Neurolink

by M M Buckner

  Sereb held Dominic’s bleeding palm high for everyone to see, and Dominic gazed dully at the miners’ sweaty grins.

  “No more of that shit. From now on, you’ll have respectable work.” Sereb dropped Dominic’s hand, spun on his heels and waded away through the crowd. “See the banker drinks his fill tonight, boys. Say, where’s them fiddle-players? I wanna dance.”

  Later, Dominic remembered finding a chair and trying to sit in it. The rest of the evening would forever be a blank.

  He woke up with Benito sitting on his chest, tugging at a clean white bandage wrapped snugly around his little brown hand. When Dominic’s vision cleared, he saw a drop of blood seeping through Benito’s bandage, and he tried to recall how the boy had hurt his hand. In the next moment, he elbowed the boy away, rolled on his side and vomited. There was so little in his stomach, the spasms seemed to rip his viscera out. Then his brain quaked inside his skull.

  “Son, you got a mother-bitch hangover.” The NP chuckled. “Sometimes I miss physical sensation. Then again, sometimes I don’t.”

  Dominic realized both his own hands were swathed and padded in white gauze. His fingers were bound together, and when he flexed them, he gasped aloud. Oh yes, the bucket handles. He wondered who had given him med care. With a grunt, he sat up and held his white paws in his lap. Something hard poked his thigh, so he lifted his leg. It was Penderowski’s torch.

  “You wanna know how long you slept?” the NP asked.

  “Just tell me how soon the oxygen runs out.” Dominic pushed the torch away.

  “Twenty-one hours, zero minutes, eight seconds and counting, unless that prote engineer starts dicking with the oxy mix.”

  Less than a day! Dominic bolted up. He must be over a hundred meters deep below the seafloor. He had to start climbing! Then he swayed and fell and swallowed hard to keep from vomiting again.

  Light tubes banded the ceiling like glaring white ribbons. He was still in the room called “Mess.” The tables and chairs had been put back in neat rows, and other than a few wet stains on the stone floor, no evidence remained of the beer party. Except for himself and the boy, the room appeared empty. His first impulse was to run into the corridor and search for any ladder leading up, but each time he moved, he felt as if a jackhammer were trying to tear its way out of his skull.

  “Benito,” he whispered hoarsely, “is there any water?”

  “Faucet in the ceiling,” a female voice said.

  Dominic wedged his elbow into a chair seat and pushed himself up where he could see who spoke. On the tabletop beside him sat the brawny miner woman called Djuju. Her legs were crossed in lotus fashion, and she held a strange artifact, which at first he couldn’t identify. Then he recalled an image from a history site. That thing she held was a book. He’d browsed video about books. They were read-only, plain-text datafiles made of plant fiber. Fragile, impermanent, of no practical use—yet prized by collectors and therefore valuable. Dominic was surprised to find such a rarity here, but even more bizarre, Djuju actually seemed to be reading it.

  With a sigh, she clapped the book shut and stowed it in the bosom of her uniform. “Okay, coin man. You got a name?”

  “Nick,” he said. “And this is Benito.”

  “Me and yer son are old friends. Sereb told me to look out for you today. You’ll be on my crew.”

  “I can’t,” said Dominic, just as the NP whispered, “Tell her you can’t.”

  He tottered to his feet and searched the ceiling for the faucet. When he twisted the valve open, a thin stream trickled into his mouth. It tasted warm and vaguely sour, and he drank for a long time. “Benito, you want some?” he asked.

  “Stop playing nursemaid to the brat!” the NP’s barked. “Ask this prote for directions.”

  “Shut up,” Dominic subvocalized.

  “That soft-headed streak, I swear I don’t know where you got it.” White sparks burst across Dominic’s eye, and he blinked.

  Djuju watched him. She slung one muscular leg over the table’s edge and kicked her boot rhythmically against the chair. Her glance was dry and appraising. She seemed to be waiting for him to explain himself.

  Dominic smiled, and in a smooth tone, he said, “I have urgent business on the Dominic Jedes. How about a barter? If you’ll give me directions to the bridge, then I’ll—I’ll—” But his mind was still fogged by alcohol.

