by E. M. Foner
“Not worth carrying back?” A.P. inquired. It amused Lynx that a man who was so curious about everything related to business could be so bad at it.
“Trader’s tithe,” she explained. “I’d call today moderately successful, so I’m leaving these for the gleaners, the poor people who end up stuck on a place like this. If whoever takes the stuff can use it, that’s great, and if they can’t, they can barter for a meal or a blanket to roll up in at night. These orbitals aren’t like the Stryx stations, where as long as you have your sanity, you can always get back on your feet. You go down and out in a place like this and it’s the end of the line.”
“So it’s charity,” A.P. interpreted her words. “I saw plenty of biologicals pan-handling on the entertainment deck, but I didn’t see anybody making contributions. You’re a good woman, partner.”
For the first time since they met, Lynx actually felt something like warmth for the senior agent, who she had come to regard as a sort of unwanted babysitter. Maybe when the apprenticeship period was over they could explore another type of relationship, but for the time being, she was maintaining a strict separation between her personal and professional lives.
After a quick stop back at the Prudence to drop off the leftover trade goods and the antique camera, Lynx and A.P. headed out for one of the nearby bars he’d scouted. There was no day/night lighting cycle on Market Orbital, the place was always open so it didn’t matter what clock you were using. The bartender was a scruffy-looking Horten who didn’t even bother wearing an isolation suit, a sure sign that the alien had just stopped caring. He barely changed colors when Agent Malloy reached over the bar to tap his shoulder.
“What you want, bub?” the Horten snarled. Even though her commercial translation implant tended to miss the emotional nuances when aliens spoke, Lynx could tell that there was no real rancor in his tone. It was more like he was stuck playing a part in a play for which he hadn’t intended to audition.
“Bottle of your finest cheap stuff and two glasses, human consumption,” A.P. requested. Lynx thought it was an interesting formulation, and then she wondered why her partner had taken it onto himself to order for both of them. Lynx also realized that she was hungry, and after days of subsisting mainly on nutrient squeeze tubes, she was ready for some solid food if she could find something that wouldn’t kill her. But the bartender was already pushing a dusty bottle of vodka across the bar, along with two glasses.
“Six creds,” the Horten stated. “That cheap enough for you, big spender?”
“Thank you,” Lynx inserted herself into the dialogue, producing a ten-cred piece and sliding it across the bar. She kept a finger on top of the coin and gently interrogated the bartender. “You wouldn’t know where a human could order some solid food around here, would you?”
The bartender pointedly ignored A.P. as he eyed the coin and took Lynx’s measure, in that order. His skin turned a reddish purple, which having traded with plenty of Hortens, Lynx associated with greed. Greed is good, she said to herself.
“I might know a place to call, does take-out for humanoids. I know the Drazens and Vergallians eat the stuff,” he replied, reaching for the coin. “Can’t guarantee it’s not poison for humans, but it’s your best bet.”
“Does this place have a name?” Lynx asked, keeping her finger on the ten creds.
“Panda Pagoda,” the Horten grunted out the unfamiliar syllables.
Lynx broke into a smile and took her finger off the coin. “That’s great, best Chinese chain in the galaxy. Can I link your comm and ping them?”
“All the take-out places on the orbital work through the menu tabs,” the bartender replied, looking a good deal more cheerful as he swept up the coin. He reached under the bar and came up with a cracked tab that looked like it had never been cleaned, but the screen was live. “They’re pretty fast, around fifteen minutes for deliveries.”
“Thanks again,” Lynx said. Then she told the device, “Panda Pagoda.” The screen blinked once or twice and then came up with the standard menu that she could have ordered from in her sleep. “It’s on me, Malloy. What can I get you?”
“I had something while I was wandering around,” A.P. replied vaguely. “Just suit yourself and I’ll fuel up on the good stuff.” To accentuate his point, he twisted the lid off the vodka bottle and filled both glasses to the rim. Then he downed them, one after another, thumping the bar with his fist after each drink. “That hit the spot,” he declared. “I think I could live on this stuff for months.”
“When you asked for two glasses, I sort of assumed that one of them was for me,” Lynx complained, but she had to admit to herself it was an impressive display. If he wasn’t dead drunk in a half an hour, it could be a useful talent for a spy. After a quick tap and a swipe, the menu flashed, “Order accepted. Delivery to your location in 2.436.” Lynx didn’t have a clue what time base the orbital was on, but the last digit was cycling continually and the second to last digit changed every few seconds, so it wouldn’t be a long wait.
“I was just cleaning the glass for you,” A.P. told her. He poured a refill and lowered his voice before he spoke again. “Best way to poison somebody is to coat the inside of a glass with the toxins. It’s in the training material, somewhere.”
“Oh, uh, thanks I guess,” Lynx replied as she lifted a glass and took a little sip. “Yuck, tastes like medicine,” she said. “I would have paid for a bottle of Scotch if they have one.”
“Lots of impurities in Scotch,” her partner replied. “Vodka is the safest drink.”
“Safest drink?” Lynx asked in surprise. “None of it is safe. That’s sort of the whole point.”
