Armstrong Station

by D. M. Pruden

  “Did a character flaw like that prevent you from dealing with anyone before?”

  “The Jovian Collective is different. They behave more like a corporation than anything else.”

  “Sure, one that will slit your throat if you cross them.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You don’t think one of the actual corporations wouldn’t do the same? You believe our employers protect our back?”

  “Why wouldn’t they? They’re making a tidy profit off our black-market channels.”

  “So the difference between them and the JC is...?”

  “Oh, fuck off, Chambers.” His logic annoys me at times. “You still didn’t explain why you don’t like to deal with Vostok.”

  “He’s a maverick and deals both sides of the street. He’s got deep ties to the Collective, but he operates independent of them on Luna, with his own connections to governments, corporations, and other petty criminals.”

  “Like us?”

  He smiles. “Point taken.”

  “Besides, several impoverished people depend on Vostok for food, shelter, and medicine, which we provide. He pays for that out of his own pockets.”

  “Yep, he’s a regular Saint Francis. I just don’t trust him.”

  “Well, get used to the idea of doing business with him,” I say. “If we successfully fill this contract, he’s hinted at more to come.”

  “That may be so, and if it is, I won’t turn my nose up at it. But presently, dealing meds under the table is still a minor venture. There are more lucrative deals running goods for the JC, and I don’t intend to give that up any time soon.”

  “I didn’t suggest anything of the sort.”

  “Just so we’re clear. That said, don’t make any major plans for yourself while we’re on Luna. This is just a short stopover. Once the cargo arrives, we’re blasting out of here.”

  Snapping to attention, I salute. “Aye-aye, Cap’n Chambers!”

  He sneers. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Of course, Captain, er, I mean sir, uh...Roy...”

  The thrown pillow misses my head. “Go do doctor stuff.”

  I toss it back and turn to leave, glad to see him smiling.

  I didn’t grow up with a loving family, but I think of Chambers as a brother.

  Chapter Three

  “Doctor Melanie, it is always so pleasant to see you!”

  Oskar Vostok envelops me in a customary crushing bear hug. His fur coat’s familiar scent of wood smoke and old socks soaked in acetone fills my nostrils. An oddly comforting odour, it reminds me of the preserved old clothes on display in the cultural museum at the university I attended on Terra.

  I endure the embrace for as long as I think polite before I tap out on his shoulder.

  A toothy grin pokes from of the middle of his oiled black beard. “It’s been too long. You are well?”

  “I’m very well, Oskar. I’m sorry for the delay. I just returned from our run to Ganymede.”

  Towering over me, his fur clad arm wraps around my shoulders and squeezes me tight. “You must share vodka with me and relate your adventures.”

  Still holding me in his embrace, he leads me toward the curtained alcove that serves as his office and operations centre. We walk along a shelf carved into the concrete-lined walls of the cavern. Down below in what I can only describe as a pit, about fifty men, women, and children go about their daily activities. While most are as sickly as on my previous visits, some of the youngsters show signs of weight gain and display more energy than before.

  The stench of sewage assaults me, prompting me to subtly move my face closer to Oskar’s mothball-infused coat.

  Noticing my glances at them, he stops and turns to address the people below.

  “My friends! As you can see, our benefactor, Doctor Melanie, returns to check on us.”

  Pallid faces turn upward to stare at me with hollow eyes. One or two point and whisper to their neighbour. Soon a buzz rises among the crowd. A few of them smile as they recognize me. Some of the children timidly wave.

  Vostok beams. “You see? You are their patron saint.”

  “I’m anything but that, Oskar.”

  “This is nonsense. You are a saintly and generous person. Come.”

  The massive cavern Oskar and his people call home lies fifty metres beneath the lunar surface. Part of the original foundations for the city that now rises indifferently above them, it’s been carved out and expanded over the years. Oskar claimed and refurbished it for his own philanthropic work.

