I froze. No one knew me on Mars.
“Thank you for your prompt payment. I hope we may do business again,” added the United States Galactic Foreign Legion ATM.
“You going to snitch on me to Bubba again?” I asked.
“Of course not,” replied the ATM. “You are a valued customer. You might even give me a good reference to some of your associates. You scratch my back, I will scratch yours.”
“You bet. I’ll send lots of business your way,” I said, as I walked away. At the hotel desk, I addressed the check-in clerk, “Sir, I want a suite. And not just any suite. I want the suite with the huge gold-tipped crossed elephant tusks in the window overlooking all the tiny people scurrying about below.”
“Yes sir,” said the clerk as he took my card and ran it. “We have only the very best here at Harrah’s Hotel & Casino. But I’m afraid we don’t have any crossed elephant tusks.”
“Get the manager. Now! I want to talk to someone about this outrage! I saw crossed elephant tusks on a travel brochure and in a movie, and now you are holding out on me? If someone else has my room, kick them out! Move it boy!” I ordered. This was not normally how I talk to people, especially minimum-wage types. If the clerk was a food-server, he would have surely spit on the underside of my steak and smiled while he delivered it. But I was feeling full of myself and putting on airs. I figured what harm could the clerk do me? I’d tip him later after I had my fun, figuring it was okay to be rude as long as you tipped well. I’d give him a good tip after I won some more money.
The manager came out to talk to me. “Sir, I am so sorry the room you wanted was taken by the King of California, and we just cannot kick him out. Can I interest you in another suite?” asked the hotel manager.
“So, you do have a suite with crossed elephant tusks? That means he lied to me. I expect this idiot to be reprimanded,” I said, pointing my finger at the clerk.
“I’ll fire him immediately, sir,” the manager promised. “Can I interest you in a suite with a stuffed grizzly bear in the window?”
“I like the sound of that,” I replied. “My very own grizzly in the window. I’ll take it. And about your boy, don’t fire him yet. I think he has management potential. Lies with a straight face. Very smooth.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure he will be relieved to be keeping his job,” said the manager. “And for your inconvenience in this matter, Harrah’s Hotel & Casino Resort will comp your first night.”
“Outstanding!” I said. “You will be happy to know I will be doing a lot of gambling tonight. I’ll drop your name with the pit bosses.”
“Good luck and good gaming,” said the manager, as he left to attend other matters. He motioned for the clerk to come over and finish checking me in.
“Sir, thank you so much for saving my job,” said the clerk. “I really need this job. I live from paycheck to paycheck, and with the high cost of Martian air taxes these days, it can be a real hassle.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said. “What would they do if you run out of air money? Throw you out of an airlock?” I smiled jokingly.
“Yes sir,” replied the clerk. “That is exactly what they would do.”
“Oh come on. It’s been a while since I’ve been up here. Don’t they still have welfare on Mars? Some kind of safety net? What if I ran out of money?”
“No welfare on Mars,” the clerk answered somberly.
That thought shook me for half a second, then I remembered something I wanted to take care of. “By the way, there is something you need to do for me,” I said, in a low conspiratorial voice. I slid my pistol across the counter. “You see that ATM in the corner near the front door?”
“Sir?” asked the clerk. “This isn’t a robbery, is it?”
“Don’t be silly. You saw my card. I’m a guest. I don’t need to rob anyone yet. In fact, I am going to give you two thousand dollars. All you have to do is one little favor for me.”
“Sir, I don’t like guns,” said the clerk. “Guns are frowned upon here on Mars. Our laws are harsh.”
“Yes I know,” I said. “It’s un-American. But since I saved your job, and because of that you are still able to pay your air taxes, you are going to take this gun and do me a tiny little favor. You are going to pick a time of your own choosing and fire the whole clip into that ATM.”
“Please,” begged the clerk. “I can’t do that. I don’t know anything about guns.”
