Battlestations

by S. M. Stirling

  Harvey thought it over for about two tenths of a second. Since it was a simple transfer from one account to another, there was no way he could get into any trouble with Finance or the Internal Security Unit.

  “Thanks,” Harvey said, slipping his pay card into the slot marked “Transfers” on the wall next to the screen.

  “Okay . . . now we press a couple of magic buttons”—the man’s fingers tapped out a coded response on the keypad—“and your card gets credited with an extra two pay periods.” The Pay Link machine began digesting both cards.

  “So, what do you do down here in the T decks?” the man asked as the machine transferred the funds.

  “I’m a ballastician,” Harvey said with a serious look.

  “Ballistician?” the man asked, not sure that he’d heard correctly.

  “Yeah.” Harvey grinned. “I move ballast around to keep the station trimmed. It’s important to keep everything evenly dispersed down here in the south pole, otherwise the Hawking would wobble on its axis. That’d screw up the gravity, mess up the gunners’ aim, and spill that high-priced booze up in the Green Zone.”

  The man in the boiler suit laughed at Harvey’s joke as he withdrew both cards from the slots in the wall.

  “Careful where you point this, amigo. It’s loaded,” he said, handing back Harvey’s card. “See you around.”

  With a brief wave he turned away from the machine and headed down the gangway to a freight belt. Grabbing one of the handles he stepped onto the freight platform and rode the belt up to an intermediate freight deck and vanished between the rows of neatly stacked containers.

  Harvey turned back to the Pay Link and inserted his card in the slot.

  “Jesus!” he half gasped. “This is a small fortune.” The two pay periods that had been logged into the credit memory of his card represented more than eight of his own pay periods. Whatever the guy in the blue boiler suit did, it sure paid a hell of a lot better than running a forklift down at the south pole.

  Harvey took his pay card out of the machine and stood there for a few minutes, absentmindedly tapping it on his thumbnail. In less than five minutes he’d gone from busted to flush, courtesy of . . .

  Harvey realized that he didn’t know his benefactor’s name. He put the plastic card back in his wallet and headed over to his forklift, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have followed his mother’s advice: “Never take money from strangers.” Shrugging then, he stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and climbed aboard his forklift.

  Pressing the starter button, he made a series of mechanical growling noises as the unit rose silently from the polished floor on its pale violet tractor beam. Then he made a sound that he imagined resembled the crunch of shifting gears as he headed back to the freight bays on Violet Four deck.

  The Stephen Hawking carried several thousand megatons of cargo in her holds on Nineteen and Twenty decks. Foodstuffs, toilet paper, and a host of other nondurable items were stacked and racked beside trade goods from other planets, surplus military hardware, and contraband items confiscated from the occasional tramp freighter that had been unsuccessful in running the Alliance trade monopoly blockade. As the nondurables were consumed by the ten thousand-strong crew, Harvey Kimmelman and his forklift raced around the hold, constantly shifting containers from one side of the ship in the other in order to keep the giant man-made planet rotating smoothly around its central axis. The work was not particularly demanding, but Harvey enjoyed it.

  Harvey spent the next three or four days in silent apprehension as he waited for the Central Finance Records Division to discover their error and track down all of the extra pay credits that had been downloaded onto his pay card. But as the days slid into weeks and no one from Internal Security came to question Harvey, he began to realize (or at any rate believe, which in his case was just as good) that somehow the computer that did the continuous credit audit somewhere up on one of the L decks hadn’t discovered the error. When a month had passed and still no security men came to drag him away in the dead of night, Harvey was convinced that he’d avoided detection.

  To Harvey, that meant only one thing. In ten days, when his periodic recreational leave came up, he was going to Green One and have a real blowout. And if at all possible, he was going to find Frosty Hooters and ask her to explain how the six-pack of joy juice she used his card to buy ended up costing him two years’ pay. Once he’d settled things with Frosty, he might even treat himself to a few days in one of the orgasmatrons. . . .

  The digital readout on the control panel of Harvey’s forklift interrupted his idle speculation concerning autoerotic stimulation on Green Seven: 15MK: T7.021.690.