  Former mercenaries displaced and rejected by the governments they fought for, refugees caught off-world during the war, or people fleeing political oppression that still routinely plagues Terra; all seem to find their way here.

  Vostok collects, feeds, and cares for them as best he can, financing it all through the proceeds of his operations. He preys on those who do not care that these people exist, a sort of modern Russian Robin Hood, but far less altruistic.

  He does nothing so poetic as rob from the rich to feed the poor. Oskar is, above all else, a businessman. His gang is involved in all levels of criminal activity across Luna. He deals in drugs, money laundering, extortion, even contract murder and human trafficking. Anything that generates a profit.

  I never could get a straight answer from him about how or why he took such an interest in Luna’s poorest. Perhaps he shares a history with them. Maybe he does it as a form of penance for his awful deeds.

  I don’t care, because his motives or methods are none of my business. Despite his embarrassingly high praise of me, I am more like him. I don’t supply the medicines his people need out of any sense of social justice. For me and Chambers, the motivation is profit. Vostok pays for the drugs I steal from my employer and doesn’t ask questions. As a bonus, I get some feel-good points in my life’s ledger.

  We enter his “office,” as he calls it, and he shoos away some of his people to clear a space at the table for us. After offering me a still warm seat, he goes to his desk and produces a half full bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. One of the men he chased away approaches with a plate of sliced pickles.

  Still grinning, Oskar sloppily fills the glasses. After pushing one toward me, he turns a chair around, straddles it with his long legs, and leans over its back.

  “Za tvajo zdarovje.” He lifts his vodka in a toast and then downs it all in a single gulp.

  I raise my glass then toss the cheap booze straight past my tongue and down my gullet.

  Vostok laughs as he refills our glasses. “You drink well, Doctor Melanie.”

  Raising it again, he says, “Za Vstrechu,” and swallows its contents.

  After I mimic him, he pours again and offers the third traditional toast. “Za nashu druzjbu.”

  “To our friendship,” I reply in Standard.

  He nods approvingly. “You understand Russian well. Do you speak?”

  “Ya stanovlyus’ luchshe.”

  The surprise on his face is worth the time taken to learn the expression. I know that my accent sucks, but he doesn’t seem to care. Over the next two hours, we polish off that bottle and two more. When he learns I’m not the shy type, he delights in teaching me a raunchy Russian ballad that makes me blush—and that is hard to do.

  It is only after he produces more vodka that I lift my hand in surrender.

  “Thanks, Oskar, but I am getting drunk, and I want to complete our transaction before I pass out, if you don’t mind.”

  Spreading his hands, he teeters drunkenly. “But of course.”

  He turns and called to one of his men in Russian. Anton, a thin young man introduced to me on an earlier occasion, approaches with a data pad. Oskar plucks it up and struggles to focus on it before frowning and making a comment. The younger man leans over to whisper in Vostok’s ear.

  Stifling a burp, Oskar presses his thumb against the screen and hands it to me.

  The writing blurs as I confirm the amount and the bank account information. Satis
fied, I apply my thumbprint and pass it back. Anton studies the document, nods to Vostok, and departs.

  “Excellent!” says Vostok. “Now we celebrate!”

  Groaning internally, I smile and resign myself to the headache I will wake up with in the morning.

  Chapter Four

  Carson steps out of the lift and pauses at the window to take in the panoramic view that stretches out toward the transparent dome. Beyond that, nothing but a crater-littered expanse of grey and brown dirt extends to the nearby horizon. The crescent shaped edge of the Earth hangs brightly above it all in the star-studded sky.

  He sighs.

  Never having visited Terra, he wonders if, at his late stage in life, he ever will. With the osteotherapy drugs his position affords him, his muscles could endure the crushing gravity of the planet. He would, just once, like to see a vista of green instead of the dull, lifeless scene that lies outside the dome.

