Marketing! Mickey’s smart like that.
I passed through the squeaky half doors (marketing!) and into a slurring murmur, the common language of regular drinkers. Uniformed Taulke employees at one table, a couple of corporate fleet stripers at another, three blue-coveralled worker-citizens at a third. Each sitting with their own kind. Mickey caught my eye and nodded me over to the bar. I mounted the stool that fit my butt best.
“Same ole?” he asked like always. I seem to have salutation ruts with people—I realize this.
“Just don’t make it shit.” Same ole answer.
He drew a lager from the tap, tilting the mug to cut the head off. Then he poured me a shot of scotch.
“Heading out?” Mickey asked.
I shot the scotch and stared hard at him. “Why do you ask?”
Who’s been talking?
“You have the look,” he said with a soft leer.
“Maybe I’m just getting in.”
“No, that’s a different look.”
“Ah.”
I was probably just being paranoid about Mickey. He knows my ins and outs, I guess. In my business, paranoid’s not a bad thing to be. Maybe Tony’s allergy to coincidences was catching.
The lager tasted good. Everything’s better chasing scotch.
In the corner I noticed a kid, maybe twenty-two, sitting alone. He stuck out among the tribes I’d seen when I came in. He sat up arrow straight, like his momma had just corrected his posture, looking at nothing. He had a rictus smile on his face like someone had pinned his lips back.
“What’s up with the kid?”
Mickey turned around to look.
“Hackhead,” he groused. “It’s the latest thing.” That was a new one on me. I guess Mickey knew my ignorant look too, cuz he started to explain. “Those new troubleshooters? The ones that are supposed to keep you young forever?”
“Yeah?”
“Latest thing—timed algorithms. They’re selling like crazy. Dealer can tailor it to the DNA signature of the medical implant. No two algorithms are alike. Sends the user off to La-La Land. Better than sex. Better than gorging on chocolate ice cream. Better than gorging on sex in chocolate ice cream.”
“Huh,” I said, my vocabularic acumen on full display. “How does the dealer ever have a repeat customer?”
“Did you hear the part about the algorithm being timed? The effect lasts as long as the addict can pay for. Then it locks up again. Their implant goes back to its day job of keeping them cancer free and such. Want it unlocked? Pay again to play.”
“Huh. A subscription to ecstasy.”
“Something like that,” Mickey said, giving the stoned kid the eye. “I think I’ll name my autobiography that. Mind?”
“Give me ten percent off the top, and it’s all yours.”
Troubleshooters—a common name for the SynCorp implant. I don’t understand the SCI down to the studs, but it’s basically a DNA-tailored medical implant that keeps tabs on a person’s health. Cholesterol, cardiac function, genetic markers for a hundred-and-one physical and mental degradations—all at the genome level. It’s like a built-in mechanic and extended warranty all in one for the human body. If the troubleshooter spots a problem—narrowing arteries, say—it actively works from the inside to fix it before there’s a real problem, like a heart attack. The SCI is SynCorp’s way of ensuring a healthy and efficient workforce.
Some people even call it a Fountain of Youth. If you can repair cells, why not regrow hair? Recover the pigment from age spots. Smooth out skin like you’ve lived all your life in low-g. But none of those wishes-come-true had proven out, at least not yet. The tech was still new.
I’d refused to have the implant installed because it’s also trackable, the Company’s second reason for requiring its citizen-workers to have it. Since I’m Tony’s main man, I can get away with saying no. Someone gets access to my signal, it can be a bad day in Black Rock for Stacks Fischer—and Tony Taulke.
And here someone had gone and figured out how to hack it already. Humans are nothing if not innovative opportunists.
“Hackhead, huh?” I said.
“Yeah.” Mickey’s face twisted like he’d just stepped in something. “The hacks are undercutting the old standards.”
“Less money for booze, eh? Gambling? Ladies of the night?”
“Yeah, those standards,” Mickey said.