  “Okay,” he said through clenched teeth. “Fifteen thousand kilos to shift. All in a day’s work for”—his voice produced an instant echo effect—“Harvey Kimmelman-man-man-man, Space Ranger!” He provided a few more sound effects as his forklift silently glided between the neatly stacked rows of color-coded freight containers.

  As he reached sector 021.690 on T7 deck, Harvey lowered his infrared scan shield, focusing its laser beam on the bar coded manifest that occupied the lower right-hand corner of the nearest container.

  OWNER: Griewe Galactic Novelties

  CONTENTS: Entertainment Chips

  PRODUCT COUNT: 192K Gross

  BALLAST WEIGHT: .0175M ton

  Turning the control on the dash of the forklift, Harvey adjusted his scanner to read only ballast weights as he cruised along looking for a heavier container.

  “Come on,” he said as he moved along the aisles. “Gimme a nice heavy combat vehicle or maybe a bunch of heat-shield tiles. Something real heavy.” His voice dropped two octaves on the word “heavy.” “Anything,” he said, “as long as we find it before the cargo computer tells me what to start moving.”

  The cargo computer was faster, and inside of ten minutes had not only located the precise items to be moved but had told Harvey where to put them. Sixteen hours later Harvey made his way back to the work sector to get the last of the containers. As he positioned the forklift to make maximum use of his tractor beam, he heard giggling coming from behind him.

  Swiveling around in his seat, Harvey saw the silhouette of a woman standing on one of the containers, her figure a seductive dark shape in front of the high-intensity work lights. Her hands rested on her hips, and her shapely legs were spread wide, the intense backlighting filtering through her gossamer dress.

  Harvey tried to shield his eyes, to get a better look at the girl. She giggled again.

  “Harvey Kimmelman!” The voice was warm and inviting. “Imagine seeing you here!”

  Squinting into the light Harvey couldn’t make out her face, but he did recognize the voice.

  “Frosty?” he asked in a tentative tone. “Is that you up there?”

  “You remembered!” she cooed, jumping down onto the deck. “How sweet.”

  Standing next to his forklift, Harvey could see the delicate features of her face, the gentle curve of her throat, and the firm roundness of . . .

  “Sure I remembered,” he said, forcing himself to look into her eyes. “A man’s not apt to forget a beautiful girl like you. Especially after the time we had up on Green Ten,” and he thought, Especially after you took my pay card and ran up two years’ worth of credits buying a six-pack. Harvey suppressed an overwhelming urge to climb off the forklift and throttle her.

  “So, did you come to visit?” Frosty asked, puckering her cherubic lips into a delicious smile.

  “No,” another voice said. “He’s working. Isn’t that right, Harvey?”

  Harvey turned and saw a man in a blue boiler suit step from the shadows of the stacked freight containers.

  “Long time, no see, huh?” he said as he walked over to where Frosty Hooters stood, still smiling vacantly up at Harvey.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Harvey said, slowly recognizing the man in the boiler suit as his benefactor at the Pay Link machine.

  The man slid his arm around
Frosty’s waist and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. “Frosty, could you leave us alone for a few minutes? I’ve got something I want to discuss with Harvey,” he said.

  “Sure, Forsythe,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “Bye, Harvey.” She waved. “Hope to see you again sometime.” Turning, she vanished into one of the aisles between the stacked freight containers.

  Despite his anger toward her, Harvey felt a twinge of jealousy tug at him somewhere behind his belt buckle. Forsythe watched Frosty vanish between the containers and, when he was sure she was out of earshot, turned back to Harvey.

  “Well, amigo, I suppose you’re more than just a little curious about what’s going on.” He gave Harvey the same grin he had used back at the Pay Link more than a month ago.

  “Yeah, you could say I’m curious,” Harvey replied. “I don’t get too many visitors down here in the cargo hold.”

  “Harvey,” Forsythe said through a public-relations smile, “I know I can trust you, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” He walked over to the side of the forklift. “Can you switch that thing off for, say, half an hour?”

  Something told Harvey he shouldn’t do it, but he said, “Sure,” and almost involuntarily switched off his machine.

