by Jake Bible
Gants sighed. It was like a slow, high-pitched whistle.
“What number are you?” Gants asked the bodyguard.
“Seven,” the bodyguard replied, not looking too sure of his answer.
“Seven?” Gants asked. “Oh, the irony.”
Gants waved his palm over his left wrist and a holo display came up. Gants toggled to a specific screen, found a bright red number seven, and tapped the icon. The bodyguard’s head exploded all over his two comrades.
“Now there are two bodies to clean up,” Gants said to the two remaining bodyguards. “Want to ask me more stupid questions? Or maybe say stupid shit about brain trackers that don’t exist?”
“No brain trackers?” one of the bodyguards asked as he wiped brain from his face. “That’s a lie?”
“I’m going to let those two questions pass,” Gants said and banished his holo display. “Because this will be a good lesson in economics. Schigg?”
“Jafla Base PD cannot afford brain trackers because they are a shit operation that is mainly funded by our benefactor here,” Schigg said as he put a stack of glasses on a shelf above his head. He turned and regarded the bodyguards. “Mr. Gants. That’s the benefactor I am speaking of. Mr. Gants does not pay them enough to afford tech like that, therefore, they do not have tech like that.”
“And her wrist implant was fried the second she walked into the Club without authorization,” Gants said.
Both Gants and Schigg watched the bodyguards’ confusion build.
“Fuck me,” Gants said. “What are your numbers?”
“Sixteen,” one bodyguard said.
“Thirty-five,” the other said.
“Sixteen and Thirty-five, clean up the bodies then come back with a sonic mop and scrub that floor until it shines,” Gants said. “Do that and you get to live another day.”
Schigg went back to his busy work while Gants watched the bodyguards fumble with cleaning up the bodies. Neither Sixteen nor Thirty-five asked what to do with the corpses.
“You think they’ll figure out that the corpses go in the incinerator in the basement?” Gants asked Schigg. “Can’t wait to see how this plays out.”
“You keep killing your test tube thugs and you’re going to go broke replacing them,” Schigg said as he moved on from putting dishes away to slicing some sort of spiky fruit.
Gants picked at a scale on his neck, looked at the mite he dug out, squished the bug between his thumb and forefinger, then wiped the mess on a cocktail napkin. He wadded the napkin and threw it into the incinerator chute behind the bar.
Schigg slid an empty glass down the bar to him without looking and Gants caught it, poured the remains of the whiskey bottle into it, downed the liquor, then sighed that whistle sigh of his.
“You know I’m right,” Schigg said.
“Yes, Schigg, I know you are right,” Gants grumbled. “But they piss me off so fucking much.”
“So do hangnails, but you don’t chop your fingers off every time you get one,” Schigg said. He’d switched his chore to refilling the condiments trays up and down the bar. “You paid a lot of chits for the morons. They have one purpose: to keep you alive and make others dead. You did not pay for the genius upgrade.”
Gants began to speak, but Schigg held up a slender, yellow finger. Gants grunted and remained quiet.
“Let them be morons and do their job of physically protecting you,” Schigg continued. He twirled a finger at the ceiling. “You have enough tech in here to alert you to any possible threat coming at the Club. If a threat does pass the tech test, then you have the thugs. Keep killing them and you are exposed in your own establishment. We do not want that.”
“You love being right, don’t you?” Gants snapped. “You just love having the answers, yeah? So smart and full of wisdom from centuries of living. Must be nice to be perfect.”
Gants glared down the bar at Schigg who was trying to wrangle a glob of wriggling worms into a dish at one of the condiment stations. The man didn’t look back at Gants, only continued doing his busy work.
“No answer to that?” Gants asked, still glaring.
“What would you have me say? If I say I’m not perfect, then you will berate me and demand to know why you are paying me so much,” Schigg answered. “If I say I am perfect, then you’ll berate me for having too much of an ego and how dangerous egos are.”
Schigg shut the lid of the worm dish and turned to face Gants.