  “Tell her the brat will stay and work,” said the NP.

  “The boy will stay and work.” Even as Dominic repeated the phrase, the words jarred him. When Benito shot him a questioning frown, he had to look away.

  Djuju sniffed. “You want breakfast?”

  Before he could answer, the NP said, “Give her the con job. You do it so well.”

  An ache shot up Dominic’s back, and he realized his muscles were knotted with tension. He rolled his shoulders and almost in a monotone, he recited the lie he’d used with Penderowski. “Djuju, your colony’s running out of air. I’m bringing an offer of trade. Respirator equipment, fuel and supplies. I have to meet your council on the Dominic Jedes’ bridge.”

  Would it work this time? She lifted her chin and studied him. “This trade, what do we give in return?”

  Penderowski hadn’t asked that question. Dominic forced his mind to work. “Debenture bonds.”

  Djuju narrowed her eyes. Her boot stopped swinging.

  “I’m offering a straight loan package,” Dominic continued, hoping to confuse her with jargon. “You’ll pay prime plus two for a standard term, with a balloon option. You won’t find a better deal.”

  “Money,” she said.

  “Yes, money.” Dominic didn’t know if he’d given the right answer or the wrong one.

  “Humph.” Djuju got down from the table and put her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrowed, and for a long moment, she studied Dominic’s face. Then she picked up Penderowski’s torch. “Take yer flashlight. You’ll need it. And take yer son, too. Mines ain’t no place for children.”

  She led them back through the unfinished corridor, to the ladder he’d been descending before the tunnel caved in. The directions she gave matched Penderowski’s to the letter. He still had to descend a little farther before he could start climbing up toward the Dominic Jedes, but she said he could easily reach the bridge in a couple of hours.

  “Another sucker,” the NP gloated.

  Right, Dominic thought, another trusting fool. He peered down the ladder shaft. When he turned to thank Djuju, she was gone. Only the boy stood there, puffing out his brown little cheeks and fluttering air through his lips. Dominic ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “Nineteen hours, fifty-two minutes and counting,” the NP said testily. “Dump the kid. He’s slowing you down.”

  “Right, Benito. Let’s go.”

  Dominic told himself he was bringing the boy along as an act of defiance. He had little enough margin to defy the NP, but he would make the most of it. The truth, though, was different. From the moment he’d offered to trade the boy, he’d been picturing Benito working in the mines, bending under a heavy load of rocks. He couldn’t get that image out of his mind.

  The bandages restricted his hands like oversized mittens, so he loosened them and worked his fingers free. Then he stuck the torch between his teeth and followed the boy down the ladder. They descended six levels without stopping to rest, and just as Djuju had promised, they found a solid steel loading dock with a heavy reinforced door. Pale light gleamed through a spy hole, but Dominic couldn’t see in. The lens was made to look outward. His muscles were still weary, and it took him several tries to crank the lever open.

  When the hatch seal released, a horrible, sweet, rotten smell nearly knocked him over. Had he counted the levels wrong? He must have stumbled into the mortuary! His first impulse was to close the door fast, but before he could react, Benito dashed between his legs and ran through.

  “Splendid,” he said aloud. “Benito, come back here!” Then he had no choice but to go and look for the boy.


  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  CONSUMABLES

  THE sweet rotten stench made Dominic gag. He held his nostrils and shielded his eyes from the harsh light. Penderowski’s torch was no longer necessary. Scores of bare fluorescent tubes crisscrossed the ceiling in a vast grid-work that hung just at eye level, flooding every object below with a deathly greenish glare, while leaving the space above in obscurity. The light tubes intersected in two-meter squares, and Dominic had to stoop to walk under them.

  “This can’t be right. That miner gave you the wrong directions,” the NP said. “Turn around and go back.”

  Dominic couldn’t see Benito anywhere. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed scars on the stone floor where partition walls had been ripped out to expand the space. Scraps of metal paneling still clung to bare support beams, and a disconnected duct was left to dangle in the breeze. The breeze. Yes, Dominic felt a distinct movement of air drying the sweat on his skin, and he heard slowly revolving rotor fans in the distance.

