Crescent

by Phil Rossi

  “The colony ship is about to hit us.”

  Gerald was thrown hard against the restraints, the wind belched out of his lungs. Crescent, Anrar III, and cold space spiraled in the viewport. A klaxon began to wail as the hull moaned. Gerald caught his breath and watched as several of Bean’s drones—smashed nearly beyond recognition—floated by the viewport. Bits of hull drifted like metallic confetti in the wake of the robot carcasses. The ship’s structure groaned again. This time, louder.

  “Bean! Status! And turn off the goddamned alarm.”

  “Captain. The drone bay has been ruptured. The ship will depressurize any second now.”

  “Oh crap.”

  “I recommend you put on your EV suit.”

  Gerald was out of the control couch and across the small bridge in an eyeblink. The emergency locker was open and he was ripping off his pants and then his shirt. Bean began to vibrate beneath his feet.

  “Detach the tethers, Bean. Get control of the ship and bring us in. Send out a distress call to ATC and get the pattern cleared.” He pulled on the close-fitting pants and the jacket of the life suit. The hem of the jacket sealed itself to the pants with a muted, sucking sound. Next came the helmet. It was almost too small for his head. Gerald wished he had tried the damn thing on before he bought it. He forced it on and heard the click of the seal. His neck was scrunched and already beginning to cramp. In short, quick I-have-to-pee-really-bad strides, Gerald dashed back to the control couch and strapped in. The maintenance bulkhead that led to the smashed drone bay blew out and there were thirty roaring seconds of escaping atmosphere and several loud crashes as whatever wasn’t bolted down was blasted into space.

  And then silence.

  (•••)

  Gerald pressed the door buzzer. There was no answer. He pressed it again. And again. And still one more time for annoyed good measure. He knew she was home. The hospital told him they had discharged her two hours after he had left her bedside. He was ready to hit the button again when the door opened, revealing a bed-ruffled Marisa. White cotton pants hung low on her waist, creating a gap beneath the gray tank top she wore. The space showed off a taut belly painted with a tattoo of the mythical beast that shared her namesake. Her hair was piled atop her head in a nest of stray locks.

  “Sorry, I was… ” she began.

  “Napping? I see that. From what the doctor had to say, sounds like you had a long night.”

  She sighed.

  “Come in, Gerry.”

  “Never thought you’d ask,” he said, and brushed past her.

  Her tiny apartment was immaculate as always. Despite some of her more wild inclinations, Marisa had proven herself to be a neat freak, time and again. He sat on the edge of the shelf-bed that protruded from the wall. Marisa pulled up a plastic chair and sat across from him.

  “Some night, huh?” she said.

  “You could say that,” he replied.

  “You sound… irritated.”

  “Irritated? Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t recovered from my trip here. I haven’t gotten any sleep. I’m hung-over. Bean got fucked up today. Kendall is an ass face, and my girlfriend is overdosing on carthine.”

  “Oh, I’m your girlfriend now?” she said, openly ignoring the carthine comment. Gerald looked up at her and frowned at her dodge.

  “What happened last night, after we left Heathen’s?” he asked. He wasn’t going to allow her cuteness to disarm him. Not if he could help it.

  “Look, Gerry. I don’t know what happened. I do know that I didn’t OD. Don’t trust me?” She reached over to a nearby table and tossed him a pill bottle. It was nearly full. “See? Ever think we had too much to drink last night? How much of the end of the night do you remember?”

  He didn’t respond. Hello pot, he thought, my name is kettle.

  “Exactly. So be pissed that you don’t feel well, be pissed because Kendall is a… what did you call him, ass face? But don’t be pissed at me, okay? I didn’t do anything wrong. Or rather, I didn’t do anything more wrong than taking that last shot.” Marisa leaned toward him and planted a kiss square on his lips. She slid out of the plastic chair to kneel between his knees and twined her fingers into his hair. She kissed him a second time and then pulled away.

  “Friends?”

  “Yeah. Yeah we’re fine.”

  “Good, because you really shouldn’t be mad at your girlfriend, especially when she does things like this.” She slid her hand into his pants and squeezed.

  “What other things does she do?”

  (•••)

  “They keep you closed all night?” Gerald pushed around a few digital brochures Maerl had been showing off. The flimsy things, appropriately called flimsies or flims, shimmered with images of several pieces of attractive real estate in the New Juno colonies.

