by Stephen Deas
Doyle’s voice changes to a shout.‘Put the gun down now!’ She’s losing her nerve. She can’t cut the tension. She doesn’t know what to do. Well, fuck her. Buggered if I’m going to back down‘til I’m good and ready.‘Jez, your killbot’s losing her cool.’ Jester my arse. Jester never held a gun to anyone. Not anyone who wasn’t a nanosecond away from being a corpse.
‘You are being very foolish, Mr Constantine,’ says Su.
‘Thank you for your input you up-tight corporate mannequin. Now why don’t you fuck off? If you had half a clue you’d realise that the charge light of my Tesla isn’t on. It’s dead.’ Andreas sighs and relaxes. I let my eyes flick around the table. Su and Toni have let their guard down as well. Jez is giving me a quizzical look. Can’t see Doyle but something tells me she knows better.
I pull the gun back, point it at the ceiling.
‘You fuckwit,’ sighs Andreas.‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’
Just for an instant I hesitate. Maybe if I succumb to the urge to plug the little shit and let him find out the hard way then I might save myself an ulcer. I smile instead. All teeth and menace and nothing pleasant at all. That sort of smile.‘Dumb shit. The first thing anyone with an aspiration to creep around in the dark holding a Tesla does is disconnect the charge light.’ I get up and leave them. I know it’s not their fault that they’re not Jester and Mr Cray, but right now I can’t stand to be in the same room anymore.
‘Try being dead. That’ll give you a sense of purpose.’
When I get back to my cabin, Ortov has changed to a grinning cat-face. Sometimes I have to work hard to picture him and the Ortov from two hundred years ago as being the same man. The old Ortov from the archives has a huge great beard and wild eyes and looks like he modelled himself on Rasputin.‘You have no idea how much you piss me off. I’m stuck in a twilight virtual existence, halfway between life and death. Putting up with your existential angst really sucks.’
I give him my best world-weary look.‘So heal me, preacher. You’re supposed to be an expert, aren’t you? What about the sixteen levels of self-fulfilment?’
The grinning cat vanishes and turns into Melissa.‘You’re worried about your soul? I don’t know whether I’ve still got one. I might have less of one than you, and believe me that is a scary thought. If I still needed sleep, it would keep me up at nights.’
I let that slide.‘I wish you wouldn’t use that face. You remind me of her enough as it is.’
Melissa dissolves away, replaced by a stern elderly man. Old Ortov. Very Russian. ‘Better?’
‘Better.’
‘Good. Now stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself like a little cry-baby and get a life. I was a hundred and thirty three and senile when they copied this brain. I wrote the things that made me famous a century beforehand and by the time they did this to me I didn’t even remember most of them. When I read them again on Cestus, I didn’t understand half of it and the rest looks like some sort of placebic waffle written in the hope of earning a fast buck. Frankly I’m having some difficulty understanding how it can be that I am the same person, except actually I’m pretty sure I’m not; I’m pretty sure I’m pieces of your Melissa too, and I have to live with the possibility that that’s what keeps me sane, and all of that together makes me say fuck you and your trivial self-obsessed shit you entitled white male cocksucker. But okay, let’s see if we can’t sort out your little personality disorders for you. Look around the room you’re in. What do you see?’
I look. A big screen, a terminal beneath it. Cracked plastic, discoloured with age. The ceiling, a patchwork of light tiles, some brighter than others, some not even working at all. Behind me a narrow bunk, a little ladder up into it, each step worn smooth with use. Under the bunk, boxes. Boxes full of junk. A space engineer would have orgasms over boxes like this. Full of things with wires hanging off and serial numbers, but to me it’s all just rubbish.
‘I see a room full of shit,’ I say.
‘You see a life full of shit. It’s not what there that’s fucked up, it’s how you see it. You really should try being dead. It gives a great perspective on what you’re missing.’
‘So what, I should put a pot-plant in the window or something?’
‘Yes. Exactly.’
‘So I can watch it wither and die from lack of attention and ponder my own mortality? No thanks.’
