by M J Gauntlet
“Well, that was the first time I was ever ashamed of my parents and their attitudes. It was the first time I was ashamed of myself. From that day on I swore if I ever got a chance to pay people like your parents back, I would do so. That’s why I chose to be a cop and work in Last Town. My parents had it all set up for me to become a high-priced lawyer and join a friend of my father’s firm. I chucked all of that and became an ordinary cop. My parents were both mortified and angry. My father didn’t talk to me after that, but I didn’t give a shit.
“I never thought I would ever get a chance to help the family of that wonderful woman, but as the gods would have it, I have been given a chance to repay that debt. When I went back to the scene of my disgrace of so long ago, I realized that this was my chance to make good on a promise I made to myself so many years ago.” Fuller was staring off into the distance at something only he could see. With an irritated shake of his head, he turned back towards Zax. “Farewell and good luck, son,” he said in parting. Fuller turned and waived as he disappeared into the foliage. Zax watched him go and realized that he too had been changed, but that revelation had to be postponed for another time. Right now, he was in a hell of a predicament.
First, he had to go somewhere that was off the grid and figure out what to do next. If he went to one of the smaller outback settlements, he would stick out like a sand hog in a beauty pageant. The best place to go unnoticed would be in a large metropolitan center, where with the aid of his image scrambler he could blend in with the crowd. Since Plex was the nearest large city within gravtrain traveling distance (taking a skycab would be far too risky, even with the scrambler), Zax decided to take the train to the outskirts of Plex and find an out-of-the- way robohostel to rest and plan. Unhooking his floater, he checked its charge…full! It would be just enough to get him to the outermost Littleton gravtrain station.
After a two-hour gravtrain ride, Zax got off at the stop on the border between Littleton and Plex. During the first hour of the train ride, he found himself fretfully checking and rechecking his image scrambler, and anxiously watching every passenger who boarded, half expecting a police squad to rush into the car at every stop. Finally, fatigue overtook him, and he dozed off into a fitful dream filled sleep. There were images of Lauria and his father, who were looking at him accusingly as he was being chased by nameless, faceless figures.
Startled, he jerked awake out of the nightmare to see that he was one stop away from Shell Town, a suburb of Plex. Checking his chrono, he saw that it was 15:56
p.s.s. Slinging his bag with the floater attached over his shoulder, he rose and waited for the car doors to open… then froze. On the elevated platform was an armed cop talking with a passenger. The policeman glanced towards where Zax was standing and raised a portable image scanner. He checked it for a second, then continued talking to the cute woman in front of him. Zax turned and went to the down escalator on the opposite end of the platform. Hoping that he had planned it right, he stopped to get his bearings and spied what he was wanting …a gypsy skycab.
Gypsy cabs had developed to fill the niche between, the relatively high-priced skycabs and the low fare but limited routes of public transportation such as gravtrains and gravbuses. The normal automated skycabs would pick up a fare when summoned from a skycab stand, but there were places (such as settlement towns) where they were programmed not venture. Gravtrains and buses followed set routes, and while they would go into some areas skycabs would not, their routes were often limited, and their schedules were very structured. Gypsy skycabs had independent human drivers, who were more flexible in both their routes, availability, and most important to Zax, they almost never had security cameras onboard. Also, their rates were less than the regular automated cabs, and only slightly higher than those of public transportation.
Three cabs were hovering above the pavement, their drivers scanning the passing crowd searching for a signal for a pickup. Zax tapped his wristcom, hailing the nearest cab. Swiftly, two of the cabs swooped down, almost colliding with each other, in the rush to be the first to the landing pad. A third cab settled down behind Zax; the driver popped the canopy and waved Zax over, while the other two were still vying for the landing pad. Moving over to the garishly decorated cab, Zax paused for a split second, then hopped into the back of the vehicle, to the accompaniment of raucous curses from the other two scorned drivers. The gypsy cab driver was sitting behind a thick plasticine barrier, smoking a Joy-joy stick.
