by Kieran Shea
“You mean the warship? Yeah, I finished putting that together a while ago.”
“Huh. Well, to each his own, I suppose.”
The server drone returned with Jock’s gin, and Jimmy swiped his wristband over the drone’s code reader. After requesting that Jock’s tab be shifted to Jimmy’s own food and beverage account, the drone inquired in an automated voice if there was anything else Jimmy desired, perhaps something to wet his whistle. There was a musty alloy of stale cumin, imitation garlic, and overused lard in the air, and the canteen crowds were growing noticeably thick.
Jimmy said, “It’s fiesta period, isn’t it?”
Hovering in mid-air and employing a suggestive, feminine voice the drone responded, “Affirmative—canteen fiesta period until nineteen hundred hours, Object Surface Time.”
Jimmy frowned. His stomach was still way too fluky for food, let alone the dyspeptic outcomes of hot meat paste, rehydrated salsa, and imitation cheese. He requested a tall seltzer on ice and when the drone sped off toward the bar’s drink service area, Jock studied him. Jimmy didn’t say anything until the service drone returned a minute later. When he took his seltzer from the open salver portion beneath the drone’s bib he raised his glass to Jock, who lifted his own drink and set it down.
“All right,” Jock said. “Time to quit mincing around and for you to say your bit. If this isn’t the sort of thing we’ve usually attended to, what sort of thing are we talking about here then, eh?”
Notching his voice lower, Jimmy eased forward and rolled his drink between his palms. “Well, it’s not a thing so much as a process. See, I don’t need anything brought in this time, Jock, but I think you’re probably the right person to help me with getting something out.”
The intimation kicked Jock into gear. “Okay, I’m reading you. So, um, are we talking about a personal item?”
“In a way. Just how hard is it to get something off rock?”
Jock cupped his elbows. “Well, let’s see. With personal effects Azoick regulations say strongboxes are limited to just over four and a half kilos, right around ten pounds. Like anything there are always ways around that, but if what you’re looking to move is awkward in dimension or if it’s of excessive weight, certain arrangements will have to be made. What’re we talking about exactly?”
“I’d like to leave that blank for now.”
“Blank?”
“Well, it’s a lot heavier than four and a half kilos, that’s for sure.”
“And it’s of a personal nature?”
“Yup.”
“Hmm, mysterious. Okay, there’s some wiggle room with certain payloads when the scows eventually skip in and repurpose the spiders, but that’ll take some time. And more than a few palms need to be greased along the way, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m down with taking care of whatever is necessary,” Jimmy said.
“Good. That’s good.”
“As long as those getting greased stay in the dark.”
“Hey, what kind of bloke do you think I am?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jimmy said, “but one I barely trust.”
Jock laughed and snapped his teeth. “Ah, good man. You’re no dummy. Nevertheless, you’re tapping me with this because you’re in a pickle and I’m your ace.”
“Mixed metaphors, but sure. That’s about the size of it.”
Just then a group of workers trundled past the table and Jimmy paused long enough for them to move along. When Jimmy looked across the table again he noticed Jock’s eyes were overcome with a wanton glaze.
“Oh, my bleedin’ stars…”
Turning his head to follow Jock’s line of sight, Jimmy saw the reason for Jock Roscoe’s abrupt state of intense distraction. Across the canteen, a tall woman with long, luxuriant blonde hair was making her way toward the bar with sashaying elegance. The blonde’s height topped out close to six feet, and even though she was wearing a set of white paper stasis pajamas, her hourglass curves seemed to mock a pneumatic, overdrawn ideal. With her heart-shaped face and smooth alabaster skin, whoever she was she’d a lot of necks in the canteen torqued.
“Now that bird is a feast for sore eyes,” Jock said reverently.
“She new?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jock replied. “New like dew. Came in on the same skip transport with those three greenies I just fleeced.”
“Striking.”
“Striking? That’s the understatement of the millennia. That goddess be thirty-six, twenty-three, thirty-six, mate.”
“Dang, you know her measurements already?”