“Oh sure you can,” I said. “This pistol is simple and easy to use. Just pull the trigger and don’t shoot yourself. I want you to wait until it’s late, sneak up on the ATM from the side, and shoot its guts out. There is no risk as long as you aren’t scanned by the ATM’s face recognition camera. I suggest you point the hotel cameras away from the front door too. You can do it. I have faith in you.”
“Sir, please. I hate guns.”
“When you are done, take my gun up to my room and put it under the bed pillow. I’m going gambling.” I gave the clerk $2,000 up front to sweeten the deal, and walked out. I love Mars.
On the way to the casino, I bought $25,000 worth of gold chains and put them all around my neck. I walked to the craps table, feeling invincible with $400,000 on my card. I’d lose $20,000, win $30,000, lose $10,000, and win $25,000. The money just started to add up. Then my luck changed. I bet $10,000 on a craps field bet and lost. The two sixes faced up for just a second, then one of the dice hit a stack of chips and came up seven. I bet the field again, lost again. Bet $40,000 and lost. I bet $60,000 and lost. Down to my last bet. Numb from betting such large amounts, I bet $250,000. The dice rolled…
Twelve! Yes! I am invincible! Twelve on a field bet pays triple, so I had one million dollars on my card. Just then, shots rang out at the far end of the casino. Everyone ducked or ran for cover. I kept a straight face and said, “Please cash me out. I’m going to retire for the evening.”
I had a drink first. Then I stopped by a computer chip store. “Got anything good to buy?” I asked the tech clerk. He seemed bored and not interested in my business.
“Sir, the enhancements and chips we sell here are strictly high-end. You can’t afford to even walk in the door. Please leave.”
“I’m on a winning streak. Show me the good stuff,” I insisted, sliding my card across the counter.
“Pardon me sir, but maybe I can help you after all,” said the tech clerk as he checked my card, seeing lots of dollars.
“I’ve heard rumors about a Fountain of Youth chip,” I said. “Do you have one?”
“Interesting you asked that question,” said the clerk in a hushed tone. “Yes sir, we have the Fountain of Youth chip. And I’ll make you a special deal, considering the Feds are about to make it illegal. You’re not a cop, are you?”
“No. What do you mean illegal?” I asked. “Why would they want suppress such fantastic technology?”
“Over-population,” replied the clerk. “A special few will still be able to buy the chip. The plan is to make immortality available only to those who have special skills, merit, or money.”
“That makes no sense. Are you sure that’s all there is to it?”
“There are also some health concerns holding up FDA approval,” advised the clerk. “Risks of an enlarged heart and stress to your liver and kidneys. But I think the upside potential far outweighs the downside.”
“Does it really work?” I asked. “It’s not being old that upsets me as much as being fat and old.”
“It will make you look twenty years old again by regenerating and organizing your cells. How old are you? Sixty? The chip does not really make you young. Nothing can do that. The Fountain of Youth chip merely directs your body to run at peak efficiency. You will feel and look great, as long as you don’t have a heart attack or suffer from any pre-existing ailments that would kill you anyway. Are you in good health? You don’t drink a lot do you?”
“I’m in great health. And I am not anywhere near sixty,” I lied. “I’ll take it. How much?”
“OK, it’s a deal,” I said. I held out my arm and the tech clerk shot four chips into me. Nothing happened. I felt the same. I reached for my gun, but it wasn’t there.
“Whoa tiger, it takes time,” said the tech clerk, sensing my anger. “Would you be interested in our five-year limited warranty for only $25,000 more?”
“Yes.” I held out my arm as he scanned in the five-year limited warranty particulars and fine print.
“Now go home and have a good night’s sleep. You will literally be a new man in the morning.”
* * * * *
I walked out through the shopping mall adjacent to the casino and through the hotel lobby with a nice bounce to my step. I was feeling good about my prospects. The police had put up barrier tape and were taking photos of the shot-up ATM. I heard a beep as I walked by the crime scene. I was being scanned. My back stiffened as I stopped to talk to the officer. “Is it dead?” I asked.
