Bodyguard

by William C. Dietz

  The vid screen came on about the same time that the cargo module jerked, swayed, and went horizontal. The screen swirled and coalesced into a picture of a pleasant-looking, middle-aged freelancer. I fumbled the headset onto my head in time to hear most of her spiel. “…join us aboard FENA Air. Now, settle back in padded comfort while your high-tech passenger module is loaded aboard one of our first-class ships, and lifted into orbit.

  “The trip to Staros-3 will take approximately two hours. If you wish to catheterize yourself, please do so now, as the safety restraint system will make movement difficult during the journey itself.”

  Now that I knew what the tube was for, I was determined not to use it. The woman continued to talk. “…medical emergency, then please notify the ship’s crew via your headset, and they will make sure that medical personnel are waiting when we dock with Staros-3.

  “So, settle back into the padded privacy of your personal transportation enclosure, and enjoy the trip.”

  Personal transportation enclosure? Who the hell did they think they were kidding? My enclosure was little more than a padded mailing tube, completely inaccessible during flight, and vulnerable to all sorts of potential dangers. Not to mention the fact that my accommodations would push the average claustrophobe over the edge in a matter of minutes.

  The universe jerked as the autoloader came to a halt, then started into motion again as the cargo module was pushed up and into the shuttle’s belly, where it was hooked to the ship’s life support systems. Oxygen hissed in through a nozzle located next to my head, caressed my cheek with an ice-cold hand, and slid down my neck.

  Maybe the oxygen stirred it up, or maybe it would have made itself known anyway, but the thick odor of sweat, vomit, and god knows what else oozed out of the tube’s nooks and crannies, overwhelmed the disinfectants, and filled my nostrils with a sort of funky perfume. It made me gag.

  The restraint system was activated without warning. The first thing I noticed was a snug feeling as the padding pushed in around me. Then it had me in a soft but insistent embrace that allowed for almost no movement at all. But the laws of physics prevailed, and I felt the additional half-gee as the shuttle accelerated down the runway and blasted off. Though unable to see outside, I had seen countless takeoffs on television, and knew how it was supposed to work. Or thought I did, anyway.

  Unlike the space shuttles used back in the 1990’s, the current equivalents used standard runways for takeoff. Once airborne they used air-turbo-ram-jets to reach Mach 25, or more than 17,000 mph. The trick was to compress the air through the use of turbines at lower speeds and use the force of the incoming supersonic air stream to compress the air at higher speeds. Or was it the other way around? In any case, rockets kicked in at Mach 16 or so, boosted the shuttle to Mach 25, and thus into orbit.

  There were other factors too, such as the high-strength, temperature-tolerant materials that went into the hull, and the complicated technologies that cooled the aircraft’s skin. Taken together, they made the trip into orbit as routine as a flight from Los Angeles to New York had been a hundred years before. Unless you were making the trip in a glorified mailing tube, that is…which I don’t recommend to anyone. How do I remember this stuff? And forget less complicated junk? It’s like I said before…Beats the heck out of me.

  Unable to move, and with nothing to do but watch the unending commercials that FENA Air pumped onto the vid screen, it was easy to fall asleep—something I did rather quickly. When I awoke, it was to mild nausea induced by zero gravity and a gentle bump as the shuttle docked with Staros-3. The inevitable announcement followed. Video swirled and the woman reappeared. She seemed happy with the way things were going.

  “Welcome to Staros-3. There will be a short wait while your module is unloaded and steered into one of the habitat’s locks. Once the lock has been pressurized, and it’s safe to leave your enclosure, the door will open and you may exit. On behalf of FENA Air, and your flight crew, it has been a pleasure having you aboard.”

  The woman disappeared and was replaced by live pictures of the docking process. It felt good to see what was actually going on. My stomach lurched as the module was freed from the shuttle’s cargo bay and pushed towards the habitat’s lock. The push was supplied by a one-person tug, no more than a sled with steering rockets, but sufficient for the job. The task was trickier than it looked, since the habitat had some spin on it, and the operator had to take that into account.

