Andromeda Expedition

by Carlos Arroyo González

  Xueng Electronics offered the hardest to find products. Also the most illegal ones. Products like cortical implants, which Mr. Xueng installed in his customers in the back room, a place Fox preferred not to imagine. Yet the New West police rarely passed by, and when they did, they turned a blind eye anyway. Fox had once thought about that, and he supposed it was due to some kind of permissiveness so that the miserable population could afford some luxury they would not ordinarily be able to access, or at least dream of, as was the case with Fox.

  He arrived in front of the Xueng Electronics storefront. Inside the store, Mr. Xueng was cutting his toenails. He had been kind enough to place a bucket underneath. The halogens that illuminated the interior seemed to shiver with cold. The glass was covered with fingerprints, and Fox wouldn't have been surprised if most of them were his own. All sorts of high-tech gadgets were on display there. Implants mostly, but also entertainment items like stereos, drones, mega-computers, even a mini android was on display that was supposedly capable of performing basic household tasks, and learning more sophisticated ones, if the one teaching it was skilled enough. Fox had once seen one of these things in action, and it did a good job: a bartender had it next to the cash register storing coins in their cases and sorting them by amount. The synthetic skin of the android displayed in Xueng's window was covered with what looked like grease stains, on which the store's flickering halogens were reflected. The initials of Watson Robotics were etched on its forehead in red ink.

  The Tentzer cortical implant was displayed on a shelf, with several wires dangling, like seaweed on a conch shell just pulled from the sea. Fox admired the silicon plate on which was engraved the Edelmann Corporation logo, a propeller inside a diamond. Oblivion a la carte was his little ray of hope. To be able to walk around someday without that darkness that gripped him.

  The price tag hung under the shelf, rocked by the heater Mr. Xueng kept next to the counter. One million nine hundred thousand interdollars. Although it was a much lower price than on the market, that was an amount Fox only dared to dream of.

  The shadows of the moths fluttering around the only streetlight in the alley looked like titanic alien monstrosities. In the shadows of the back door of Stefano's, he thought he saw a face watching him, illuminated by the incandescence of his cigarette. The guy had a tattoo on his neck. Something like a leprechaun or maybe…

  “Can you lend me some interdollars, my friend?”, said a raspy voice behind him.

  Fox turned and saw a ghost-like man. He smelled of vinegar and stale tobacco.

  “Well, not really.”

  “Then what are you doing looking at that expensive stuff?”

  Fox tried to walk away. The man put his hand on his shoulder. When Fox turned around, the ghost hit him in the face with an empty bottle, which shattered. Glass fell to the asphalt, echoing between the buildings in the narrow alley.

  Fox staggered, and when he recovered, he charged the man. As he slammed him against the wall he heard something break inside the guy.

  When he looked back toward the pizzeria the man at the back door was gone.

  It had been three weeks since Fox had passed the threshold at the end of the alley.

  Before leaving it and entering the streets of Koi City, he said goodbye to Yun.

  “You brave warrior,” Mr. Yun said, looking up from his chestnuts. “Brave go to danger as stars grow on the silver horizon. You do not forget.”

  “I will remember, Yun.”

  “You take lucky chestnut.”

  Fox took the chestnut he held out to him. It seemed to him that Yun had picked one at random.

  Mr. Yun watched him walk away. He raised a hand and nodded with the gesture of a proud tutor who sees how his disciple is finally able to make his way.

  The buildings of Koi City were huge blocks of brick, neon lights and billboards. The paint that covered the facades was darker on the lower floors. Not because of a degraded design in their paint, but because the closer they were to the street the more dirt they accumulated. The penthouses were reserved for the city's wealthiest: owners of pharmaceutical companies and the like. Once Fox dreamed of moving with Jessica and Emily to one that was at least above the fiftieth floor. Of course, after the incident all that remained an illusion.

  A lazy rain dampened the signs covering the facades. Most of them were the same poster. One showing a picture of President Simmons (at least that remained the same, Fox thought), dressed in a white tuxedo and bow tie. He held a gun formed by his own hands. And underneath: "Today, more than ever, all united."

  The air was redolent of fried anchovies and wet asphalt. In the puddles drowned the neon lights of the many stores and bars, and passersby under their colorful umbrellas.

  From somewhere, a spotlight projected letters into the sky of Koi City: WELCOME, CASTAWAYS.

  He passed by the facade of a clinic with towering glass windows that allowed an almost complete view of its interior. On the door, large signs announced: "Assisted Suicide: Adults $99. Children $29. 2 for 1. Take advantage of the opportunity!"

  A young girl with short pink-tinted hair stamped something on his chest.

  “Don't be fooled.”

  Fox looked at the badge she had pinned on him: “genocidal parasites,” it said. And underneath: “STOP MANIPULATION”. He had no idea what that was all about. Until he found out, he thought it wiser to put the badge in a pocket.

  In Concord Square there was a group of about a hundred people with banners and chanting something that Fox could not understand. In front of them, the police were waiting.

