by Kieran Shea
As narrow as the erstwhile storage room was, Jimmy did his level best to make his quarters comfortable. Fastidiously he arranged most of his things on a shelf along one wall to give him a clear path to a bathroom installed at the far end. The last thing you wanted when you got up in the middle of your sleep cycle to take a leak was to crack a shin on something that should have been stowed better. Upon entering, the first manner of items Jimmy set up on the left was his wardrobe. Fairly basic. A couple pairs of boots and a pair of trainers, a week’s worth of fresh jumpers, skivvies, and some casual leathers to go home in, all of which hung on a rectangular rig of thermoplastic resin. After that came Jimmy’s desk area and his small collection of knickknacks, his HMS Victory model and three lush terrariums with Black Mondo Grass, ferns, and stubby mushrooms on a long shelf above. His bunk came next, followed by a small space he reserved for stretching. The bathroom was behind a falcated partition of frosted plastic at the far end.
On the wall opposite these items, Jimmy took to taping up things. Some unindustrialized landscapes of Earth and rugby heroes mostly, but sometimes he liked to tack up passages from something he’d read or colorful samplings of artwork. It was a necessary nuisance, but he had to change these taped-up things quite frequently as the heat from the incinerators next door tended to yellow and curl the posted edges after a while. On the artwork front lately he’d been reading a lot about early hypervio-realism and a trio of printouts adorned the wall. The first picture was of two men bare-knuckle sparring in an alley as a baby with large black sunglasses levitated above them. The second was of a fever of long-extinct stingrays inside a shimmering, metallic wave. Lastly, the largest picture of the three wasn’t exactly a favorite, but the artist’s subject fascinated Jimmy. The picture was a full-color painting of a doppelgänger of a famous reactionary pundit. The pundit, a woman, was blonde and nude and she sat on a plain wooden chair as she held a blood-soaked dressing to her stomach. A pragmatic mugwump at heart, Jimmy didn’t throw in much for full-contact, political hullabaloo, but he did find the utter bankrupt look of compunction in the doppelgänger’s eyes riveting.
Once inside, Jimmy slapped the lock home to seal the hatch and flipped on the lights. Generally he preferred to use just a small lamp at his desk or the soft terrarium lights for illumination as the flickering industrial overheads gave him a headache, but he felt a full glaring radiance was needed to properly study the sample he’d cut from the pocket. As he passed his desk, a quick wristband swipe under a tripod reader initiated his personal workstation screen. Jimmy dumped his rucksack on his bunk, rummaged inside—and drew out the sample in its latch-sealed tumbler. Bringing the tumbler back to his desk, he sat down and got to work.
Like most hardnosed outfits, when it came to what you worked on and looked at on your personal workstation screens, Azoick could fit all of its concerns about your personal privacy up a single, dead gnat’s ass. By providing each employee on site with an integrated state-of-the-art workstation system as part of their housing package, Azoick had reserved the right to routinely scour any and all drives for security purposes. As a policy, it was ridiculously ineffective. Azoick wouldn’t cop to it publically, but they were keenly aware that almost everyone on station possessed illegal graphometric processor chits able to block their scrutiny via pico-flex encryption. Regular inspections failed to uncover these chits because they were A) so thin and B) so small they could be disguised as almost anything. The processor chits also left no traceable signature. Jimmy had adhered his illegal chit to the face of a playing card, and with five and a half petabytes’ worth of capacity his was one of the least powerful on the market. After pulling a rubber-banded deck of cards from a drawer in his desk, he selected the card that held his secreted-away chit—the old chin-muffled self-lobotomizer, the King of Hearts.
Laying the card face up on his desk just below his activated workstation screen Jimmy mumbled a few lines from “O Canada” to engage a voice-stress frequency, and the processor chit instantly synced up with his system. His first manner of business was pulling up the latest three Earth-year market evaluations for gold, and then he skimmed some research datawells for a metallurgic assaying procedure as a brush-up. Soon feeling up to speed, he retrieved a timeworn geological testing kit covered in olive-drab moleskin from another desk drawer on his lower right. Jimmy had bought it on a lark and rarely, if ever, used it. After removing the gold sample from the tumbler with the kit’s tongs, he tested the gold using a Mohs Scale hardness tool and got a solid 2.8 reading.
