by Chris Lowry
The inside was a combination work and living space. The front of the car was dominated by a giant screen fed from a camera mounted on the exterior of the rail car. A long couch covered one side, a workstation on the other.
The back of the compartment was a bed big enough for two, and a second work station set up for cooking. There was a closet she assumed was the bathroom.
“You like?”
He said.
She thought he would steer her toward the bed, but he took her hand in his and indicated the couch instead. She folded her legs underneath her and sat.
“Nice,” she answered.
He ran his hands over the workstation and the machine started up with a low vibration as it lifted off the track. The internal pressure increased as they rocketed away from the station and raced for the way out.
He went to the station in the back and pulled a bottle of amber whiskey from underneath to pour two glasses, then handed one to her as he returned to the couch.
“This can be our get to know each other better phase,” he said and offered a toast.
She clinked her glass against his and took a sip.
“What’s to know?” she said holding the glass in front of her chin. “Can you tell me about your job?”
He smiled and launched into a litany of responsibility and how the continued growth of Mars rested on his shoulders.
“Once we get there, my foreman-”
“You don’t work alone?”
He gave her a sheepish grin and covered it with a sip of whiskey.
“I did make it sound like that, didn’t I? No, I’m low man on the totem pole. We’re joining my group when we get there.”
She tried to mask her worry, but he could see it in her eyes.
“They’re a good group of guys,” he offered.
She didn’t care. A group of guys wasn’t in her plans. A group of anyone wasn’t in her plans.
She was hoping for a single man operation to make it easier to get lost in the outer edges of the dome.
Now, a group of men would mean more attention and more people to talk about her when they got back into town.
More talk made it harder to hide, and increased the chances of word reaching the wrong ears.
“If they’re just like you,” she put a hand on his forearm. “I don’t have anything to worry about.”
But her insides churned as she did worry.
It was tough enough to ditch one cowboy. Now she had to ditch a whole posse of them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"She's gonna have to get a disguise," Tinker mused chewing on his lip. "That fiancé of hers is gonna have some goons out hunting for her."
"Ex," Bat said off hand. "Goons, huh?"
Tinker nodded.
“They found us on the Space Hub, and she said the orders were still in effect. Stands to reason they’re still looking for her too. And Musk has its fair share of goons,” said the pilot.
“More than its fair share.”
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about letting the goons do the hard work, and we just follow them."
The pilot considered this for a moment.
"There was this guy back on earth I read about, one of the ones that invented the computer. He said if there was a job to be done, give it to a lazy man to find the best way to do it with the least amount of energy."
"Are you calling me lazy?" Bat didn't bat an eye.
"I'm just telling you some history," Tinker smiled. "But it seems to me like the lazy way is the smart way."
"That's what I thought."
Bat stood on the tips of his toes and stared over the heads of the sea of people covering the domed streets of Musk.
"The hard part is going to be finding goons."
"It just so happens," Tinker started pushing through the crowd with swagger. "Goons are my specialty."
“Lead on,” Bat waved his hand.
Tinker did exactly that, straight to a bar on the fringe of the red-light district.
“This place?”
“If not this one,” the pilot pointed to the nest of neon signs that turned the street into a blinking, flashing potpourri of sinful possibilities.
But he followed his gut inside. It took less than two minutes of scanning the crowd to find what he was looking to find.
"That's them."
"Them?"
"What?"
"They don't look like goons."
"What do you think they look like?"
"Accountants."
"That's the best kind of goon. The kind you don't suspect."
Bat shifted his head to wrap his mind around it. The concept made sense to him. From a law perspective, it was even a smart move.
Muscle that looked and acted like hired muscle would draw unwanted attention. Hired guns that looked like there were afraid of weapons tended to get overlook.
"What now?"
"Now we wait," the pilot leaned against the bar and waved the bartender over. He held up two fingers.
"You want anything?"
Bat motioned him off and kept his eyes on the goons in the booth.
The two men got up and made their way to the door.
“They’re moving,” said Bat. “Come on.”
“But I just ordered my drinks.”
Bat glared at him for a second, then reconsidered. He had the marks now, so following them wouldn’t be a problem. The pilot would just make it more obvious.
“Meet me back at the ship.”
“Again?”
“You could skip the drinks and do what we came to do,” he watched the door slip open and closed.
Bat started for it before he lost the two men outside.
Tinker snagged his sleeve.
“You have the credit chip,” he said.
Bat rushed it out of his pocket and gave it to him, then shoved his way through the crowd.
Tinker watched him disappear through the door and turned back to the bar as the bartender set two glasses in front of him.
He gave her the credit chip and his best flirty smile.
"Keep the change sweetheart."
She swiped the chip and her eyes grew several sizes larger, even in the dim interior of the seedy pub.
