by Kelly Brewer
“Yay, a pattern,” quipped Mark.
Mooney and Grisholm packed it all up, shook hands with everyone, and left with complimentary tickets to tomorrow’s Jupiter show.
Kyle continued cleaning his rifle. A little border justice, he thought, as his hands worked the familiar routine. Beyond the 350 million mile marker, these detectives were the law. Of course, it would be reviewed back home, but ultimately it was up to Mooney and Grisholm on whether to investigate further.
When the two men were gone, a previously nervous Tamer smiled, eyes fluttering open. He loved editing on-the-fly.
“This is great. You’re a bona fide hero, my man. The part where you turned from the questioning and faced me to address the public—‘I love all y’all, but don’t bust in on me and make me kill you’—was heartfelt. A great one-liner! Had a real Old West feel. You remember that actor… uhhh…”
Snapping his fingers did not help him remember.
“Kent Eastwell? Just like that, cold and concentrated.”
Kyle puzzled then corrected, “Eastwood… Clint Eastwood.”
He snapped the old rifle back together.
The manager did not hear. He was focused on his coinage, which was promoting, protecting, and documenting everyone’s career in the now.
Tamer continued, “I say upload this to Dock’s dark-site. Get big news bidding on it. Man, who could have predicted this?”
Kyle could think of only one person.
Dock.
But betrayal was impossible! Why would he destroy something he had invested so much capital into? And if Chic had been sent by Co-exist, then they didn’t really want to coexist! Moderate Co-existers were strangely silent about the recent event. Kyle felt he was missing something, something basic and simple.
Hoppes #9 was a gun oil used for cleaning and preservation. It had a unique smell, like crayons and fresh coffee. The scent helped him imagine his great-grandpa rubbing the rifle down with the same oil after a hunt, probably 200 years ago. As he respectfully replaced the family heirloom in its original case, he thought, This gun will pass to my son one day. He glanced over and admired Mercy’s ass.
Turning to Tamer, who was still editing, eyes closed, Kyle warned, “Permanently delete anything I may have said about Dock. He will use any information, true or false, as a lever. I don’t want him to know my suspicions… because that’s all they are. Dock has eyes everywhere, and ears everywhere else. I don’t want to be the one who gave the cops any ideas I have no proof of.”
Under his breath, he added to Mercy, “He probably already knows something.”
“No problem,” Tamer confirmed, opening, then closing his eyes.
Kyle suddenly wondered if Tamer would delete it like he asked. He worked for Dock. He’d been hired before the band won the contract.
Who could he trust? The list was short. Kyle was now a hunter covering his tracks, moving upwind. Best to speak less, listen more. Mercy didn’t know it, but she needed him to be very smart right now.
Tamer uploaded clips of the edited interviews to a dark media site Dock had set up years ago. There, one could safely post non-copyrighted material for bids from news outlets. Only big news had access and it was monitored round the clock.
He made a cup of tea and checked his mail fifteen minutes later. All the majors had submitted bids. This was huge news. And, as this was a serious Deepening issue, he chose the most-qualified dark matter broadcaster. She was not the highest bidder, but she was the cutest.
Later that day, clips of a very serious band being interviewed by police and initially cleared of wrongdoing set the space-press on fire. Maybe Kyle, Moore, and the others were the heroes people had been led to believe they were, the newscaster concluded. The other outlets picked up her story and it played every hour for the next twenty-four. The band’s dark-website traffic quadrupled overnight.
Expectations ramped up for the remaining shows.
Mother Earth was watching too. Kyle hoped the Mechanix would be worthy of a triumphant homecoming.
Angel waited for the right moment. Sensing a lull in the conversation, he continued his unsolicited explanation of mass transference.
“But deep expansion owes its start to the quantification of dark matter energy. Dark matter energy and light exist in the same space with opposing polarities. Our very own Franco Falls Sr., Ms. Mercy’s abuelo, invented the powerful Nucleo-Inverted Polarity Pulse Laser (NIPPL), which launched man much deeper into the cosmos.”
Angel paused for questions. No one stirred. Mercy already knew all of it.
His friend had arrived just in time, Kyle thought, glancing at him and smiling. He would willingly fly even into a death trap to help them. The Mexican semi-psychic had acted on a vibe he had gotten after the band launched from Mother’s Hips.
“You’re awesome,” Kyle said sincerely.
“I feel my friends in trouble, I don’t care about money,” Angel assured, referring to the cost of running his gyro all the way to Mars on a gut feeling.
“I don’t know how you know these things, but I’m glad you do,” Kyle said.
“And I expect huevos rancheros every morning my little friend,” Ox buffaloed from across the room, mopping up anyone’s half-eaten food.
The others agreed, still nursing bloody tequila hangovers. Mercy grimaced. She was the only no vote for switching to Angel’s cramped transport. A deck hand hot-bunk was not on her list of romantic destinations. She was already making a plan to get to her parents’ mother ship once they made Jupiter orbit.
The rest felt Angel’s ship felt right. Felt safe. They had decided last night after the third round of tequila shots.
Angel continued politely, as if someone were paying attention.