Encouraging.
Nitric and hydrochloric acid swabs came next and then he weighed the sample on the kit’s tiny digital scale. The results proved to be positive as well. Satisfied, Jimmy shut down his workstation, dropped the sample back in the tumbler, and replaced the King of Hearts back in the deck.
He held the tumbler up to the overhead lights.
No doubt about it. The gold was the genuine article. So now what? How was he going to get all that gold back to Earth undetected?
He’d no idea.
Jimmy got up and paced the length of the room. No one knew about the gold yet, and as that was the case he still had some strategic flexibility. If he changed his mind, he could still come clean on the discovery, return the sample to the shaft and announce the find after his next shift to make things look good. No one would suspect a thing. A fortune would be lost—that much was certain—and it would be another regret on top of many, but he’d be safe. Naturally, Jimmy understood Azoick would likely steal his thunder and claim the pocket was something they’d had a premonition about all along, but at least he wouldn’t end up in the slammer or worse.
His conscience badgering him, Jimmy lay down on his bunk and brooded. Stupid conscience. Didn’t someone famous once say cowardice and conscience were the same thing? If Jimmy sided with taking the high road and chose to report the find, who knew what could happen? With any luck his status with Azoick would take a constructive turn for the better. The company might even choose to offer him a low-level management position. Funny, Leela had always wanted him to shoot for something like that. Toeing the company line and keeping things humming along—the prospect made him not just uneasy but mildly depressed. No one ever made their mark by being complaisant and following the rules—holy hell, where had all that gotten him? Nowhere. So was that his destiny? Being another company-man schlub buried alive in the toil of insignificance? He’d almost decided to give in to this resignation when an idea came to him in a rush.
Wait a second, Jimmy thought, get all that gold back to Earth undetected?
Why, he did know someone who might know a thing or two about that.
Sitting up, Jimmy checked the time on his wristband.
The next major meal service in the residential canteen was scheduled to start in a half hour.
5. ALLUSION COLLUSION
Fifteen minutes later in the canteen up on deck one, Jimmy found Jock Roscoe at a round baize-topped table holding court with a trio of paper-pajama-clad machine-op greenhorns fresh out of stasis from their Mandelbrot skip. Gliding up and standing just off behind the gathering, Jimmy went unnoticed by Jock as he was busy stacking thirty-two black Pai Gow tiles in a square plastic box in front of him. Jock snickered.
“Piece of advice, boys. Next time you’re looking for a game, stick with something easy like Warlord and Scumbags. Because frankly? You really kind of suck at this.”
None of the greenhorns looked amused.
“It’s not fair,” the largest of the three men said. “Hell, I’d me a gut feeling about your fading ass the moment we sat down. It was you who wanted to play this stupid bunco game instead of shooting dice.”
The other two greenhorns sulkily murmured agreements. Jock resumed stacking the Pai Gow tiles in the box and let the newcomers get a good look at his bulging eyes.
Bred in Brisbane’s platform housing projects, Jock Roscoe would never be called a handsome man. Rawboned, short, and with every available inch of his hair
less, flyweight epidermis tattooed with a hodgepodge of cross-cultural symbols, Jock prided himself on giving the distinct impression that he was an overgrown, long-nosed weevil and at least half a draft shy of sane. With his spikey teeth and tombstone-colored eyes, his appalling halitosis and rank bodily odors often added to this impression.
“Is there a problem?” Jock asked.
The three greenhorns simultaneously looked at each other and then with the subtlety of rousted cattle scrambled to their feet. A few assorted heads in the canteen registered the commotion, but most promptly went back to their own business. The greenhorn who initially spoke speared a finger.