Jock’s face flattened. “Jimmy, I haven’t had my bloody ashes hauled in so long it’s beginning to feel like I’m freakin’ married.”
“So what’s her deal?”
“Well, that one’s no rookie out of the interstellar training camps, that’s for sure. Goes by the name Kollár, Piper Kollár. A subcontractor originally from Buenos Aires, I believe. Hairdo’s a classic bottle-job, sorry to say, but she’s a freelancer on Azoick’s new agenda for outsourcing the solar wind parasols on these lesser moons.”
“She’s a scab?”
“Yeah, but, hey, scabbie or not, don’t let the gorgeous looks fool you. Nobody gets to be an engineer in the PAL without being meaner than a snake.”
“The PAL? You mean she’s in the Pan-American Legion?”
“Was, mate, was. I earwigged a few details on her just after she arrived and the word is she resigned her commission after half of her brigade got wiped out in North Africa hydro-rationing conflicts.”
“No way.”
“Way. And get this. Back on the Neptune Pact Orbital before she made the skip out? The word is that juicy tomato totally routed a couple of guys who thought she was easy pickings. Practically yanked the cartilage right out of their throats barehanded. Nothing like a near fatal tracheotomy to ruin your day.”
Jimmy turned again and watched as the woman eased into a seat at the bar. “And she’s still here freelancing?”
“What of it?”
“I don’t know. I mean, after pulling a stunt like that on the Neptune Pact Orbital, how can she still be subcontracting for Azoick?”
“Beats me. Perhaps smoking hot scabs with supermodel looks get special treatment.”
All in all it was interesting, and certainly the new arrival was nice to look at, but what Jimmy really needed to do was to guide the subject back to his own pressing concerns.
“So, to what we were talking about…”
“Oh, yeah,” Jock said. “That.”
“What’s the largest thing you’ve gotten back to Earth undetected?”
Jock took a tight sip of gin. “Well, let’s see… of a personal nature? I believe it was this little arrangement I threw together on the Tallal-27 satellite construction extension six or seven years back.”
“This was before you signed on with Azoick, I take it.”
“Right. Some turbine welders looking for a quick payday managed to misplace a bunch of copper connectors, and we ended up disguising it in some hollow ion tubing for the skip back.”
“And that worked out?”
Jock shuddered. “God, that little venture was nearly a five-star cockup from the get-go. Even with their fancy, polymathic degrees those turbine welders couldn’t keep their mouths shut and we nearly all got pinched. I suppose the backend more than made up for it, though.”
“So how much?”
“How much did I clear?”
“No, how much weight.”
“A little over a hundred kilos.”
Jimmy was impressed. “That’s incredible.”
Jock grinned. “True, but enough of my bragging. I’m sure what you’re talking about has to be a lot less than that.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Jock hooked his fingers in the air. “Well, maybe I should just finish my free drink and maybe I should tell you to find your own way.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to rub you the wron
g way, Jock.”
“Perhaps not, but let’s get something straight here, all right? There are things that come across as on the up and up and there are things that just don’t. You’re telling me this is of a personal nature, okay, but you’re not giving me any specifics. Running anything off rock presents significant risks. Yeah, and with significant risks can come big rewards, but I’m not about to lay out my meat on the block for just any old endeavor.”
“Well, it’s a lot less than a hundred kilos, that’s for sure.”
Jock took another sip of gin. “Okay, so when are you done with all this K7-A mumbo-jumbo?”
“I’m not scheduled for leave until after spider repurposing, but I’d like to arrange to move the material in question sooner because I plan on getting myself fired.”
There was a tiny blepharospasm of Jock’s left eyelid as he held a pause. “From Azoick?”
Jimmy tapped at the mission patch on his shoulder. “Uh, hello?”
“What the… Why the bloody hell do you want to get yourself fired?”
“When you learn more about what I want to move I think you’ll understand.”
“Oh, I will, will I?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
Jock’s inquisitorial mien told Jimmy that he’d probably said enough. For better or worse, the initial hook had been planted. Taking a scorching swallow of his seltzer, Jimmy stood.
