TableofContents

by Low Bo

  "That doesn't mean you're getting off," she says. Her goons are crowding behind her now. Covering us up real nice now. Crap-squared.

  I reach down my shirt and pull out a tag. Unlike all the plain gray ones, this one has a gold-colored strip running down the back. I watch her eyes as I take it out. Oh good Gracie; I have you now. "Seven months left," I say.

  She loosens her grip on me and doesn't even notice I shrug the rest of the way out. Her jaw goes something slack as she stares at the chit. "That's not real," she says. Her goonies are just as gawking.

  "Sure 'nuff 'tis."

  "No tourie gets a year-long visa. You gotta be pro to get one of those. It's a phony."

  I smile, "This spaz was a university fellow who blew his funds at Lucky Dick's. I tripped over him the first week he got here and he was already on the road to ruin. He must have blown more than money at Dickie's because he was a bloody mess when I found him. An act of mercy got him to the infirmary and he somehow, accidently, must have swapped this chit for a monther that was almost up."

  "Fuck, Digger. Why not wait until he was dead before you robbed him?"

  "Professionalism." I turn the chit over and let her see the hologrammed logo next to the strip. "You got a reader? Good for seven more months."

  She jerks her head and a tall blond beach guy with a reader slung around his neck comes around. I put my hand around the chain and lean forward to let her run it through the reader. They machine beeps cheerily.

  Gracie frowns. She's suspicious, sure as spit, but that don't matter. It's real, and I got her hooked. "Why you giving it up?" she asks.

  Shrug. "Got more chits. Figure I give you this and you call your goons off, plus I get a couple of free rides."

  "Your ass."

  "My ass is purty, thank you. You take chit, free and clear, and you and your goonies don't hassle me for seven months."

  "And if we just take it from you?"

  I yank the chain back, pop the chit in my mouth and set my teeth against it. She knows I can ruin the codes on the strip if I start grinding my teeth together, but if she gives her word, she'd has to keep it. That's how she got to be Amazing Gracie-mean and ugly as she is. If it got out that her word was as good as a holed spacesuit, she'd be without her army and probably downside within a week. That's just how things work. Nobody likes a dishonest crook.

  Grace spits on the floor and nods to the other goon. Spit flies funny at sixth-G, in case you didn't know.

  The other blond guy comes forward and pulls the chit off over my head, "Seven months, dustmite, then you're dead," he says.

  I smile all pretty-like. Gracie sends her goons back and then smiles back at me. Not a pretty smile-she don't have many of those left for anyone. She growls through her teeth, and leaves.

  Easy, Digger.

  I relax and lean back against the wall. My own freaking fault. My best chit. Granted, I got more, but still-that was my best chit. When Kimochi gave me the batteries, I knew he must have done something that would send Gracie gunning for me. I should have never made him an offer for a quicker ride home in exchange. Stupid is as stupid does.

  But no worries. I got more chits, and I can wrangle more when the need arises. Digger has lots of tricks still.

  I whistle, straighten my jumps, and pick up my guitar. Time to get to work. I head out the corridor and make my way toward the observation decks.

  "Spot check."

  I turn my head. A loonie goon with a blue stripe on his arm stands there by the exit like he was waiting Just for me. "Pardon?"

  He looks at me and taps a shock stick against a gloved hand. "Spot check, Digger. You know the rules. Transients got to have a valid visa chit on their persons at all times or are subject to deportation following a term in Facilities."

  I know the routine, and realize Gracie must have 'lerted me out at the very first chance to this slap-happy goon. No time for games, so don't even grin. I just reach into my leg pocket and take out a dull gray chit and hand it over.

  The goon frowns, but sets the chit into his belt scanner. Beep! Digger is kosher! He hands it back to me with a grunt.

  "I hope you enjoy your final week with us here at Brahe City." His voice is nice and sarcastic-like.

  Ha! Yeah, my emergency backup's got a week left-almost ready to pass off to the next spaznik I see in trade for a fresher chit. But with what I've got back in my hideyholes, I'm covered for at least another three months easy. No way am I going back Down There.