“You’re nothing but a lousy cheat!”
Jock sighed. “Look, mate, you’re new here. Seeing that you’re still in your stasis PJs and not seasoned in Kardashev 7-A affairs, let me clue you in on something. First off, on my cold bitch of a dead mum’s soul I am not a cheat. Craven degenerate, absolutely, but a cheat? Never. Out of the goodness of my heart I showed you three how this game worked and after you won a few rounds I believe you were all hot for it, were you not?”
“Yeah, we were, but—”
Jock held up a hand. “But nothing. Because of said enthusiasm I merely suggested—suggested, mind you—that a little side action might make things more interesting. Now then, if I recall, you three agreed to that. But see, that’s just the thing. Once a good piece of wagering starts, inevitably that reliable old temptress comes along, the very same hag that’s undone men since we crawled out of the ponds. You may think you’re beyond Lady Greed’s wiles, but present evidence appears to be to the contrary. Now, to my second point.” Jock hiked a thumb toward the patch glued onto the breast of his jumper. “You see that division? The one printed under my name?”
“What? Shipping?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Big whoop. So what? What about it?”
“Well, here on this rock that is, in fact, a big whoop. Maybe the biggest whoop to a bunch of winging sooks like you. Short of it is, I’m what you’d call indispensable around here. As the Frogs like to say, I’m Kardashev 7-A’s very own débrouillard. A go-to man and Guy Friday when folks on station are hankering for a fix. Right now you may think you won’t need someone like me, but clock some time on this godforsaken hunk of stardust or wherever Azoick is sending us next, and I bet you’ll see things differently.” Jock tapped his temple. “Think about it, all right. You want a lid of deep-hallucinatory ganja from the vertical solar farms back home in Finse? Pirated files with interactive footage of your favorite pop idol taking Mayan reed bondage to the hilt? How about a jar of black market pickled eggs or perhaps extra time on your monthly comm window allowance, eh? Extra time on your comm window allowance is always good for checking on whether your sweetheart is throwing up her ankles now that you’re good and properly fucked.” Jock picked up a glass of gin at his elbow. “Trifle with me, compadre, and there’s at least half a dozen roughnecks behind you waiting on special orders that might have a problem with that. Now then, do me a favor, will you? Take it on the heel and toe and fuck off.”
Looking around, the three greenhorns saw plenty of brawny sorts stirring about in the canteen, and while none seemed to be looking in the table’s direction specifically, the hard-bitten faces of the men and women seemed to give them pause. Jock played it frosty. Flagging an airborne server drone, he ordered a refill, and when the drone sped off the trio of greenhorns picked up their duffle bags from the floor, turned, and slowly slinked away.
Jimmy swept forward and plopped down across from Jock. “Guess that was a pretty good pull, huh?”
Jock finished stacking the Pai Gow tiles in the box and threw back the rest of his gin. “Well, you know how these new hires are, Jimmy. All bandy-muscled and dimmer than dirt. It would be a shame not to lighten their pockets.”
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. “So how much did you take them for?”
“Why? What’s it to you?”
“Call it curiosity.”
Jock shook his head. “You know, they say a dose of that didn’t work out so well for the cat. To slake your curiosity, I took them for a hundred a pop.”
Jimmy whistled. “Nice. Units or shares?”
“They’re newbies,” replied Jock, “so currency units, unfortunately.”
Jimmy looked over his shoulder again. Standing at the canteen’s chevron-shaped bar, the three greenhorns were cracking their knuckles and giving Jock the stink eye. Jimmy turned back. “Still, a hundred each, that’s not too shabby. I think you’re lucky they moved along, though. The chippy one? He’s looking ready to throw down.”
Jock growled mirthlessly, “Oh, boo-hoo. Me getting pounded by a bunch of punters like that would be the least of my problems.”