“Why don’t we move to a table while there’s an opening, unless you wanted to eat standing at the bar,” A.P. suggested, at the same time indicating the doorway with a tilt of his head. “You never know when a place like this will get crowded.”
Lynx stole a look at the new arrival as she followed her partner to a small metal table protruding from the wall. The woman’s dress didn’t leave much to the imagination and she was making for A.P. like a homing missile. Agent Malloy was still fidgeting with the control slider to adjust the height of the seats and the tabletop when the newcomer strutted up.
“Hey, big boy,” she said, batting her eyelash extensions at A.P. “I’m running a bit low on fuel here. How ‘bout sharing?”
Lynx watched in amazement as her partner refilled his glass and pushed it to the end of the table. The orbital tramp downed the drink in a gulp and smacked her lips.
“Plenty more where that came from,” A.P. leered and patted the bench seat with his hand. The woman didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. Agent Malloy retrieved the glass and filled it to the brim, but this time, he didn’t rush to slide it over. Instead, he cupped the glass in both hands, winked in exaggerated fashion, and said, “Of course, nothing is free in this world.”
“You don’t have to explain the facts of life to me, sport,” the woman replied, reaching over and retrieving the brimming glass. For the second time, she drained the contents in one go, causing Lynx to sample her own drink again. It was high-proof alcohol all right, and the glass was more than double the size of a standard human shot. She felt a surge of sympathy for any woman who could toss the stuff back like their table guest.
“I’m A.P. Malloy and this is Lynx,” her partner introduced them. Normally, Lynx would expect to be introduced as Captain Edgehouse, but either A.P. was preparing an elaborate lie to make himself look good, or he just didn’t want to reopen the controversy about the pronunciation of her name.
“A.P., I like that,” the woman replied, adding a husky laugh. “I’m Chance, just plain Chance, as in, you’re welcome to take one.”
“Hi, Chance,” Lynx said, feeling she had better join the conversation before the two of them began undressing each other right across from her, not that the woman had far to go to complete the process. “I’ve got some Chinese food coming, Panda Pagoda, and I know I o
rdered more than I can eat.”
“Uh, thanks. I’m alright,” Chance responded, turning to straighten an imaginary out-of-place hair behind Malloy’s ear. “Me and gorgeous here have our own dinner plans. Don’t we?”
“I think I can go one more on credit,” A.P. replied, smiling wickedly as he refilled the glass yet again. Lynx began to understand why he had called for a bottle as Chance drained it as quickly as her first two. He retrieved the glass from Chance, poured it full again, and this time he faked handing it to her before raising it to his own lips.
Lynx gritted her teeth and forced herself to down a gulp from her own drink, almost gagging in the process. When she opened her eyes again and looked at the glass, it was still two-thirds full. She wondered if the bartender had any beer back there, but it was doubtful. Unlike liquor and wine, only a few species would touch the carbonated Earth beverage, which didn’t travel well in any case. She glanced at the menu tab, and the counter was already down to 1.192. Time flies when you’re having fun, she thought sourly.
“So, do you come around here often?” A.P. asked Chance, eliciting a groan from Lynx. She’d heard the same line in a hundred bars on a hundred stations and orbitals and she’d always answered with a disgusted look. Chance was apparently playing by a different set of rules.
“I cruise by every few hours if I’m not otherwise occupied,” Chance replied, her eyes flickering to the half-empty bottle. “You’re my first hit in days. I was beginning to think about signing indenture papers with whatever ship would take me.”
“Never do that!” A.P. exclaimed, looking shocked for the first time in Lynx’s memory. “How long have you been stuck here?”
“Four months, and stuck is putting it mildly,” Chance answered. “Labor has no value on this stinking orbital or in Farling space in general. They have plenty of mechanicals to do the rote stuff and they have their genetically engineered slaves for everything else. I put every centee I had into a one-way ticket to this place because I had to get off of Hankel in a hurry and there weren’t any other departures for a week. I wish I had stayed and faced the music.”
“What if I could get you back to Stryx space?” A.P. asked, mechanically filling the glass yet again. “What would you do for me then?”
“Anything,” Chance stated flatly, with a hard look that gave Lynx the creeps. A.P. slid Chance the glass and she drained it just as quickly as she had the previous three.
“I was out to Hankel once,” Lynx said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that descended on the table after Chance’s response. “It was a great planet to trade Earth goods because they had some sort of bias against anything produced on the orbitals. There was something weird about the place, though. I remember guards with some kind of wand checking me at the entrance to the market place, as if they were worried about weapons or something. I was only there for a couple days and I didn’t run into anybody willing to talk much, so I never found out what it was all about. It’s like that on lots of worlds that aren’t on the tunnel network.”
There was a sudden loud ding, and everybody in the bar looked up as a delivery bot floated over to Lynx’s table, homing in on the menu. The bot held a filmy plastic sack behind it, containing a number of white boxes. The smell of Chinese take-out filled the bar as the bot intoned in perfect English, “That will be five creds, plus a two-cred delivery fee.”
