The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet

by Becky Chambers

  Ghost patches (surface-penetrating ocular implants)

  Hijacker or assassin bots

  Hack dust (airborne code injectors)

  Improperly sealed radioactive materials (if you’re not sure, don’t chance it)

  Anything running on scrub fuel

  Magnets

  At the bottom of the sign was a handwritten addendum, only in Klip:

  Seriously, we are not fucking around.

  As Jenks passed by, the Aandrisk nodded congenially, his twin ocular implants glinting in the busy artificial light. Every shop and stall in the caves had different lighting mechanisms to help distinguish themselves from the others. The caves were a cyclone of ambient blues, shifting rainbows, simulated sunrises, projected starfields. Within each shop, the lighting could be appreciated, but in the corridors in between, the overlapping effects created an odd mishmash of color and shadow. It was like walking through a drunk kaleidescope.

  Jenks felt at home in the caves, and not just for the endless rows of neatly packaged, hand-hacked goodies. Many of the folks there were hardcore modders, people prone to removing their own limbs in favor of synthetic replacements. Walking through the caves, you might see metallic exoskeletons, or swirling nanobot tattoos, or unsettlingly perfect faces that betrayed a weakness for genetweaks. Facial patches, dermal ports, homebrewed implants. Alongside such oddities, his small stature was nothing special. It was hard to feel weird in a place where everybody was weird. He took comfort in that.

  He walked through the pathways, making mental notes of places he’d have to check out later. Jenks was a veteran of the Port, and he knew that there was only one acceptable place to begin before he started throwing credits around.

  The shop front he arrived at wasn’t as fancy as some. A sign made from a broken circuit board hung overhead. Old bits of junk had been stuck to it in the shape of letters. “The Rust Bucket,” the sign read, and in smaller letters, “Tech Swap and Fix-It Shop,” and in smaller letters still, “Pepper and Blue, Proprietors.”

  Jenks stood on tiptoe to look over the top of the counter. Pepper was hunched over a work bench, her back to him, muttering to herself. She reached up to scratch the back of her hairless Human head, leaving behind a smudge of machine grease. If she noticed, she did not seem to care.

  “Hey, lady!” Jenks barked. “You know where I can score some stim bots?”

  Pepper turned around, not bothering to mask her irritation at being asked such a stupid question. Her face brightened once she realized who was doing the asking. “Jenks!” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and coming around the counter. “What the hell are you doing here!” She knelt down to give him a friendly hug. The hug was warm, but her arms were thin. Too thin. For as long as Jenks had known Pepper, her hugs always prompted a burst of sympathy within him.

  Pepper and her companion Blue were escapees from a fringe planet called Aganon, one of the last bastions of the Enhanced Humanity movement. Unequivocally cut off from the Diaspora and the Galactic Commons, Enhancement colonies bred their people in gestation chambers, basing their genetic makeup on calculations of what their society would be in need of once they reached maturity. Their genes were tweaked beyond recognition, improving health, intelligence, social skills — whatever was needed for the jobs they were destined to fill. Menial labor was performed by people bred without any genetic alterations at all, save two: infertility and a lack of hair (to make them easy to spot). The Enhanced were so convinced of their superiority over the laboring class that they had been utterly unprepared for Pepper’s improbable exodus, which began with a lucky late-childhood escape from a tech manufacturing plant, and culminated within a massive junkyard that became her temporary home. There, among countless other cast-off things, Pepper found hidden treasure: a derelict interstellar shuttle. Using only what scraps she could find, Pepper patched and hacked and coaxed the shuttle back to life. It took her over six standards to get the thing flying, and nearly a standard more to steal enough fuel. The cost of her freedom was severe malnutrition, which had almost killed her by the time her shuttle was picked up by a GC patrol ship. She’d been on Port Coriol for eight standards, long enough to become a staple of the local modder community, and her health had been well looked after during that time. But though she loved to eat (she had taken her name after discovering the joys of seasoning), her metabolism just couldn’t catch up. Her waifish body was never going to fill out.