Through the speaker grill the driver asked, “Where to Jack?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Zax said, unaccustomed to a human driver, “Take me to the nearest Robohostel.”
“Ok, but are you sure you want to go to the nearest one? I know that joint and, if I do say so myself, it’s a dump,” the driver stated, with a voice dripping with distain.
“Is that so,” Zax said suspiciously, “and I suppose you know of a better place, right?” Zax had heard stories of gypsy cab drivers who would take advantage of ‘newbs’ who didn’t know their way around a city. Often taking ‘shortcuts’ to their destinations that ended up in outrageous eunit fairs.
The man must have heard the cynicism in Zax’s voice, because he quickly tried to mollify him.
“Listen Mac, I’m on the level here, just check my cabbie license flashing on the seatback. Not one black mark! I can tell that you might be a little unsure as to whether I’m steering you right, so I’ll tell you what, if you don’t like the place I suggest, then I’ll take you to the robohostel free of charge.
“Alright,” Zax said, sliding two fiver chits into the slot in the back of the seatback, “it’s a deal. Mr.…?”
“Picot, Rodger W. Picot, like it says there on the license. My friends call me Rodger and since I have nothing but friends, that means that everyone calls me Rodger,” he said, with a small chuckle. “Anyway, I know just the place you’re looking for. There is a boarding house not too far from here, run by Mrs. Pearl that will suit your needs quite well. It’s clean, quiet and the people there tend to mind their own business.”
The gypsy cab rose into the middle flying lane, swerving at the last second, just missing an oncoming lorry, and took off heading northeast. Within a half hour, it descended and settled in front of a quaint looking house, nestled between two tall, native tower trees.
“This is the place Mac,” Rodger said through the plasticine barrier, “Just ring the doorbell and the landlady will let you in.”
Ring the what? Zax thought puzzled, but before he could ask Rodger what he was talking about, a thin card was passed to him via a slot in the shield.
“Here, this is my com number. If you need a taxi anytime during your stay here, give me a call day or night. And don’t worry about the tip, I already took it out of the charge.” Zax could hear the satisfied chuckle in the cabbie’s voice. As Rodger handed him the card, Zax was not surprised to see the tattoo on the back of his hand.
The passenger canopy lifted, and a small set of stairs extruded from the skycabs flank. Stepping out of the cab, Zax studied the odd-looking structure before him. Stepping up to the doorway, (which looked like actual native wood) he was stymied, there was no screen, grill, or imager in sight, only a small lighted rectangular knob recessed into doorframe on the right side of the door. Shrugging his shoulders, he pressed the button and was rewarded with a series of melodic notes, sounding in rhythm, from inside the residence.
After a few seconds, the door swung open revealing a pleasingly plump, human female in a flowered apron. She had a crown of graying hair in little ringlets all over her head. A pair of old-fashioned glasses (who wore glasses anymore with corrective eye surgery available) hung by a chain around her neck, resting on her ample bosom. Ignoring Zax, she leaned around his tall frame to peer at the curbside, where Zax was surprised to see that Rodger was still parked, waiting behind the flight stick of his taxi. Zax saw him give a curt nod and a wave to the landlady, then the cab rose to merge with the overhead traffic, this time swerving to avoid
another skycab. As the taxi flew off, the woman looked up at him with beaming a smile, that seemed to light up her round face as she beckoned him to follow her inside.
Once inside, she turned to him and gave a small curtsy.
With a twinkle in her eye, she said, “My, aren’t you a tall drink of water.” Zax eyebrows knitted, not understanding the reference. She grinned up at his momentary confusion and waived her comment away with her right hand.
“Never mind my antique speech, fella me lad, my words aren’t the only thing around here that time has passed by. I’m Mrs. Pearl, Ava to my guests and friends. And who might you be?”
“Er…I’m Zaxxion Grayson, Madam. You can call me Zax.”
“Ho, ho. Madam is it? Please just call me Ava. I’m not running a cat house here (what the hell was that?), at least not yet I ain’t,” she replied, with a wide grin.