Lynx studied the bot for a moment before spotting a slot above what appeared to be a little plastic door. She gambled on inserting a ten-cred piece in the slot, and sure enough, she was rewarded with the sound of tumbling coins and the border around the little plastic door lit with a blue glow. Lynx pushed the door in with a finger and scooped out the three one-cred pieces. The bot spun around in mid-air, deposited the bag of take-out on the table, and shot out of the bar at an astounding speed.
“Wow, this smells great,” she said guiltily, sliding the single-use chopsticks out of their sanitary sleeve. “Are you guys sure you don’t want some?”
“We’re good,” A.P. answered for them both, refilling the glass he’d been sharing with Chance and throwing back the contents. He poured yet another, leaving the bottle three-quarters empty. Lynx looked at her own drink, which was still more than half-full, and pushed it across the table to Chance.
“I’ve got a cup of green tea here,” she explained, displaying the squat, cylindrical tube with the adjustable heating dial on the bottom. She turned the arrow to the second highest setting and pressed in, activating the chemical heater in the base. Then she set her tea to the side and opened the largest container, Panda Pagoda’s famous vegetable lo mein. After a final look at her companions, Lynx took up the chopsticks and dug in.
Chance watched her for a moment, toying with the half-full glass that Lynx had given her, then picked it up and drained the contents.
“So I take it I’m working for both of you now,” Chance remarked significantly, sliding the glass to A.P. for another refill. Lynx almost choked on her noodles when she figured out what Chance was implying, but she forced herself to swallow and tried to look nonchalant as she unwrapped her spring roll.
“She paid for the bottle,” A.P. informed Chance, making Lynx wish her partner could have been a little less honest. “We work as a team.”
“Now wait a second,” Lynx protested. “I don’t know what the two of you have in mind, but I can make a pretty good guess and I’m not going along with it. I just want to eat some solid food and maybe have a drink before hitting the sack.” Both A.P. and Chance looked at her curiously, leading her to add, “Alone!”
“I think you might be a little confused, partner,” A.P. told her. “I’m trying to cultivate a source here.”
“She didn’t think that…” Chance looked at Lynx and burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one. I guess what they say about some humans is true.”
“Ixnay on the umanshay,” A.P. muttered to Chance as he poured her another drink. “Food looks great, Lynx. Don’t let us stop you.”
Lynx regarded her companions with suspicion, but the lo mein was cooling rapidly, so she held back her questions and focused on the food. She noticed that her partner was no longer keeping up with Chance, and he seemed to be hoarding the last three fingers in the vodka bottle as a prize. The two of them were discussing generalities about vice on the orbital, which was a tough concept to define, given that Farling law could be summed up as the inverse of the Golden Rule. Lynx was just polishing off the meal she hadn’t imagined she could eat alone when A.P. brought the discussion around to drugs.
“So what about drugs?” he asked Chance casually. “We’re in the market for anything interesting that works on humans. A lot of the new drugs are banned on the stations because the Stryx don’t allow any of the real brain-changers or chemical lobotomy stuff.”
“Good for the Stryx,” Chance replied. “I wouldn’t want to be a biological trapped in Farling space, they’re too good at memory wipes and reprogramming.”
“The two of us were thinking of going down to Seventy for a look around before we leave,” A.P. continued, toying with the bottle. “If I thought you could scare us up samples of the latest drugs engineered for humans, I’d talk to my partner about giving you a ride out of here.”
Chance broke the hypnotic lure of the vodka bottle to fix Lynx with a hard stare. “Is he serious?” she asked.
“If he says he’s serious, he’s serious,” Lynx replied, passing the baton back to Malloy. She didn’t understand half of what was going on, but if Chance could score them samples of the latest Farling drugs, their mission would be a success. Besides, A.P. was the senior agent, she was just the apprentice.
“I’m serious,” her partner said in a level tone, still playing with the vodka bottle. “But you’re broke, and if we stake you with money for the buys, what’s to keep you from double-crossing us?”
Lynx looked at A.P. with new respect. This was more like the kind of conversation she imagined she would be involved in as a spy. She tried to
look professionally disinterested while watching Chance for the slightest sign of treachery.
“I could let you hold my back-up cell,” Chance replied slowly. “It’s practically dead anyway. You buy me a couple more bottles of this stuff and I’ll stay on my feet until you get back. But you better give me some extra cash for emergencies so I don’t end up in a parts shop if you get delayed.”
“What do we have in ready creds?” A.P. asked Lynx, who was still trying to digest the implications of Chance’s answer.
“Uh, I cleared around eighty creds this morning,” she answered tentatively, watching Chance out of the corner of her eye.
“I’ll need at least five hundred for the buys and another hundred for emergencies,” Chance answered. “Even run-down like this, pulling my backup is like you giving up a kidney, or maybe both kidneys.”
“You weren’t getting drunk, you were fueling up!” Lynx said in an urgent whisper, as if being an artificial person was a crime. Then it struck her that she was the only one at the table feeling the effects of the vodka, and she’d only had half of one glass. She turned her head to stare at her partner and said, “You’re an artificial person too!”
“We can’t all be biologicals,” A.P. replied easily. “The Old Man suggested I let you find out for yourself rather than telling you. Maybe he was afraid you wouldn’t agree to a non-human partner.”