Fair enough. Booze, gambling, and prostitution were all legal diversions under SynCorp law. The Company even encouraged them, as long as they didn’t undercut productivity. Hell, some vices even made citizens better workers. Regulated them, controlled them through their appetites. Drugs, though—the return rate on those was low, so penalties for druggies were stiff. For suppliers, stiffer—as in morgue stiff. This smelled like something new. While technically not illegal, hacking the troubleshooters sure walked and quacked like a drug duck.
“It’s getting so a man can’t make an honest living around here,” Mickey said.
“Maybe not an honest one,” I said, watching the twentysomething experiencing the best sex or chocolate ice cream or sex in chocolate ice cream he’d ever had. “But someone’s making a killing of a living, all right.”
Chapter 5
Edith Birch • Valhalla Station, Callisto
Market Day was always a treat for Edith Birch. Once a month, when the new ships dropped fresh cargo, she set out on a treasure hunt to find the juiciest fruit, the most vibrant vegetable. Fresh meat was a luxury most citizen-workers couldn’t afford, relying on the much cheaper dehydrated bags of amalgam proteins easily reconstituted by adding water from Callisto’s vast underground reservoirs.
Besides the chance to buy spices for cooking, it gave her a chance to interact with other people in a way her husband Luther would allow. She glanced backward to find him talking with Sam Madden about something or other. The expression on his face seemed half amused and half irritated.
Probably grousing about the seven-day work schedule this week, she thought.
Luther’s prediction had come true, and Sprague’s mining crew was being forced to work the scoops tomorrow on what would have been their day off, just to make quota. If they missed that, SynCorp might reassign their crew to lighter duty, which meant pulling in less of a percentage for the gases mined from Jupiter’s atmosphere. And nothing put Luther in a foul mood faster than taking SynCorp dollars away from him.
Her basket in hand, Edith pushed aside worries she couldn’t control and returned to the bustling marketplace. She paused in her meandering among the bazaar’s vendor stands to appreciate the bubbling of life around her. Its sounds filled her ears. The happy haggling over this or that, handshake bartering of labor for food, a young girl’s first attempt at catching a young boy’s attention. Wafting across the market, the scents of luxury meats tempted Callistans to spend more than they should to sample a taste of the Old World. Exotic fragrances made the antiseptic scent of recycled air barely noticeable.
Market Day brought Valhalla Station’s residents together. Vendors lined one side of the thin corridor called Erikson Street. Station residents walked among them, sampling and talking. No one hurried. Today was a day to be savored, to be enjoyed through negotiation or the sudden discovery of a treasure from Earth or Mars among the wares.
Overhead, the clear plastisteel of the Community Dome shone with a faint, yellow glow. Jupiter hung in the station’s sky ever present and watchful, like a mother planet guarding her rocky child. The glow came from Jupiter’s natural golden hues and the solar mirrors in orbit above Valhalla Station, reflecting light and heat down to Callisto’s surface.
The colony’s name was a clarion call to the adventurous who didn’t mind leaving behind the more pampered life of the inner planets to carve a new one out for themselves beyond the Asteroid Belt separating Mars and Jupiter. But it was also a disclaimer, a notice to the more casual colonist: only the courageous of spirit need apply. This was the new frontier, where deals were sealed with a
handshake and a promise of fulfillment, one party to another. Residents of Valhalla Station said what they’d do and did what they said. Those who failed to live up to that simple and sometimes inconvenient standard didn’t stay long.
A passing Callistan bumped her arm.
“Apologies, ma’am,” the young girl said, distracted. She moved away quickly, and Edith couldn’t help but smile at the back of the young boy following and not quite catching up. It stirred a vague memory in her of a similar pursuit not six years earlier. The memory stirred only sadness now, and a thick kind of depression that sat heavily behind her breastbone.