Unfortunately, Jimmy understood the usurious difficulties Jock was alluding to. An unrepentant gambler and fond of long-shot bets, Jock Roscoe was throat-deep in debt to The Chimeric Circle—a diverse, felonious enterprise with multiple planet and outer systems reach. Cutthroat and loosely organized, The CC was reputed to sink its brutal beak into just about every illicit scheme imaginable, and with its far-reaching talons enforce a measure of brutality that some believed challenged man’s worst atrocities. The CC was involved in the usual sordid rackets: gambling, extortion, political kick-backing and its mushy, peculating sideshows. But recently it had also sidestepped into crisis speculation and new world commodity manipulations. With no definable central command structure to point to, no one really knew exactly how big The Chimeric Circle actually was, how it got started, or even who ultimately was calling the shots. One paranoiac theory suggested that the whole syndicate had been launched from a polymorphic virus that had infected a deep-space probe back in the late twenty-first century. Understandably, Azoick regulations prohibited outside contact with any criminal organizations or persons, but with Jock Roscoe even those with management responsibilities turned a blind eye because of their own self-interests—that is, what Jock could get for them. Most also steered clear of bringing up his problems with The CC, but Jimmy really didn’t have an option.
“So I take it you’re still treading water.”
“Oh, are we the best of mates now or something?”
“Just making conversation, Jock.”
“Oh? Well, here’s some conversation for you then. Get stuffed.”
“Wow, grouchy.”
Jock slapped the table and the Pai Gow tiles rattled in the box. “You’re goddamn right I’m grouchy. The vig those Chimeric Circle buzzards are squeezing my grapes with… I mean, every time I think I’m nearly clear I learn from one of my contacts on the inbound ships that their cast of deviants has hacked into my scrambled accounts to remind me—in one of nine different languages, mind you—just how far I’m behind in their precious book.” Jock pinched his thumb and forefinger in the air to illustrate. “They’re like leeches. Pick one off and another five of the noxious buggers latch on. I swear I’m doing all I can but sometimes it’s like a full-time job muddling my accounts back home to keep them from cleaning me out.”
“So how far are you down?” asked Jimmy.
“Far enough,” Jock replied pettishly. “God, you want to know what really galls me about those savages? There’s actually even a rumor running around that one of their connected ilk might be here on station.”
Jimmy almost laughed. “Here? On K7-A? No way.”
“That’s the buzz.”
“But how?”
“Beats me. Like I said, I keep trying to throw them off my accounts, but every time I turn around I get word from inbounds dropping out their skips that those bloodsuckers are all over me. There are moments when I think if I don’t cover my debts soon, I might be out of business, and I mean in the permanent kind of way.”
Jimmy mulled it over. He was skeptical. Sure, The Chimeric Circle had their grip on Jock and they had their notorious rep to uphold, so they’d certainly brutalize him, maybe break his legs or hack off a finger or two.
But cut off a positive revenue stream altogether? It seemed foolish. And it was hardly a secret that Jock was the sort of man who liked to embellish his woes. However, Jimmy needed Jock’s help, so he mortared together some sympathy.
“Damn, that’s rough. Hey, that server drone just shot off with your order. When it swings back let me pick up your tab.”
Jock’s eyelids drooped suspiciously. “Whoa, time out. Jimmy Vik buying me drinks? Since when is generous spelled with a ‘J’? Must be something on your mind.”
“Sort of.”
“Ah, I thought as much.”
“But it’s different than the usual stuff I’ve talked to you about.”
Jock nodded. “Oh, I see. So, what? No kiddie toy or weed this time?”
“Huh?”
Jock muttered, “With you, Jimmy, it’s always some obscure knickknack or some hard-to-find fungus you want to try growing in those little glass fishbowls of yours.”
“They’re called terrariums, Jock.”
“A waste of time and money is what they should be called. True, like the rest of the pikers here on station you occasionally spring for some righteous tabs of lab-grade opioids, but I’d bet anything you’re looking to score some hard-to-get plant or another fancy-schmancy model. You still working on that sailboat contraption I bent over backward to get you?”