  Rousing himself from his reflection, he turns to survey his lavishly appointed surroundings. Even this common area is more ostentatious than anything he is accustomed to. His lip curls up as he regards the parade of priceless artwork that lines the corridor, none of it worthy enough to grace the homes of the residents.

  He rarely visits the Upper Tens, except on occasional business. Its wealthy occupants keep their perversions discreet and off the radar of the Morality Police. Those who are less cautious possess the financial means to avoid arrest.

  Carson strides purposefully past doors to his destination, without consulting his cortical implant. Arriving, he pauses to regulate his heartbeat and put on his gloves before he presses the buzzer.

  As the seconds tick by, he nervously glances down the hallway. He pushes the button again.

  A muffled voice from the other side of the door demands his patience. He suppresses the urge to pound on the door and forces himself to wait.

  It slides open to reveal a rail-thin man sporting a three-day old, patchy beard, his greying hair dishevelled. His eyes are glassy and swollen and the capillaries in his nose broken, making it red and puffy.

  “Carson? How did you get in the—?”

  Willis pushes his way past the man and strides into the living area, his unwilling host on his heels. He pauses and scans the housekeeping disaster.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Cut the crap. Where is the girl?”

  “What? Why? I bought her from you.”

  Carson seizes the slight man by the front of his filthy undershirt and draws him up on his toes. His gaze pierces the rheumy eyes of his hapless victim.

  With a snarl, he tosses Bentley to the cluttered couch, sending plates and cutlery scattering to the floor. His eyes catch sight of the fine powder laid out in neat lines on the coffee table.

  “You’re high, and that’s a lot of Pink; more than I can officially overlook.”

  Bentley sits up, scowling. “You need a warrant. My lawyer will get me out, and you’ll be reprimanded before morning.”

  “If he was still taking your calls, I might believe you. You haven’t paid his bill in six months. Shall we start over? Tell me where the girl is.”

  The small man’s shoulders slump. “She’s not here.”

  Carson reaches across the table and grabs him by the throat. “I’ve no time for this.”

  “Fine,” he croaks. “Stop choking me, so I can tell you.”

  Willis shoves him back into the couch and wipes his gloves on his own coat as he purposefully slows his breathing. More calmly, he says, “Well?”

  Bentley nervously scratches at the back of his neck. “I owe a lot of people.”

  Bentley’s gaze falls on the lines of powder.

  Willis shouts, “You sold her for drugs?”

  “I repaid what I owed Vostok. His goons came by to collect, and I found myself short of credits.”

  “So, they took her?”

  “Yeah, man, but I can get her back. They said all I need to do is come up with ten G. It is a fraction of what I paid you and...”

  “And what? You want me to front you the money?”

  “Hey, man, I bought her from you. If you want her back, you should return the credits.”

  Carson glares at him for several heartbeats, then sighs. “Oh, Bentley, how long have we been doing business? Five years?”

  “Yeah,” he replies hesitantly, “about that. Why?”

  “And in all those years, how many times was I justified in hauling your ass down to headquarters for re-education? Ten? Twenty?”

  “I get it. You are more than generous with me, although it hasn’t exactly been for free.”

  “You were never in a position to bargain.”

  “Sure, I owe you, but I don’t have the funds to buy back the girl for you. What do you want me to do?”

  Carson reaches into his coat and removes his data pad. He tosses it on the couch beside Bentley. “Tell me how I can contact Vostok.”

  He snatches it up and enters the information. “You won’t regret doing this. I’ll make it all worth your inconvenience. There’s an art shipment coming in from Terra next month.”

  “Of course.” He accepts the pad and returns it to his pocket. Casually, he regards the powder arrayed in neat lines atop the table. “Where did the money for the Pink come from?”

  “Oh, that didn’t involve any exchange of credits. One of my clients owes me for some art, so...” Bentley shrugs.

  “I see.” Carson nods. “Who is he?”

  “Aw, c’mon, man!”

  “Who is he, Bentley?”

