Space, Inc

by Julie E. Czerneda

  His smile relaxed a little although the rest of him remained visibly tense. “I’m Simon Porter. Dr. Simon Porter. I’m the new station psychologist.”

  “What happened to the old one?”

  “What? Oh. Well, actually, there wasn’t one. The Company only brings a psychologist out to the mining stations when there’s a problem they can’t solve through the usual channels.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep you on staff?”

  “Too expensive.” He seemed proud of it.

  “So, what’s me problem?”

  “I’m afraid that’s privileged information.” He seemed proud of that, too. “But I can tell you that things seem very shaky on the station right now. Stress levels rising. You know…”

  “Yeah.” And something in that single syllable suggested she did. Probably better than he did.

  “I specialize in isolation psychosis. This is sort of a dream job for me.”

  The following pause lengthened into expectation.

  “Able Harris. I’m the new bartender for downside.”

  “So we’re in the same line of work. You listen, I listen.”

  “You pour drinks?”

  “No, but…”

  “Well, there’s your difference. I’m a bartender.”

  “Okay.” His tone touched patronizing. “I’ve never been in a downside bar.”

  Able turned just enough to look him full in the face.

  “I’ve never actually been downside,” he admitted. “Or on a mining station at all.” He cleared his throat, as though confused by his confession. “So what happened to the old bartender?”

  “He died.”

  Dr. Porter nodded sympathetically. Everyone knew death and downside were intimately acquainted. “Of what?”

  “Well, they said it was the sucking chest wound, but I suspect it was actually the wrench to the back of the head.”

  “He was killed?”

  Able shrugged philosophically. “Might’ve been an accident.”

  “He was accidentally hit on the back of the head with a wrench?”

  “It happens.”

  He studied her face, dark brows knit together so tightly they met over the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, he nodded and relaxed. “I may be fresh out of the gravity well, but I’m not totally gullible. You’re making fun of the new guy. I’m onto you, Able … may I call you Able?”

  “Everybody does,” she told him, unaffected by his accusation.

  “It’s an unusual name. I assume it’s not the one you were born with?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s just … unusual.”

  She stretched as far as the straps allowed. “I knew a guy once named Strawberry Cho.”

  “He had a birthmark?”

  “No, he had a mother who was so homesick she didn’t consider the consequences.”

  “Consequences?”

  “You name your boy Strawberry and there’s going to be consequences.”

  Dr. Potter opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you, Able? You’re pulling my…”

  The klaxon’s sudden bellow clamped his hands to the arms of his seat, his helmet floating out to the end of its tether.

  Able glanced down at her cuff, then reached out, hooked a gloved finger around the cable, and tugged it back. “They’re warning us they’re about to hit the brakes, start decelerating.”

  His ears scarlet, Dr. Porter clutched the helmet so tightly his gloves squeaked against the plastic.

  “Pilot knows it’s your first time out. Knows people have been feeding you bullshit stories since you blew off Earth. Probably hit the klaxon trying to get you to piss yourself.”

  Embarrassment rose off the psychologist in nearly visible waves.

  “Don’t worry, the suit’ll take care of it. I knew a guy once, had the shits all the way from L5 Alpha to Darkside. Suit took care of it.” Able closed her eyes and didn’t open them again until the shuttle kissed its assigned nipple on the docking ring and the “all clear” sounded.

  By the time Dr. Porter had fumbled free of his straps, the hatch was open and the dockers were barely controlling their anger as they waited to start unloading. Able snagged her carryall from behind her seat and followed him to the bottom of the ramp, arriving just in time to keep him from being flattened by a wagon piled high with containers from the aft compartment.

  “They’re on tracks,” she yelled, leaning closer to make herself heard over the noise. “You get in front of them, they’ll squash you flat. I knew a guy once, lost a foot under one. Crashed too bad to be reattached.”

  The doctor’s cheeks paled, his embarrassment forgotten. “What happened to him?”

  “Got himself a whole bunch of prosthetics. Got one with a full entertainment unit in it.”

  “In his foot?”

  Able shrugged. “Takes all kinds.”

  She slipped between two wagons and headed for a set of metal stairs against the starboard wall. The doctor trailed behind.

  “There should be someone here to meet me,” he shouted as they climbed.

  “There is, back behind that glass.”

  At the top of the stairs was a wire-enclosed catwalk. At the end of the catwalk, a platform. In the wall overlooking the platform, two hatches. Between the hatches was a mirrored window.

  “There’s no way you can know who’s back there, Able.” Safely above the wagons, he regained his professional voice.

  “Presence of suits kept the dockers from hauling your ass out of the shuttle. Only place the suits could be is behind that glass. They’re not going to be out here in the nipple risking a seal rupture. I knew a guy once, got sucked through a seal rupture and ended up in a low Mars orbit.” When no question prodded her to continue, she grinned. “Bounce satellite signals off him now. This is your exit.” She nodded toward the right as they clanged out onto the platform.

  Dr. Porter stared at the hatches. Aside from the varying wear and tear, they were identical. “How can you tell?”