So much of her life here, though, felt comfortable, familiar. The plain clothing, the cordial manners, the enthusiastic, easy conversations all reminded Edith of the small Southern community she’d grown up in. The United States had been spared much of the catastrophe of the previous generation’s Weather War, especially the states insulated by coastal states. Her father was a local pastor in Medina, Mississippi, and Ephraim and Enid Mason’s church had served as an overground railroad for climate-crisis refugees.
Some of Edith’s earliest memories were of playing with other children, the names of which she’d barely have time to learn.
Then the Company had taken over, and the planet had seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief—like humanity’s burden of being responsible for itself had finally been lifted from Atlas’s shoulders. The Syndicate Corporation took care of everyone, offered everyone a chance to make a life. And she’d taken hers on Callisto.
Edith hadn’t realized she was still watching the young couple until the young man turned and, baiting his prey, began moving back toward the heart of the bazaar. The girl, flustered, debated her own pride for a heartbeat or two, then became the pursuer.
And so Edith’s life had gone. When the call had gone out for miners to populate the moons of the outer planets, Luther Birch had been one such willing soul. He’d charmed Ephraim Mason with his deference to her father’s calling and God, and he’d charmed Edith with near-constant attention and kindness. The thought of leaving Earth, of following such a good-looking, attentive man not just into marriage but to the stars, had bloomed in Edith like a flame kindling dry wood. Her father, with tears in his eyes, had married them. Their honeymoon was a whirlwind, condensed by the departure demands for third-tier colonists. Luther’s skills had earned them a berth to Callisto.
Six years and a lifetime ago. It was only after they’d been married a while and settled on Callisto that things had changed so drastically. Luther’s abiding attention became a kind of grudging surveillance. His kindness before—so solicitous and full of wonder at how lucky he was to have her in his life—was spoken now as harsh compliments spiked with sarcasm. Thinking back, Edith had no idea how or when it had all changed, the transition had been so subtle, so unnoticed. What moment had that been when she’d gone from being a young wife, happy and on life’s adventure, to the most prized possession Luther Birch owned?
“Hi, Edith,” said a familiar voice, pulling her out of her mixed-emotion stew. “Guess what I’ve got?”
She turned her eyes on a market stand done up in an Indian style, festooned with brightly colored fabrics hanging loose in the station’s breeze of manufactured atmosphere. The fabrics were for sale, of course, as was everything else, but their real purpose was to brand the booth as Reyansh Patel’s, the man of a thousand recipes. His booth was always a must-stop on Market Day.
His eyes begged her to make at least one guess. Engaging with your neighbors was half the fun of Market Day.
“Curry,” Edith said, playing along.
His smile dipped. “So culturalist. Come on, you can do better than that!”
She darted her eyes at the bins, but he was too smart to have it sitting out. Knowing Reyansh, he’d set the prize aside knowing she’d be stopping by his booth.
“Mint? Basil?”
Patel rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being uncreative.”
With mock frustration, she stamped a foot. “Just tell me!”
His smile returned. “Cumin,” he said. “And ginger!”
The smile was catching. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Edith said, moving her basket around in anticipation. “How much?”
Looking from right to left as if passing a secret to a spy, Patel said, “For you? Free.”
Edith blinked, her expression curious. “Free? Oh, Reyansh, I can’t—”
He held up both hands. “No, no, I insist. You are one of my best customers. Every Market Day for four years”—he counted them off on his fingers—“you come here and purchase items from me. This is my gift to you.”
Not knowing what to say, Edith smiled nervously as he reached behind him and produced two small, brown bags. They were tied with string, like always, Patel’s personal touch.
“What’s for free, now?”
Luther’s hand found the small of Edith’s back. She tensed, an involuntary reaction.
“Reyansh has fresh cumin and ginger,” Edith said, the words racing each other to leave her mouth. “We can make your favorite chili tonight, work on it together if you like, before you have to go back out tomorrow.”
Luther’s hand trailed by the index finger up her spine until his palm rested at the back of her neck. It slipped with the ease of practice around her shoulder.