  The little man’s resolve dissolves under Carson’s stare. “Billy M’bana; I suppose you want his address too?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He reaches into his other pocket and removes and opens a thin metal case.

  “What’s that?”

  “A little reward for your trouble.”

  Bentley’s eyes widen at the sight of a hypo spray. “No way, man. I don’t do nuthin’ hard.”

  Carson lunges at him and wrestles the slight man to the floor. Restraining the flaying arms with his greater weight, he lies on top of Bentley while he injects the contents into him.

  The little man struggles and cries out as the drug quickly runs through his system. Within a few seconds, he begins to convulse and spit foam.

  Carson rises to stand over him while his victim writhes in agony. He watches in emotionless silence until the other man stops moving.

  Kneeling next to the body, he lifts a limp arm. He presses the spent hypo spray into Bentley’s fingers, then drops it beside the corpse.

  Standing, he surveys the apartment for any sign of his presence. Finding none, he exits and returns to the lift. As he rides down to the security level to reactivate the cameras, he pulls out his pad and sends a coded message through a phantom router.

  In a few hours, an investigation squad will raid the home of William M’bana to charge him with drug trafficking and manslaughter.

  Carson checks his chronometer and realizes there is time to catch a meal at the restaurant on the ground level. He thinks he might especially enjoy the pressed duck this evening.

  Chapter Five

  I’m not sure which hurts more: my head, which feels like someone used it for a football, or my bladder, which woke me up, threatening to explode. Both of those concerns evaporate, however, when my blurry vision focuses enough to identify my surroundings.

  Somehow, I found my way to the med-bay on Requiem.

  “How the fuck...?”

  That focus is cut short by the sudden shock accompanying my fall from the examining table.

  At the sound of my stream of profanity, the medical AI system recognizes my voice and turns up the lights.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I didn’t understand you.”

  “Fuck off. Turn down the fucking light, you useless piece of shit.”

  Obediently, the lighting dims and I lie on the deck, blinking until the amorphous blobs of colour behind my eyelids dissipate.
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  Rubbing my banged-up elbow, I sit up and try to corral the bag of cats inside my skull into a semblance of coherent thought.

  “What time is it?”

  “The time is 06:20 local Lunar time.”

  I painfully rise and limp to the water closet to relieve my straining bladder, grateful I didn’t piss myself during my failed gymnastics moves.

  Emerging, I pour a glass of water to wash away the putrid taste. I refill it and go to the medication locker for something to address my headache. The door is damaged from it being forced.

  “Shit, I was in some bad shape.”

  The AI has learned enough to stay quiet.

  Opening the vandalized cabinet, I discover chaos. Bottles are scattered about, lids pried open and empty. A quick inspection of the floor and surrounding area reveals no sign of what happened to the missing inventory.

  “How fucking drunk was I?”

  “I do not understand your question.”

  “Fuck off! No wait, what time did I come in here last night?”

  “I recorded your arrival at 01:18.”

  I am about to ask it to bring up the security feed when I recall that I disabled it. There is no point in stealing medication from the corporation if I am going to record myself doing so.

  Pressing a cold cloth to my eyes to beat back the pain, I ask, “What is the last recorded entry here before mine?”

  “An unidentified individual entered the med-bay at 22:14.”

  “Unidentified?”

  “It was not a member of Requiem’s crew.”

  “What?”

  “The person who—”

  “It was rhetorical.”

  I stare dumbly at the empty locker. Whoever broke in was not fussy about what they took; mostly mild analgesics, but there is a limited supply of opiates, diuretics, laxatives, and antacids missing as well. Someone’s stolen it to sell on the black market. If it was a strung-out junkie expecting to get high, they will be disappointed and in bad shape.

  “Tie into the ship’s general security feed.”

  “Was that a rhetorical statement?”

  “I’m going to reprogram you into a food dispenser. Show me the fucking security feed.”