  “You don’t remember coming back in here a few hours later?” Maerl arched a dark brow and placed the brochures under the bar. Gerald felt even worse about having been pissed at Marisa.

  “Right,” Gerald said. “More shots.”

  “Is Mari okay? Heard she ended up in the hospital. That true?”

  “Yeah. She’s fine now. She was in rough shape when I walked her home. I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight,” Gerald admitted.

  “And where is she now?”

  “Out of my sight.” Gerald smiled and shrugged. He took a sip of his beer. “That is to say, she was coherent when I left her, and at this time is taking a nap.”

  Maerl placed two cocktails on a tray and moved out from behind the bar. Gerald stared at the large LCD above the racks of liquor. A large-breasted cartoon girl with even larger eyes, was flying across the void of space toward a giant, neon-green can of a soft drink called Wheezie! She stripped off her space suit as she went. The screen dissolved into a news story. He was about to look away when he saw that the feed was about a missing colony ship bound for New Juno. Apparently, the ship had disappeared a few days back. Several important political figures had been onboard, on their way to a summit to discuss the escalating violence in the Habeos systems. Gerald didn’t want to know.

  The anchorman segued into a local story. Apparently, a young mother of two had also gone missing, leaving her toddlers home alone for days. Hungry and confused, the toddlers were otherwise no worse for wear, but there was still no sign of the mother. What kind of person just walks out on their kids like that? Gerald thought. He wondered why the hell Maerl insisted on playing the news in the bar.

  “That’s the third missing person story they’ve aired on the news this week,” Maerl commented as he stepped back around the bar. “Better keep an eye on that girl of yours.”

  “She can take care of herself, provided she’s not too drunk.” Gerald finished his beer and slid the empty bottle away. Maerl placed another before him. Gerald reached for his wallet, but the bartender held up a hand to stop him. He pointed over Gerald’s shoulder.

  “Courtesy of Dr. Donovan Cortez and his daughter, Dr. Ina Cortez. They want you to join them for a drink.”

  Gerald turned on his stool. He recognized Donovan Cortez from Kendall’s office. Cortez sat in a booth on the far side of Heathen’s beneath a glowing caricature of a shapely female figure. Beneath the shape were the words Drink Femalien! Cortez wore a suit, minus the jacket. His shirt collar looked too tight for his chubby neck. Curly gray hair, matted at the top, sprung out around the doctor’s ears. Ina Cortez sat beside the doctor, half in and half out of the booth. Her cornsilk hair was combed straight and parted in the middle. It fell past thin, pale shoulders that were exposed save for the narrow straps of her small dress. Her eyes were pointed downward and hidden behind long lashes. She looked uncomfortable. And both she and her father looked woefully out of place. Gerald stood and made his way over to them.

  “Dr. Cortez?” Gerald said amicably enough as he stepped to the booth. The older man looked up at him and smiled. Cortez tried to stand too quickly; the olive green table shuddered and threatened to spil
l the two drinks that sat atop it. Cortez’s plump lips spread in a wide smile.

  “Mr. Evans!”

  “You just bought me a beer, Doc. You don’t need to act surprised to see me.” He paused, waiting. When Cortez said nothing, Gerald spoke again. “Generally, this is when you’d ask me to sit.”

  “Oh yes, yes. I’m sorry. I’m not used to… doing this sort of thing. Please, sit.”

  “Hello,” Gerald looked to the daughter. “Ina, is it?” he inquired. She raised her eyes to him and offered a quick smile before averting her gaze again. She was the crazy girl who had spoiled Gerald’s morning coffee. Her blue eyes didn’t hint at recognition, so he decided to keep his mouth shut. No sense in heightening the awkwardness. Gerald sat. “So, what sort of thing is this, anyway?”

  “It is my understanding that you are Crescent Station’s salvage man.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. For how much longer, I don’t know. Things haven’t been going all that smoothly.”

  Donovan frowned and looked perplexed.

  “Chalk it up to Kendall and I not exactly seeing eye to eye on the definition of salvage.” Gerald took a sip of the beer Donovan had bought him. He set the bottle down and noticed Ina’s bare ankle. It was delicate and pale. There was a tattoo there, nestled just below her ankle bone. The artwork looked like a small rose, but Gerald couldn’t be sure without staring, and he didn’t want to make her or her father any more uncomfortable than they already were.

