by Strong, Ray
“Does he ever respond?” Teddy asked through clenched teeth.
“Not really,” Meriel said. “We get those corporate bulk e-mails. He’s a busy guy, and none of us takes it personally. We’re not supposed to have any contact at all.”
Teddy sneered. “You know what I think,” she said.
“Yeah, I—”
“I think they’re a bunch of bastards.”
“You’re still mad because they cut you out of the custody hearings.”
“No,” Teddy said. “Because they put you on meds so young.”
“Those were the shrinks, Teddy.”
“Sure, but the foundation paid for them.” The foundation was the biggest donor and squeezed the others out, including Teddy, who had petitioned so aggressively for custody of the kids that the court issued restraining orders.
“That’s why I came, Teddy,” Meriel said. “Boost. My nightmares flared up again when we started working the old Princess routes. They won’t leave me now.”
“Boost is legal here, you know.”
“I can’t have a trail that shows I’ve got ’em, Teddy. They’ll know I’m off the meds and pull my work card,” Meriel said.
“We’ll take care of you,” Teddy said. She tapped on her bracelet, and the big bartender turned to her. Teddy nodded, and the bartender picked up his link. “It’s more than the boost, M. What’s bothering you? Is Jeremy making progress?” Teddy asked, referring to Meriel’s lawyer. “I heard he’s visiting Lander.”
Meriel nodded but lost her smile entirely. “I just met with him. We’re stalled in court-5 for the Princess. Jeremy says he needs money for special legal talent.”
“You need a loan? How much?” Teddy asked. That was her way—no conditions, no questions. But Meriel shook her head and played with the miniature umbrella in her drink.
Teddy brightened. “Say, did I tell you I met Kenny Grannath?”
“Ah, who’s he?” Meriel said without looking up.
“Grannath. Doesn’t ring a bell? His grandpa designed the Princess.”
Meriel frowned. “Uh-huh.”
“He said the Princess was his grandpa’s favorite. He had a model on his desk wherever he worked. He showed me vids of the original interior. Did you know the Princess was a private yacht? It was gorgeous. The cargo bays moored private shuttles.” Teddy’s smile changed to concern as she waited for Meriel’s response. “There’s something else. What is it?”
Meriel looked up with pain on her face. “They’re gonna take her, Teddy.”
“Who?”
“The Princess. And I can’t stop them.”
“No. How?”
“As a drug boat if I can’t prove we were clean.”
“By when?”
“The court gave us twenty-one days. Nineteen, now.”
Teddy shook her head. “Is bidding open? Can we buy her?”
“Jeremy said it was a private bid, and it’s closed.”
“That’s odd,” Teddy said. “It’s like they were trying to preclude competing bids.”
“That’s what Jeremy said.”
“What court?”
“Enterprise,” Meriel said. “She’s still in impound.”
“I’ll talk to Jeremy. M…Don’t give up.”
“They’re trying to buy me off.”
“How much?” Teddy asked. Meriel showed her the settlement, and Teddy raised her eyebrows. “This looks fishy. What’s your plan?”
“Well, talking to Jeremy and you first.”
“Uh-huh. Next?”
“Nick.”
“Take another shot at the sim-chip?” Teddy asked, and Meriel nodded. “That’s low probability. We need a motive other than drugs, M. The Princess’s nav systems said that they pointed you at a gas giant before you jumped. They wanted you to disappear entirely.”
“Ships disappear all the time,” Meriel said.
“Too many to be random or systems failures. OK, we need other motives. What else you got?”
Meriel leaned over the table and whispered, “If we stop at Enterprise as planned, I may—”
Teddy shook her head and leaned back. Then she said loudly, “I’m sure that anything you might consider is unquestionably legal.” She softened her voice. “Let me look into it.” Teddy patted Meriel’s hand. “You’ve always got a place here. You know that.”
“What about all the kids?”
“The court won’t let me near them, M.”
Meriel nodded. “The court orders.”