Again, Zax found himself frowning slightly. This lady’s colloquial speech was a bit mystifying. Seeing his continued bafflement, Ava airily waved her hands over her head, then wiped them on her apron.
“Never mind, if you stay here long enough, you’ll get the hang of my jabbering. Come, follow me.”
Ava led him upstairs and opened the door to a surprisingly comfortable looking room, complete with its own fresher unit. She nodded as she saw the look of obvious approval on his face and politely stood mute beside him, waiting patiently. Belatedly, Zax realized that she was waiting for payment for the room. Quickly fumbling through his jacket pockets, Zax produced the prepaid unit card which she deftly took and swiped, on a small handheld eunit reader she had hanging on a belt beneath her apron. There was the usual beep of acceptance and she smiled up at him once again, quickly disappearing down the stairs. Zax didn’t even question her about the room charges. From what he had seen so far, whatever they were, it was worth it.
Looking around the room, Zax was pleasantly surprised. Over in one corner, was a small reading desk, complete with a Tri-D reader and holo projector (not as antiquated as he first thought). In the other corner, was a large four-poster bed and try as he might, he couldn’t find any contragrav suspensors. There was also a chair sitting in front of a small round table against one wall. The furniture looked to be hand-made but comfortable.
Zax was barely in the room ten minutes when there was a knock on the door (no intercom, of course). When he opened it, Ava was standing there with a tray containing a savory smelling, steaming bowl of what looked like a meat stew of some kind, along with a chunk of dark crusted bread that was obviously home-made.
“Here young fella, I thought you looked a little peaked downstairs, so I took the liberty of bringing you a small repast. I hope you don’t mind,” Ava said, handing him the tray.
“Thank you, thank you very much. I am kind of hungry.” Zax took the tray of delicious smelling food from her hands, noticing the tattoo on her palm, just as she turned to leave. When Zax thought back, it seemed to him that Rodger also had a palm tattoo. It occurred to him that over the past few days, he had run across several ‘Firsters’ who had treated him with both respect and dignity. There was Lieutenant Fuller, Jinn, Mrs. Pearl, and others who have treated him as though he was just an ordinary person. With the revelation came a troubling thought: Maybe he was just as prejudiced as he thought all Firsters might be.
Turning from the door and placing the tray on the small table in the room, Zax began to ravenously devour the sumptuous food. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. After finishing the last morsel of the delightfully seasoned stew and using the pungent spiced bread to mop up the dregs, he placed the tray with its empty plates on top of the small table. Turning towards the bed, Zax found that he was exhausted. The events of the past days had finally caught up with him. He had planned to sit down after his meal and try and work out what he should do next, but quickly realized that he could not think rationally while he was dead on his feet. Zax found himself walking over to the bed. When he reached it, he noticed that it was covered in a thick comforter (also handmade) with an embroidered floral pattern. Tentatively pressing down on its surface, he discovered that it felt as soft as a cloud. Needing no other incentive, Zax took the wrinkled papers, the data disk, and the sharp-edged Rubik Cube thing out of his jacket pocket and tossed them onto the small desk in the corner. Now rid of bulky items in his clothes, he collapsed onto the bed and fell immediately asleep.
Upon waking the next morning, Zax realized that he had a minor crisis. He had been wearing the same clothes for the past two days, ever since he had left Lauria’s apartment, and it was beginning to show. The prefab plasticine thread garments were stronger than they looked, but they were not made to last under the stress he had been putting them through. Zax doubted that they would last another day, and he had no idea where he could find more clothes in this part of town.
Discarding the badly wrinkled and ragged articles of clothing, he draped them over the edge of his bed. Entering the fresher, he activated it, and immediately let out a yelp of surprise. The water was cold! Apparently, this boarding house did not have a microwaved reservoir of hot water. Talk about antique, it was practically prehistoric! Hopping around from foot to foot, he finally settled down as warm water began to dispense from the various sized nozzles above his head. Looking around, he found a bar of soap resting in a dish that was stuck to the wall with little suction cups, rather than floating in a light contragrav field. Before he picked up the soap, he gave a half-hearted tug on the silver necklace still around his throat, but it remained fastened tight. He could move it around his neck, slide it to the side, but try as he might, it did not open enough to get it back over his head. Yet even in the shower, it felt dry and warm. Shrugging his shoulders in surrender, Zax picked up the bar of soap and began lathering his body.