“Very,” the officer answered. “Nothing but a pile of junk now.”
“What was that beep I just heard?”
“Just a spasm of death,” the officer explained. “Maybe static electricity. They will bring in a replacement tomorrow. It’s nothing but scrap metal now.”
“Who would shoot an ATM?” I asked innocently. “Any suspects?”
“How did you know it was shot?” asked the officer, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Are you kidding?” I quickly answered. “You could hear the shots clear across the casino.”
“Oh, quite right,” said the officer. “It was probably peace activists. They are a violent bunch.”
“I’m sure you’ll catch them,” I said as I strode to the elevator. As I opened the door to my room, I was greeted by Bubba Jones. Shit, some days just aren’t worth getting up for.
“Welcome to Mars, Czerinski,” said Bubba, smiling. Then he shot me in the head.
CHAPTER 3
“Joey R. Czerinski, can you hear me?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I can. I can’t see you. I can’t touch you. But I sure can hear you, loud and clear. You sound like you are inside my head. Am I dead? Or is this a near-death experience? Or maybe if I just keep talking, I will wake up from a bad dream. If this is death, shouldn’t I see a white light off in the distance, with my loved ones calling to me? I don’t have any loved ones, so maybe I should be just be seeing a red glow, with my creditors calling out to me. Or an ATM calling out to me.”
“My name is Doctor Horton Fischer. You are not having a bad dream, and you are not dead yet. You are in a coma, and I am communicating with you through a neural transmission device. Do you remember being shot in the head?”
“You bet I do!” I replied. “Bubba Jones shot me. Call the police. I want him arrested for murder.”
“Actually,” said Dr. Fischer, “a sheriff’s detective is standing right next to me looking into the matter.”
“Oh?” I asked. “I invoke doctor/patient privacy and my constitutional right to remain silent.”
“Why?” asked a different voice. “Are you feeling guilty about something? I am Detective Michael McCoy, and I just happened to be in the hotel investigating another shooting when I got the call. You got any beefs with the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion?”
“None at all. The Legion is a fine organization.”
“That’s quite a stuffed bear you have in your room.”
“It’s a grizzly,” I replied. “I never got to see it.”
“Your shooting seems to be an open and shut case,” said Detective McCoy. “Bubba Jones served you with a valid debt collection warrant, you resisted arrest, and Mr. Jones exercised his right per the bond to shoot your deadbeat ass on the spot. He took your gold chains as payment for said debt, and left a receipt for your heirs should said debt collection later be contested by your estate. All nice and legal.”
“Yes, except the debt warrant, the resisting arrest clause, and the $25,000 bond was all done on Old Earth,” I protested. “This is Mars. That warrant is not valid in this jurisdiction.”
“While it is true we don’t allow extradition to Old Earth from Mars for civil warrants,” agreed the detective, “the court hasn’t been clear about whether the warrant can still be served here on Mars. Courts in different jurisdictions tend to honor each others’ judgments. I think your grievance against Mr. Jones & Associates will have to be pursued as a civil action. At this time it’s just not a police matter.”
“What? Murder is just a civil matter? When did the law change on that? Why am I even talking to you? Idiot. You’re worthless! Doc! How about waking me up?”
“There is, however, the matter of the unregistered nine-millimeter handgun with filed off serial numbers we found under the pillow of your bed,” said Detective McCoy. “It’s a nice old piece. Is it yours?”
“No, it’s not mine. Bubba probably left it there just to make me look bad. I did not resist arrest. If you check hotel computer archives and video you will find that I had not even entered my room until the very moment I was shot. That is proof that gun is not mine. Right?”
“We are checking the gun for prints, DNA, skin, and fibers. I suggest you come clean on the gun.”
“I suggest you get me a lawyer,” I said, trying to be smooth. “I have already exercised my right to remain silent. I have rights!”
“How about I cut off your oxygen supply?” asked the detective, pinching a clear plastic tube by my bed. I started twitching. I could feel the discomfort, even though I was in a coma. I could sense an alarm beeper going off.