“What do you want from this interaction, Mr. Gants?” Schigg asked. “Tell me what you want and I will do my best to provide.”
“I want another bottle of whiskey,” Gants said without any irony or sarcasm to his voice.
“Well played,” Schigg said. “Normally, I would warn you off drinking so much before the Club opens, but you set up the situation so that if I did that then I would look like I am trying to control you. Which means you get your bottle of whiskey without comment. Very well played.”
“Without comment?” Gants laughed as Schigg fetched a fresh bottle, broke the seal, and slid the whiskey down the bar to Gants. “Your without comments sound a lot like comments.”
Someone cleared their throat by the Club entrance. Both Gants and Schigg paused in their tête-à-tête and regarded the owner of the throat phlegm with suspicion and disdain.
“Good afternoon, Dark,” Schigg said, glanced at Gants, then set about refilling the sanitary snack dispensers that were set every few feet up and down the bar. A dozen different pictures were displayed on the dispensers showing the snack offerings that could be enjoyed by most beings in the galaxy. “What brings you in so early?”
“Need a word with Mr. Gants,” Dark said as she crossed the floor, careful not to step in the pools of blood. She barely gave the gunk a second look as she stepped over the last puddle and approached the bar. “May I have a minute, sir?”
“Have a seat, Dark,” Gants said. “I have nothing better to do at this moment.”
“You have the meeting in twenty minutes,” Schigg said.
“That’s in twenty minutes,” Gants replied as he watched Dark sit down two stools away. “Do I stink, Dark?”
Dark appeared confused, so Gants patted the stool right next to him.
“I didn’t want to crowd you, sir,” Dark said as she got up and took the offered stool. “Leforians take up a good amount of space.”
“Yeah, you bug hounds do,” Gants said. “But I like to be close to the person I’m speaking with so I can get a feel for what terpigshit is about to be shoveled my way.”
“No terpigshit, sir,” Dark said. “I came to talk to you about Etch Knowles.”
Gants blinked at Dark for a few seconds then turned and blinked at Schigg.
“The new tile player,” Schigg said.
“Right. The one kicked off Ballyway,” Gants said. “How in all the Hells do you get kicked off Ballyway?”
“We should ask him,” Schigg said.
“We should,” Gants said. “He here now? You want to finally introduce us to this wiz with the tiles, Dark?”
“He isn’t with me now,” Dark said. “I trust him with the tiles, but I don’t know if I trust him seeing you yet, sir.”
“Good thinking,” Gants replied, tapping Dark’s chest. The exoskeleton made a dull thudding noise. “You trust him with tiles, but not meeting me. What else do you want to talk about? He’s making us chits, yeah?”
“He’s making us chits and he’s got the routine down tight with the middling bunch of tile players in the Mesker District,” Dark said.
“And now you’d like to move him up to this district, that it?” Gants said. “You don’t trust him enough to meet me, but you trust him enough to go up a level?”
“It’s been six months, sir,” Dark said. “If he’s going to be the one we use for whale hunting, then we need to move him now. Any longer where he is and someone will spot that he’s playing an intentional win/loss system. Then he’ll be blown as a duck hunter and no one will want t
o play with him.”
“You hear that, Schigg?” Gants laughed. “Dark says that no one will want to play with him!”
Gants drank deep from his whiskey and leaned in close to Dark. His finger tapped Dark’s exoskeleton again and again.
“They play with him or they don’t play,” Gants stated. “Doesn’t matter who’s sitting there, those are my tables. If I want the sons of bitches to play with a bunch of dead Kweets, then they’ll fucking play with a bunch of dead Kweets. You hear me, Dark?”
“I do, sir,” Dark replied instantly.
“What Dark is trying to say is the whales will have heard of him by the time we get him to the top tables,” Schigg said.
“I know what she’s saying!” Gants roared.
“Wonderful,” Schigg replied, completely unfazed by the yelling. “Then you understand the importance of timing with this. Three months until we host the meeting. I believe Dark’s assessment of timing is correct here. The man should be moved to the next level so he is prepared when the time comes.”