"Thanks," she stammered.
Tinker winked and took a sip of his glass.
"That was a generous gesture," said the man next to him.
Tinker turned to regard him.
"Come here my friend."
Tinker glanced around to see who the man beside him was talking to.
"You," the man smiled and waved him over. "I'm talking to you."
Tinker searched for Bat for a moment, but the former guard was zeroed in on the two goons they had followed into the bar. The pilot sauntered over to the man with the wide grin who beckoned him over and offered him a glass.
"Did you drop a roofie in this?" Tinker nodded his thanks and took a large sip.
He figured any drug the stranger might have inserted into the drink would be negated by his steady influx of homemade hooch. If it could remove scorch marks from the hull of the NS-17, it could probably kill most known bacteria, and anything that might be lingering in the glass.
"What is roofie?" the stranger asked and Tinker knew he was safe.
Unless the guy was lying.
But he was a friendly man offering a drink, and unless he wanted to swing in a way that the pilot did not, he was going to assume the guy was just being friendly.
"Thanks for the drink," he said. "It's crowded in here."
He watched Bat move in closer to the goons.
"It is always crowded in here," the dark-haired man licked his lips. "I could suggest a more private room."
Tinker studied the lithe man in front of him, holding his own drink in front of him like a shield.
Dark hair, dusky skin, greasy beard. He was a little on the gnomish side, and fidgety, like a man trying to hide something.
Or afraid of rejection.
<
br /> Tinker decided to let him down easy.
"Thanks pal," he put a hand on the little man's shoulder. "I'm flattered as Hell but I don't play that way."
The eyes staring back at him crinkled in confusion.
"Play?"
"You know, go for guys," Tinker explained. "I like women."
"I too like women."
"Then why are you hitting on me? Let's go find us some women. I think you can buy us a couple over there," he pointed. "What's your name pal?"
"Hakim. I am Hakim."
Tinker held out his hand for a shake, but Hakim just looked at it. Tinker thought maybe he didn't know what a handshake was and tried to grab the other man's hand to show him. But it got weird when Hakim jerked his fingers back and held his hand behind him.
"Shaking not your culture, huh? I don't have a problem with that," the pilot said. "Now about those women."
"Yes," Hakim looked where he was pointing. "Those women."
"You got some credit to take care of us?" Tinker took a drink.
"Drinks yes. Women yes. But you do me a favor, yes?"
"For drinks and women, I'd do you a favor."
Hakim's grin stretched across his thin cheeks turning his face into a skull like mask.
"That is most excellent," he sat his drink down and rubbed his bony fingers together.
He started to feel a little gurgle in his stomach and stared at the contents of the glass in his hand. The liquid shimmered in a rainbow explosion of colors and began spinning like a vortex, a black hole opening in the bottom of the glass.
The vortex grew and expanded until it sucked Tinker down into it and sent him to oblivion.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“We’re here,” said Ransom.
He stood from the couch and took her glass to return them both to the cook station in the rear. She watched his eyes look at the bed with longing before he turned toward the view screen.
She shrugged and gave him an I’m sorry smile.
He returned it with a wry twist to his full lips.
The view screen showed them approaching another magnetic rail car just like the one they were in, one of several arrayed on a curve that ended in a dead drop.
“That’s the property line,” he told her. “We’re here to negotiate with the Freedman who owns the land we need to go through.”
She stood and moved next to him as they coasted to a stop.
“Do you buy the land?”
He nodded.
“If they will sell. We’re authorized to go up to a certain amount?”
“What if they still say no?”
Mona Lisa had been in several negotiations before. Sometimes people did not want what a person had to sell, no matter what the offer. Of course, she had never had that problem when confronted with a male.
She prided herself on coming out on top in those negotiations and never having to get on top of the guy to do it, though the promise of doing so had helped her win a few times.
Against a woman it was often the same.
The sexuality she oozed held a certain charm for all.
But she had come across some people who were intractable, and it was those she was referring to with her question. She suspected the negotiator had encountered more than one himself.
Freedmen were known for their pride as much as their poverty.
“That’s what the group is for,” he told her with a cryptic smirk.
The car came to a stop and a group of men, the posse as she called them, began drifting toward their door.
“I’d tell you to stay inside and get comfortable,” he said. “But I want to show you off.”
He escorted her out into the opening and did just that.
One of the men was taller than her, but shorter than Ransom. He introduced himself as the Foreman. No name, just title, and almost refused to let go of her hand as they shook.
“Glad you’re here,” the Foreman inserted himself between Ransom and Mona Lisa as he walked them toward the end of the line.
“He’s still refusing to talk, but I see you brought as secret weapon. She’ll get us in the door at least.”
Mona Lisa started to disagree, but realized that getting in the door was one step closer to her goal.