“That sounds like coercion,” I shot back. “What are you doing? Stop touching things! I have constitutional rights.”
“Not on Mars you don’t. Colonial law is much more practical. We have limited resources and don’t tolerate dead weight. I’ll throw you out an airlock on a whim if I feel like it,” threatened McCoy.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said contritely. “I respect the difficult job you police do. Did you find my prints on the gun?”
“No,” replied Detective McCoy.
“Well there you go.” I brightened. “I told you the gun was not mine.”
“We did find a partial print, and we are following up on that lead. Alright, I have your statement. Anything you wish to add? If you lied about anything, your last lucent moments of life will be spent choking on Martian dust after I throw you out an airlock for being an undesirable on Mars. Some people are alive only because it’s illegal to kill them. That’s not a problem here on Mars.”
“I love you, too, McCoy. Hey Doc, how long before you can fix me up?” Hospitals are not healthy places to stay, I thought. And cops, they never believe anybody.
“I removed the bullet. I thought you would suffer brain damage, maybe never walk or talk again. However, your brain appears to be repairing itself at an amazing rate. Quite frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s almost a miracle. There will be some cosmetic surgery needed on your skull, of course. I didn’t want to say anything while the sheriff’s detective was here, but some illegal computer chips in your arm might have had something to do with mitigating your brain damage and the subsequent healing. We think that Fountain of Youth chip had just started to kick in when you were shot. A combination of quick medical response and accelerated cell growth saved your life,” the doctor concluded.
“Great! So, you can fix me?” I asked.
“There is still the matter of your bill. New Boston General Hospital is not a charity hospital. We take cash only, or we work with your health plan. Do you have a health plan?” asked Dr. Fischer.
“Did you check my card?�
�� I asked.
“Yes, and $650,000 is impressive. But the bill will be $1,000,000. Brain surgery isn’t cheap. Do you have other accounts? Otherwise, I’m afraid we will have to pull the plug,” warned Dr. Fisher.
“Harrah’s Hotel may be liable for my expenses because their poor security allowed Bubba Jones & Associates to violate my privacy and enter my suite in violation of my wishes. If none of that had happened, I wouldn’t have been injured. Can you contact Harrah’s Hotel? Maybe they will agree to a settlement,” I suggested.
“I will have one of our social workers and a representative from our business office contact Harrah’s and get back with you,” promised Dr. Fischer.
“One last thing Doc,” I said. “Don’t unplug me unless you talk to me first. I might have other sources of income. Okay?”
“Sure,” said the doctor.
“And keep McCoy away from me too. He was bluffing, right? That cop can’t really throw me out an airlock on a whim can he?”
“I would not push McCoy if I were you.”
* * * * *
It was unnerving being in a coma. Very dark. Nothing to do but think and wiggle my little finger. It was very lonely. Finally the doctor’s reassuring voice came back. “A representative from Harrah’s Hotel & Casino is here with me now,” said Dr. Fischer. “Mr. Depoli.”
“Harrah’s is willing to settle out of court for $100,000, Mr. Czerinski, and not a penny more, in exchange for your written promise not to make public any of this matter. And, Harrah’s does not admit any wrongdoing whatsoever,” added Mr. Depoli.
“I want a million dollars, and I want Harrah’s to put up a large billboard sign admitting I was murdered because Harrah’s employees negligently let thugs into my suite without my permission,” I demanded.
“Ridiculous. I’m doing you a favor by just being here,” said Depoli. “If I walk away, you will be unplugged and will die. Then you won’t be able to sue anyone. You have no family. No one cares about you. In fact, I have a mind to unplug you myself, you deadbeat bum. Doctor, it is my legal opinion this man is dead. Either that or he will always be a vegetable. It is inhumane to just allow him to linger in agony like this, and it is also a terrible waste of limited hospital resources. At least increase the morphine drip. There certainly is precedent under colonial law to just let him pass to a better place or wherever.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 1: Feeling Lucky Page 2