  Then he saw the coffins. Hundreds of them. Row upon row of deep metal boxes, unlidded, steaming with gaseous decay. They stretched to the farthest walls in perfect alignment like chips on a board. But they were huge, much longer and wider than the dimensions of a human body. Were these coffins meant for mass burial? He dreaded to look inside, but a morbid curiosity drew him to the nearest one. It stood on a platform, waist high, and he ducked under the light grid to see it.

  “Get away from there!” A tall, buxom Euro woman came marching down an aisle between the coffins. At every third step, she bobbed her head to pass under a light tube, as if from years of practice. In her right hand, she carried a long-handled rake, and her expression was grim. “Who said you could come in here? This place is off-limits! Get out, you filthy prote!”

  “Prote? I’m not—Who are you?”

  Dominic stood to his full height between the light tubes and strained to see the woman’s face. Then he noticed her uniform. Instead of the faded gray coverall of a protected employee, she wore the smart dress blues of an exec. Dominic squinted in the harsh light. Yes, there was the braided insignia, the Nord.Com logo.

  “An exec,” Dominic said. “Incredible. You’re still here.”

  He ducked under the grid and hurried to meet her. Before he could stand upright again, the woman swung her rake and knocked him sharply in the jaw. He staggered off balance and dropped his laser torch.

  “Get out, you stupid oaf! You’ll contaminate the food!”

  She swiped at him again, but this time, Dominic grabbed the rake before she could hit him. Crouching low, he twisted it out of her hands and turned it against her. “Madam, I’m not your enemy. Listen to me. I’m—”

  “You’re covered in dirt! Can’t you see this is a sterile environment? Food has to be kept sanitary. Sanitary! Do you even know the word? These are biochem vats. These yeasty bugs make our food. They’re extremely sensitive. Oh, you’re too stupid to grasp the simplest concepts!”

  The woman snatched at the rake, but Dominic dodged behind a coffin. Her cheeks darkened. “Ill-bred slacker! I work around the clock to maintain these vats. You can’t possibly appreciate the fragile balance. I’m the only one with the training!”

  She darted around the vat, and under the bright light, Dominic noticed a rash covering her cheeks. Her graying blonde hair looked greasy, and her hands were chapped. He’d never met an exec with such poor grooming habits. Worse, she seemed on the point of tears.

  “Put down that rake! You’re getting smutty prote germs all over the handle.”

  “Madam, I—”

  She lunged toward him, and he circled farther around the vat. His jaw was starting to smart where she hit him, and he was losing patience. It didn’t help when the woman shook her fists and screeched at him. “See this uniform? I know what’s best! You’re supposed to do what I say!”

  Then she reached across the vat and caught the rake tines. They cut her hands. “You’re ruining the food!” She was crying now, though she shook the rake like a madwoman. When Dominic managed to loosen her fingers from the tines, she sank down against the vat and covered her face.

  At that moment, Benito reappeared. His mouth and cheeks were smeared with lumpy, brownish goo. Globs of it slid down his bare chest and spotted the enormous striped shorts that ballooned around his knees. He glanced from one adult to the other and casually licked his fingers. The woman started bawling.

  Dominic didn’t know what to do. The woman knocked the back of her head against the metal vat, again and again. Her howls echoed like a bad audio feed. He explored the inside of his aching jaw with his tongue and watched her. He had never encountered hysteria before. Execs didn’t yield to such displays.

  He set the rake down, out of her reach, picked up the torch he’d dropped and stuck it in his waistband, just at the small of his back. Eventually, the woman stopped weeping. She leaned against the vat and scowled at him. Before either of them could react, Benito stepped on the woman’s shoulder and scrambled up onto the lip of the vat. He hung on the brink, half in and half out, kicking his little legs in the air, and Dominic moved closer to see what he was doing.

  The vat was filled with pudding. Or something viscous and beige that resembled pudding. Oozy yellow-brown ridges marbled its surface, and it rose and fell as if breathing. Here and there, bubbles broke and spouted small gouts of steam.