‘And you wonder why your soul’s gone to sleep? What have you ever created? Where’s the beauty? What have you ever done for the sheer joy of doing it? Ortov made a religion. It made a lot of money, he used it to give himself everything he wanted and then it ate him alive. I could easily despise that man. He was sad and lonely for more years than he was happy. I’m going to do better this time, make no mistake. Do you know what love is, Constantine? Shall we talk of that?’
Ortov’s tone betrays us both. The question hurts him as much as it hurts me. I feel myself flush red.‘Fuck you!’ I disconnect butit’s too late. I’m already thinking of her. Shit. Ortov, you’re a bastard. He must have known what he was doing too…
I remember her face. Years ago, even before the Company. A whole different life back then. We lived in different worlds and so we went our separate ways. I thought it didn’t matter but it did. Not that she left, but the part of me she took with her and never gave back.
Something from deep inside makes me laugh. Wouldn’t surprise me if she was out here with those missiles– taking pot-shots at corporate executives would have been right up her street, shouting abuse at them, telling them how they were dictators, tyrants, evil feudal lords living on the broken backs of the crushed and chained labourers. Shit, fate tries hard enough, I’ll see her again just when a Jester or a Doyle puts a stray bullet into her.
The ship’s alarm breaks me out of my thoughts. General quarters– we’re coming up to the asteroids. I’ve been staring at a blank wall. I don’t know how long. Hours.
Baxter, H. & Molotov, K. ‘The Reanimation of Recently Deceased Lower Lifeforms Using D17n’. Lifescience, 196 446-468 (2320).
These sickos again. Claim to have brought a dead frog – why are these things always done with frogs?– kept frozen for seven days back to life with no observed side-effects. No reports of any experiments on higher forms of life though. Doesn’t seem to be an area of research anyone wants to admit to. Hey, did I say you’d feel better or did I explain how your existential angst-wank made me want to puke in your face? If you want another appointment, I’ve sorted out my rates now.
Sixteen – The Thin-necked Man
Takes me five minutes to make sure I’ve got everything. Which isn’t much. Boots, leather, black (of course), magnetic soles, one plastic knife each. Tesla gun strapped to the small of my back. Teslas are marvellous weapons– a hundred rounds, all armour piercing, and you can fire the lot in a few seconds. But they’re not very rugged so I like to keep it somewhere safe.
I check my bag. Battered and shapeless like it’s been through a hundred handling machines. Check inside. Electronic notebook. Box full of brainweb wafers, mostly useless crud for trading– the tourist guide to Szenchzuen springs to mind– but there’s a few I might use in a pinch. Never liked this plug-in artificial nonsense but I fear the Lonely Galaxy Guide to BeltMiner Slang may be indispensable. Beside the wafer box there’s the drugs collection, some of them even legal. And under those the usual crap– gas mask (don’t ask), pair of stolen oneshot commplugs, three packets of cigarettes, two lighters, half a bottle of vodka, five elastic bands and two broken pens. I open one of the cigarette packs and savour the raw, raucous rush of smoke. Been a long time since I treated myself this well. Mostly I use patches, everything else being illegal outside the Rim, but nothing beats the real thing.
Yeah, anyway. Where was I? Flechette pistol. Standard spacer weapon that doesn’t riddle the hull with air-sucking holes like a Tesla will but don’t stop much either. Stick it somewhere obvious. And the obligatory long black coat and the designer Heads-Up Shades
of course. I brush myself down and head for the bridge.
The bridge. Tacky retrofuture holos always puts the bridge somewhere at the front or on the top with great big windows so that Captain Dirk Boldly or whoever can see the stars around him and feel the solar wind on his face. Sleek black consoles, a dozen smartly dressed orderlies for decoration and always an AI who’s so capable you wonder what the rest of the crew is there for. I pause and take a moment to immerse myself in this image before I walk through the door, so I can really appreciate the cramped, dirty plastic cabin where Doyle is sitting in front of a bank of blank monitors and looking bored. If she wasn’t a robot, she’d be picking her nose. I shudder to think how old this ship is. Not a virtual interface in sight and the only things that look new are the fire extinguishers. Didn’t take long to notice that. Everywhere in the ship, bright red brand new fire extinguishers. Go figure.