  “I have a job for you. If you are interested. I don’t know what kind of contract you have with Crescent. I don’t really care, to be honest with you. I don’t want Kendall to know about this. I am prepared to compensate you very well—better, I’m sure, than Kendall is paying you for your entire contract.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Doc. Kendall is paying me pretty damn well,” Gerald played coy, but his interest was piqued. If he could manage to take in enough cash on the side, maybe he could buy his way out of the contract with Kendall.

  Cortez waved his hand.

  “Money is no object, Mr. Evans. There is a ship—a shuttle. I want you to haul it back to Crescent for me.”

  “A shuttle?”

  “A shuttle,” the elder Cortez echoed. “It is very old and likely very fragile. I’ve been over your files. You have a commendable record, Mr. Evans. So many salvage runs with such a high success rate, and quite the variety of hauls. I think you can handle picking up my little shuttle.”

  “Right. So, you want me to tug a shuttle into Crescent without anyone getting wind of it? How do you propose I do that? Take it apart and stow it my bunk?”

  “No, no. Leave that to me. Vegan and his crew can be bought. The deck hands can be bought. None of that should be your concern. All you have to do is go to the coordinates that I will send you, grab the shuttle, and bring it back to Hangar 19.”

  “And what else can you tell me about this shuttle, Doctor?” Gerald asked.

  “In truth, little. I have reason to believe that this lifeboat is from an old, abandoned mining colony on Anrar III.”

  “Lifeboat or shuttle, Doc? That makes a big difference.”

  “Well. More likely the former than the latter. It should be in the small asteroid belt orbiting moon III of Anrar VI.”

  Gerald tapped at his chin. He looked from the elder Cortez’s eager but cautious face to the daughter’s, which was hidden behind a fall of golden hair.

  “Do you have anything to offer here, Miss… rather, Dr. Cortez?”

  “No.” She didn’t bother looking up.

  “Doc, how did you come by this information?” Gerald asked.

  “I can’t say,” the elder Cortez said.

  Can’t say, or won’t, Gerald thought.

  “Right. Let’s say I go out there and it’s not there,” Gerald said over the mouth of the beer bottle. He emptied the contents and set the bottle down on the table.

  “It’ll be there,” Donovan insisted.

  “Let’s say I go out there and it’s not there. I’d expect to get paid in full.”

  “Yes, of course, Gerald. I will compensate you for your time, either way,” Donovan kneaded his pudgy hands.

  “And I’d expect a hefty down payment even before I set foot on my ship,” Gerald added.

  “Yes, yes,” Donovan said. He sounded impatient. “All that can be arranged easily.”

  “You know I’m without a ship, right? For at least a day.” Gerald figured the Cortezes had the right to know.

  “What? No. I didn’t know that,” Donovan sighed and looked away.

  “Little accident this morning. Bean is dry-docked until the day after next.”

  “I was not aware of that.” Donovan sounded disappointed, but a moment later he was smiling again. He had the tiniest of spaces between his front teeth. “Two days is a sufferable delay. I have waited this long, after all.”

  Gerald slid the empty bottle across the table.

  “Thanks for the beer.” He stood and began to walk away, but Donovan grabbed him by the hem of his shirt.

  “Wait!”

  Gerald slapped his hand away.

  “Come on now, Doc. That’s no way to behave.”

  Donovan took a deep breath and regained his composure.

  “I’m sorry. This is just very important. That derelict could answer a lot of questions.”

  “If it’s out there.”

  “It’s out there.”

  “Let me sleep on it, Doc. I’ll let you know tomorrow, either way.”

  Gerald left Heathen’s without another word.

  (•••)

  Gerald didn’t wake up so much as he half jumped out of his bed. The creaking ceiling fan cooled a sheen of sweat on his bare chest. The dream faded fast from his memories—tatters of red and engine-oil black. Violet stars and dust. Planets. Death. Gerald shuddered. His mind wouldn’t form anything substantial from the dream other than a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the urge to shit. He looked at the time display that floated on the screen of the wall terminal. It was 3:45 in the morning.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned so suddenly that a hot lance of pain shot down his neck. A pudgy kid, clutching a small flashlight in one hand, dashed into Gerald’s washroom. The narrow door slammed shut behind him.

  “Hey, kid! What the hell?” Gerald shouted.