“Meeting?” Dark asked.
Schigg’s ember eyes locked onto Dark and the Leforian bowed her head.
“When can you bring him in?” Schigg asked. “Tonight?”
“The woman just told us she doesn’t trust him enough to bring him in for a face to face meeting,” Gants said. “Schigg, stop being stupid.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m doing,” Schigg said, eyes still on Dark. “Can you bring him in tonight or does he have an important game?”
“Nothing too important he can’t leave early,” Dark said.
“But the trust issue…?” Gants said.
“He can meet with me first,” Schigg said. “Bring him by around 1am. I’ll assess his trustworthiness and then pass him on or kick him out. Tonight will be the test. Do you believe he is ready for my test, Dark?”
“I don’t know,” Dark answered.
“We will find out before the night is over then,” Schigg said.
“1am?” Dark asked.
“1am,” Schigg replied.
“Oh, and bring that Lipian he lives with too,” Gants said. “He still lives with her, right?”
“The whore? What do you need the whore here for?” Dark asked.
“Excellent idea,” Schigg said. “And the why is none of your concern, Dark. Bring her.”
“1am,” Dark said and clapped all four of her hands together. “They’ll be here.”
“Good,” Gants said and gave the Leforian a slight shove in the chest. “Now, go away. Get out there and take care of business. I’m hearing that bodega on the corner of 480th and 321st has been slinging proto-stim on the side. You hearing that too, Dark?”
Dark stood up and clicked her mandibles in irritation.
“Yeah, sir, I have been hearing that,” Dark admitted. “I warned the Fergs running that place. I’ll go see them right now and put an end to that.”
“No, you won’t,” Gants said. “You’ll go see them and get our piece of that action. Make sure to collect for all the payments they’ve missed too.”
“You want them to keep slinging proto-stim?” Dark asked. “That stuff is crap.”
“The tourists pay for it,” Gants said. “And it’s the tourists that still keep this base rolling in chits and credits, Dark. I don’t want them hooked on true stim or they blow their wads in a week. I want them just high enough that they keep spending, but not so high that they spend it all and can’t come back. You getting how this works, Dark? This job isn’t too taxing, is it?”
“I get how it works, sir,” Dark said. She nodded. “I’ll get the missed payments and have Knowles here at 1am.”
“All in a hard day’s work,” Gants said and waved a hand, dismissing the Leforian.
Dark nodded again and left quickly.
“She a problem?” Gants asked Schigg once Dark was gone.
“No,” Schigg said. “Dark is a solid earner and loyal as ever. I don’t detect a duplicitous vibe off of her at all.”
“Good,” Gants said. “I like Dark. She has good instincts.”
“I agree,” Schigg said. He’d started counting liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. A tablet he held beeped shrilly. “Distributor is out of Klavian whiskey again.”
“What about that bootleg stuff we got last week?” Gants asked. “We have any of that left?”
“Plenty,” Schigg said.
“Pour it into the real bottles,” Gants said as he stood up and walked towards the back wall of the Club. “I’m taking a nap. Have that sweet thing with the third arm come wake me up in three hours.”
“The meeting you have in ten minutes…?” Schigg let the question hang there.
“That was real?”
“It was and is.”
“Then fucking reschedule, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Schigg said without looking at Gants. “Enjoy your nap.”
17.
Etch fumbled the tile as he laid it out on the table and received a couple snickers over his clumsiness. But only a couple. The majority of the players at the table only gave Etch’s fumbling hard stares.
“Sorry,” Etch said to the players that snickered. “Been a lousy day and the tiles aren’t going my way tonight.”
He fumbled a second tile next to the first one and looked about at all the players before patting his palm against the table’s surface.
“That stands, yeah?” he asked.
The two players that had snickered then groaned and threw up their hands.
