to keep the platinum supply artificially low in order to prop up the price. If they had flooded the world market with so much platinum at once, the price would have plummeted.”

  “Did Grant tell you that story before then?” Pascal wondered.

  Tumbler shook his head. “No, it just sounds like something our dear charter would do.” Tumbler laughed sourly and shook, although that was more from a chill in a room. “Just think – I have more trust in Grant’s honesty than I do in the charter. It really is a mad world.”

  Pascal looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think this is something we should be talking about.”

  “You know, months ago, this is all we would talk about.”

  “Things change,” Pascal said stiffly. “I’ve changed. And you should too. We were wrong to think that the union was an answer. Is this really what you want to do – fight until you die? Don’t you want to make peace and live in peace?”

  What Pascal said sparked some defiant life back into Tumbler. “A life played right is nothing but a battlefield. If you’re going along with the theater the charter is pulling over your eyes, then you surrendered a long time ago. Now, get out of here before I have the nurse drag you out. You shouldn’t have even been allowed in here.”

  Surprised, Pascal said, “Of course I’m allowed in here. I’ve been as good as family to you…”

  “Don’t you even dare,” Tumbler growled. “The Trenton I knew months ago was a brother to me. But you’re right: you have changed. Now, get out and let me fight this in peace.”