Taking a seat, he dumped his backpack on the spot next to him as the car began to move, plunging into the darkness of the tunnel ahead but presently emerging from below ground to soar up into the air thirty yards high and trace the outline of Tanard’s Mountain. Its path was indicated only by the occasional floating marker, a football-size object glowing bright green. It was a marvelous system of public transportation; too marvelous, notwithstanding the squalor of its stations and carriages, for a city of Arcarius’ size. Even in the summer it ran in the red – and during the winter it was a financial disaster – but profit, said the prosperous bureaucrats who ran the city, was not the measure of success.
The car made several stops, including one at the very top of Tanard’s Mountain, a spaceport reserved for military and government personnel. It was from there Alistair left Aldra four cycles ago and to there he recently returned. As he traced random patterns with his finger in the film on the window, he wondered if he would ever get back to Kaldis and see Mar Profundo again, though even as he yearned for the city there was a feeling of repulsion mixed in.
The car finally made its way around to the harbor in the southwest. Upon exiting the Metro station, Alistair pulled his jacket tighter about his body and briefly regretted not bringing something heavier. The fall season on Arcarius was not young, and the weather was bringing more and more hints of winter with it. Though the long days could still be warm, despite the artificial cloud cover, the nights were lasting longer and longer at that northern latitude. Even the extra water vapor released into the atmosphere by the deep sea factories couldn’t prevent the north from freezing.
The open bay allowed the ocean breeze to sweep through and chill the city, and his skin tightened in response. Resolutely, he stepped from the cover of the Metro entrance and into the wind of the port district. Like many seaports in the galaxy, it was home to society’s seedier elements. One could not go far before coming across some miserable soul with a stumbling gait, a distant look in his bloodshot eyes and an unmistakable greenish tint to his skin: a specnine addict. In addition, there were specnine dealers, gamblers, smugglers, prostitutes, the thugs who enforced their own brand of law and the potato vendor, a recent addition to the panoply of lawbreakers. Such a man, as astray as a ballerina in a coal mine, must have felt ashamed to take a place next to the traditional scofflaws, but he was there nonetheless. When a disease borne by insects that fed on potatoes turned into an epidemic, the State outlawed potatoes. The following day, the potato vendor changed his address and set up shop next to the specnine dealer.
Alistair gave wide berth to a hallucinating specnine user. Before long he found himself in front of a ramshackle warehouse long since abandoned by its owner. A couple large, brutish looking men were lounging around, staying just outside the cone of light created by the lamp overlooking the door. As soon as he appeared, their gazes locked on him and never left, and when he strode up to the front door they quickly closed ranks and blocked the entrance, arms crossed over their chests.
They were as large as he, though not so professionally sculpted, and they glared at him as he approached. He met their gazes with a slight blush, but he mustered the will to address them.
“I’ve got a business proposition for whoever is interested.”
“Try the State House.”
“I don’t think they’d be interested. I need someone with more vision. And more money.”
“Why don’t you beat it back to your own side of town, tin man?” came a suggestion, using the current pejorative for the Civil Guard.
“No tin here, fellas. I was a marine. Just got back from Kaldis. Now why don’t you make a good decision and go tell your boss I’ve got some Kaldisian goods for him?”
The two suspiciously glared at him and then exchanged glances with each other. Finally, one nodded at his partner who turned and disappeared into the dilapidated warehouse. The remaining guard turned back to Alistair. “You know, now would be a good time to leave if you don’t have what you say you have.”
“Your advice is duly noted.”
The guard pulled a cigarette from a small pack in his pocket and lit up. “Things nice on Kaldis?”
“It’s got its good and bad spots, I suppose.”
“Same as here.” He nodded, as if confirming a notion he had had.
The man no longer seemed interested, so Alistair stood in silence, staring down at the ground. A slig made its slow way across the pavement. Far less bothersome than the mosquito, the slig was a genetically engineered insect that served as bird food in the man-made ecological system on Aldra. When Alistair for a brief period trained on Earth, he discovered how nasty the mosquito could be and took home a new appreciation for the slig, though that did not prevent him from squishing the one presently crawling past him.
The guard’s cigarette was long since burnt out and tossed away when his partner reappeared. He fixed his most authoritative and intimidating look on Alistair as he pointed at him with a thick, stubby finger. “Step inside and follow Ritchie. Boss says I get to talk to you if you’re wasting his time.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” He brushed past the tough and entered the building.
Ritchie was a slight and short man with a pockmarked face and two missing front teeth. He was probably in his forties, though it was difficult to tell since men in his station had a tendency to age quickly. He said nothing to Alistair but grabbed the backpack to inspect its contents. Having finished, he turned to lead him through the building.
The warehouse was one large open space. To create the illusion of rooms and hallways, dozens of crates had been stacked together. The only light came from flickering bulbs on the ceiling far above, though as many as half of these were out. The floor was cracked cement, and as plentiful as the cracks were the stains of all shapes and sizes, stains whose origin Alistair was happier not knowing.
