by Chris Hechtl
A cavern of supply pods had been found when a utility company repairing the old lines and expanding them opened the cavern up for inspection and reuse. The contents of the cavern were seized by the company before the government got involved. Some of it was picked over by the workers, but since the property was needed for construction, it had to be removed quickly.
Instead of warehousing what might be junk and duking it out with the government over ownership, the company, strapped for cash, decided to sell the contents at auction to help raise additional capital to make their overhead. The government wasn't happy but was distracted by a series of minor scandals and some weather issues. A few threats about holding up the works and a little graft in the right hands and the powers that be decided to turn a blind eye for the moment.
The auction was presented over various media outlets. It was the talk of the continent in some circles since it was open to the public. Many people showed up, hopeful to find a treasure or to at least see one. The big ticket items went to those with a lot of cash.
Seventeen-year-old Eric was there looking for bits that would fall through the gaps the big fish were snapping up. Something he might turn to make a quick buck—clean it up, restore it. His friend Connie, a waitress he'd known since they were toddlers, was also there; his cat-like eyes caught sight of her in the crowd. He knew from the conversation he'd had with her the night before that she was more interested in period clothing, but nothing had been in the auction. They exchanged nods and then she moved on without a word.
He paid the two credits to register as a bidder, then took the placard with a number on it and then went back to the viewing.
---*---
Connie shook her head at the thought of Eric in the same group. She was glad to see a familiar face but wished the kid had cleaned up a bit first. Didn't he know and care that he was out in public? Apparently not. He slouched, and she itched to correct him about his posture. Apparently he didn't know much about that either.
He was a comfort though, so she kept track of him. When it started to get near the auction time, she instinctively got closer to him. Better next to him than next to some half drunk guy with grabby hands and no manners.
Not that Eric had much in the way of manners. But he'd better behave herself she thought darkly.
---*---
A little while later the viewing was concluded and they found themselves crowded together in the improvised bidding area. At least there were folding seats, though they were damned uncomfortable. Apparently like minds had sought each other out for comfort or support or something.
---*---
Connie grimaced when she saw the bidding. She hated it. Hated the lost opportunity and wasted time the auction had cost her. She'd given up an extra shift to come to the auction. It was a madhouse.
She'd wisely reasoned the diner would have been a ghost town with the boss and regulars off at the auction, which was why she'd turned down the extra work even though she could have used it. She'd given up turning tricks on the side when the local pimp had gotten word of her working “his” streets. She'd been scared shitless about his mild threat of taking her in to his stable. She wanted no part of such crap; he didn't just hook his girls on drugs but beat them when they didn't meet a regular quota. And when he beat them, he knew how to hit a girl. She'd seen some of the girls on the street walking funny if at all. And a girl who wasn't presentable didn't make money, so that was a slippery slope she wanted no part of.
Besides, she just did the occasional hookup out of desperation when funds were low. But she'd only done it with people she'd known were safe, and she'd always told her occasional roommate or someone else where she was going.
Not that they seemed to care.
“This sucks,” she muttered when she was outbid again. She had fifty-five credits to her name and had hoped to score something. Clothing was something she'd thought no one would be looking at. With a couple samples, she could have taken them to some of the fashion conscious designers in uptown Gotham. A revival of period clothes might shake up the stoic suits and crap everyone with the credits to burn on such frivolity seemed to spend on. The fashion district was pretty cutthroat and many knew it just recycled old designs, especially in this day and age when they had access to the old designs once more.
But it was not to be. Even the databases were getting snapped up at premium prices, sometimes evoking a bidding war that had people cheering for one side or another.
Out of instinctive self-defense, she stuck close to a familiar face. Eric wasn't much to look at, but he was a friend, of sorts, a fellow orphan like her. Her parents had died in the plague; his had left him five years ago to fend for himself. He'd actually managed it on his own, though he'd had a few hard spots along the way. Mama O'Rourke had kept an eye on him like she had her until her passing in the winter of last year.
Like her he was living hand to mouth a lot, which sucked.
He tended to work as a handyman on their block, but she knew he got up to other things from time to time when work dried up and money got tight. He was careful to moonlight out of his own area and never in the same place twice. She'd seen him coming and going from the subway near the diner.
He was also pretty good with his hands. She'd seen him work a crowd at a convention they'd both attended a year ago, though apparently he, like her, had other things on his mind.
And just like her he was getting annoyed at getting outbid.
It seems misery loved company in all its glory.
---*---
As the auction frenzy started to wear off and the big tickets were snapped up, it left only the dregs. Much of the crowd dissipated in disappointment. A few were bitter, and fights broke out here and there. Security was on each, escorting the people away from the auction gently but firmly. For some reason Connie stuck to his side. He wasn't certain if it was out of comfort or support or what. He knew there were some players in the crowd, and undoubtedly, the bosses had their own people working them. Anyone dumb enough to walk away with full pockets stoned or drunk was just asking to get mugged.
