“Here we go,” he said. “Just three cards. Ace, deuce, Queen of Diamonds. See ‘em? I’m going to shuffle them and lay them out, one, two, three.” He laid them out facedown on the tray. “See? Now, which one’s the queen? Can you find her?”
Ford couldn’t believe what a dumb game this was. Only three cards? He turned over the queen.
“Boy, it’s hard to fool you,” said the man with the tray. “You’ve got natural luck, kid. Want to go again?” The other man had already swept the three cards up and was shuffling them.
“Okay,” said Ford.
“Got any money? Want to place a bet?”
“I don’t have any money,” said Ford.
“No money? That’s too bad,” said the man with the tray, closing it up at once. “A lucky guy like you, you could win big. But they don’t get rich down there in the Collective, do they? Same dull work every day of your life, and nothing to show for it when it’s all over. That’s what I hear.”
Ford nodded sadly. It wasn’t just Sam, he realized; everybody laughed at the MAC.
“What would you say to a chance at something better, eh?” said the man with the cards. In one smooth movement he made the cards vanish and produced instead a text plaquette. Its case was grubby and cracked, but the screen was bright with a lot of very small words.
“Know what I have here? This is a deal that’ll set you up as a diamond prospector. Think of that! You could make more with one lucky strike than you’d make working the Long Acres the whole rest of your life. Now, I know what you’re going to say—you don’t have any tools and you don’t have any training. But, you know what you have got? You’re young. You’re in good shape, and you can take the weather Outside.
“So here’s the deal: Mr. Agar has the tools and the training, but he ain’t young. You agree to go to work for him, and he’ll provide what you need. You pay him off out of your first big diamond strike, and then you’re in business for yourself. Easiest way to get rich there is! And all you have to do is put your thumbprint right there. What do you say?” He held out the plaquette to Ford.
Ford blinked at it. He had heard stories of the people who dug red diamonds out of the clay—why, Mons Olympus had been founded by a lady who’d got rich like that! He was reaching for the plaquette when a voice spoke close to his ear.
“Can you read, kid?”
Ford turned around. A Hauler was looking over his shoulder, smiling.
“Well—I read a little—”
“Get lost!” said the man with the plaquette, looking angry.
“I can’t read,” the Hauler went on, “but I know these guys. They’re with Agar Steelworks. You know what they’re trying to get you to thumb? That’s a contract that’ll legally bind you to work in Agar’s iron mines for fifteen years.”
“Like you’d know, jackass!” said the man with the plaquette, slipping it out of sight. He brought out a short length of iron bar and waved it at the Hauler meaningfully. The Hauler’s red eyes sparkled.
“You want to fight?” he said, smacking his fists together. “Yeah! You think I’m afraid of you? You lousy little street-corner hustler! C’mere!”
The man took a swipe at him with the bar, and the Hauler dodged it and grabbed it out of his hand. The other two broke and ran, vanishing down an alley. The Hauler grinned after them, tossing the bar into the street.
“Freakin’ kidnappers,” he said to Ford. “You’re, what, twelve? I have a kid your age.”
“Thank you,” Ford stammered.
“That’s okay. You want to watch out for Human Resourcers, though, kid. They work that con on a lot of MAC boys like you. Diamond prospectors! Nobody but Mother ever got rich that way.” The Hauler yawned and stretched. “You head off to the nearest Security post and report ‘em now, okay?”
“I can’t,” said Ford, and to his horror he felt himself starting to shake. “I—they—there was this fight, and—Security guys came and—I have to hide.”
“You in trouble?” The Hauler leaned down and looked at Ford closely. “Fighting? Mother’s Boys don’t allow no fighting, that’s for sure. You need a place to hide? Maybe get out of town until it all blows over?” He gave Ford a conspiratorial wink.
“Yes, please,” said Ford.
“You come along with me, then. I got a safe place,” said the Hauler. Without looking back to see if Ford was following him, he turned and loped off up the street. Ford ran after him.
“Please, who are you?”
The Hauler glanced over his shoulder. “Billy Townsend,” he said. “But don’t tell me who you are. Safer that way, right?”
“Right,” said Ford, falling into step beside him. He looked up at his rescuer. Billy was tall and gangly, and lurched a little when he walked, but he looked as though he wasn’t the least bit worried what people thought of him. His face and dreadlocked hair and beard were all red, the funny bricky red that came from years of going Outside and having the red dust get everywhere, until it became so deeply engrained water wouldn’t wash it off. There were scars all over his face and hands, too. On the back of his psuit someone had painted white words in a circle.
“What’s it say on your back?” Ford asked him.
“Says bipolar BOYS AND GIRLS,” said Billy. “On account of we go Up and Down there, see? And because we’re nutcases, half of us.”
“What’s it like in the ice mines?”
“Cold,” said Billy, chuckling. “Get your face mask on, now. Here we go! Here’s our Beautiful Evelyn.”