“Not unless they come out of protection, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m still not sure it was a good idea for you to come out.”
“Then they’ll drift,” Meriel said.
“We won’t let that happen, M.”
They updated each other about the kids and friends over a second round of drinks, after which the bartender gave Teddy a slip of paper that disintegrated a few seconds after she touched it.
“See the man at the fish-and-chips stand around the corner.” Teddy said. “Tell him you want the regular. Leave the money with Ed at the bar on the way out. It’s not for me; it’s for them.”
“Thanks,” Meriel said. “Say, do you ever see Torsten?”
Teddy smiled, and her eyes softened. “Not since May, dear, but he’s fine. He’ll be here in two weeks.”
“You ever think of going back to the Endeavor?” That was Torsten’s ship, a midsize independent freighter that worked a vector from Earth to Den 10.
“You know, I bought a ship just to chase him once,” Teddy said with a smile and a drifty look. “A sleek job, real pretty, and I could fly her by myself. Now? Nah. He’s got to come to me. He needs to be in space, and I won’t have another.”
“Thanks, Teddy. I gotta go now.” They hugged again, and Meriel left.
***
Meriel made her trade for boost as directed and changed her course to blue-zone for the crew’s party. All the while, she wondered about what to do to prove that the Princess was not involved in dealing drugs. Two toughs leaned against the elevator door, and she decided to find another route. She made sure not to make eye contact, but it didn’t matter.
“Hey, doll,” one of them said. “You got something of mine.”
Meriel ignored him and turned to find another lift.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the tough said.
She heard the footsteps behind her quicken, and she prepared to run when a hulk of a man stepped out in front of her, picking his teeth with a tiny fingernail.
“Hey, cruiser,” he said. He grabbed her bag, which caused her fatigues to spill out, and then he made a grab for her.
Muscle memory engaged, and Meriel kicked her assailant in the neck. He dropped to his knees holding his throat and gasping as he faded into unconsciousness. The other two watched her, now more cautiously, but one of them, wide-eyed and grinning with a stim dose, scooped her bag off the deck and rummaged through it.
She wasn’t supposed to be there and could not leave her bag behind as evidence.
“You owe me a scotch,” a voice behind her said. Meriel spun, expecting a new assailant, but instead, she saw John Smith from the Tiger.
“I’ll be with you in a second,” she said to him and turned back to her attackers. John did not look like a fighter, and Meriel prepared to defend them both, but John walked up beside her.
“Cover your ears,” he said and held up a small tube. “Trust me. Now.” She dropped her guard to put her hands over her ears while the attackers closed in. John stepped in front of her and squeezed the tube. The air around her assailants quivered and hazed, and a soft pop blew her hair back gently, but the two men dropped to their knees, bleeding from their noses and ears. John turned to leave, but Meriel walked over to the attackers, picked up her bag and fatigues, and kicked each man in the groin.
“That was cruel,” John said as they walked away.
“What do you think they had in mind for me?”
“You know that guy?”
John asked.
“God, no,” Meriel said.
“He called you ‘Cruiser.’”
“I think he was going for ‘slut,’” she said. “What are you doing up here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” he said, evading her question.
“Heading for the TarnGirl?” she asked while looking into the shadows for threats.
“I have an appointment first.”
Meriel noticed John’s nonanswer and saw that he had a package under his arm. She stopped. “What’s that?”
“Pharmaceuticals and—”
“Son of a…you’re dealing drugs,” she said and stared at him.
“No, no.”
“What is it?” she asked with a sneer. “Rejuve? Stim?”
“No, really, they’re life enhancing. It’s what we do on my colony.”
Meriel wondered how she could be so wrong in her assessment of him. “I don’t believe you.”
“Please, let me explain.”
“I can’t get caught with you,” she said, backing away and checking for security cameras. “I’ll lose the kids.”
John frowned but continued. “Please, Meriel, nothing I have with me can get you into trouble with the law. I promise.”
