by Adam Rakunas
“Let’s talk about your management style,” I said, shaking my hand to ease the sting. I looked at my fingers to make sure I hadn’t hurt anything; they were stained blue where I’d made contact.
The girl stood up, her flushed face looking like a bruised tomato. “You,” she said, holding her cheek and trying to keep from crying, “you are in such trouble.”
I held up my hand and showed her the smudged ink. “You and me both, kid.”
Her eyes went wide, and she put her hands over her face. “You... you... I’m getting the supervisor!” She ran up the line, all the workers applauding as she fled.
“Speaking of management skills,” said Banks, cleaning his mouth.
“What, should I have I smiled at her?” I said, wiping the ink off on my pants. “Let’s get gone.”
“Where?”
“Wherever this line goes,” I said, nodding at the stacks. “They wouldn’t be making all this without having a way to get it out.”
There was a commotion, and I turned to see the purple-faced girl pointing at me. Next to her was a man in an impeccable white suit. They both turned to us, and my jaw hit the ground when I saw Evanrute Saarien’s face grow as pale as his clothes. He shouted something, maybe my name, maybe an obscenity. I didn’t wait to find out.
I grabbed Banks and Jilly, and we ran, shouldering a half-filled drum off the line. The molasses spattered on the ground, leaving a sticky, toxic cloud in our wake as we ran as fast as we could into the stacks.
Chapter 20
We turned corners at random until we couldn’t hear anyone following us. When I caught my breath, I looked up and saw nothing but molasses drums all the way to the ceiling, and the ceiling was a good fifty meters high. I tapped one of the drums next to me, and it thumped: full. “Jesus, there must be enough here for twenty years of fuel.”
“Or rum,” said Jilly.
“If it’s anywhere as nasty as what we smelled on the line, no one would want to drink it,” I said. “Besides, they don’t have the equipment.”
“They brought that dead guy back to life,” said Banks. “I think they can figure out distilling.”
“None of this makes sense!” I said. “I saw Saarien in the freezer!”
“When?” said Banks.
“Well, I saw Soni’s footage.”
“Footage can be faked.”
“Then how do you explain Jordan? Or Jimney? You were there,” I said. “You saw the bodies.”
“I saw a stack of limbs and torsos that were beaten to a pulp, and another body that was burnt to a crisp,” said Banks. “I didn’t see a single face.”
“But their pais and DNA tags identified them,” I said.
“Pais can be spoofed,” said Banks.
“But not genes,” I said. “At least, not here. There isn’t anyone with that kind of expertise or equipment. I mean, the skilled workforce we have barely keeps us in the Information Age. We have to scrounge or steal gear from ships in orbit. So I think if someone had figured out a way to copy bodies, news would have spread.”
“I think if someone stashed a million barrels of molasses, that would spread, too.”
I looked up at the endless stacks of drums. “What the hell is he doing with all this?”
“Well, what can he do with it?” said Banks. “You’re pretty sure he can’t make rum, so that leaves fuel. Why would he need this much? To flood the market?”
“A million barrels wouldn’t make a dent in the price,” I said. “There’s so much floating around Occupied Space that it would take half the tankers going down before things shifted.”
“How about locally?” said Banks. “Maybe he’s got something in mind for here.”
I shook my head. “That would only hurt the rank and file, and Saarien’s too much into the Struggle to do that.”
“But he has no problem messing with you.”
“That’s because I’m not pure enough,” I said, giving Banks a wry smile. “He wants to fight the bloated carcass of plutocracy, and I’m trying to get a seat at the table. No, he’s got new cane coming in, he’s refining it, and...”
I thought back to the stacks in that warehouse on the kampong, all the cane clean and green. “Jilly, all that contaminated cane we saw wouldn’t have even gotten into the transfer station, right?”
She nodded. “It would’ve been torched, and the field marked off for quarantine.”
“But everything Saarien was toting away was perfect,” I said. “We were in the middle of an infected field.”