“Stands tall,” a woman said as she mucked her tiles and leaned back in her chair. “Lucky play for a guy that isn’t all that lucky tonight.”
Etch raked in the chits and gave her a nod.
“Only luck I’ve had, I guess,” Etch said as he stacked the chits to his left and threw his remaining tiles into the pile. “Maybe I should call it quits right now. Get out while I’m behind.”
“You look like you’re ahead,” one of the snickerers said. “More chits now than when you sat down.”
“I mean for the night,” Etch said and looked sheepish. “This is my third tile house. Busted out at the last two.”
“That so?” the second snickerer asked. “What houses? We just landed this morning and haven’t figured out the good ones to play at.”
“I can point you to two houses that have a lot more chits now than they did when they opened earlier,” Etch said with a self-deprecating smile.
“How about we play some tiles instead?” a Cervile man said. “Is that okay, halfer? Or do we need to listen to you play these marks all night?”
Etch’s hand paused in midair as it was about to add a chit to the final stack he was organizing. He grimaced then focused his own Cervile eyes on a similar pair that were staring him down from across the table. Pupils turned to thin lines on both sides.
“Hold on,” the woman said as she held up her hands. “Don’t need no cat fight tonight. Tiles have been good for me. Let’s not ruin the mood, okay?”
“Care to call me halfer again?” Etch asked the Cervile man.
The two snickerers glanced at each other then both began picking up their chits.
“Stay put,” the Cervile man snapped. “This game is still going.”
“Yeah, I think we’re good,” the second snickerer said as he stood up.
A Blorta 65 pistol appeared in the Cervile’s hand and he aimed it at the snickerer, but his eyes were still locked with Etch’s.
“Sit. Down,” the Cervile ordered.
“Dumb stuff,” a half-drunk-looking Urvein growled from the last seat at the table. He rolled his eyes at Etch, at the Cervile man, at the snickerers, and at the woman. “Stupid move.”
“We’ll see,” the Cervile man said then his eyes did shift to the snickerers. “You aren’t sitting. You ever been on the wrong end of a Blorta 65?”
The two snickerers sat down and stayed put. One looked about, but no one was paying any attention to the table. Every
one in the room was too busy handling their own tile games to care about a minor dust-up at one of the other tables.
“You…you shoot that in here and security will get you,” the first snickerer said.
“Not likely,” the Cervile man said. He flipped over his left wrist and gave his hand a shake. A holo appeared and everyone at the table groaned. It was a bright gold badge spinning in a slow circle for all to see. “Detective Kalaka, Galactic Vice Squad. Security isn’t coming.”
“Oh, man,” the first snickerer said. “Hey, gambling is legal on Jafla, right?”
“You can’t bust us for playing tiles,” the second snickerer exclaimed. “We checked the laws before landing!”
“We came to watch the Orbs and have a good time,” the first snickerer said. “We’re not criminals.”
“Did the hostess at the door check your IDs when you came in?” Kalaka asked.
“Uh, what hostess?” the first snickerer asked.
“Exactly,” Kalaka replied. “Legit tile establishments have hostesses or hosts. They don’t have a scanner array that clocks you down to your atoms and logs your genetic signature in an illicit database. You two didn’t wonder what that bright blue light was when you came through the front door?”
Neither answered, but both turned to glance towards the front of the room and the short hallway that led to the tile house’s entrance.
“We playing or what?” snarled the Urvein. “I gotta work in the morning, so let’s get this going or I need to find a new table.”
Kalaka pocketed the pistol and gave the Urvein a smile.
“I’m ready to play if you all are,” Kalaka said. “Are you all ready?”
The snickerers nodded immediately and began fumbling with their chits for their antes. The woman threw her hands up in a “why not?” gesture. That left Etch.
“What time is it?” Etch asked, nodding at the still spinning holo of the badge. “My implant is acting up.”
The image of the badge changed to an image of a clock which showed the table it was 12:15am.
“I should call it a night,” Etch said. “I think the tiles will be a little cold for me from here on out.”