  I got other plans.

  Four years, 8 months, 25 days

  Word's out. Brahe City Security is looking for me. Tattooed Lydia heard it from Lucky Dick who got it from a goon. Don't know why. Don't care. I figure to dive deep into the tunnels for a few days.

  I hear assailants-unknown jumped Kimochi Stan before he could make his shuttle home. My name is mentioned, which is so not good. He'll be at the infirmary for about a week and then on his way home whenever Lunar Authority thinks it has room on another shuttle. Poor sap.

  As for yours truly, I can't be too worried. If Security really wants me, they'll figure out a way to get me. That they don't flush out the rabbit holes might mean they know I had nothing to do with Stan. And I'm legal, but hey-discretion and so forth. I low profile it for awhile and just haunt.

  Four years, 8 months, 28 days

  Rumors that Project Burroughs is going civvie are true-only now it's called Barsoom City though it can't be more than a couple of domes. We got a whole mess of folken up here making ready for a torchship heading to Mars. Between the techies bound for Mars, their friends and family seeing them off, and distracted loonie goons, I lose myself in the crowds and restock my food.

  Four years, 9 months, 2 days

  Still no word on why Security is looking for me, if they still are. Can't be because of Kimochi. Even if he didn't see who jumped him, why would I want to rough him? I take a chance and grab my cleanest, freshest chit and play for the Barsoom City-bound crowds and make more money in one day than I have all month! Still have a long way to go though before I can get off this dusty rock. From the skinny I hear on Barsoom, the cost of the passage is more than I expected and the visa rules stiffer. Thankfully, I've got patience and time to build up my stake and wait for the rules and regs to lighten.

  Mars or bust, man! Just you see.

  Four years, 9 months, 5 days

  A torchship went out to Mars the day before yesterday and another one goes off tomorrow. Brahe City Security seems to have better things to do than chase down innocent little moonunits like me, so I keep playing and making my way.

  Later I cross the Concourse and see the Beach Boys giving me the evil eye, then start following me. They aren't supposed to give me any trouble for a while to come, but maybe they're running rogue. Either way I don't like their look and lose them through the food court.

  Outside, I bump into Stan who looks better than I expected. Battered and bruised, but not fidgety or nothing. He looks surprised to see me though and says something about having to wait another three weeks before Authority will send him home. I give him some meal tickets and he shuffles away too quick to thank me.

  Some people, you know? Well, at least he's alive. Maybe he'll have better luck back home.

  I decide to head towards the science dome to see if any of the techheads are on break and in the mood for some music. With all the hubbub in Brahe City these days with the traffic and all, they must be looking to unwind.

  I turn a corner and run right into loonie goons. Crap.

  My chit's good, but they don't even check it as they hustle me on to Facilities. We pass right by Amazing Gracie's corner, where she and the Beach Boys are busting their guts laughing.

  My chit's good! It's good! No fucking way is this going down.

  Four years, 9 months, 6 days

  I spend the night in Facilities pounding the walls. The loonie goons took my guitar and emptied my pockets so there's no mucking about with the locks. I get a cold sandwich and bug juice at
some point, then this big bruiser of a goon shows up to take me to see the Boss.

  Boss Mead.

  This is the big cheese, head of Brahe City Security. A no-nonsense, cheerless heavy who ain't never had a good word for the moonunits or anyone else who skates on this side of legitimacy. Bet he's tone deaf too. We come to an office and I sit in a chair and-wait. The big loonie goon stands by the door and keeps a watchful eye on li'l ole me.

  Man, this is like being sent to the principal's office-triple-squared. Maybe Mead's not a bad guy, I tell myself. Maybe he's got a wife and kids and spends quiet off hours playing board games and the like. He might read poetry to puppies for all I know. But hell, the door opens and in he comes all gleaming in his blues 'n whites and looks at me. I don't see Major Mead the family man, I see Boss Mead, the hardass who's gonna bounce my ass downside for no good reason.

  Shit.

  End of the line, Digger, old boy. You kept your nose clean and you didn't make a nuisance of yourself and you helped out from time to time and it's still gonna end with the big dump on the wrong side of the gravity well.