  “Company policy; suits are always right. We’re what’s left.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, he glanced toward the mirrored glass, then he held out his hand. “I appreciate you making the effort to distract me, Able. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  “Could happen. It’s a small station in a big universe.” His grip was a little too emphatic. A young man with something to prove.

  Don’t need to prove it to me. Her grip matched his exactly.

  EVS in a temporary locker, Able took a moment to watch the Company news on the small vid in lock. Possible layoffs. Cutbacks. Accidents. Price freezes. One hundred percent bad. She sighed, scanned her chip into the station’s database, stepped through the inner hatch, and went looking for the Quartermaster’s Office. QMO was never far from the docks so she expected to have no trouble finding it. And the yelling was pretty much a dead giveaway.

  “I don’t freakin’ care what the invoice says, my people unloaded sixteen crates of seven dash seven three two not seventeen.” Hands planted firmly on the desk, the quartermaster leaned closer to the pickup and went for volume. “You short-shipped us, you bastard! For the second goddamned time!” Then she straightened, flipped pale blonde hair back from her face, and smiled across the room at Able. “Jesus, Able, what’d you do? Hijack a military transport?”

  Able stepped over the threshold and shrugged. “Just made all the right connections.”

  “Just? You broke the freakin’ Phoebus to GaMO speed record. And who told you lot to god-damned stop working?” she snapped, as the four clerks along one side of the room turned to look. “I can’t say I’m not glad to see you, though, situation’s been going to freakin’ hell in a handcart since Rich Webster died. Asshole. I close the place down, the riggers riot. I open the place up, the riggers get drunk and riot. The fitters are talking freakin’ union again and that’s got the suits on my ass. Whole god-damned place is falling a …�
�� The desk receiver chimed. “Hang on a nano, Able. I need to get this.”

  “I’m sorry, Quartermaster Nasjonal, but our packing orders clearly show that all seventeen crates were loaded. I suggest that you take the matter up with the transfer supervisor on Io.”

  “PJ’s got more freakin’ brains than to screw with me! Now get your thumb out of your ass, get Yuen on this thing, and stop wasting my god-damned time!” Shaking her head, she dropped down into the desk chair. “Freakin’ distance delays make it impossible to hold a conversation. You’ve got standard quarters behind the bar. You got six servers, burnouts for the most part—I think Webster was paying at least one of them in booze.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know. I’m the one who asked you to drag your ass out to the armpit of the universe, remember? Usual drill. Company expects you to turn a profit and keep the workers happy. You should be fully stocked, I’ve kept supplies coming in during this whole freakin’ mess. And … Jonathon!”

  One of the clerks jerked and peered over the top of his monitor.

  “Where’s my freakin’ ass-Quart?”

  “He’s at 07, Quartermaster. Supervising the loading …”

  “Right. Okay, you take Able to the Hole.”

  “But …”

  “Quartermaster Nasjonal, Supervisor Yuen is not currently available. Would you be able to call back after 1700 hours?”

  “Tell Yuen I’m about to start talking about what happened last December. And if that doesn’t haul his skinny ass to a pickup, nothing will,” she added, sitting back in the chair. “I’ll be down to see you as soon as I get this freakin’ short ship straightened out. Jonathon!”

  He jerked again, the movement propelling him out from behind his terminal.

  “Go!”

  Able paused on the threshold, allowing Jonathon to proceed her into the corridor. “Always a pleasure talking to you, Quartermaster Nasjonal.”

  The quartermaster grinned. “Suck up.”

  Jonathon was waiting an arm’s length away, nervously clutching his hands together in front of his belt.

  “Do you know where the Hole is?” Able’s tone made it clear she very much doubted it.

  He flushed. “Yes, theoretically, but I’ve never … I mean…”

  “It’s downside. You drink amid.” She slung her carryall over one shoulder, and started to walk.

  “Not that I …” His protest trailed off as he hurried to catch up. “It’s just, it’s …”

  “Downside?” When he nodded, Able snorted. “Tell you what, take me to lower amid and the nearest shaft, give me decent directions, and I’ll cover downside myself. We won’t mention it to the quartermaster.”

  “She’ll find out.”

  “Then tell her I didn’t have the time to waste escorting you back and there was no way I was letting you walk through downside alone. She’ll let it go if you tell her it was my idea.”

  “You’ve known her for a long time?”

  “Pretty much since she was born.”

  Jonathon flattened against the bulkhead as Able and the approaching docker merely shifted their shoulders sideways and slid past each other. “She’s actually really good to work for,” he declared scrambling back to Able’s side. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

  “Most days.” Able paused at the hatch that would take them from dockside into the station proper. “I knew a guy once that she bit.”

  Sucking chest wound or wrench to the back of the head, after a cursory inspection of the only bar in downside, Able was sure of one thing: that Richard Webster had gotten what he deserved. The place was everything people like Jonathon expected a downside bar to be. Dark and filthy and stinking of despair and rage about equally mixed—as well as a distinct miasma of odors less metaphorical.

  She ripped a yellowing list of rules off the outside of the hatch—splash marks making the vector for the yellowing plain—and stepped over the threshold. The panel just inside the door responded to her chip and once she’d pried the cover off, she hit the overhead lights. The amount of grime that had sealed the cover shut suggested it had been a while since the overheads had been turned on.