He looked over to see a girl working a big portly guy. She kept him drinking, and when it came to her turn, she only pretended to take a swig. He snorted when she had signed a couple guys to go around to the dark side away from the street lights and wait. They nodded and melted into the crowd.
That was most likely the last time the idiot was going to be alive. If he survived the night and hangover, his partner would beat some sense into him. Probably beat him to death for losing the rent or whatever he had.
Both of them were consistently outbid on anything they found of interest. It was disappointing. They sat together, griping quietly about the injustice of it all. Gotham just didn't give a sucker an even break it seemed.
“I think Commissioner Gordon is glad it's almost over,” Eric said, nodding his chin to the salty-haired old man wearing a trench coat. Everyone knew the commissioner; his bristly mustache and honest streak was one of the bright spots in the dark, sometimes wet and scary gothic city.
“You see Wayne Enterprises bought up what, two-thirds of the stuff? You'd think they'd just bought it all,” Connie grumbled.
“It just goes to show, it takes money to make money,” Eric sighed.
“You got that right,” Connie agreed with a grunt.
“And those that got it aren't willing to let the rest of us get it … without a fight,” Eric said sourly.
“True,” Connie replied quietly, then she heaved a heavy sigh. “I should be going.”
Eric eyed his companion. Connie wasn't much to look at; human like him though she had normal human eyes. She was practically anorexic, skinny as a rail due to food being scarce from time to time. Flat chested, not much to look at, but he knew if she put a bit of effort into her appearance she could clean up nice.
And when she didn't have her red and blue streaked hair up in a ponytail, she actually looked like a woman, or at least close enough for him.
“Hey, look,” Connie said, elbowing him to point to a group. He turned to see a couple people talking in earnest. They'd bided against each other earlier in the day; now they seemed to be working together.
He stared, surprised as they pooled their money to buy a pod.
That was the other thing that bothered him; they got to see what was inside but from a distance. Everything had been roped off and under guard—no touching, just looking.
He could see they had outbid others. The act tapped them out, but it also got more people to quit and leave.
Once they had secured their prize, the group fell to arguing over who got what part of the cut. He snorted, typical.
“You know, we could do that,” he murmured to his companion.
Connie looked up to him and frowned thoughtfully.
“I'm just saying,” he said. “Split it fifty-fifty,” he said, vowing to match whatever she put in as long as his funds held.
She raised an inquiring eyebrow then hunched herself, dropping her head. “I really shouldn't.”
“Look, we pick something up, I check it out, then unload it. Some of this stuff is yeah, trash. But if you take it apart, you can part the pieces out to people for more than the entire thing cost. Trust me on this.”
“Trust. You,” she said.
“Hey, I'm trustworthy!” he said indignantly.
“Power down,” she said, stepping on his toes. “You're making a scene,” she grumbled.
He looked around, saw a few people looking at them then shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But you know I'm right,” he murmured softly in her ear.
She frowned, still torn. She wanted to take the risk, but she needed the money. It was half her rent. It was a gamble.
“There are four items left. Not many players left, a few of them are just about passed out drunk or asleep,” he urged. “Now or never.”
“What about the house cut?” she asked.
“What cut? They have to pay taxes, same as we do. We allow for it. I've got fifty. You in or you out?”
“I … yeah,” she said heavily, clutching at her arms with her hands in a hug. “You better be right about this,” she hissed.
“Depends on what we get. It's a gamble, but I'm willing to risk my money,” he said, studying the merchandise with renewed purpose. Two were above the credits he figured the two of them had. He'd have to pad the number, say ninety just in case there was a house cut, he thought.
“It's not just your money you'll be risking,” she whispered.
“Hey, have a little faith,” he said, turning to look down at her.
“Geeze Louise, listen to yourself,” she grumbled. “If this doesn't work I'll be out on the street,” she growled.
“You in or out?”
“In,” she said as he indicated the third package near the block. “You better be right or I'm going to be crashing at your place for a while.”
He eyed her and then shrugged. “Suits me.”
“And I get the bed,” she said.
He blinked and opened his mouth. “What,” he turned back to her. “Come again? My place? What makes you think you'll get my bed?”
“Because I'm the lady,” she said with a sniff.
“Well, lady or not, I'm not sleeping on the floor or the couch,” he growled.
“You will if you don't get this right,” she said. “And you're missing it,” she said as the item came up for bid.
“No, just …,” he listened as the auctioneer started the bid.
“What are you …”
“Just wait,” he said softly to her, urgently as he turned into her ear. “I want to see if they'll come lower. If we give them what they want, it shows our hand early.”
“Oh,” she said dubiously. She sat back to see if he could deliver.
The bid dropped as the Veraxin auctioneer, already tired from the day's work tried to work the remnants of the crowd. But no one was willing to start the bid so since there was no reserve, he dropped it to seventy-five credits. “Seventy-five credits folks, do I hear eighty?”
“Now?”
“Not...” Eric frowned as an old man held up his placard. “Damn it,” he muttered.