After a few turns through the maze, he was led into a “room” with a card table and chairs in the middle. At the opposite end of the table sat a short, thick man with a bald head. His features were sharp, his forearms meaty and his bushy mustache nearly engulfed his lips. Behind him stood two men who might have been clones of the two guards at the entrance.
Ritchie gestured for Alistair to enter and then left him with the three men. Uncomfortable under their gazes, yet not wanting to seem timid, he forced himself to cross the space between them, though his legs felt stiff and awkward, and sat down opposite the bald man. This one glanced at one of his guards and broke into a throaty chuckle.
“OK, kid, you’ve got a pair. If ya’ wanna keep ‘em ya’ better get me interested in yer proposition.”
He had the pronounced accent of a New Bostonian.
“I’m sure you’ll like it,” said Alistair, struggling mightily to make his voice as solid as his physique. “It’s straight from Kaldis.”
“Keep talkin’.”
“I’ve got some medicine that’ll go for millions on the black market.”
The boss leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Now what made ya’ think we’d be interested in something illegal like that?” At the same time he snapped and pointed at Alistair and his two bodyguards stepped towards him. They grabbed him, hoisted him to his feet and stripped him. He did not resist, just staring at the floor and blushing down to his chest.
A minute later, he was naked with his hands clasped in front of his groin, a book and some square cardboard pieces from his backpack lying on top of the pile of his clothes. The two guards looked him up and down, pausing to inspect the large and intricate tattoo on his left pectoral, and then nodded to their chief. They returned to his side while Alistair fumbled to put his clothes back on.
“Ya’ can call me Mike, by the way,” said the bald man with a twinkle in his eyes as he watched Alistair blush.
“Alistair,” came the ragged reply. His breathing was suddenly uneven.
“How much of this medicine ya’ got?”
“As much as you can make.
I have the recipe,” he mumbled, hasty to get his clothes back on but not wanting to let on he was discomfited.
“Which medicines?”
“Eight different ones. All chosen for ease and cheapness of production.”
“What are they fer?”
“The instructions are all in there. Eridnite is one.” Alistair finished with the last button and stood once more fully dressed.
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout this.” Turning to one of his guards, he said, “Go get Jimmy.”
“He’s asleep by now.”
Mike gave him a look.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” the man amended.
As the bodyguard left, Mike turned back to Alistair. “How much will this stuff go fer?”
Alistair sat down again, unbidden. “Hard to say. Some of it’s very new. Even the government doesn’t have all of it yet.”
“How’d you get it?”
“That’s confidential.”
“Where’s the recipe?”
“In a safe place.”
“How much ya’ want fer it?”
“As much as I can get.”
Realizing he wasn’t going to get anything more, Mike sat back in his chair with a smirk and waited. “Ya’ did well to come to me. You’ll be glad ya’ did.”
About ten minutes later, another rough looking man entered the room. He circled slowly around Alistair, studying him, and finally sat down next to Mike. “You got Eridnite?”
“It’s an Eridnite substitute. It’s easier to make and about as effective. I’ve got seven others, three I guarantee you’ve never heard of.”
“What do they do?”
“It’s all in the instructions. Let’s talk about a price.”
“I don’t know if I want to pay fer somethin’ I don’t know what it’s gonna do,” Mike said with a warning tone.
“I didn’t come here to cheat you. I came here to get some money. The truth is, I don’t remember all the details. Like I said, it’s all in the instructions. I put this together a while ago.”
“And how’d you get the instructions past Customs?” asked the man Alistair assumed was Jimmy.
“I’ll tell you when I have my money.”
Jimmy and Mike shared a look. The former looked somewhat doubtful but eventually shrugged.
“How many Credits ya’ want?”
“I don’t want Credits. I want gold.”
This pronouncement quieted the room. When Mike recovered he leaned forward. “Listen, kid, ya’ ain’t gettin’ gold. My Credits are as good as anyone else’s.”
“Which is not much.” Under the table, Alistair was furiously rubbing his thumbs over his fingers in nervous agitation. “I want gold. Aldran Credits aren’t worth the magnetic strips that store them. Besides,” he allowed a faint, tremulous smile to creep onto his lips, “the amount of Credits you’d have to give me would get red flagged so even the tin men notice.”
Jimmy and Mike gruffly laughed. After Alistair’s pronouncement they seemed to relax.
“You know,” said Jimmy, “we’ve done this before. You’re not going to be red flagged. We’ve got ways.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I still want gold.”
“I don’t know how long ya’ been off,” said Mike, “but gold is illegal to possess. Has been fer a while.”
“So is what I’m selling you.”
“How much?”
“Thirty pounds.”
Mike looked at Jimmy in disbelief, but Jimmy kept his gaze fixed on Alistair. Finally, Jimmy leaned into Mike and whispered in his ear. Mike motioned to a bodyguard and when the man bent down, Mike whispered in his ear. The bodyguard nodded and again left the room. Finally, Mike turned to Alistair.
“If I find out you’ve screwed us—”
“You don’t need to make threats.”
“How’s this going to work?” asked Jimmy.