Doyle doesn’t look up as I walk through, stepping carefully over the narrow ladder– there used to be a hatch over the top but it’s dented and doesn’t fit properly anymore and we kept tripping over it– that leads down to the engines and all the other bits of heavy machinery none of us could even begin to repair if they packed up. When did Captain Boldly ever have to step over a hole in the floor of his own bridge? I pause and let the vibrations run through me. Something’s changed. The engines are straining, working harder than they were an hour ago. Fact is, even on a mobile junkyard like this, the computer knows far more than anyone else about how to fly it. I can almost see Doyle propped up at the command console for the last hour.
There is an asteroid in our path. Shall I alter course to avoid it?
Yes.
Five minutes later: There is an asteroid in our path. Shall I alter course to avoid it? Yes.
Five minutes later: There is an asteroid in our path. Shall I alter course to avoid it? Zzzz… Rrr? Yuh.
Five minutes later: Constantine has evacuated Andreas and Toni into the freezing void of
space . Shall I alter course to avoid them?
Yeah, yeah, whatever. Zzzz…
None of this Dirk Boldly takes the helm and whizzes through the asteroids at warp umptymillion rubbish. Nah, the real world is way too dull. In the real world dear Captain Dirk would smack into a rock in about twelve seconds and the rest of the episode would have to be about how a large and rapidly expanding cloud of excited molecules and energetic particles resolved the problems of some previously undiscovered race of aliens through the introduction of progressive moral values.
Maybe I’ll try that evacuating Toni and Andreas thing on the way back.
Past the bridge is the mess room. Jez calls it the lounge but mess room sums it up a whole lot better. Andreas is trying to build a house of cards on the table, but with the way the whole ship is trembling it’s not really working.
‘ You look like a corporate hitman,’ says Jez.‘Christ, C, you’re supposed to be grubby and unassuming.’
‘Piss off.’
‘I think he looks sexy,’ leers Toni. Andreas chuckles.
‘You can piss off too.’ I sit down.
Jez shakes her head.‘Doyle’s going with Toni and Andreas. Su’s staying here. I’m with you. We’ll be there is less than an hour. How do you want to play it?’
‘Way I see it they’ve been expecting undercover types to show up looking for those missiles for some time. Place is probably crawling with them. They might even have a few of them fingered. Either way, I figure the more innocuous we are, the less anyone is going to talk to me and besides, I really can’t stand the prospect of looking like a total hick. So we’re scrapping the spacebum idea; I’m a man with a shady past worn right there on his sleeve, hiding from a shitstore full of trouble. They dig, they can find the truth– as far as it goes. I’m who I am. I’m on the run. The Company set me up on Szenchzuen. Maybe I was supposed to die or maybe I wasn’t, but I’m sure as hell on the Company hit-list now. Maybe I know stuff that’s bad for them, stuff about their Cestus sponsors. Might get the right attention with that, and hey, guess what, the whole damn pack of shit happens to be true. Things work out, they’ll reckon I got stuff in my head they want, figure they’ve got something they can offer and a big stick to boot for whacking me if I don’t play ball. Shit, Jez, we can sleepwalk this.’
Jez looks away.‘More than you know. I can go with that. What about the rest of us?’
‘Up to you. Su owns the ship and she’s kinda shady, happy to take anyone’s money.’ I give her my practised sneer– stop me any time I’ve guessed your plan all wrong.‘Toni and Andreas want to do their report and I saw an opportunity and tagged along in a kind of unwelcome gun-in-your-face way.’ I shrug.‘Haven’t figured where you and Doyle fit in yet. I suppose Doyle could be part of Toni’s crew but that doesn’t really work. I mean, she looks fine but she hasn’t exactly got the patter for a media type. How about making her Su’s lover? Might make her less worthy of attention. You can be mine.’
Jez snorts.
‘Oh, it’s easy. Just whine and moan about being dragged to this dead-end place. Act blonde and miserable. Shouldn’t be too hard.’ Jez glares. I grin.‘The hitman’s floozy. I know you can play that.’