  The fact that Jenks and Pepper could be standing in the same place — she from a world where genetweaks were a mandate, he from a mother who had shunned traditional healthcare altogether — was a real testament to the openness of the Port, as well as the weirdness of Humanity. It was also probably why he and Pepper had always gotten along so well, be it out of compassion or sheer amusement. Well, that, and their deep, undying love for all things digital. That undoubtedly helped.

  “How’s the Wayfarer?” Pepper asked. This was always her first question, and it was not small talk. Her interest in his ship — in all ships, for that matter — was genuine.

  “Flying smooth as ever,” Jenks said. “Just did a blind punch to Botas Welim.”

  “That’s the new Aeluon colony, right?” Pepper asked.

  “Yup.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Textbook. Except our new clerk didn’t take to the sublayer well. Blehhh.” He pantomimed an explosion from his mouth.

  Pepper laughed. “Oh, I want to hear all the gossip. You got time for a cup of mek after we get our business sorted? I’ve built a brewer that’ll change your life.”

  “Well, I can’t say no to that.”

  “Good. So what’s next? You got something else lined up?”

  “Yeah, actually,” Jenks said with pride. “You hear about the Toremi alliance?”

  Pepper rolled her eyes. “Honestly, what the fuck are they thinking?”

  Jenks laughed. “I dunno, but we’re getting some awfully good work out of it. Tokath to Hedra Ka. That’s us.”

  “No way,” Pepper said, her mouth falling open. “You’re going to the Core?”

  “Yup. And an anchored punch, to boot.”

  “Shit. Really? Wow, that’s a serious haul. How long?”

  “About a standard. GC’s got our tab, though. All we got to do is get there and punch back.”

  Pepper gave her head a quick shake. “Good for you guys, but I’m glad it’s not me.” She laughed. “Oh, man, I’d get so twitchy on a ship that long. Still, though. The Core. How many people can say they’ve been there?”

  “I know, right?”

  “Wow. Well, that explains why you’re here. I take it you have a shopping list for me?”

  “Most of it’s from Kiz. She’s off getting sundries.” Jenks handed her his scrib.

  “You tell her she better poke her head in here before you guys leave orbit. I won’t let her leave without a hello.”

  “Like she’d let that happen. We could meet up with you and Blue on the dark side later, if you guys don’t have plans. Do dinner or something. I did just get paid.”

  “I like that idea a lot. Especially the part where you’re buying.” She scrolled through his list, slowly. Reading wasn’t her strongest suit. “Okay, current modulators. Go to Pok, the Quelin down by the bot alley. You know him?”

  “I know of him. He’s creepy as hell.”

  “I can’t argue there, but he’s not a bad guy, and he doesn’t package his stuff in grax like the others do. Trust me, his modulators are top notch.”

  “What’s wrong with grax?”

  “It’s good, cheap protection for your tech, but it’ll dull your receiver nodes if you leave them wrapped up too long.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Well, folks who sell grax disagree, but I swear my tech’s been pluckier since I stopped buying anything packaged in it.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Pepper continued with the list. “Switch couplers, go to Hish.”

 
“Hish?”

  “Open Circuit. Hish is the owner.”

  “Ah, okay. I’ve never been to Open Circuit. I’ve always gone to White Star.”

  “She charges more than White Star, but I think she’s got way better stuff. Tell her I said so, she might knock a few credits off.” She read on. “Six-top circuits I can do you for, as long as you don’t mind getting them used.” She reached up to a shelf, grabbed a hand-wrapped circuit pack, and set it on the counter.

  “Your version of used is usually better than new,” Jenks said. He meant it. Pepper was a wizard when it came to bringing tech back from the dead.

  Pepper smirked. “You charmer, you.” Her eyes flicked over the scrib. “Coil wraps,” she said. “Hmm. I think I’ve got some tucked away somewhere…” She pawed around, then tossed a bag of tiny metallic bundles onto the counter. “There ya go. Coil wraps.”

  “How much?” Jenks asked, pushing back his wristwrap.

  She waved her hand. “You’re buying me and my man a meal. We’re square.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positively.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Pepper, there’s something I’m looking for that’s not on the list.”