  “Good. Now, hop down and come with me,” Forsythe said with a conspiratorial grin.

  Harvey did as he was told and followed Forsythe between two rows of neatly stacked containers.

  “If you don’t mind, do you suppose you could fill me in on what you and Frosty are doing down here?” Harvey said before they had gone more than a few meters into the labyrinth of stacked freight.

  “Not at all,” Forsythe said. “We work down here.”

  “Bullshit! You don’t work cargo.” Harvey stopped in his tracks and grabbed Forsythe by the arm. “So what are you doing here?”

  “Easy, amigo.” Forsythe brushed Harvey’s hand off his arm. “I didn’t say I worked in cargo.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what do you do?” Harvey asked in a voice like old leather.

  “I guess you could call me a packager. I take ideas, people, concepts, and put them together in such a way everybody walks away smiling.” He grinned at Harvey. “Even you, amigo. I’ll have a smile on your face in five minutes flat.”

  “How so?” Harvey asked, not sure whether to follow along with Forsythe or head back to the forklift.

  “Simple. Just walk down to the end of this row of containers and turn left. You’ll like it. I promise.” Forsythe gestured down the corridor formed by the dully gleaming containers.

  Harvey shrugged, and walked the hundred or so meters to the end of the stack of containers. When he reached the end he stopped and looked back at Forsythe, who waved.

  “Go on,” he shouted. “Go on.”

  Harvey turned left and froze in his tracks. There, not more than ten feet in front of him, was Frosty Hooters, in all of her pagan, transgalactic, naked glory.

  “Hi, Harvey,” she said. Then crooking her finger, she beckoned him to follow her as she turned and scampered down the narrow aisle between the containers.

  “I told you I’d make you smile.”

  Forsythe’s voice made Harvey jump.

  “Holy crocodiles!” Harvey exclaimed. “What’s going on here?”

  “Come on.” Forsythe sounded like he was speaking to a confused child. “I’ll show you.” Taking Harvey by the arm he led him down the aisle to a dark green container. As the two men approached the end of the container it swung inward, revealing a hidden entrance.

  “In here,” Forsythe said.

  “Why?”

  “Trust me. I put a smile on your face, didn’t I?” Forsythe gently tugged Harvey toward the opening, and Harvey reluctantly followed him in.

  The door of the container hissed shut with a metallic click, and for a few moments the men were wrapped in total darkness. Then a soft blue light slowly filled the interior, changing in hue from a pale azure to a rich warm violet. Harvey could feel his skin prickle as the light increased in intensity.

  “What the hell?” Harvey said as his skin began to tingle.

  “Relax,” Forsythe said. “Just a little decontamination, that’s all.” He nudged Harvey in the ribs with his elbow. “Gotta be clean for the ladies.”

  The door at the other end of the container opened and Forsythe led Harvey into the chrome-plated lobby of a deep-space sin bin.

  For a moment Harvey was stunned by the gleaming black walls, the white tables, and the red patent-leather divans. Jaw slack and eyes wide with amazement, he tried to take it all in: the hot, glowing colors of the neon lights, the soft-as-moss carpet beneath his feet, and the almost-sensual musky smell of the air.

  Forsythe threw himself down on one of the divans and signaled to one of the girls at the bar.

  “Drink?”

  Forsythe’s voice brought Harvey back to semi-consciousness.

  “Huh? Yeah, yeah, sure. A beer.”

  Harvey gawked as a well-muscled Telluran at the bar smoothed her delicate pink fur while the bartender poured out their drinks. Picking up a small tray with the beer and Forsythe’s lemon vodka on it, she walked over to where the two men sat.

  “Here you are, boys,” she said with a voice that sounded like the purr of a satin cat. Her fur stood out provocatively as she handed Harvey his drink. “Just let me know if you want anything else.”

  Harvey thought he was going to faint.

  “Calm down, amigo,” Forsythe said over the rim of his glass. “She only serves drinks. You know the law.”

  “Yeah. They can only, uh, mate with their own kind.”

  “Species,” Forsythe corrected him. “Otherwise it’s fatal for their partner. Complete sensory overload.”