“Look, there are too many ears here so I tell you what. Finish your drink and meet me in my quarters in half an hour, okay? I promise I’ll fill in all the blanks for you then.”
* * *
“Here you go. Tres platos de fiesta. Three fiesta plates.”
Appalled, Piper Kollár stared down at the plate the bartender had set in front of her. In all her years of growing up in Buenos Aires’ squalid Port Sud seaside slums and later working as an engineer for the Pan-American Legion she’d been forced to eat some ghastly slop, but even so the greasy pile on the plate bordered on offence. Nestled atop a bed of rice that looked like a heap of frozen maggots, the soggy tortillas resembled a pair of blown-out, muddy diapers left out in the rain.
“What’s this?” Piper demanded.
After wiping his fingers on his apron, the bartender pulled a toothpick from his mouth and replied matter-of-factly, “Why, that’s your order. Three fiesta plates. Protein-fry tacos on converted rice.”
Piper looked at the bartender incredulously as her two solar parasol compatriots tucked into their plates with the famished gusto of convicts. The bartender turned and set about pouring three quick drafts of ale into red plastic cups. As he set their drinks down in front of them, Piper pushed her plate away.
“Bring me something else,” she said.
“How’s that?”
Piper snapped out an arm and grabbed the bartender’s wrist. “I said, bring me something else.”
The bartender squirmed. “Hey! I don’t make the stuff, I just serve it, man. You got a complaint about the fare I suggest you take it up with Azoick.”
With force, Piper yanked the bartender toward her. The speed rail beneath the bar sang out with a clatter of bottles as she tightened her grip. “I don’t think you heard me,” she said. “See, I’ve just finished up a hell of a long skip in stasis. While this puke might not bother my associates here, I’m not inclined to poison myself. Bring me something else.”
“But it’s fiesta period!”
“So?”
“It’s all we’ve got!”
Piper twisted the bartender’s wrist until he let out a mousy, high-pitched screech. The hold was a technique Piper had used countless times and one that, through severe pain, could focus even the most stalwart of opponents. Paunchy and weak-chinned, the bartender was definitely not taking up any real estate in the stalwart category.
“You feel that?” she asked. “That’s concentrated stress on your radius and ulna bones. I can snap these like a couple of stiff twigs and rip out your shoulder like a drumstick if I want to. Eight to nine weeks recovery time on the fracture, maybe longer if I dislocate your shoulder.” Piper let the bartender register the dark simmer in her eyes. “I can’t imagine anybody of either sex finding you the least bit appealing, so I’m thinking if I hurt you it’s going to put a real crimp in your love life. So here’s an idea. How about we start over. What’s the possibility of getting a little fresh-cut fruit?”
The bartender blustered. “Are you putting me on?”
“No.”
“But we’re in space!”
“Canned then,” Piper said. “Pineapple would be nice.”
“I think there’s peaches.”
Piper imagined the spongy, flesh-like texture. Peaches weren’t a personal favorite, but she could eat some peaches. “Are they diced?”
“No, I think they’re sliced in syrup.”
With a magician’s flourish—ta-da!—Piper released the bartender’s wrist. “See, was that so hard? Bring me a bowl of peaches rinsed, drained, and patted dry. And a shaker of chili flakes for sprinkling, chop-chop.”
Cradling his arm, the bartender hustled off as Piper spun around on her stool. Scanning the canteen and draping an arm behind her, she picked up her cup of ale and studied the back of the head of a man sitting at the same table as Jock Roscoe. Both men were conversing with hunched shoulders and Piper supposed that under normal circumstances that was probably a good thing—a rapt, private chat in a public place. It could mean Jock Roscoe was conducting business, the kind of business that up until now had kept the parasitic sleaze-ball from becoming a dark, runny stain.