“Once in orbit around a planet or moon, electromagnetic trawlers dipped large magnetic fields, like fishing nets, into the inhospitable atmospheres, gathering raw materials, like methane for fuel and batteries. Abundant metallic hydrogen was combined with any available oxygen to potentially have water available when crews arrived. Some water was created using this method, but not enough to sustain growing colonies. Mother Earth is still practically the only source of potable water in the inhabited solar system.”
Silence.
He continued, like a father teaching children riding in the back seat of his minivan.
“Transferring people was tricky. After years of experimentation, we learned that trusting transference was the key. If you could visualize your destination, you transferred unaffected. Now, with proper training, we don’t even think about it but a little known fact is, back then, religious people were some of the first space pilgrims! Yes! They had little trouble believing in a destination they couldn’t see. They arrived physically and mentally stable, unlike those poor souls who, afraid to jump, lost something in translation. Many confessed a belief in God after that and transferred fine. Some believed God was opening the heavens for them and this was the beginning of the Rapto, the Rapture. Then they became afraid of not going! Cool, right?”
No one seemed to share his fascination with humanity’s mercurial nature. He sipped a little more tequila.
“But honestly, it’s all been just a glorified beer run!” He fished for any response.
No one laughed. Moore glanced at him at the mention of beer.
“A slow trickle turned into a steady stream. Hundreds of thousands left within a few years of the discovery of mass transference, advancing man rapidly into the solar system. In fact, several impatient organizations sent cryo-crews out years before transference became commonplace and, in some cases, those startled, groggy crews arrived at fully manned and operational stations.”
He looked around to see if anyone appreciated his ability to describe complex ideas in such simple terms.
“I trust you,” someone said.
Angel turned back to the consol
e, gulping the remainder of his tequila shot.
“I call it Mexican Magic,” he said, making his final calculations for the Jupiter jump.
CHAPTER 32
Bitros C. GULLY
Bitros C. Gully took his job as government safety enforcement inspector very seriously. Safe and successful operations depended on following the rules, as stated very clearly in the Public Rules for Safe and Successful Operations Regulations. As instructed by the urgent brief he received a few hours earlier, Gully reviewed the details of the Mars incident.
Sneering, he thought, Obviously, Kyle should have considered the rules before he broke the law and fired a gun in a controlled atmospheric facility. Guns were prohibited inside that facility. He was about to be in big trouble.
Bistros was finally going to see some real action. He landed his ship quickly, before the band left Mars. The order had come in hot from on high and now he would shine.
“C-gull” (that’s what his mom called him, because of his excellent eyesight and the ability to detect the little things) was putting the finishing touches on the forms (ten copies of each) required before instigating required investigations.
Gully flipped though paper copies of multiple forms needed to just initiate his operation:
“Initial Confirmation of Orders Received, check, and the Statute Section of Violations, check, and the Procedural Chart to Determine Penalties, check, and Regulatory Checklist Governing Firearm Destruction, check, and Confrontation and Confiscation Using Non-Human Agents, check, and (after a brief hesitation) Commendation for Accuracy in Filling Out Forms, check.”
The last one was in there in case the Under Secretary felt generous for a job well done. He sent digital copies and waited anxiously for a reply.
Bit thought about how the band, and millions of fans, would be disappointed by the sudden cancellation of the tour. That big shot Dock would really be furious!
Didn’t matter. Rules were rules.
Rules were there for a reason and Bit did not question them one bit. It was his duty. Kyle was to be locked up until inquiry could be made into his violation of weapons code. Bistros C. Gully was giddy as he nibbled popcorn.
The power to control events was his now. He would fight to end the irresponsibility of these arrogant superstars. No one was above the law. Kyle had probably broken several other laws that would be addressed after he was in custody. Being ex-military, he should have known better.
Bit assumed the Orders to Investigate had come because the group was a high-value target to be made an example of. Their arrest would send a message to any other space cowboys that safety was still paramount. He’d heard they had missed morning blood work and that there were drugs on board. These were probably only a fraction of the violations those degenerates endangered everyone with! Leaning over to inspect his small droids, saliva dripped unnoticed from the corner of his mouth.
The urgent nature of the order and his desire to bag a big fish would not let him wait for backup. This had to be done now, before they were tipped off and had a chance to hide evidence. As soon as he had confirmation his reports were received, he would confront the perps and confiscate any illegal firearms. His gov.bot would catalog it and destroy it. Then he would arrest Kyle.
He feared only the interval of time between when he would make his demands, and when he actually had all weapons in his possession. Kyle would be reasonable if he knew he was being recorded, surely. He was not a madman. But he was to be jailed immediately. And Bitros would be the man that did it.
The stories he would tell his kids.
Bit saw the “transmission received” message on his dark-mail.
It was time! The safety inspector turned on the old gov.bots he used for backup, letting them warm up.
Excited, he began to dress for the confrontation. The oversized badge was shiny and conspicuous on the light-gray uniform of the public safety inspector. He whipped on the hat that added two inches to his five-foot-six frame. Secretly, he added an extra sole in his footwear that added another three quarters of an inch to his overall height. At 5’ 8-3/4” he felt more confident, more… official.