About halfway through the shower, with his body still covered in soap lather, Zax thought he heard a faint knock on the room’s door, followed by the almost imperceptible squeak of its old-fashioned hinges as it opened. Curious, he opened the fresher door a little and tried to peer around its frame. He could barely see his bed from that angle, but it appeared that someone had entered his room. He hurriedly rinsed the soap from his body and slid back the fresher door, only to have his mouth drop open in utter astonishment.
There, resting on the bed, was a new complete set of clothes, and from the look of it, they were in his size. Slowly, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, Zax approached the bed and his eyes widened even further as he realized that they were not made of paper or even spun plasticine but were made of real cloth! On top of the neat bundle of clothing was a note (on paper yet) from Mrs. Pearl, written in blue ink with a delicate penmanship.
Zax, I couldn’t help but notice that your clothes looked a little worse for wear, so I took it upon myself to procure these at a moderate price. If you find them satisfactory then I will add the cost to your bill, if not just return them to me with no obligation.
Ava
She must be a telepath, that’s the only way she could have done it! Zax thought ruefully. How else could Mrs. Pearl (no, Ava) have known that he was without a change of clothes, and unasked, procure clothing (of the correct size, mind you) on such short notice. He must have looked more disheveled than he had realized. Donning first the undergarments and then the outerwear, he found that the clothes fit rather well, although they felt a little looser and heavier than what he was used to. They felt soft to the touch and folded nicely against his body. Pinching a bit of fabric beneath his fingers, he could feel the give in the cloth. Looking around the room, he found his old clothes sitting in a neat bundle on the chair at the small table. There was a small moment of panic, until he saw his data disc and the chit dispensers sitting on the night table next to the bed, undisturbed. He then felt a little ashamed of himself for being suspicious of the gracious landlady. Moving over to the nightstand, he picked up the circular eunit dispensers, his eunit disc and put them in the inner pocket of his new, cloth jacket. Ta
king the calling card Rodger had given him, he absently placed it in his shirt pocket.
Stretching to get the feel of his new clothes, Zax walked around the room for a moment, then settled down to sit at the small table. He had to try and figure out what to do next. There was something nagging at the corner of his mind that he just couldn’t shake. Something someone said to him recently. Closing his eyes, he tried to replay what had happened in the past few hours and he remembered something Fuller had said: “Your best bet is to get off-planet. Hop a tradership and head away from the core worlds, go out towards the frontier…” Hop a tradership…hop a trader…
With a flash of recollection, Zax rushed over to the desk, snatched up his father’s data cube that he had flung there the previous night. Placing it in the desk’s built in cube reader, he activated the unit and saw his father’s face once more. Pressing the fast-forward option, he flashed through the images until he recognized a remembered part.
“…boarded a tramp trading ship to the Nubian frontier under the captainship of a one Murphy Ito… he was extremely grateful… and said that if ever I needed anything, that he owed me one. To a trader their word is their bond. If he is ever in port, he still stops by occasionally, look him up.”
Zax was beginning to get a glimmer of an idea. Boarding passenger liners, even the smaller mid-liners, required a trip through planetary customs. As good as the false ID card might be, he doubted that it would pass the customs scanners at the spaceport. But working as a scrubber had taught him one thing, the passengers boarding traderships didn’t have to pass through the regular custom lines and scanners.
Often, passengers boarding traderships were routinely given only a perfunctory visual scan, which usually consisted of a quick comparison of the image on the ID card and the person presenting the card. The ID card was then placed in a com unit that was connected to the tradership’s onboard (not the planet’s main data base) computer and then the information was sent to the main planetside data servers, this was followed by a quick sensor scan of their baggage. All of this occurred at a separate disembarkation ramp. There was a good chance that Fuller’s ID card might not be detected.