They stepped out through the airlock, and the cold bit into Ford. He gulped for air and followed Billy into a vast echoing building like a hangar. It was the car barn for the ice processing plant. Just now it was deserted, but over by the loading chute sat a freighter. Ford caught his breath.
He had never seen one up close before, and it was bigger than he had imagined. Seventy-five meters long, set high on big knobbed ball tires. Its steel tank had been scoured to a dull gleam by the wind and sand. At one end was a complication of hatches and lenses and machinery that Ford supposed must be the driver’s cab. Billy reached up one long arm and grabbed a lever. The foremost hatch hissed, swung open, and a row of steps clanked down into place.
“There you go,” said Billy. “Climb on up! Nobody’ll think to look for you in there. I’ll be back later. Make yourself at home.”
Ford scrambled up eagerly. He looked around as the hatch squeezed shut behind him, and air rushed back in. He pulled down his mask.
He was in a tiny room with a pair of bunks built into one side. The only light came from a dim panel set in the ceiling. There was nothing else in the room, except for a locker under the lower bunk and three doors in the wall opposite. It was disappointingly plain and spotless.
Ford opened the first door and beheld the tiniest lavatory he had ever seen, so compact he couldn’t imagine how to use it. He tried the second door and found a kitchen built along similar lines, more a series of shelves than a room. The third door opened into a much larger space. He crawled through and found himself in the driver’s cab.
Timidly, he edged his way farther in and sat down at the console. He looked up at the instrument panels, at the big screens that ran all around the inside of the cab. They were blank and blind now, but what would it be like to sit here when the freighter was roaring along the High Road?
On the panel above the console was a little figurine, glued in place. It was a cheap-looking thing, of cast red stone like the souvenirs he had seen for sale on the handcarts in Commerce Square. It represented a lady, leaning forward as though she were running, or perhaps flying. The sculptor had given her hair that streamed back in an imaginary wind. She was grinning crazily, as the Haulers all did. She had only one eye, of red cut glass; Ford guessed the matching one had fallen off. He looked on the floor of the cab, but didn’t see it.
Ford grinned too, and, because no one was there to see him, he put his hands on the wheel. “Brrrrroooom,” he whispered, and looked up at the s
creens as though to check on his location. He felt a little stupid.
But in every one of the screens, his reflection was smiling back at him. Ford couldn’t remember when he’d been so happy.
* * * *
3
Bill’s dinner had gone cold, though he stuffed a forkful in his mouth every now and then when he noticed Mother watching him. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from the door much. Where was Billy?
He might have gotten in a fight, and Mother’s Boys might have hauled him off to the Security Station; if that were the case, sooner or later Mother would come over to Bill with an apologetic cough and say something like, “Your dad’s just had a bit of an argument, dear, and I think you’d best doss down here tonight until he, er, wakes up. We’ll let him out tomorrow.” And Bill would feel his face burning with shame, as he always did when that happened.
Or Billy might have met someone he knew, and forgotten about the time… or he might have gone for a drink somewhere else… or…
Bill was so busy imagining all the places Billy might be that he got quite a shock when Billy walked through the airlock. Before Billy had spotted him and started making his way across the room, the cramping worry had turned to anger.
“Where were you?” Bill shouted. “You were supposed to be here!”
“I had stuff to do,” said Billy vaguely, sliding into the booth. He waved at Mother, who acknowledged him with a nod and sent one of her daughters over to take his order. Bill looked him over suspiciously. No cuts or bruises on his face, nothing broken on his psuit. Not fighting, then. Maybe he had met a girl. Bill relaxed just a little, but his anger kept smoldering.
When Billy’s beer had been brought, Bill said:
“I wondered where you were. How come you had the comm turned off?”
“Is it off?” Billy groped for the switch in his shoulder. “Oh. Wow. Sorry, kiddo. Must have happened when I took my mask off.”
He had a sip of beer. Bill gritted his teeth. He could tell that, as far as Billy was concerned, the incident was over. It had just been a mistake, right? What was the point of getting mad about it? Never mind that Bill had been scared and alone…
Bill exhaled forcefully and shoveled down his congealing dinner.
“I got my socks,” he said loudly.
“That’s nice,” said Billy. Lifting his glass for another sip, his attention was taken by the holo playing above the bar. He stared across at it. Bill turned around in his seat to look. There was the image of one of Mother’s Boys, a sergeant from his uniform, staring into the foremost camera as he made some kind of announcement. His lips moved in silence, though, with whatever he was saying drowned out by the laughter and the shouting in the bar.
Bill looked quickly back at Billy. Why was he watching the police report? Had he been in some kind of incident after all? Billy snorted with laughter, watching, and then pressed his lips shut to hide a smile. Why was he doing that?
Bill looked back at the holo, more certain than ever that Billy was in trouble, but now saw holofootage of two guys fighting. Was either one of them Billy? No; Bill felt his anger damp down again as he realized it was only a couple of MAC colonists, kicking and punching each other as they rolled in the street. Bill was appalled; he hadn’t thought the Collective ever did stupid stuff like that.