She wasn’t sure what kind of set up lay in the middle of the property, but the man had to have some sort of transport. Dirt farmers scratched at the surface of Mars to grow their own food, and any extra they had to bring to Musk to sell.
She figured she could borrow or steal the transport to go look for a place to call her own, and then find a way to compensate the farmer.
She kept walking with Ransom, but the rest of the posse stayed off the property.
Like they had been warned, she wondered.
The red dirt of Mars was dry and dusty as they trudged toward the house she could make out in the distance. Just a shape from this far away, but enough to tell it was a cracker box home.
“Have you been out here before,” he asked from beside her.
No offer to hold her arm here. This was all business.
And he knew the Farmer was watching.
“No,” she answered.
“You have to be a little crazy to live out here all alone,” he told her. “These guys trade their souls for a little patch of ground to call their own and then lose their minds to keep it.”
The color of the dirt changed to a darker shade of red and she could smell a musky raw odor, a hint of sewage.
“Where do they get the water?” she asked.
“You noticed,” Ransom reached into his pocket and produced a filter mask. He handed it to her and fished for a few seconds for one of his own.
“It’s going to get worse,” he warned her.
She could tell he was right as she slipped the mask in place.
“It’s their waste,” he told her. “These guys mix their piss and sewage in with the dirt to make it grow potatoes.”
“Gross,” her voice sounded muffled.
“It is,” he agreed. “It’s also kind of genius. This soil has been arid for years, but the microbes in their waste gives it the ability to grow food. Not much, but enough for them to survive and sell a little back to town.”
“Why do they stay?” she asked.
She was thinking about the money. What kind of credit did they offer the farmer that he refused? The right amount and he could move to some place in Musk with a lot more creature comforts.
“Pride,” he said again. “These guys have a very independent streak.”
The door opened and a figure stepped out. Mona Lisa got her first look and knew exactly what Ransom meant.
The man reeked of pride as much as the land reeked of fertilizer.
It flashed in his eyes, in the grim set of his chin, the lines on his face as he watched them approach.
“I’ve told your other men no,” he called out, his voice raspy and deep. “I’ll tell you the same. I’m not moving.”
Ransom held up both hands.
“You can say it all you want partner,” he called out as they kept moving. “I’m not listening.”
The farmer glared at them harder, and if looks could do damage, Mona Lisa felt like she would be dead.
“I told them to get off my land!” the man screamed. “I’ll tell you the same.”
Ransom stopped and spread his legs, hands still raised slightly in front of him.
“And I told you,” he growled. “I’m not listening.”
His right hand whipped down to his waist and snagged a small laser pistol. He sent a shot at the Farmer’s head, but the man was faster and ducked inside the house.
The bolt burned into the doorframe leaving a charred hole.
“What are you doing?” Mona Lisa skipped away from the man.
“Negotiating,” he stared at the farmhouse. “Come on out and I’ll let your kids live.”
“There are kids in there?” she called out as she kept moving away from him.
Her eyes
studied the farmhouse and she noticed an outbuilding behind it. A barn? Too small to be a barn, but big enough to hide a transport of some sort.
It was several hundred meters from the spot where she was moving, trying to put distance between her and the Authority man in case the Farmer was armed and started shooting.
Plus, she didn’t want Ransom to turn his guns on her either.
She glanced back at the end of the line.
The Foreman and his men were making their way toward the Farm.
She didn’t have much time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tinker woke up in his pilot's seat and rubbed his bleary eyes.
"Hey," he croaked and tried to speak past the swelling in his throat.
"You're awake."
He hauled himself out of the chair and stumbled across the cargo deck and into the small cubicle he called the Captain's Quarters. It took several moments to fish out a flask, and a moment more to fill it from the still.
He swished around the hooch in his mouth, swallowing the burn and letting it work on his foggy mind.
"What happened?"
"You brought a companion home last night."
Tinker reached around and felt his backside.
"Man or woman?"
"A male."
"Oh man," he sat on the edge of the bunk.
"He left you a note."
Great. A blackout drunk and something like this happens. He took another long drink, washed the taste out of his mouth around the new lump that clenched his throat tight and refilled the flask to overflowing.
Then he set out to search for the note.
"Where is it?" he asked after fumbling around the cargo hold looking for a tablet or something with writing on it.
"He left it on the console."
"Of course, he did," Tinker shrugged and made his way to the cockpit.
He'd always had an attraction to space, so it didn't surprise him he acted out his carnal desires in the one place he felt uninhibited.
Still he shivered at what he assumed was the memory of it, even if he couldn't exactly remember anything.
"Where's Bat?"
He asked as he picked the tiny communication tablet off the console and waited for the words to swim into focus in front of his shine soaked eyes.