He rehearsed the official language with Seagull, the gov.bot. Thrilled to finally flex his muscle with the full force of public government behind him, he felt a great sense of power. He was the law in this far-flung region. The “safety sheriff” was “in orbit.”
Better backup would have given him more courage. The only tools available were the small cluster of aging video drones that hovered obediently around him, ready to record the official proceedings, and the old service.bot he’d kept running way past its lifespan. It shuddered to life with a rattle.
He dispatched the little bot army to wait for him outside Dock’s gyro. He let them go out ahead, as the service.bot was a little slow.
Crew members were buttoning up the switch to Angel’s low-riding transport. They entered and sealed the outer hatches. He saw them go in as he approached Dock’s ship.
Did they know he was coming? Had they been tipped off? They were logged in to take Dock’s gyro to Jupiter a few minutes from now. It was a good thing he had not waited.
“This is a surprise morning raid. A courtesy call would have alerted them. My security card allows me to access any transport at any time for inspections.” Waving the card, he bragged to the video drone hovering overhead.
Bitros marched his little bot army across the arena floor to Angel’s vessel. He entered as quietly as he could.
Rising in the elevator, Bit thought the fuzzy dice graphic on the external skin of Angel’s ship was distracting. He would check his code for rules against oversized, racially charged transport markings.
The group would probably be in the video conference room, so Bitros and his band of gov.bots buzzed and clattered straight there. Entering the vessel near the kitchen, he noticed the smell of body odor and saw the remains of a large Mexican breakfast spread across a brightly painted acrylic table in the mess hall. Ox had returned and was sitting there alone, shoveling it in, with his back to the hallway. A glittery American flag was embroidered on the back of his large, armless, denim vest. Did people still believe in that place anymore? Rock and roll blared from the excellent sound system, so Bit’s bots scurried past unnoticed.
No need to wake the sleeping giant.
When the conference room door opened, he took one step in and wobbled.
They had just jumped to Jupiter.
He wasn’t ready for a transference or the sudden queasiness that set in. The knowledge that he had been moved so far unawares gave him vertigo.
A wall-sized screen at one end of the conference room loomed above him. On-screen was the face of Jupiter. The massive gas giant glared at him, rocking him back on his lifted heels. His height advantage disappeared. He’d never noticed before, but in his swelling discomfort, close-up, the planet surface resembled a menacing, alien face.
The Great Red Spot swirled downward below the equator, like a large predator’s eye searching the depths for prey. He shuddered, visualizing an alien race able to manipulate turbulent weather patterns on the surface of the solar system’s largest known planet.
Vertigo sent his imagination momentarily spinning. Perhaps aliens had whipped up a resemblance of their alien visage on Jupiter as a “no trespass” sign, seen from Earth but ignored by mankind and misinterpreted since Galileo. For millennia, men may have been looking into the face of an alien race and never suspected.
What strange thoughts, my dear, he told himself. You have suffered a bout of dark sickness. Maybe you should have called in advance.
No one turned from the breathtaking sight to pay him the slightest attention. He was glad. Get ahold of yourself man! The element of surprise was still his. His top lip was wet with sweat so he wiped his mouth with a crisp sleeve and quickly counted heads. Everyone but the big man was there, even the fabulous Mercy and
the girlfriends.
He was about to make his show of force in front of these beautiful women. Maybe these would give him respect afterwards, instead of veering away anytime their paths crossed. He was not exactly sure why beautiful girls did not respect him. He wanted to be like them and be liked by them.
He officially began, “Ahem. Attention everyone! I am Public Safety Inspector Bitros Gully.”
He brandished his big badge.
“I am here on official public business. I need everyone’s undivided attention.”
All heads reluctantly turned to look at him, but most turned back to the spectacular galactic view, sneering at each other.“Oh, perfect. Where did this Safety prick come from?”
“How did he get in here?”
Ox came in then, slowly munching a burrito, and walked past him, eyeing him suspiciously.
“What is this little bastard?” he growled.
Mercy did not turn away. She noticed the uniform, the air about him, his nervousness, the clatter of outdated gov droids. He turned to her and puffed up a little more. She touched Kyle, who glanced back at him, expression blank. He’d known they would show up eventually.
Bistros C. Gully squawked, “I am here on official public business. According to Safety Code Chapter 290, Article 8, Section F, Subchapter 89, Paragraph (C) of the Articles of Safety and Security Institute, I do hereby under the authority granted me by said code in Section R, Subchapter 116, Paragraph 224, Subsection D, (a,) demand possession of any and all firearms held by civilians in a “Controlled Atmospheric Environment.” Please, for your own safety, bring any and all firearms unloaded and rendered inoperative to the gov.bot cart here to my left.”
He was proud he’d not flubbed his opener and was reassured when the little cart.bot creaked past him, putting something between him and them.
He clicked the remote in his sweaty palm and the top of the cart opened, unfolding irregularly to receive the now illegal and as yet unknown quantity of firearms. He had everyone’s attention now.