“Maybe he got lucky,” said Banks.
“You heard what those Freeborn said: one little spot would show up on a stalk, and then the whole field would be done in a week,” I said. “Unless they used some kind of super fungicide, but that would be just as tough to make. There aren’t enough gengineers and chemists on the planet to do that kind of work. Everything in that warehouse, hell, this place should be covered with black stripe. How is it not?” I rubbed my temples and blinked up the time: six-thirty, on a Friday morning. I should have been in bed, not hiding under a zillion barrels of molasses. “How does all this shit fit together?”
“Does it have to?” said Banks. “I mean, it’s one thing to follow a thread, but it’s another to see if it’s woven together with others.”
“It’s all too weird not to be,” I said, touching the oil drum again, like if I petted it the right way, it would spill its secrets. Then, of course, I remembered that Madame Tonggow was a goddamn chemist. “I need to bring this stuff to someone, figure out what it is.”
“I am not helping you carry one of these,” said Banks.
“You won’t have to,” I said, taking the flask out of my pocket.
“You wouldn’t,” said Banks.
“I have to,” I said, unscrewing the cap and giving it a sniff. The Old Windswept smelled so good, and it would have tasted just as good, too, maybe even have a little metal tang from the flask’s interior. I gave it a slosh, wondered how much was in there, then I poured it out.
Banks sighed. “You could’ve offered me a bit, you know.”
“Or me,” said Jilly.
“Later, when you’ve developed a palate,” I said, shaking out the last of the rum. I got my multitool out of another pocket, opened the nastiest blade, and pierced one of the drums. Dark molasses seeped out, filling the air with its oily stink. I caught as much as I could in the flask, trying to keep it from getting on my fingers. “Let’s hope it’s not caustic,” I said, putting the flask into a cargo pocket on my thigh. I gave my hands a sniff: sweet, with a hint of rot and burning plastic. Even regular industrial molasses didn’t stink like this.
“You have any ideas how we’re going to get out of here?” said Banks.
“A few,” I said as we walked farther into the stacks, “but you probably won’t like them.”
“Is fire involved?”
“God, no,” I said. “Only an idiot would try to light this stuff up.” I rubbed my temples. “Where did this all come from? How could they shove this much gear in here?”
The entire floor shook, hard enough that all the drums rattled in their stacks. “You want to go back, look for Saarien and ask him?” said Banks.
“Not when we can find out what’s making that noise.”
“I’d much rather stay here,” said Banks. “It’s quieter. Probably safer.”
“Show some spine, Counselor,” I said. “Where’s your sense of intrigue?”
“Probably getting beaten up by your sense of self-preservation.”
As we walked further into the stacks, the boom grew louder. We rounded a corner just as a cargo can crashed to the floor, its doors flopping open. A line of men rolled drum after drum into the can, filling it up in minutes. I’d never seen that kind of manual labor done so quickly, but that probably had something to do with the dozens of goons surrounding the can, all of them cradling what looked like cattle prods. An inked man checked something off on his clipboard, swung the doors shut, then
waved to the ceiling. A crane soared down and carried the can skyward, just in time for another can to tumble out of nowhere.
“Fast,” said Jilly.
“Anal,” I said. “They must be loading those things on a timetable, which gives us an in.” I licked my hand and wiped the mud and grime away from my face. “How do I look?”
“Messy as hell.”
“Yeah, but can you see my ink?”
Banks nodded. I wiped my hand on his cheek a few times until his regular pale complexion shone through. I smeared mung on Jilly’s face, much to her protest.
“Follow my lead. We’re getting out of this hole.” I walked into the light and yelled, as loud as I could, “HOLD UP!”
The goons spun around, their tasers pointing at us. I brushed them aside, pointing to my cheek as I breezed past them. The man with the clipboard turned to me, and I said, “That’s right, you! What are you doing?”
“Uh, making sure the shipment’s packed,” he said.