  Once we were inside the lock, automatic cargo-grappling equipment grabbed hold of our module and clamped it in place. That’s when the process came apart. There was a forty-minute delay while modules filled with more important materials—like food, water, and toilet paper—were nudged into the lock, followed by a thirty-minute pause as the technicians made repairs to a faulty hatch mechanism, and a fifteen-minute wait as the doors closed and the bay was pressurized.

  So, by the time the restraint system had released us from its mushy grasp, and we were allowed to climb out of the tubes, everyone had to pee in the worst possible way. Everyone except for the androids, that is, and a woman who had either catheterized herself prior to takeoff, or discovered a way to pee while standing up without wetting her pants in the process.

  Gravity was about half Earth-normal, which caused most of us to move with extreme care, the exceptions being the androids, who had been programed for this sort of thing, and experienced spacers like Sasha, who made it look easy.

  And so it was that a small group of grim-faced passengers shuffled, pranced, and groped their way towards the habitat’s center, encountered more gravity the further they went, and barged into a unisex rest room. There were a sufficient number of booths, but the fixtures were strange, and it took me five minutes to decipher the pictograph-style instructions and make mine do what it was supposed to. Sasha was waiting when I emerged. She seemed amused. “It’s nice to have you back. I wondered if I’d see you again.”

  “Funny. Very funny. It’s not my fault that you need an engineering degree to operate the toilet.”

  She looked quizzical. “What about all those years in space?”

  I tapped the skull plate. The hat got in the way, but she understood. “Brain damage, remember? I can’t recall anything prior to my discharge from the Mishimuto Marines. Well, most of the time, anyway, although I have flashes once in a while, and dreams that seem real.”

  Sasha shrugged. “Yeah, it seems funny, that’s all. Well, let’s get busy and find our cabins.”

  I felt my face go blank. “Cabins?”

  Her expression said it all. But there was no comment this time, and no recriminations, as she’d had time to think the matter through and made a conscious decision to tolerate my lapses. I didn’t know which was worse, being yelled at for being stupid, or escaping criticism for the same reason.

  We headed for the habitat’s Administrative Control Section, waited through a line, and asked a graffiti-covered android for separate cabins. None were available, so we agreed to share a double, dropped one thousand four hundred and fifty dollars of the money Sasha had collected from Murphy Enterprises, and retreated to the cafeteria. It boasted a 360-degree view, and, thanks to the fact that we were a full hour ahead of the next shift change, there were plenty of tables. They had padded edges, were welded to the floor, and came with four stools apiece.

  So there we were, sitting at our table and gazing at what was left of Mother Earth, when the man in the green sports coat appeared. I should have been surprised, but wasn’t somehow. He had carefully combed hair, narrow-set eyes, and heavily creased frown lines. A sack dangled from his right hand. The contents were round and about the size of a bowling ball. He gestured towards the table. “Mr. Doud…Ms. Cooper…may I join you?”

  I looked at Sasha and she shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  “‘Why not,’ indeed,” the man said as he took his seat. “It’s so much more pleasant when people talk rather than fight. Although,” he said, placing the sack on the table, “viole
nce does have its place. Isn’t that so, Mr. Doud? Or should I say Mr. Maxon?” His eyes were pale, pale blue, like denim that’s been washed too many times.

  I shifted my weight from one side of the stool to the other. “I guess so.”

  The man shook his head in mock wonderment. “Tsk, tsk. You’re far too modest.” He turned to Sasha. “You should have seen him, my dear, charging through the Trans-Solar checkpoint like an avenging angel, shooting anyone who got in the way. But I did my part, yes I did, and saved his life.”

  I thought back to the fight and remembered the bodyguard with the bullet between her eyes. “You did that? You killed the bodyguard?”

  The man nodded calmly. “Yes, I did, and you’re quite welcome.” He stuck a hand across the table, and I took it. “The name’s Nigel Trask. Glad to meet you.”

  He shook hands with Sasha while I tried to figure things out. “But why? Why did you help me?”