  “Protein-glucose base,” the NP said. “Staple of the prote diet—and very weird stuff.”

  “How so?” Dominic bent over the vat for a closer inspection.

  “ ’Cause it’s alive! It’s made from a single, two-hundred-year-old, transgenic yeast cell.”

  Benito was stuffing his cheeks with both hands, and despite the revolting saccharine smell, Dominic felt a pang of appetite.

  “Are you saying this stuff is two centuries old?” he sub-vocalized.

  “Yeah, back when I was young, Agra.Com got hold of the patent and just kept replicating the DNA and letting it swell up. Now it’s like some huge cluster organism that just won’t die. You find little pieces of it everywhere.”

  Dominic half suspected the NP was joking. He looked around for a utensil, a spoon or dipper, but there was nothing. He examined his black, grimy fingers. After hesitating a moment, he wiped them on his equally grimy shorts, then leaned beside the boy and scooped up a handful. The stuff felt slithery and warm. He swallowed it fast and scooped up more.

  “How can you stomach that stuff?” the NP said.

  Dominic ignored him and slurped more brown goo. This pudding was not bad. Really not bad. He devoured one mournful after another, hardly bothering to chew. At some point, he became aware that the woman was watching. She was still sitting on the floor near his feet, and he realized he and Benito must look like a pair of animals gorging at a trough. But the thought didn’t stop him. He was hungry.

  Finally, he stood to his full height, studied his gooey hands, and with only the briefest hesitation, wiped them on the side of the vat. The woman glowered. He leaned against the vat and crossed his arms—and inadvertently let out a little burp.

  “Where did you get the exec uniform?” he asked.

  “It’s mine.” The woman drew her knees and elbows tight to her body.

  “You’re not an executive.”

  “I am!” She eyed him with contempt. “Glutton! I work myself to exhaustion to feed you protes. The resources I’ve had to stretch to feed thousands of extra mouths. I’m a better exec than those Nord.Com fools who drove us bankrupt.”

  “You’re right, son. I just scanned her retina, and she’s not in the executive database. How did you guess?” the NP asked.

  Benito was trying to flop down from the vat, so Dominic helped him to the floor. “You work here all alone?” he asked the woman.

  “I can do it.” She rapped her knuckle against the vat, and it rang like a muffled gong. “You and your filthy child just poisoned my yeasty bugs. I’ll have to dump this whole batch and star
t over. That’s wasted resources. Not to mention backbreaking work. I should have a crew of laborers answering to me. But the protes on this ship are too good to take orders now. They want to sit on councils and vote resolutions and pretend they know what they’re doing. Ha!” The woman got up and straightened her uniform. “I’m right in the middle of a crucial quality check. Don’t let me find you here when I get back.”

  As she marched away, Dominic followed her with his eyes. A prote impersonating an exec. Why would she do that? Protes resented execs, didn’t they? He watched her wandering among the rows of warm, simmering vats, and it occurred to him that this would be a safe place to leave Benito. Plenty of food. It was certainly healthier than the mines.

  “Leave the brat here,” said the NP. “He’ll be well fed.”

  The NP’s order grated him raw, so he didn’t answer. The woman was brushing a bit of lint from her uniform. She seemed so proud of those dress blues. Odd behavior for a. prote, he thought.

  “You agree about the boy, I can tell,” said the NP. “We always think alike, son. Why did we ever argue?”

  “You’re the one with the perfect recall,” Dominic answered bitterly.

  As he watched the woman straighten her collar and smooth her hair, he wondered again why she would deliberately identify with people she disliked. She must be acting under some compulsive devotion to authority.

  “You always started those fights. I do recall that,” the NP said.

  “Shut up.” Dominic didn’t want to think about the arguments with his father. The woman stooped over one of her vats and sniffed the steam. Then she stuck her finger in the pudding and tasted it. Was that her crucial quality check?

  “Hell, I used to be soft like you, but I outgrew it,” said the NP.

  “Outgrew it? Two days ago, you didn’t exist!” The vein on Dominic’s forehead throbbed visibly. His father used to speak to him exactly like that.

  “Awright, I just came online, but I remember everything,” the genie said.