“I have a bid for seventy-five, do I have eighty?” the auctioneer said, then started his rapid fire spiel to drum up interest. When no one else stepped up, he lowered the increments until he got to seventy-six. Then Eric held up his card.
The auctioneer pointed his gavel to Eric. A holler came over to them and leaned over. “You bid eighty?” he asked hopefully.
“Seventy-six,” Eric replied, eying him.
“Whoop!” the man hollered, yelling and waving an arm. He pointed down and hand signed seventy-six.
The auctioneer clacked his mandibles in acknowledgment, then surveyed the room. When no other bidders presented themselves, he went to the first bidder.
Eric felt eyes on him and saw the old man studying him, most likely sizing him up. The old man bid eighty. Eric grimaced and bid eighty-one.
“Every time he bids, you top him by one. He doesn't know how deep our pockets are,” Connie murmured in an aside to him.
“That's my point,” Eric replied.
The old man shuffled, digging through his pockets before he grimaced. He raised the bid to eighty-three. The holler with him urged him to go higher, but he shook his head vehemently no.
Eric waved his placard to get the attention of the holler near him. When the man turned he smiled. “Bid at eighty-nine,” Eric said.
The man looked up, whooped, and then hand signed eighty-nine. “You sure you got the creds, kid?” he demanded.
“We've got it. Don't worry about it,” the young man replied.
“Okay, your ass if'n you don't,” the holler said.
The other holler and auction assistant worked on the old man, but he kept shaking his head. Finally, he snarled something and stormed off.
The auctioneer seemed to heave a sigh. Eric felt Connie clutch his arm, apparently eager for the win he thought.
Now was the time he dreaded, the time when someone else could swoop in, top his bid by ten or more credits, and scare off any more competition. Hell, only a couple credits more could throw them off the hunt. But as they waited with baited breath, the auctioneer ran down the countdown then clacked his gavel.
Connie bounced, cheering as if they'd won a fortune. Eric smiled and signed the paper the holler brought over.
---*---
Once the last item was sold off, they stood in line to get their item. He was right about the taxes, a handwritten sign over the teller window said there was an 8 percent tax and a 2 percent cut for the house.
Eric felt a thrill of fear that Connie would stiff him, but she reluctantly forked over her half when he pointed to the sign. “You'd better be right about this, Eric, or I'll have you doing more than washing dishes and sleeping on the floor to work this off,” she hissed at him.
“Trust me,” he said soothingly as he paid the teller the ninety-nine crumpled up and worn credits. The Veraxin took the wad then counted them out carefully twice. He even got her to split the one so he could give Connie half. He got a receipt, then they went over to take possession of the crate. Eric flipped the lid open and then pulled out the heavy cylinder within. He turned it over and over in his hands. “Damn, it's heavier than it looks.” It had to weigh at least forty kilos easy. It was a pain in the ass, but he could handle it. It had grips to open it, some symbols, and a solar panel, also ports to plug it in. The crate it had come in had integrated solar panels as well but they were pretty battered. He figured even if only a few worked he could probably flip the crate alone for ten credits. Maybe twenty if he took it apart.
“Be careful with it, Eric! Is that a radiation symbol?” Connie asked, pointing to a yellow mark.
He frowned, examined it, then rubbed some of the dirt off. “Yeah. Something … might be a part to a fusion reactor or something,” he said.
“So? You're the expert �
��,” she said sarcastically, hands on her hips.
“Anyone tell you that you are a pushy pain in the ass?” he demanded. Her lips quivered, but she didn't rise to the bait. He looked at the device again. “It's old; that much I can tell you.”
“I'll buy it off you. Twenty cred,” an old man said.
“Pass,” Eric said. He looked over to Connie. “See? He thinks it's worth something,” he said.
“Yeah, for twenty creds when we paid a hundred,” she growled.
“Oh ye of little faith,” he said. “Let's get this beauty home and then I'll make some calls. When I have something, we'll meet at the diner. I'll even pay for dinner,” he said.
“You'd better be right. I just sunk my entire savings and part of my rent into that … that … glorified paperweight,” she growled, helping him get it out of the cavern and onto the bus for the ride home.
Several people asked about the device. An elderly couple suggested drilling a hole through the long end and turning it into a table lamp. Eric pretended to sleep while Connie listened to them and smiled politely. She occasionally shot him a glower though; he could tell from the heat and from peaking out of the cracks of his eyelids.
She wasn't going to let him live it down if he did buy an expensive paperweight he thought gloomily.
---*---
The following morning Eric wasn't the wiser on what the devil the thing was. He hadn't found any sort of serial number and most of the writing and markings had worn off. The computer was off line or encrypted.
He was at his wits end on what to do. He was not sure about what he'd bought, but he had one last avenue to try. He took some pics and then put a call in to a Neo he knew who was always interested in odd bits.
“Hank!” Eric said when the call went through.
“Harrumph, huh? Who … um … the caller ID is blocked, hanging up.”
“No wait, Hank, it's me, Eric!” Eric said hastily, pulling a piece of electric tape off his webcam. “Sorry man, can't be too careful you know,” he said.
