by L.H. Thomson
***
Robert Cardale met us in space above Earth, on NTC Station. He stood in the stern of his flagship vessel, The Self-Reliant, and looked down through the giant panes of plexinum ahead upon the twinkling landmass of lights and life below. The SP had taken in Hanna in connection with the deaths of the Archivist, and he was watching a news holo on it when we walked in.
“So you have the drive?”
I nodded. “You have our 100,000 credits?”
He said, “It’s being wired into your account as we speak.”
“Vance Vega’s dead.”
“Really?”
“A real good imitation of it. We saw his flagship swallowed by a Technocracy Dreadnought.”
“Hmm. That should shake up the balance of power a bit assuming you’re right,” said Cardale.
“Assuming?”
He smiled. “Vance has been counted out before. Until I see a body…”
“Gotcha”. I handed him the drive. “I need to tell you for fairness sake, she said it’s garbage. There’s nothing on it, just a few junk text files. But we haven’t actually checked yet.”
Cardale smiled. His mechanical hand closed tightly around the drive applying pressure mere human muscles could never attain, crushing it utterly. He let the tiny fragments of white and black plastic spill out of his hand and onto the floor.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said.
Jayde was stunned. “Wait a second: you didn’t even look at it. Are you saying that even if there was a new engine, you’d just crush it like that?”
“Do you find that hard to believe, Ms. Chen?” he said. “Why? We’re the Cardale Group. We didn’t invent the MultiNet. And we didn’t invent the Quantum Drive. We funded anti-necrotics, but it was an independent scientist who did the work, not us.
“And yet we’re the biggest of the Big Six, the biggest corporation in an entire galaxy. We have our own plans for developing new products over the next 20 years, and many of them use Jofari Psychic Cores. Why would we want to scrap all of those plans?”
She looked down at the shattered plastic on the floor. “And so that’s just …”
“… the stuff that dreams were saved on,” I said.
Cardale shook his head. “I might be the only person left in the galaxy old enough to remember when that joke was still fresh.”
I turned to leave. “Whatever. Everyone’s a critic. Come on, Jayde. Let’s go get our ship fixed up and call Fesker. He’s going to be so unhappy to know we can pay him out.”
Cardale called after me, “Smith! Thank you for doing such a good job, Smith.”
I turned and walked backwards. “Hey, was Hanna Dow right about that summons? Did you send me to flush out the archivist for you?”
He just smiled. And then the door to the gallery slid closed behind us.
We headed for the elevator down to the landing pads. Jayde looked at me. “Pretty dirty money, boss. Not for anything we had to do, just who we’re getting it from. He really meant all that stuff, you know. He’d have condemned an entire race to slavery.”
I shrugged. “Not one that cared. In the end, people still got to give a damn. You’re 251 next month, Jayde, so you know better than anyone that as long as people don’t give a damn – enough of a damn to get personally involved, that is – someone will take advantage of them.”
She said, “You know, the Followers aren’t so wrong. It’s like the book says right off the top: ‘All human behavior begins, ends and is ultimately governed by the inherently selfish – and necessary – act of self-preservation.’ Once you know that … ”
“What,” I said, “you’re suddenly safe from greed and selfishness? I don’t think so. Look at their so-called leader. Just because something is good for you and the majority doesn’t mean you won’t be targeted because of someone’s beliefs.”
She sighed. “Too bad about him. An RDH who hasn’t learned a goddamned thing in over 200 years. He was cute, too.”
We’d stopped by an auto-vendor and picked up a couple of shipping contracts, a few loads of goods to take back out to the Deneleth system. It didn’t pay much and it was a few days away, but we had time, and for a change, some creds in our pockets. The ship was in good shape, and not one of the Big Six was ticked off at us – not one that was an immediate threat, anyway. And like I said earlier, Deneleth was the wild west, a place full of new opportunities, second chances.
It wasn’t exactly optimism, but we’d take it.
Jayde remotely lowered the gangplank and we boarded the Esmeralda, squeezing through the narrow, wire-strewn corridor to the main cabin. Most people would have complained about living on a ship, but we had big, cushy leather pilot chairs – pretty swank living for a Smith and an RDH.
We both put our feet up on the dash and watched space silently for a few moments, relaxing for the first time in days. Then Jayde cocked her head my way.
“Hey boss, I just realized something: it’s my birthday today.”
I smiled. ‘What is that … thirty-nine now?”
She smiled. “Sweet.”
“Hey,” I said, “I got you something.”
I reached under my chair for the wrapped package I’d picked up a week earlier, before heading to G’Farg and the start of this whole crazy business. “Harrison helped me find it.”
Jayde tore the package open like a kid at Christmas then pulled out the pearl-handled Navy Colt, with a slightly tarnished but beautifully engraved barrel. I said, “It’s the real deal, circa 1851. We had to get it converted to a standard .38, as it use this old paper cap-and ball system that…”
Before I could finish, she threw her arms around me and hugged me. “Oh Boss, it’s awesome. You so know what to get a girl.” She held it up to the light, letting the cabin light play off of it then she held it out at arm’s length, aiming down the crude barrel sights. Then she looked momentarily depressed. “It’s great. But I’m not sure I can use it all the time.”
“Why?”
“Well you just know I can’t pistol whip someone with that pearl handle and risk damaging it. It’s so purdy.”
“Hey, you just do anything you damn well please with it. As long as you like it.”
She smiled languidly and a sense of relaxation seemed to wash over her. “Well. This has been a fine day, I’d say. We’ve got a shitload of money – for the time being, anyway – the bad guy got hers, and you got me this awesome gift. You’re a good friend, Bob Smith.”
I just smiled, but I didn’t say anything as she turned back to the dash and began plotting in our departure, both of us kicking back, the light of a million stars ahead of us.
I didn’t need to. After all, it’s a tough universe out there.
If friends don’t have each other’s backs, well … what do any of us have? We all need a little trust in each other; we all need a little common ground.
THE END
The Process Server
By L.H. Thomson
Discover other titles by L.H. Thomson:
The Antique Hunters, a romantic comedy
Coming Soon:
The Abigail Deane series:
Abigail Deane & The Demon’s Gate
Abigail Deane & The Sapphire’s Curse
Max Castillo mysteries:
Buried in Benidorm
Vendetta in Valencia
Liam Quinn mysteries:
Quinn Checks In