A bit of tension eased out of Alistair’s body, and he tossed the cardboard pieces and book on the table. “The pieces are numbered. Place each piece on the page of the same number and read the words not covered up.”
“What did ya’ tell customs ‘bout these?” asked Mike.
“They were part of a piece of sculpture I made on Kaldis. They thought it was just a piece of amateur art.”
This elicited appreciative nods from the other three.
“There’s only ten of these pieces,” Jimmy commented.
“Those are just the decoding instructions. The real instructions are elsewhere.”
“Where?” asked Mike.
Alistair rolled up his left hand sleeve and pointed to a large and oddly shaped mole on his bicep. “The instructions are in the genetic code of this growth on my arm. The decoding instructions are in the book. Get the genetic map to this lump here and you’ve got yourself a gold mine. Just read the inactive strains of the genome.”
“Son of a bitch,” breathed Mike. “Is that dangerous?”
“Yep. That’s why if you don’t take it tonight I take pills to kill it.”
“We’ll take it tonight,” Jimmy said, needing only to lick his lips to complete the perfect image of cupidity.
Hours later, when the sun had long since set and the air grown chill, Alistair labored up the road on Tanard’s Mountain, a heavy backpack hanging from his broad shoulders. Upon rounding the last bend in the cracked pavement, he cursed. There was a commotion in front of Nigel’s and several Civil Guard were there, complete with a tank – the tin cans referred to in the pejorative – threatening all who would dare cross it. Lights of red and blue and yellow spun and flashed all over the tank and small transport autos. More than enough lights to announce their presence, thought Alistair, but only just enough to satisfy their egos.
He turned into an alleyway and scanned the area. Finding in the street a grill leading to the sewer, he lifted it and clambered down the ladder, forced to let the backpack dangle from his teeth so he could fit in the cramped space. Halfway down, as his fingers protested at having to grip the frigid metal rungs, he found a small ledge and deposited the backpack there, trying not to gag from the smell. This accomplished, he quickly scurried back up and breathed deeply of the comparatively fresher air.
As he approached the restaurant, a Civil Guardsman, wearing armor more suited to a battlefield, broke away from the rest and approached, his gun not yet raised but in plain view.
“If you’re not family you need to leave,” the man barked, a microphone in his helmet amplifying his voice enough to awaken any neighbors who weren’t already peering out their windows. He had a different accent, which was not uncommon. Most Civil Guard were transferred from their home towns when they joined the force.
“I live here,” Alistair mumbled, walking by without sparing him a glance.
His father was next to the tank, speaking to an unarmored officer jotting down notes. Nigel’s face was carefully composed, though any who knew him well could see the worry in it. A few of the other Civil Guard stood in a perimeter, some looking bored, some menacing. His brother Gerald was there, and they exchanged grim glances. He sidled up next to his brother near a scorched section of wall with a broken window.
“Molotov cocktail,” his brother said and shivered once. His thin, night clothing was little protection from the cold. “The police will probably want to speak to you too.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No. Mom and Katherine are inside. It happened about half an hour ago.”
“What the hell is this about?” Alistair was beginning to shake with anger, and he ground his teeth together when he spoke.
“We don’t know what it’s about.”
Alistair spit in the air and his brother gave him an uncertain look. Laying a hand on his forearm, Gerald said, “Just let the Civil Guard do their work, Al.”
“If they want to ask me questions they can come find me.” Spitting again, he left his brother and went inside.
***
The highest poi
nt of Nigel’s restaurant complex was a white dome. It was the observatory, a distinguishing aspect of the building. It did not bring in much business, and the little attention it did get was largely from school children whom Nigel allowed to use it for free. Profit had never been his goal; it was a gift for his children, particularly Katherine and Alistair who spent many nights gazing deep into space.
When Alistair entered the observatory, Katherine was leaning back in the high-back chair with her eye pressed to the eyepiece. The room was dark, lit only slightly by some outside lights streaming in through the opening in the dome. On the computer desk next to him was a portrait of his brother-in-law, Eddy Davidson. His kind, round face tended towards corpulence, and the ever present goofy smile that distinguished him was in full bloom in the photograph. His finger tracing the picture frame, Alistair smiled sadly and wondered where Eddy was, or if he was still alive. Before his and Katherine’s first anniversary, he disappeared without a trace.
Pulling out a chair from one of the computer terminals and startling Katherine, he set it next to her. She pressed a button and her own seat slid back into a vertical position while Alistair swung a leg over and sat backwards on his chair. Facing her, he laid his forearms across the back of the seat and let his chin rest there.
“Is mom OK?” Alistair asked.
“No one was hurt.”
“I didn’t mean physically.”
“She’s fine. Actually, I think Dad’s having a harder time of it. The Guard won’t be able to do anything.”
“I will.”
“Alistair…” There was a stern warning in that solitary word. “Stay out of trouble.”
His eyes watered as he glared off into space. Katherine waited patiently, knowing he was working on something. Finally, in a harsh whisper, he managed, “Sometimes I get so mad I can’t—” He cut the sentence off and stood up to leave.
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