  Harvey grinned. “I hope that wasn’t what you had in mind when you said you’d put a smile on my face.”

  Forsythe laughed. “No, but that’s good, amigo. Real good.”

  Harvey set down his beer, pleased that Forsythe had laughed at his joke—although he had been only half joking when he said it. “Forsythe, I don’t want to sound naive but just what kind of place is this?”

  “I guess you could call it a very special nightclub,” Forsythe said, tossing back the last of his lemon vodka. He watched Harvey’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. “It’s very discreet, caters to some very special clients, and is more or less legal.”

  “What do you mean, ‘more or less’ legal?” Harvey asked.

  “Well, I have an entertainment license for a small bar up on Green One. Packed, it can serve maybe twenty people. All very intimate.” He signaled for another round of drinks.

  “One day about three years ago”—the Telluran brought the drinks and Harvey felt his blood pressure begin to rise—“we were remodeling after a couple of Indies did a fair amount of damage to the place during a private party. That’s when I discovered that there was an old service elevator that ran right through my club to the cargo decks.” He sipped his lemon vodka before continuing. “So, I decided to expand. Down here.

  “I had a company Earth-side design a modular nightclub and finessed a permit that gives me permission to operate anywhere in the Alliance, provided I stay at least one thousand meters from any of their clubs.” He gave Harvey a quick grin. “That’s what I mean by semilegal. I’m only 980 meters from their nearest beer bar.”

  “So, who comes here?” Harvey asked. “I’ve been pushing cargo for two years, and I’ve never seen anyone down here before today.”

  “That’s because we’re careful. Our customers are very important people,” Forsythe said, finishing his drink. “They can’t go slumming in the Green Light district or be seen crawling out of some sleazy orgasmatron at four in the morning. That’s why they come here, amigo. They have a good time, they go home, and nobody knows.”

  “Well, that’s all very interesting,” Harvey said, setting down his half-empty glass. “Maybe someday I’ll be rich enough, or important enough, to be one of your customers. Bu
t for now I’ve got some cargo to shift.” He stood up to leave. “How do I get outta here?”

  “Same way you came in, amigo. Only before you go, I’d like to offer you a job.” Forsythe gave Harvey a long, sincere look. “I think you’re just the man I need down here.”

  Harvey’s new job was simplicity in itself. Forsythe had a specially constructed container that served as the shuttle between the access elevator and his private club. Harvey would move the container to the door of the elevator at the end of his shift and then, after dinner and a beer, he’d wander back to the freight deck and, climbing on board his trusty forklift, return the container to the front of the club.

  Harvey had been shuttling the container back and forth for nearly six weeks when a strange thought hit him. Every night he took a container full of people to the club. Who, he wondered, was taking them back to the elevator? Two days later, at the Pay Link machine, Harvey raised the question with Forsythe.

  “I’ve got another driver on the payroll who works the graveyard shift,” Forsythe said as he downloaded a stack of credits onto Harvey’s pay card. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  “Sorry I asked,” Harvey said as Forsythe withdrew his pay card from the Pay Link machine.

  “No problem, amigo,” Forsythe said. “Look, I’m going to be closed for the next few days, so why don’t you go topside and enjoy yourself. Take Frosty with you. God knows, with what I’m paying you, the two of you can have quite a blowout.” He regarded Harvey for several long seconds. “I’ll set it up. You two can stay in one of the hotels on Green Two. Well? What do you say?”

  Harvey could only think of one thing to say.

  “Great. When do we leave?”

  “You can leave tonight, after the customers arrive.” Forsythe handed back Harvey’s pay card. “Frosty will join you tomorrow at the hotel.”

  “I can’t go tonight,” Harvey lied. “I have to cover for a pal on the morning shift.”

  “Okay, amigo. Then blast off tomorrow.” Forsythe smiled. “You’re rich, do what you like.”

  That evening Harvey collected his passengers as usual and transported them to Forsythe’s club. Before he lowered the container to the floor, he hopped out of the forklift and stuck a wad of gum that he had been chewing to the underside of the container. Climbing back into his forklift, he lowered the container into place, and then went back to his quarters.