  A pile of rags in the far corner coughed, cursed, and turned into a skinny person of indeterminate gender.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” it whined, squinting across the room.

  “That’s obvious.” Able pushed a dented chair out of the way and moved close enough to see that the rags had covered a balding man who could have been anywhere from forty to seventy, his mottled scalp a clear indication that hair loss had been caused by other than genetic factors. Toxic spills were endemic to downside. “Who are you?”

  “Bob.”

  She’d be willing to bet that Bob was the guy Webster had been paying in booze. One way or another, and there were a number of ways, he’d gotten so far in debt to the Company that they’d written him off. He’d lost his access to the ship’s database, his quarters, and his food allotment, leaving him with two choices, the kindness of strangers—only people who’d burned off their friends fell quite so far—or the tubes. Clearing the tubes of blockages was usually a mecho’s job but the little robots were expensive and they didn’t last long. People like Bob didn’t last long in the tubes either, but they were cheap.

  Arms curled around his chest, he rubbed his hands up and down filthy sleeves. “I need a drink.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “‘s cheaper than paying me. Keeps your profits up.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Webster. Lets me sleep here, too.”

  “Webster’s dead.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t care.”

  If Bob was sleeping in the bar during the eight in twenty-four it was closed, he was using the bathroom sinks to keep clean. And not very often.

  “I knew a guy once who smelled like you. Somebody kicked his skinny ass out of an air lock and nobody missed him.”

  Without waiting for a response, she ducked behind the bar. The door on the right led to the storeroom, to the left, her quarters. Both smelled strongly of disinfectant. The QMO. If they’d been attempting to run the Hole, the only thing they’d care about was the stock. Wiping Webster out of her quarters had probably been a personal courtesy from Nasjonal. Able’d thank her later.

  “I need a drink.”

  The whine came from directly behind her left shoulder. Up close the smell was nearly overpowering.

  Fortunately, disinfectant was cheap.

  Grabbing the back of Bob’s overalls, she frog-marched him through her quarters, ignoring his struggles and incoherent protests, carefully touching him to as few surfaces as possible. The showers on downside all had the same two settings. Hard clean. Soft clean. Hard clean for when the riggers and the fitters came off shift. Soft clean for the rest of the time. The Company saved money by keeping the pressure and temperature consistent.

  Bob went in, as he was, on Hard.

  When the cycle finished, Able checked to see he hadn’t drowned, efficiently stripped him of overalls and ragged cloth slippers, and hit the button again.

  By the time the second cycle finished, his clothes were dry, the industrial solvents in the Hard clean having taken care of most of the grime.

  She dressed him, ran a depilatory pad over his head, and marched him back to the bar.

  The whole thing had taken just under twenty minutes.

  “I assume you sold your shoes?”

  Bob stared at her, wide-eyed and trembling.

  “Then the slippers will do for now. Here’s the deal … you work for me, I pay you like everybody else. You can decide what you do with it. You can start paying down your debt to the Company, or you can drink it away—after you pay me what you owe me for the two showers. Until you’re clear and can get quarters again, you can keep sleeping in the bar but not on that crap. I’ll pull a couple of shipping pads out of stores. You don’t do your job—well, a smart man will keep in mind t
hat I’m the only thing between him and the tubes. Oh, and you will shower every two days. You can use a communal cleanup off the hives.”

  He was panting now. “I need a drink.”

  “You need to haul the big steam cleaner out of the storeroom. Or you need to let the Company know they’ve got a new tube man. I knew a guy once, survived four trips down the tubes. His record still stands.”

  By the time Bob had dragged the cleaner out into the bar, the five other servers were standing, blinking in the light. None of them looked too pleased about being summoned.

  “I didn’t even know this place had overheads,” one muttered.

  “Then how did you see to get it clean?” Able asked, coming out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a dark green apron.

  “Fuck that, how clean do you need to get a place like this?” one of the others snorted. “Nobody who drinks here gives a crap.”

  “What difference does that make? My name’s Able Harris and I’m the new bartender. You’re Helen, Tasha, Toby, Nick …” With each name, she nodded toward an incredulous server. “… and Spike.” She studied the last woman curiously. “Spike?”

  Spike folded heavy arms over an ample chest. “Able?”

  “Good point. So …” Her attention switched back to the group. “Is that what you wear to work?”

  The four women and two men looked down at their overalls and exchanged amused glances.

  Able waited.

  Toby finally shrugged and muttered, “Yeah.”

  “It’ll do for now, but when the first shift’s back for opening, I want the overalls to be clean. There’s a dozen or so aprons like this one in stores. You’re in them while you’re working.” When the protests died down, Able nodded. “Okay. You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you work for me, you wear the aprons, but you don’t have to work for me.”

  “And if we could get other jobs on this fucking station, we’d be fucking working at them.”

  Toby moved up behind Spike’s shoulder. “Webster didn’t care what we wore.”

  “Webster’s dead.”

  Bob jerked up from behind the steam cleaner. “I didn’t do it.”

  After the snickering died down, Spike growled, “He wasn’t killed because he wasn’t wearing a fucking apron, was he?”