“You call this packed?” I said, pushing him out of the way. “Good God, man, you could shove another fifty drums in here. Look.” I walked into the can and sat down on an empty pallet. “See? Plenty of room.” I motioned for Banks and Jilly to sit next to me, and he hopped to. “My associates and I shouldn’t be able to sit in here. Fill it.”
“But the schedule–”
I pointed at the fist my face. “You see this? This says I outrank you, and you don’t want to know what happens to insubordinates in this operation.”
“But–”
“No buts,” I said. “You close this thing up, so I can go topside and kick the appropriate ass. And you fill every can to the brim from now on.”
“But–”
I put a finger to his lips. “I knew you could. Don’t bother locking it; I need to hit the ground running.” I leaned back and motioned for him to close the doors.
He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Where’s your clipboard?”
There was a shout from the stacks and the thud-thud-thud of hobnailed boots. I grabbed the kid’s clipboard and kicked him in the stomach. He staggered back as the crane clanked down on top of the can and hauled us skyward. We swayed like a ship on stormy seas, and loose drums rolled toward us as we clambered away from the still-open door. I dropped the clipboard so I could shove the molasses overboard and was rewarded with a very satisfying thud and splash below.
“You gonna help me with this?” I called to Banks.
He was leaning against a drum, flipping through the pages on the clipboard. “They’re moving everything to the lifter.”
I grabbed the clipboard and leafed through timetables, loading manifests, and slots in the lifter queue. Saarien wanted to send ten million barrels up the cable, put them on ships heading all over Occupied Space. “What the hell is he doing?” I said. “And how? How in hell can he pay the gravity tax on all this?”
“I hope your friend will be able to help,” said Banks, nodding to the stained cargo pocket that held the flask.
“If she can’t, then we are beyond screwed,” I said as morning light filled the can. I could see the rusted pipes of the refinery through the open door, smell the rotting molasses. It was a marginal improvement over the stench of Saarien’s new stuff. The can lurched, sending us tumbling to the side as the crates clanked against the can’s interior walls. We hit the ground with a thud, and then the whole can shook like it had been tossed on a vibrating bed.
“Jump!” I said, and we leaped out of the can onto soggy asphalt. Above us was a massive crane, and in front of us was a cloud that smelled like burnt molasses. The can, now secured to a trailer, rumbled away. A column of empty flatbed trucks hunkered away as far as I could see.
“Shouldn’t we follow that can?” said Banks.
“I think we won’t miss a few kilometers’ worth of trucks. We need to know what they’re moving first,” I said, looking around for something mobile we could steal. Instead, I saw an empty industrial yard filled with too-clean corporate types, all of them with fake ink. I remembered being one of those people, my head full of ambition and heart full of nothing, and my gut boiled at the sight of their fraudulent tattoos. I grabbed the clipboard from Banks and walked to the nearest one, a kid with stars under his eyes. “Oy! You!” I yelled in my best Command Presence voice. “What’s the holdup?”
“What?” said Star Eyes.
I turned the clipboard toward him and stabbed it with my finger. “This last shipment was under quota and behind schedule. Who’s in charge here?”
“Uh–”
“Not good enough!” I yelled. “You’re running behind, and that means I have to get this sorry excuse of an operation back on track right now! You!” I pointed at a young woman who looked like she was about to piss herself. “Get me and my associates a ride, one that’s worthy of our status. You have thirty seconds before I have your names and faces on the wrong people’s desks. Move!”
The entire flock scattered. I grabbed Star Eyes by the collar before he could flee. “And you,” I said, lowering my voice to a hair above dangerous. “You’re going to tell me just where you think you’re going.”
“To, um, get my superior,” he said.
“And why would you do that?” I said.