  Mead sits behind the desk and calls up something on a datapad, reading all quiet like there is nothing major happening at all. I've been up here for almost five years. Five! And he's acting like deporting me is as routine as deciding whether he's going to have the pudding or the pie for dessert.

  Oh sure, I think of jumping out of that chair and dashing out. If I could make it through the Concourse, maybe I could evade for a week or three with a sprinkle of hope that if I stay under their radar long enough they'll forget all about it as a bad job and we could go back to normal.

  Yeah. That'd be the thing.

  Except I've got this big-ass uniformed goon stationed at the door behind me, ready to break me in two if I sneeze without warning. Yeah, sure.

  Fuck it. If I gotta go, let me go with style. Make some kind of raised-middle-finger gesture to the Man and to hell with the rest. I get this crazy idea. Fucking insane and start undoing the fastens on my jumpsuit. Maybe a little creative streaking is in order.

  "What the hell are you doing?" barks Mead, looking up from the file. From behind me, big meaty hands clamp down on my shoulders.

  I force myself to relax under the grip and continue working on the suit. As soon as big boy lets me go, I can slither out of it soon enough. "Getting naked. Why not? You're going to boot me out no matter, like a baby from the womb, so why not indulge?"

  The hands grip my shoulders tighter and the goon leans on me real hard, hard enough to even make a difference Up Here. Mead just stares at me, this totally dumbfounded expression on his pugly. He looks at me for about half a minute, then sits back and shakes his head. He waves a hand at the goon who hesitates, then releases me and leaves the room. I start to shuck out of my suit.

  "Stop that," snaps Mead, like I'm a child. Well, duh.

  And suddenly sure I feel all foolish and the like. I'm making no great claims to rational thinking at this time. Futile dumb toddlerbabe gestures can't be the best I can do. I'll skip the tantrums and go with dignity, boy. But whatever the hell is going to happen, I'm still going to make him work for it. I refasten my suit and sit there.

  He puts down the datapad and folds his hands. Then he looks me over with a disapproving kind of frown.

  "Rough day?" he asks.

  Okay, so I'm rumpled and wrinkled. You'd be too. And I'm a little irked. "Rough week. What's the story? You can't toss me. I got valid chits."

  Mead sits back and presses a button on the desk. A computer screen flashes on. "Joseph Dagwood Hill," he reads, "born in Syracuse, NY. Attended Brown University. Majored in engineering but dropped out midway through junior year. Formed a band called Diaspora then disappeared from the music scene a year later. You reappeared at Brahe City under the name Joe Hill but go by Digger while on the Concourse. You've been here for over four years and nine months which makes you the longest-lasting civilian transient on the station."

  I lean back and tangle my fingers behind my head. Kind of relaxed, you know, but a forced relaxed. So he has a file on me. No fears. "All the air I breathe is paid for. All my food is kosher."

  "And you don't go panhandling," Mead adds, "and you don't steal-directly, at least. You don't bug the guards when you get picked on by other moonunits."

  "So I've done nothing wrong."

  Mead nods, though it looks like he's agreeing only on the technicalities.

  "I've done a lot right too," I tell him.

  "How do you figure?" he asks.

  "A lot of folks come up here not prepared for the more subtle differences between getting around Down There and getting around Up Here," I tell him, all serious-like. This is serious business. (Do me a favor and forget that getting-naked crap) "I help them adjust. I show them how to handle their food tickets so they don't overdo it or trade them in for dollies for the tourie shops without getting ripped off. I play a bit of music from home for the homesick and add a bit of local color to the Concourse. Many's a time I've given directions to touries and techies alike without asking for anything in return."

  The Boss tilts his head to one side. Oh he's suspicious all right. He's suspicious. "So what are you getting at?"

  "I've even pulled the odd techie chore or three," I tell him, "under the roses, so the speak. I think if there's a job for a guy like me Up Here, I should get it," I tell him. There. Now it's out. A real job would mean real dollies and the sooner I could raise my stake for Mars.