  “Go for it,” Pepper said.

  “Just out of curiosity. Nothing serious.” It was, of course, a very serious request, but even with a friend like Pepper, it required a bit of caution.

  Pepper gave a slow, understanding nod. She leaned forward on the counter, speaking in a hush. “Purely hypothetical. I gotcha.”

  “Right.” He paused. “How much do you know about body kits?”

  Pepper raised her eyebrows — or rather, the spot where her eyebrows would be if she had any hair. “Damn, you don’t start small, do you? Oh. Uh, no offense.”

  “None taken. Look, I know kits are tricky to find…”

  “Tricky to find? Jenks, that kind of tech is so banned it practically doesn’t exist.”

  “There’s got to be somebody, though. Some modder with a bunker somewhere — ”

  “Oh, I’m sure there is. But nobody I know offhand.” She searched his face. “What do you want a body kit for anyway?”

  Jenks tugged at the spacer in his left ear. “If I said it was personal, could we leave it at that?”

  Pepper said nothing, but he could see in her eyes that she was putting pieces together. She knew what his job was. She’d heard him talk about Lovey, however casually. Jenks could feel himself begin to sweat. Stars, I must look pathetic, he thought. But Pepper just gave a lazy smile and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She thought for a moment, her face growing serious. “But may I say, as a friend, that if a body kit comes your way — and yes, if by some astronomical stroke of luck I find a supplier, I’ll contact you — I really, really hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “No, Jenks,” Pepper said. All room for discussion was gone from her voice. “I’m not talking about you getting arrested. I’m talking about you doing something dangerous. I hate to pull the my-past-is-a-sad-story card, but listen: I am the end product of a few very stupid, well-intentioned people who thought it would be a great idea to redefine Humanity. It didn’t start with much. A tweak here, a splice there. But things escalated, as they always do, until it became something completely beyond reason. That’s exactly why body kits are banned. Some people who know a hell of a lot more about ethics than you or me decided that they didn’t think the GC was ready or equipped to support a new kind of life. And yeah, as things are now, AIs are treated like shit. You know I’m all for giving them full rights. But this is murky territory, Jenks, and much as I hate to say it, I’m not sure body kits are the solution. So however innocent your intentions, think about what you’re doing first. Ask yourself if you’re ready for that kind of responsibility.” She held up her thin hands. Her palms were thick with old scars, leftover from a decade of digging through sharp junkyard scraps. Memories of hunger and fear and a world gone wrong. “Ask yourself what the consequences might be.”

  Jenks thought hard. “If you feel that strongly about it,” he said at last, “then why would you tell me if you found a supplier?”

  “Because you’re a friend,” she said, the edge leaving her voice. “And because making connections is what I do. And if you’re serious about this, I’d rather you go through me than some back-alley hack. Though, truth be told, I’m also hoping that by the time I find someone, you’ll have decided I was right about it being a bad idea.” Pepper put a little sign on the counter: In The Back, Yell For Service. “Come on, we need some mek. And I want to hear about this spacesick newbie of yours.”

  ●

  Ashby sat in the hotel room he’d paid for an hour earlier. He was thinking about waterball. Not that he particularly cared about waterball, but it was easier to handle than the alternative. When he’d woken up that morning, he’d been ready for a day of haggling and spending credits, the high point of which might’ve been drinks and a good meal in a sleepy bar. Now, he was on the dark side of Coriol, surrounded by thick pillows and ugly wall hangings while he waited for Pei, who was not only alive and well, but close by and intent on having sex with him. Waterball was easier to process.

  Okay. Titan Cup finalists, year 303. Let’s see. The Whitecaps had to have been playing, because Kizzy freaked out when Kimi St. Clair tore a ligament. The Starbursts were there, right? Yeah, you bought Aya a Starbursts jersey for her birthday that year. She said they were her favorite.

  Left unchecked, his thoughts jumped like a deepod, ducking in and out before he could lay any of them to rest. He had too many feelings lobbying for attention. Relief for Pei’s safety. Joy over seeing her at any moment. Baseless worry that her feelings had ebbed. Determination to follow her lead (stars only knew how she was feeling after tens of tendays spent skirting warzones). And fear. Fear, which he felt every time they met. Fear that in the tendays ahead, after she’d returned to more dangerous space, this hello might end up being a goodbye.