  A heartbeat later, Gerald was standing; any hope of getting back to sleep fell to the floor like the cast-off bed sheets. If this kid was trying to rob him, he’d have more success going out the front door, not into the bathroom. Stupid. Gerald pulled the door open and snapped on the light.

  The bathroom was empty. Every single hair on his body stood on end. Gerald’s reflection stared back at him from the mirror. He had seen the kid go in there, plain as day. Gerald swallowed hard. He pulled back the plastic shower curtain. Empty.

  He dropped his eyes to the floor. A metal object sat on the oval bath mat. Gerald knelt down and picked it up. It was an aluminum soda can. The thing looked old; the material had begun to oxidize. Gerald felt another chill coming on and tossed the can into the garbage.

  He stepped out of the washroom and looked at the bed. There was no way he was going back to sleep. He clicked on the rack light and rummaged around in his discarded clothing until he retrieved Donovan Cortez’s card. Gerald went to the terminal and inserted it into the reader. It went directly to voicemail.

  “Donovan. Gerald. Send me the coordinates and send me the cash. I’ll leave as soon as Bean is ready.”

  Getting off the station as often as possible would be a good thing.

  (Part V)

  Gerald frowned and ran his hand over welding points that were both bloated and ugly. Bean might not have been the prettiest ship in the galaxy, but one thing was for damn sure: he’d been a hell of a lot prettier before the colony-ship-turned-slagheap rearended him.

  “Good morning, Gerald.”

  “It’s afternoon,” Gerald countered
and turned. Donovan Cortez stood on the flight deck along with Ina at his side; his bespectacled eyes examined the hauler.

  “Actually, it is morning,” said Donovan.

  “Whatever. I got your coordinates. You didn’t have to come and send me off. I do appreciate the gesture.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Cortez said and took a step toward the ship, a bright smile on his face.

  “That is entirely out of the question.” Gerald held out a warding hand.

  “Gerald, I’m paying you quite well. Well enough that you should have no problem taking two passengers with you.”

  “Bean is a hauler, not a transport vessel; she can’t hold more than two passengers. Sorry, pops.”

  Donovan looked back up at the ship. His brow creased for a moment before he spoke again.

  “Well, in that case, I’ve never enjoyed space flight. You’ll just have to take Ina with you. I’ll wait here.”

  “No.” Gerald didn’t want anyone green on his ship. Different people reacted to space in different ways. He didn’t want to take the chance that Ina Cortez would go nutso on him.

  “Gerald, I need to send someone along to make sure my interests are kept in mind,” Donovan insisted.

  “Are you saying you don’t trust me?” Gerald raised his brows.

  “Would I place my daughter’s safety in your hands if I didn’t?” Donovan said. “I will pay you an additional fee for taking Ina as a passenger.”

  Gerald sighed—more money was more money. A dock hand holding a welding torch stood at the far end of the flight deck. His face-shield was raised and he watched the exchange with vague interest. Walter Vegan was nowhere in sight. Gerald returned his attention to the dynamic duo.

  “Great. Fine,” Gerald said, and eyed the bag at Ina’s feet. He pointed at it. “Get that stowed. We’re leaving in five minutes. And you might want to hand Sparky down there a fifty on your way out,” Gerald gestured to the dockhand with a tilt of his head.

  (•••)

  Security HQ was quiet and largely deserted. Marisa was grateful. The few officers that were present went about their business, paying more heed to their work than to Marisa. She stepped into a monitoring station and set her bag on the table. A row of LCDs showed multiple sections of the station—blocks of Main Street, views of the hangar, views of the living levels and the farms. Crescent had a lot of cameras, that was for sure. No one was stationed at the feeds. Likely, the missing attendant was in the head or getting food from the compiler. That was fine by Marisa; she didn’t feel like talking to anyone. She didn’t want to talk about Heathen’s, sure to be the conversation du jour. She sat down on the monitoring station’s backless stool and shifted her weight this way and that, but it was impossible to find a comfortable sitting position. Back pain, after all, meant eternal vigilance—at least according to El Capitan. Visit any monitoring station on Crescent and there’d be an officer sitting on a stool, massaging a cramp out of one sore muscle or another. Marisa yawned wide; her jaw popped. She still felt tired and her brain was muddy, even though it had been a couple of days since her hospital visit.