  "Well there isn't," he says.

  "Then what are you going to do? Kick me off?"

  "Yep."

  "You can't. I broke no laws. You've said so yourself. I'm not a nuisance to any of the staff or touries and I pay my own way. I can raise a stink at the UNSA and then come right back Up Here and start all over."

  "You scam your own way. Visa chits were never meant to be used as currency for bums."

  "So the lunar commission is boohooing over the fact they can't reap off of other people's paid air?" Now I'm more than pissed. They can alter visa policies Down There if they get the votes, but I'm so grandfathered in I got whiskers that reach the floor. They can't change the rules on me this late in the game.

  He holds up his hands and shakes his head. "We're getting off track. Yes, it's my intention to put you off the moon, but you don't have to go back to Earth. How does Mars sound?"

  I almost fall out of the chair. Ouch.

  "Bullshit," I tell him.

  "No bullshit. We tried to find you for the first ship, but you kept moving around and I've had my hands full enough with all the new folks arriving and passing through. We were lucky, you were lucky, that Gracie's boys spotted you and tipped us off. The second ship leaves later today. Barsoom City needs a support staff with the Project Burroughs personnel pulling out. Trouble is, the only personnel we have so far who will be able to hack life on Mars are the scientists and technicians. We don't have a shortage of them, but we do have a shortage in another area." He looks at me curious. "Are you too proud to push a mop? Or handle some laundry or cooking?"

  This is unreal. "No," I say. Hell, I've held down worse jobs in college.

  "You sure? You weren't too far from a degree in engineering at one time. And most of the initiative you've shown up here has been self-serving. Can you serve others is my question. You'll actually be working, not loafing around with a bunch of other bums."

  "I wasn't a prodigy student, even at my best," I admit to him. "My grades would have gotten me nothing more than a cubicle Down There, not a techslot on the moon. But I can make a good grunt. I can even do some tech work when it's needed. Ask around. Sign me up." Sign me up now, before you change your mind.

  "You don't want to hear about pay or benefits?"

  "You covering my air and food?"

  "It's part of the package. The food won't be much better than the slop we give ticket holders here at first-not until the greenhouses and protein processors are online-but you'll get what the science and tech folk
s get."

  "Sign me up." I tell him. Yes. Yes. Yes!

  "Not so fast. You ready to take on a two-year long contract?"

  "Earth years or Martian years?"

  He chuckles and looks a little pleased with himself. "Martian, of course. That's about four Earth years. Give or take."

  I think about it for only the briefest of moments. Nearly five years on the moon, four years on Mars. Who knows? Maybe out past Pluto before I'm sixty. And hey, people are living longer. The technology is only getting better.

  "And of course you get a free ride back to Earth when your contract is up," he tells me.

  "No," I say.

  "No?" The guy looks a little surprised. He leans across the desk and gives me his best darkly-type scowl. "Look son, I can't make you take the job on Mars, but if you think you're going to continue coasting Up Here any longer-"

  "No, I mean I don't want to go back to Earth."

  "You'll want to stay on Mars? Don't speak too soon. It's not all it's cracked up to be."

  "Neither is the moon-but going forward beats falling backward. When the contract is up, I want berth to any other colony settlement that will take me. If there's nothing ready, I'll sign up for another Martian year until something does turn up."

  "You're kidding," he says, staring at me all curious-like. "Son, Barsoom City isn't a big dome, although it'll get bigger in time. If you think you'll find better a better life on Ceres or someplace, you've got more than a few years of waiting."

  "They'll need dishwashers on Ceres too. If not now, then eventually. And if not Ceres, than Callisto. Or on a deep space explorer or comet rocket."

  How did Columbus get all that crew? They weren't all seadogs and convicts. There must have been a few dishwashers who just wanted to see how far they could go, how many horizons they could cross. For a lot of folken, the ties to Mama Earth are too strong, but I was ready to be spaceborn the first time I opened my eyes and saw them twinkling lights in the sky. Brahe City was just the first small step. One small step, baby, and it's the stars-our destination. Don't try to stop me now.