  Fox approached a man wearing a raincoat so bright orange it seemed to emit its own light.

  “Excuse me, could you explain to me what this is all about?”

  The man looked him up and down. He saw that unkempt beard and the look of not having eaten for a year. And above all he noticed that subtle sour tone.

  “Where did you come from? The issue of parasites is everywhere.”

  “Yeah. I've just been... kind of out of touch, you know?”

  “Can sleeping on cardboard and getting drunk be considered being out of touch?”

  “I think I might break your face. How about that?”

  The man let out a short, hoarse laugh. Then he made a gesture as if blowing away a horrible smell from his nose.

  Fox was preparing to plunge his fist into the asshole's stomach when a shot rang out, and the mob in the square began to run, scattering into the surrounding streets. In the melee, he lost sight of the man in the orange raincoat.

  Fox walked through the door of the Dough & Smylnov press store. The heat there made him close his eyes in satisfaction. When he opened them, he found that the clerk, a short man with no hair on the crown of his head, was watching him suspiciously through his semicircular spectacles. Fox understood what he must have looked like, with his temple bloodied and his bones sticking out from under his skin like the edges of a tent under a tarpaulin. He cleared his throat and walked over to the shelf where the magazines were displayed. Age of Delight announced the launch of the Edelmann Corporation's new implants, which apparently allowed vision more than two miles away. Another magazine asked whether Clark Owen would be the new star of Port Hamburg. The boy was shown holding a ball in both hands and with his chin raised, he looked at the camera with haughty eyes. Fox was enjoying the covers even though he wasn't the least bit interested in them, as he let the delicious warmth penetrate his bones.

  Smylnov pretended to order something behind the counter while making sure to keep an eye on his only customer out of the corner of his eye. Fox dropped a copy of “Forward, Country” onto the counter and buried his hand in his coat, and after briefly probing the bottom (probing which Smylnov examined with a tense, feline gaze as his hands clutched something under the counter) he captured two of the three bills, which looked even more crumpled than before, as if they had shrunk from the cold. He held them out to Smylnov, who grabbed them with one hand while the other remained unde
r the counter. He dropped the ball of paper into the cash register (which he apparently always kept open) without bothering to stretch it.

  The cover was occupied by a close-up of President Simmons' face. He was looking directly into the camera with an expression of serene confidence. Brief pockmarked streaks ran down his cheeks.

  In white letters on the dark background of the president's photograph, it read:

  Simmons keeps NO.

  Underneath:

  Increasing tension with Old Europa over WilkinsBank Eastcountry's refusal to enter the war.

  As the fleet of the termens approaches, Old Europa sets in motion all its machinery of destruction to welcome this millenarian culture with a fiery embrace.

  And developed on the second page:

  As Amiens had already warned, they will not have contemplations with the space castaways approaching our planet. Flatly refusing to listen to the messages of tolerance and fraternity suggested by the New West, Old Europa is already preparing for what may be one of the biggest and most destructive campaigns in its history. "There will be no prisoners," Amiens declared yesterday in an interview for Radio40.

  “This is not a social shelter,” Smylnov said.

  Fox left the store.

  Of course they exist! You haven't seen one yet because leprechauns can only meet when they want to!

  Martin S. Puncel, children's story writer

  He walked sheltered under the hood of the old army coat, warming his hands with the warmth that the lucky chestnut still held. The asphalt, the facades, the streets themselves, seemed to germinate black drips. On them, hundreds of neon signs of all colors. Advertisements for Mevotex Ultra, the latest synthetic drug launched by Alter BioScience with the connivance of the government, of which many more pirate doses were sold than legal ones due to prices that very few could afford.

  One could go from bar to bar without taking more than two steps. Street food stalls were open twenty-four hours a day. The sewers spat columns of pestilential mist. And the buzz of advertisements broadcast endlessly on the facades, as a background tune to the incombustible life of Koi City. On every corner there was at least one New West patrol car, their chrome uniforms glistening under the saturation of the neon lights. In fact, if one thought about it, they were the only gleaming thing on the streets of Koi City. After the end of the war, laws had been generated at a relentless Taylorian pace. There was plenty of opportunity for crime, but crime was more expensive than ever. Every word could get you into trouble. But apart from that, Fox noticed that now there was something else going on. Something big was brewing. The whole situation of pent-up tension reminded him of the weeks before the war. Everyone seemed to be looking over their shoulders, watching their every move and every step. He remembered that look of Smylnov's, as if he had never seen him before. The tension of his hands under the counter. People, normally carefree and immersed in their misery, seemed to hurry from one place to another, not looking up from the ground if possible. That ominous tension seemed to smear even the facades of the buildings, adding to the graffiti and grime that had accumulated over the decades.

  Arriving at the intersection with Victory Avenue, the police frisked a young man with his hands on the patrol car. The guy, who was no more than twenty-five years old, was wearing a bandana with something on it that Fox was unable to decipher. He looked at Fox with trusting eyes. Nearby, on the ground, another man was lying in a pool of blood. His legs were still jerking in spasms. Fox was glad he had pocketed the badge the pink-haired girl had given him, even if he had no idea what it meant.