‘Commander Breen!’
Doyle is peering down the companionway at us. Jez gets up.‘What?’
‘I have the Vednar Free Settlement here. They’re unwilling to let us dock.’
Su runs to the bridge. Andreas looks up from his card building. Toni carries on picking at her fingernails. Jez and I follow Su. Su sits down, fiddles with some dials and a keyboard.
‘Vednar Freeport, this is the free trading ship Spiral Dance,’ she says.‘We need to replenish water and replace engine parts.’
‘Then go to Vednar Prime, Spiral Dance.’
I peer over Jez’s shoulder at the monitor. The speaker is a man, old but with a firm look to his eyes like he’s used to being in charge. A long thin neck– he’s been out here in low gravity for a decade at least. Probably born here. I shudder at the thought.
‘I don’t think he’s going to let us in,’ I murmur. His face tells me he wants us to piss off and leave him alone.
Su tries again.‘We have cargo to trade, and passengers who wish stop here for short time.’
‘What cargo? What passengers?’
‘Tell them about Toni!’ I hiss.
Su gives me an irritated glance.‘Untamed News! They want interview you, make a film about life in space. For people who make it their own home, not paid for by a government or corporation.’
The thin-necked man hesitates. He’s heard of Toni’s crew, so that’s one foot in the door. ‘What’s your cargo?’
‘Fire extinguishers.’ Back in the mess room, I hear Andreas snigger.
‘And the rest of your passengers?’
‘Travellers. Holiday perhaps.’
The thin-necked man seems taken aback.‘No,’ he says at last.‘Permission denied. Leave us alone.’
I push forward, elbow Su out of the way and let the thin-necked man see me holding a gun to her head. Both of these things turn out to be very satisfying and I make a mental note to do them again. I throttle up the Spiral Dance’s engines and address the thin-necked man.‘Hello. Do I have your attention? I’m afraid turning about isn’t an option.’
‘And who are you?’
‘You’ll find out when we dock. For now, all you need to know is that we’re coming in whether you like it or not, but you can have some say over the speed. So either you give us a place to dock and guide us in or we come in anyway, hard and fast; and if you want to shoot at us and make us hit you in a of scatter pieces, well, I’m sure you can see how that doesn’t make all that much difference at our end, and I’m figuring not so much at yours either.’
I let Su have her seat back. She puts on a weak smile, does a good impression of looking shaken.‘Yes, please give directions. And please don’t shoot.’ She glances deliberately back at me again.‘I want no trouble. We’ll be gone soon.’
> The thin-necked man frowns. He really doesn’t want us, especially not me. But he’s a cautious man and so he has to compromise.‘Give us your position and trajectory and I’ll transmit a flight path. Stay in your vessel after you’ve docked and await instruction.’ The screen goes blank.
Which is fine. Gives them plenty of time to dig around.
Marks, R., Ng, T. & Purdy, E. S. ‘A TALANN-based AI’. AI News, 62, 1599-1630 (2324).
These guys, working for … guess … wrong! … working for Longthorne, have managed to refine TALANN technology to the point where an AI can‘live’ in a single chip. They published later than USEC so USEC got all the credit, but something tells me these guys had been here for a while.
Seventeen – Welcome to The Crypt
Zero gravity. Days of it. Oh joy. We sit around scratching ourselves for an hour, waiting for someone to come and see us. When at last they do, the thin-necked man is with them. They don’t quite go as far as plasma-torching their way through our hull to get in but I get the impression it had crossed their minds. Jez and I keep out of the way at first, watching the lounge from her cabin over the monitors she’s installed. Makes me wonder what other extra features this ship has.
She winks.‘A few.’
The thin-necked man is clearly in charge. The three men he brings with him are made of robot spare parts and projectile weapons. Talking isn’t high on their skill list.
‘I am Voir Listel the Third, the Committee’s immigration representative,’ he tells Su, all in some warbling half-foreign accent.‘You will tell me your business here, and then I’d like to speak with your hijacker.’