Then there was a closeup shot of a skinny boy, with a shaven head –MAC, Bill supposed. He shrugged and turned his attention back to his plate.
Billy’s food was brought and he dug into it with gusto.
“Think we’ll head out again tonight,” he said casually.
“But we just got back in!” Bill said, startled.
“Yeah. Well…” Billy sliced off a bit of Grilled Strip, put it in his mouth and chewed carefully before going on. “There’s… mm… this big bonus right now for C02, see? MAC’s getting a crop of something or other in the ground and they’ve placed like this humungous order for it. So we can earn like double what we just deposited if I get a second trip in before the end of the month.”
Bill didn’t know what to say. It was the sort of thing he nagged at his dad to do, saving more money; usually Billy spent it as fast as he had it. Bill looked at him with narrowed eyes, wondering if he had gotten into trouble after all. But he just shrugged again and said, “Okay.”
“Hey, Mona?” Billy waved at the nearest of Mother’s daughters. “Takeaway order too, okay, sweetheart? Soygold nuggets and sprouts. And a bottle of batch.”
“Why are we getting takeaway?” Bill asked him.
“Er…” Billy looked innocent. “I’m just way hungry, is all. Think I’ll want a snack later. I’ll be driving all night.”
“But you drove for twelve hours today!” Bill protested. “Aren’t you ever going to sleep?”
“Sleep is for wusses,” said Billy. “I’ll just pop a Freddie.”
Bill scowled. Freddies were little red pills that kept you awake and jittery for days. Haulers took them sometimes when they needed to be on the road for long runs without stopping. It was stupid to take them all the time, because they could kill you, and Bill threw them away whenever he found any in the cab. Billy must have stopped to buy some more. So that was where he’d been.
* * * *
Night had fallen by the time they left the Empress and headed back down the hill. Cold penetrated down through the Permavizio; Bill shivered, and his psuit’s thermostat turned itself up. There were still people in the streets, though fewer of them, and some of the lights had been turned out. Usually by this time, when they were in off the road, Bill would be soaking in a stone tub full of hot water, and looking forward to a good night’s sleep someplace warm for a change. The thought made him grumpy as they came round the corner into the airlock.
“Masks on, Dad,” Bill said automatically. Billy nodded, shifting the stoneware bucket of takeaway to his other hand as he reached for his mask. They went out to Beautiful Evelyn.
Bill was climbing up to open the cab when Billy grabbed him and pulled him back.
“Hang on,” he said, and reached up and knocked on the hatch. “Yo, kid! Mask up, we’re coming in!”
“What?” Bill staggered back, staring at Billy. “Who’s in there?”
Billy didn’t answer, but Bill heard a high-pitched voice calling Okay from inside the cab, and Billy swung the hatch open and climbed up. Bill scrambled after him. The hatch sealed behind them and the air whooshed back. Bill pulled off his mask as the lights came on to reveal a boy, pulling off his own mask. They stared at each other, blinking.
Billy held out the bucket of takeaway. “Here you go, kid. Hot dinner!”
“Oh! Thank you,” said the other, as Bill recognized him for the MAC boy from the holofootage he’d watched.
“What’s he doing here?” he demanded.
“Just, you know, sort of laying low,” said Billy. “Got in a little trouble and needs to go off someplace until things cool down. Thought we could take him out on the run with us, right? No worries.” He stepped sidelong into the cab and threw himself into the console seat, where he proceeded to start up Beautiful Evelyn’s drives.
“But—but—”said Bill.
“Er… hi,” said the other boy, avoiding his eyes. He was taller than Bill but looked younger, with big wide eyes and ears that stuck out. His shaven head made him look even more like a baby.
“Who’re you?” said Bill.
“I’m, ah—“ said the other boy, just as Billy roared from the cab:
“No names! No names! The less we know, the less they can beat out of us!” And he whooped with laughter. The noise of the drives powering up drowned out anything else he might have said. Bill clenched his fists and stepped close to Ford, glaring up into his eyes.
“What’s going on? What’d my dad do?”
“Nothing!” Ford took a step backward.
“Well then, what’d you do? You must have done something, because you were on the holo. I saw you! You were fighting, huh?”
Ford gulped. Hi
s eyes got even wider and he said, “Er—yeah. Yeah, I punched out these guys. Who were trying to trick me into working in the mines for them. And, uh, I ran because, because the Security Fascists were going to beat the daylights out of me. So Billy let me hide in here. What’s your name?”
“Bill,” he replied. “You’re with the MAC, aren’t you? What were you fighting for?”
“Well—the other guys started it,” said Ford. He looked with interest at the takeaway. “This smells good. It was really nice of your dad to bring it for me. Is there anywhere I can sit down to eat?”
“In there,” said Bill in disgust, pointing into the cab.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Fourth Annual Collection Page 29