“Because I need to–”
“You need,” I said, thumping Star Eyes on the chest. “Let me tell you what I need. I need to know just why these shipments are being held up so I can make sure the entire supply chain can keep pace. You realize this is the only advantage we have over these miserable Union parasites, right? We have a supply chain that spreads across light years, that will keep running long after you and I and our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are dead, buried, and turned into worm food. We are the lifeblood of humanity across a hundred planets, and we will only fail if we take our eyes off the ball. Now.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “Go get me the biggest cup of coffee you can find, and, if you do it under sixty seconds, I’ll make sure to put in a good word.”
Star Eyes relaxed, then ran off.
“That was amazing,” said Banks.
“Business Vocalization was one of my favorite classes,” I said.
“Though, I notice you didn’t get me a cup of coffee.”
“Or me,” said Jilly.
“Deal with it.”
The flock of WalWa juniors jogged around the corner, all of them surrounding a bright green tuk-tuk with a massive speaker system. “We found this,” said the piss-pants girl from the driver’s seat. “It’s a little dirty, but–”
“It’ll do,” said Jilly, leaping into the driver’s seat and shoving the woman aside. She revved the engine a few times and grinned.
Banks and I hopped into the back. “You’re all going to get commendations for this,” I said. “Be sure to bring this up on your next performance review with–”
“PADMA!” roared someone behind us. I turned long enough to see Evanrute Saarien and a goon squad appear from nowhere.
“GO!” I shouted, and Jilly stepped on the gas as hard as she could. The tuk-tuk shot forward, sending the WalWa juniors scattering as we belted away. Saarien’s voice echoed off the pipework.
“Turn on the stereo,” I said. “I’m not in the mood to hear any more yelling.”
We zipped through the column of trucks, smashing through traffic bars, and dodging the occasional potshot from a riot hose. We screamed out of Sou’s Reach, and Jilly didn’t take her foot off the gas until we were well down Brapati Causeway on the road to Brushhead.
I blinked up a call to Tonggow, but the line immediately went dead and the sound of a millions chainsaws cutting through coral steel filled my skull. I grabbed my head, then doubled over as the pain slammed down my spine. Somewhere in there, Jilly must have hit the brakes. The tuk-tuk screeched to a stop, traffic stacking up behind us, and I staggered out, trying to blink my pai off. I hunched over, hands on thighs, wanting to puke, but I couldn’t even manage that.
The noise
cut off, and Soni’s voice came on: “Did that get your attention?”
“Christ, Soni, I know I skipped bail, but–”
“You can call me Captain Baghram now,” she said.
“You think I meant to leave the city?” I said, straightening up and waving off Banks, who gave me a worried what-the-hell? look. “I was on incredibly important business, and–”
“I don’t care,” she said. “You disappeared last night, and it’ll go a lot easier if you give yourself up before I have to bring you in.”
I looked around and saw a bumblecar half a klick behind us. A second waited on the other end of the causeway. “I can’t come in, Captain. There’s something bigger going on.”
“You know, just once I wish someone would say they’re not giving themselves up because they just don’t want to,” said Soni. “Instead, I always get all this crap about unfinished business and you-don’t-understand and I-just-need-to-do-this. Not this time. Come in, Padma. I don’t want to have to crank up the sound again.”
“Then do us both a favor and call Estella Tonggow,” I said. “She’ll vouch for me.”
“I would, except she was in a collision this morning.”
“With what?” I said. “Her limo was a tank.”
“Maybe,” said Soni, “but her tank wasn’t waterproof.” She sent me a picture of Tonggow’s limo, sunk in the Musharrad Canal up to its boot.
“Is she OK?” I asked.
“We’re still trying to saw our way in, but her pai isn’t reading any lifesigns,” she said.
I looked over the side of the causeway; the water was mostly clean, flowing from the kampong toward the ocean. We were so close to Brushhead I could smell Giesel’s morning bread. There would be nowhere to run to, though, not with my pai pinging my location to the whole world. There was no way to find a tech to reburn it or shut off Soni’s little reminder; I had to get somewhere out of range–