“Why, that sounds fine!” Luther said. His voice seemed to clamp them all together in goodwill. His right hand squeezed Edith’s shoulder. “We haven’t had chili in, hell, I can’t remember when.”
Patel lifted the bags in his hand, preparing to put them in Edith’s basket.
Luther’s hand intervened. “But what’s this about free?”
“Oh, Luther,” Edith said, “it’s just that—”
“I was asking Reyansh.” Laughter and good-natured bartering up and down the bazaar crested, forcing Luther to speak up.
The Indian vendor’s smile was back but flatter, like a flower that’s been pressed into a book.
“I was just telling your lovely wife that she’s such a good customer that I wanted to reward her loyalty,” Patel said. “I know how much you like your chili, Mr. Birch.”
“Do you?”
Edith’s insides seemed to settle within her. As if her body were securing her organs like furniture before a storm.
“Yes, she’s always asking after spices for the meals she cooks for you. Black pepper for breakfast eggs, mint for your bourbon coffee in the evenings. All sorts of things.”
He probably thinks he’s helping, Edith thought, her insides tied down and taut. Please, Reyansh, stop helping.
“You know quite a lot about our eating habits and what my ‘lovely wife’ likes to cook for me,” Luther said. His face was friendly, unlike the undertow of his voice. “But I guess that’s to be expected, given your business here.”
Another squeeze of Edith’s shoulder.
“Yes, exactly so,” Patel said.
“But I can’t take your stock for free,” Luther continued, trying to sound magnanimous. “Nothing’s free on the frontier … isn’t that right, Edith?”
She nodded, forcing herself to avoid eye contact with Patel.
“Yes, there’s always a price for something,” Luther said. His inflection made it suggestive. “Even if it’s bartered in trade.”
Patel stood still, staring Luther in the eye but saying nothing. He seemed to be debating the idea of giving ground or standing tall on it. The tiny, brown bags of spices hung in the air between them.
“How much?” Luther asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“How much for the cumin and ginger?”
“Oh, well…” Patel’s eyes shifted, doing some calculations. “They were small amounts, tokens only really. Two dollars for both?”
“That sounds like a steal,” Luther said, looking down at Edith. “Doesn’t it, honey?”
“Yes,” she said mechanically. “Thank you, Rey—Mr. Patel.”
“We’ll take
them.” Luther offered Patel his wrist syncer to pull the two Company dollars out. Patel scanned it, completed the transaction, and handed him the small bags. Luther dropped them in Edith’s basket.
“Enjoy your chili, Mr. Birch,” Patel said. Edith heard something in his voice, an attempt at encouraging a better mood in her husband, perhaps. She loved Reyansh for it.
“Oh, I plan to,” Luther said as they moved off, his arm guiding Edith away from the booth. “My lovely wife is nothing if not a good cook!”
Walking among the giggling fun of the crowd, Edith’s body was hard and inflexible. Her back ached, roped by a spider’s web of constricted muscles.
“I have more things to buy,” she said as they walked. “For the chili. And a dessert I was going to make.”
“Of course. We’ll buy them together. It’ll be a fun thing to do. A couple’s thing to do.” His voice turned somber, regretful. “I need to make it up to you, honey.”
Make it up to me?
That’s the first time she’d ever heard those words come out of Luther’s mouth. It couldn’t mean anything good. But better to know now, in the crowded marketplace.
“What do you mean, Luther?”
Luther grinned amiably, nodding at the folks passing. He even threw a half salute with his free hand to one of the mining supervisors. “Clearly, you have a preference for dark meat. And all you’ve got is lily-white me.”
Approaching a booth abounding in vegetables grown in the local hydroponic dome, Luther engaged its owner in polite conversation.
A lightness settled over Edith, a feeling of complete lack of feeling. Her insides seemed to float free of gravity. Untethered, insecure.
Not much longer, she told herself. It won’t be much longer, and I’ll be free.
But not before tonight.
Chapter 6
Valhalla Station Page 4