While on the SPO at the behest of Azoick for their parasol study program, Piper Kollár was also on Kardashev 7-A moonlighting as an agent for The Chimeric Circle. Like her straight work as a freelancer, her supplemental status with The CC was technically in the capacity of a subcontractor, a lucrative sideline that bridged certain, say, rifts in her personal finances. Her efforts with the illicit organization were something Piper fell into via an old confederate from her time in the Pan-American Legion who happened to now be her fiancé. One day shortly after their engagement her fiancé asked her if she was interested in making some quick bank leaning on a couple of hot-shot investment VIPs who’d fallen behind on their commitments to The CC. Given their illustrious economic status and ascribed breeding, the ne’er-do-well VIPs felt above the accelerated charges attached to their teaser-loan rates. At the time, Piper of course knew what The Chimeric Circle was and that her fiancé dabbled in occasional muscle work for them. Awaiting her first solar parasol contract, both she and he were a bit thin in the wallet as they’d just put a down payment on an apartment, so she said sure, it sounded like a hoot, why not? When her fiancé came down with a bug he asked her if she could handle the job solo and Piper agreed. And when Piper showed up to lay down the law The CC was so impressed by her ferocity they ended up putting her on retainer. Coaxing and neutralization tasks were what they called it. Piper and her fiancé found The Chimeric Circle’s employment of innocuous euphemisms to be a real scream.
After her shellacking of those two sexist jerks back on the Neptune Pact Orbital, Piper’s handlers with The CC made sure all the arrangements to get her to the Kardashev 7-A station were green-lit with Azoick. The pay for her parasol work was totally on the level, but her real work on the SPO entailed a probable contract hit on Jock Roscoe. According to The CC, Roscoe was nothing but a cheap, small-time hustler and had become a problem—some pushback on an outstanding gambling debt with a claim of insufficient funds. Piper’s handlers confirmed Roscoe’s claim of poverty was a sham, that he’d been playing a shell game with his accounts back home, and that The CC was doing all they could to extract what they were due. The thing was, if dodging payments wasn’t bad enough, Roscoe actually had the balls to become more and more vocal about his problems with The CC. Word had gotten back to the organization that he thought their endeavors to make him pay up were woefully pathetic. Given the arrogant bravado on top of his reneging on payment, The C
himeric Circle felt a correction was in order.
Hence Piper.
Her fiancé was surprised and a bit miffed when he learned she’d accepted the possible liquidation gig. With the cover work and the twelve-month roundtrip out and back to Kardashev 7-A a postponement of their nuptials was needed. But the two were shooting for a private yet expensive atmospheric-gondola ceremony above Mars and, while he was disappointed, after her fiancé learned how much Piper would be paid for the contract kill and her parasol work he saw the sense of it. While the time apart might test their relationship, the combined beaucoup compensation would more than cover their nuptials and their honeymoon, and reduce the mortgage on their new apartment by more than half.
Piper watched as the man sitting at the table stood, while behind her the bartender returned with her bowl of peaches. As the man who was sitting with Roscoe moved toward one of the canteen’s exits, Piper turned around, picked up her fork, and pointed.
“Hey, who’s that tall drink of water heading out?”
The bartender followed Piper’s fork and set down a shaker of pepper flakes along with some napkins. “Oh, him? That’s Jimmy, Jimmy Vik. Runs around with one of the station management busybodies, Leela Pendergast. I’m not sure, but I don’t think Leela and Jimmy are much of an item anymore.”
Out of habit, Piper memorized the names. On enforcement jobs for The CC, you never knew when dropping a name or two could come in handy.
Leela and Jimmy. Jimmy and Leela.
Jimmy and Leela sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…
Adorable.
After lazily seasoning her fruit with the shaker, Piper stabbed a soft slice of peach.
6. THE PITCH AND THE PACT
Forty minutes later, when Jock Roscoe finally knocked on his hatch, Jimmy leapt up from his bunk and banged his head on the shelf above.
Rubbing his scalp, he took a second and reminded himself to just relax. At this juncture Jimmy still had everything in hand. No one except him knew about the gold, but still, his taking the next step and sharing what he found with Jock held tangible, perilous weight. To Jimmy it felt like he was about to pull a pin on an enormous grenade.