  No, no, the Starbursts had to have been 302, not 303. That was the same birthday Aya got her first starter scrib, which means she was starting school. Which means 302.

  There was a vague anxiety, too, the concern that they’d get caught this time. He couldn’t think of anything he’d left unchecked. Their system for avoiding notice was old hat by now. He always found the hotel — nothing flashy, something off the beaten path, and preferably somewhere they hadn’t been before. He’d make it clear to the desk staff that he needed some rest and didn’t want to be disturbed for any reason. Once in his room, he’d send Pei a message with nothing but the hotel name and the room number, which she’d delete after reading. Two hours later, long enough to prevent anyone from suspecting anything, she’d arrive at the hotel, and request whatever room number was adjacent to his. This was easily done, as complex numerology was a well-known component of traditional Aeluon culture. There were so many conflicting systems for finding meanings within numerical sequences that no matter what room number Ashby got, Pei could find a way to put a positive spin on the number she requested. A non-Aeluon desk worker would assume that Pei wanted a room with a number that symbolized peace or good health, whereas an Aeluon would just see her as unusually old-fashioned for her age (and perhaps a little silly). After settling into her room, Pei would knock on the adjoining wall. Ashby would make sure the hallway was empty, then leave his room. After that, they were good to go.

  A lengthy song-and-dance to go through just to see each other, but a necessary one. As open and generous as Aeluons generally were to their galactic neighbors, interspecies coupling remained a mainstream taboo. Ashby didn’t understand the logic behind that — it was a non-issue for most Humans, at least where bipedal species were concerned — but he understood the danger for Pei. An Aeluon could lose her family and friends over an alien relationship. She could lose her job, especially when on a government contract. And for someone like Pei, who took pride i
n being a hard worker with a honed skill set, that kind of shame would cut deep.

  Ashby, focus. The Whitecaps. The Hammers. The…the Falcons? No, they haven’t made it to a semi-final match since you were crewing aboard the Calling Dawn. What about the — oh, stars, Ashby. Come on. Waterball.

  Alongside all the emotional distractions he was trying to subdue, Ashby was engaged in a battle of wills, a fight between brains and biology. He knew it was pretty much a given that he’d be getting laid any moment, but he didn’t want to be presumptuous. He had no idea what she’d been through prior to this meeting, and until he had a clear sense for where she was at, he was going to let her make the first move. And even if she was on the same page as him...well, he still had good manners. Even if his body was getting ahead of itself.

  Ashby. Waterball semi-finals. Year 303. The Skydivers won. Who else was —

  A knock came through the wall, quiet but clear.

  He left the Titan Cup behind.

  ●

  “Soap!” Kizzy cried, pointing to a stall full of bathing goods. “Look at ‘em! They’re like cakes!” She ran off, her hefty bag of purchases bouncing against her back.

  “I guess I could use some scale scrub,” Sissix said. She and Rosemary followed after the mech tech, who was already poking through display baskets.

  The shop was run by a Harmagian merchant, whose offerings catered to the needs of many species. Coarse brushes and bundles of herbs for Aandrisk steam baths, fizzing tablets and warming salves for the icy plunges preferred by Aeluons, skin scrapers and cleansing tonics for Harmagians, a modest yet cheerful selection of Human soaps and shampoos, and dozens more jars, bottles, and tins that Rosemary could not identify. The galaxy’s sapient species could find many cultural commonalities, but few topics were quite as contentious as the proper way to get clean.

  The Harmagian — a male, as Rosemary could tell by the color of the spots across his back — whirred over on his treaded cart as they approached. “A pleasant day to you, dear guests,” he said, his chin tendrils curling happily. “Have you come to browse, or do you have something special in mind?” The dactyli on the ends of his three front tentacles spread open in a helpful gesture. He was elderly, and the pale yellow skin covering his amorphous body lacked the moistness of youth.