  Trask shrugged. “Anyone who attacks Trans-Solar is a friend till proven otherwise.”

  “Why? Did Trans-Solar do something to make you angry with them?”

  Trask looked surprised, as if the answer was so obvious that only an idiot would miss it, which was probably true. “Trans-Solar, along with the other spacelines, oppresses humanity through the drug called technology.”

  Sasha entered the conversation sideways, sliding in between the two of us so smoothly that Trask didn’t notice, and I wasn’t offended. “So you’re a greenie?” It was more statement than question.

  Trask stiffened. “Labels are somewhat tedious, but yes, I favor a return to the agrarian past.”

  Sasha nodded. “So that explains your opposition to Trans-Solar. But where do we fit in?”

  “An excellent question,” Trask replied solemnly. “And one I was sent to get an answer to. Where do you fit in?”

  Sasha spread her hands over the table. “Nowhere. Mr. Maxon and I are neutrals in the war between the corporations and you.”

  “There are no neutrals in our war. Trans-Solar snatched you for a reason. What was it?”

  Sasha shrugged. “I have no idea why Trans-Solar had me snatched. Ransom, perhaps?”

  “No,” Trask replied, “I don’t think so. Not the normal kind, anyway. Trans-Solar is too big, too important, to waste its resources on a two-bit snatch, so it’s safe to assume they didn’t. What about Murphy Enterprises? What’s your connection with them?”

  Sasha looked puzzled. “Murphy who? Never heard of them.”

  Trask allowed an eyebrow to drift towards his hairline. “Really? That’s not what Rita says.” He grabbed the top of the sack and gave a powerful jerk. The cloth came away and Rita’s head rocked from side to side. A power saw had been used to remove it from her body. An auxiliary power pack had been hard-wired into her circuitry and was taped to her plastiflesh neck. Her eyes popped open and looked around. “Hello, Mr. Maxon. Ms. Casad.”

  A lump formed in the back of my throat. Poor Rita. She had fallen out of the frying pan and into the fire. “Hi, Rita.”

  Her face was wooden as always. “I’m sorry, but they forced me to tell them everything I knew.”

  Trask nodded agreeably. “The android is correct. She did tell us everything she knew. And a boring lot of garbage it was. Her kind are an abomination, an expression of The Board’s contempt for humanity, and must be destroyed.”

  So saying, he produced a pair of insulated side cutters, selected one of the wires that ran from the power supply into Rita’s throat, and cut it in two. Sparks crackled, the smell of burnt insulation filled the air, and Rita’s eyes rolled back in her head. She was dead. I was angry, but Sasha seemed entirely unmoved. “That was unnecessary.”

  Trask returned the side cutters to a pocket. “Perhaps, but enjoyable nonetheless, and it did get your attention. Now, tell me about your connection with Murphy Enterprises.”

  Sasha shrugged. “We took one of Trans-Solar’s boats, used it to escape from their thugs, and sold it to Murphy Enterprises. End of story.”

  Trask stared at her as if able to see through her skull and into her brain. “Alright, that compares favorably with what Rita told us, but there could be more. Things she didn’t know. Things she didn’t hear. So we’ll wait and see what happens. But mark my words, if your mother’s company is working to unleash some sort of new technological hell on the human race, then we’ll learn of it, and do everything in our power to stop you.”

  Sasha looked him right in the eye. “I have no knowledge of what my mother’s company might or might not be working on.”

  Trask nodded, but it was clear that he didn’t believe her, and you know what? Neither did I.

  7

  “Management is not responsible for radiation-induced genetic mutations that may be experienced by guests, visitors, or crew of Staros-3 during or after their time aboard.”

  Fine print found on the back of each Staros-3 boarding pass

  There were lots of things to do, like losing Trask, and getting off Staros-3, but we were tired and went to bed instead.

  In spite of the exorbitant amount of money we had paid for the cabin, it was little more than a shoebox. The beds folded down from the bulkhead and occupied most of what little bit of deck-space there was. That put the mattresses side by side, but I don’t mess with clients, especially when they’re almost twenty years younger than I am. The sheets had seen better days, but most of the holes had been patched, and they were reasonably clean.