  A man pushing a fish cart of dubious aroma ran past him as he shouted something Fox couldn't make out. In the background, between two buildings, he saw some light bulbs streaking across the gray sky of Koi City. One read ‘Welcome’. And on the other ‘Castaways.’ He stepped into a puddle and felt the water soak his foot.

  “You look like you just stepped out of a concentration camp.”

  Fox glanced to his right and saw the guy who had been watching him from the back door of Stefano's. He saw that the tattoo on his neck was indeed a leprechaun.

  “Get lost,” Fox said.

  The one with the tattoo showed a set of manicured teeth between which a gold fang reflected the flashing lights of a nearby bar from which a din of electronic music was escaping.

  “You manage well. I saw you take care of that guy in the alley,” he looked at Fox's coat. “Military? Ex-military.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “It doesn't take a sharp eye to figure out you're not at your best. I may have something for you. I'm talking about a lot of dough,” Fox watched him with renewed attention. “I saw the way you were looking at the implants. With the little job I'm going to offer you, you'll be able to get one of those things. But I'm not talking about the dirty stores in the slums. I'm talking about showing up at the Edelmann Corporation headquarters and having one custom-made for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Let's have a drink,” the guy said, walking toward the bar.

  The bouncer guarding the door greeted him with a nod. Fox thought he detected a hint, he didn't know if it was fear or respect, or maybe both, in his eyes.

  Inside Pendant Gun, powerful electronic music thundered. In Koi City there was always a desire to escape from those miserable lives with a Daiquiri and a song that drilled into your head. It was flooded by a mist whose volutes and spirals were crossed by dozens of spotlights and lasers that ran through the place following the maddening rhythms of the music. A strong smell of sweat and bad liquor reigned. A snake of violet light ran along the ceiling in a perpetual journey without destination. The heat made you sweat as soon as you set foot inside. And above all the sensation of being in a medium much denser than air, like a fishbowl in which you could breathe. At one table, some tough-looking guys were playing poker. In the center of the table was piled a mountain of bills. One who had so many rings that Fox didn't understand how he could move his fingers looked up, and meeting the gaze of the man with the neck tattoo lowered it back down to the cards.

  The stool and bar, like everything else at Pendant Gun, were sticky. Everything was designed in a material that mimicked their more expensive version (black synthetic leather stools, gold baroque trim on the ceiling that was likely nothing more than painted plaster, etc). Behind the bar was a calendar from two years ago. It was so covered in grime and grease that the numbers were barely decipherable. The tattooed guy ordered two double Daiquiris.

  The waitress, a sullen looking woman with a cigarette between her lips and a hedge of sweat under her armpits shot Fox a quick glance as she set the glasses on the bar. To Fox it seemed a look undecided between pity and interest.

  The one with the tattoo slid her a crumpled five. And then another ten. The woman tucked the latter into her cleavage.

  “You're a sweetheart, Viper,” she said, managing to keep her cigarette from her lips. In fact it seemed as integrated there as if it were part of her anatomy.

  Viper walked over to a secluded table in the corner. Fox sank onto the faux leather couch, pockmarked with hundreds of cigarette burns. Viper pointed to the holovisor. Images of Old Europa troops on parade appeared, interspersed with footage of scuffles and explosions. Among them were some that Fox doubted had been caused by military action.

  “That jerk Simmons is going to get us in a lot of trouble,” he said. “That guy would sell out the country in exchange for another floor in the presidential residence.”

  “I've read something. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Take a chill pill. Someone I trust has told me that it seems that those beings approaching the Earth are not exactly sisters of charity. He thinks that not even all the armies on Earth combined could stand up to them. And that we're all going to get killed,” he looked at Fox waiting for a reaction that didn't come. “And that's not something that would do my business much good, so to speak,” Fox tried to imagine
the guy's business, and it didn't take him too long to come up with a couple of answers. “The thing is, he thinks he's found something important. A way to put an end to them. The thing is that it would involve going to a planet twenty million light years away. He's told Old Europa about his idea and they've promised him a lot of dough. Now all he needs is a crew.”

  “Pass.”

  “I've seen many like you. You think you'll be able to escape on your own from whatever is chasing you. But you always end up the same way in the end,” he formed a pistol with his fingers and put it to his temple. “You seem like a nice guy. I'm not telling you I'm doing this to help you, because that wouldn't be true. Of course it's all about business for me. But this time there's more to it than money. As I told you, a swarm of genocidal aliens wouldn't do my clientele any good. And as it turns out, it looks like that thing could be used to stop them.”

  He pulled out a crumpled, rain-soaked magazine. INFOPLANET. It was the December issue. He opened it and the pages rustled.

  “This is the expedition sent by New West. The official version is that they went to investigate possible life forms in that place. But the reality is that they went after that thing.”