  Sasha started to remove her clothes, frowned, and gestured for me to turn my back. Hookers, the only women with whom I had recent experience, didn’t care if you looked or not. I turned my back and made a note to be more careful in the future.

  I brushed my teeth in the tiny sink, took my turn in the fresher, and was careful to wear a towel when I emerged. There was no need, however, since Sasha had turned the lights down and was already asleep. I dried myself off, slipped into my spare underwear, and got into bed. It felt wonderful. I don’t know if the ensuing dream stemmed from the cafeteria’s heavy-duty spaghetti sauce, my return to space, or something entirely different, but it was a real lulu.

  Sweat beaded the pilot’s forehead. She was very young and wore little more than shorts, a tank top, and her lieutenant’s bar. She had great nipples and I had watched them as she conned the boat through ten thousand miles of asteroid-strewn blackness. She bit her lower lip and whispered a mantra of her own making: “Holy mother full of grace, help me make it through this place, Holy mother full of grace…”

  I grew tired of it after the first thousand times or so, but pilots are a weird bunch, and it’s best to let their idiosyncrasies go. There were three ships in all. I had the point position, Lieutenant Daw was number two, and our CO Major Charles Wamba rode drag.

  It was a bad mission, the kind recon always gets, full of floating variables, insurmountable obstacles, and ugly ways to die. But that’s what the Mishimuto Corporation paid us to do, to kill as many of these nasty-assed tool heads as possible, and make it back if we could. But this was different, a little something thought up by the oxymorons in military intelligence, and intended to bag information instead of bodies.

  My briefing had been provided by a man who turned into a woman with no face. She explained that Mishimuto owned stock in a small start-up company, that the employees of said company had gone over to the strikers, and might have taken proprietary information with them. And that’s where we came in. Our team was supposed to sneak up on the miscreants, surprise them, and recover the missing data. The only problem was that they had taken refuge in a research station called T-12, right smack dab in the middle of the asteroid belt, and defended by a rather sophisticated automatic weapons system. Not a walk in the park.

  My thoughts were interrupted when the pilot screamed, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and pointed at the screen. Her eyes grew wide with horror and exploded as we hit the asteroid.

  I sat up. My body was drenched with sweat, my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest,
and my breath came in short gasping sobs. I have at least one nightmare a night, so I’m fairly used to them. But this dream had a coherency the others lacked, as if memories were trying to put themselves back together and couldn’t quite make it. It took an hour or more to fall asleep. It seemed as if a few minutes had passed when Sasha opened the fresher, used both hands to towel her hair, and kicked my bed. “Up and at ’em, Max. We need to get off this tub.”

  I yawned, pulled my clothes on, and followed her to the cafeteria. Breakfast cost a hundred and fifty-two dollars. Each. And it wasn’t all that good. Nor was the company, since Trask sat about fifty feet away. Earth hung behind him like a backdrop, a not so subtle reminder of what he was all about, and an indictment of generations past. He was engaged in earnest conversation with a serious-looking black man, but took a moment to bow sardonically, to which Sasha lifted her coffee cup in reply. Her words belied the smile. “I don’t trust that man. Let’s find some work.”

  We had no other choice. Our bankroll was dwindling fast, and Sasha refused to ask her mother for help because to do so would reveal our location to anyone who monitored Earth-Jupiter radio traffic, and that was practically everybody. The fact that I’d have to earn my passage while simultaneously guarding Sasha from the forces of evil didn’t exactly appeal to me, but it was either that or give up any hope of a fifty-thousand-dollar payday.

  But wanting work and getting work were two different things. Almost every shipping line large and small had a cubicle-sized business office aboard Staros-3, and none of them were interested in us. What jobs there were went to specialized droids, experienced spacers, or people with the right connections. So we trudged from cubicle to cubicle, waited through what seemed like endless lines, and were refused by men, women, and androids alike.