What is it about that face that I trust? she thought. “They’re not illegal?”
“Not yet, not until our competitors find out about ’em.” Meriel did not move, and John continued. “Please, let me show you.”
Meriel nodded slowly, and they left for white-zone. John led her to a plain building with a small green cross by the door.
“Hospital?” Meriel asked.
“Recovery facility. A clinic for physical therapy and rehabilitation.”
John introduced himself to the receptionist and signed them in as Mr. and Ms. Brown. Before Meriel had fully adjusted to the smells of alcohol and disinfectant, a man in a white coat met them.
“You are Mr. Brown?” the man in the white coat asked. He took off his name tag and put it in his pocket.
“Yes,” John said. “Pleased to meet you. Dr. Wo, is that correct?” Meriel smiled and rolled her eyes at the transparent charade. “As part of our quality control, my associate and I would like to review the efficacy of the prior samples my associate left with you.”
“Yes, of course,” the doctor said. “This way please.” He led them down a corridor to a small room where a patient sat in a chair covered from head to foot in a gown. His face was protected by a hood from the harsh clinical lighting.
“This is our burn unit,” the doctor said and showed them into the room. “Hello, Phillip.”
The patient nodded, and the doctor sat on a stool facing him. “Phillip, may we see your progress?” Again, the patient nodded. The doctor took the man’s right hand and pulled the sleeve up to the elbow to expose perfectly normal pink skin. “We’re treating this patient with your…” The doctor looked at his link. “Your product C, I believe.” The doctor raised the sleeve to the shoulder to expose the hideously scarred skin above the elbow.
“As your associate promised, there is no scaring at the tissue boundaries, and melanin is normal,” the doctor said. He then took both of Phillip’s hands and rotated them together so that John and Meriel could compare both hands and wrists: badly scarred on the left and fully recovered on the right.
Without thinking, Meriel put her hand to the scar on her neck and looked up with a smile. She expected to see the face of a grateful man under the hood, but instead she saw the burned and torn face of her Uncle Ed. The smell of charred flesh filled her nose and she gasped, transported back ten years to her struggles on the Princess.
“Meriel, help me,” her uncle said in her nightmares while reaching out a hand to her.
She stumbled backward to get away from the horror until she bumped into a table and fell. Instruments crashed onto the clinic floor around her, and she clutched her arms to her chest and neck to hide her scars.
John rushed to her and kneeled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
John’s voice brought her back to reality. She blinked repeatedly and nodded. “Yes. Just some water, please,” she said, and John helped her to her feet. She walked back to sit near Phillip. He pulled his hood farther down to hide his face, and Meriel realized how much she must have hurt him. She looked more kindly at his disfigured face and put her hand on his arm. “Please, forgive me, and don’t be offended. Your injuries reminded me of a close friend who had wounds similar to yours. The memory was very painful for me.” The hood nodded, and he patted the back of her hand as a tear rolled down his scarred cheek and fell onto her sleeve.
“You can see the improvement in just two months,” the doctor continued. “With access to the final product and replicator templates, we will be able to…ah…thank you, Phillip,” he said and led them out of earshot.
“Treatment can begin next week if we reach a final understanding,” the doctor said, and John nodded. Meriel frowned at the idea that he might delay treatments for the burn victim because of financial arrangements, but she said nothing.
Dr. Wo led them to a small exercise area where two athletic women played a version of racquetball. One woman had red cuffs around her left knee and ankle and a bright pink scar that ran between them on the outside of her leg. Four monitors adjacent to the viewing area showed side and top views of the knee and ankle joints as they moved. It was clear that the red cuffs were instrumentation displaying real-time telemetry.
“See,” the doctor said while pointing to a graph below the display on the monitors of the knee joint, “the joint stress exceeds the nominal range for her age. She needs to worry that the ISA will rule this as a disqualifying enhancement.”
“Is she a professional athlete?” Meriel asked, not recognizing her on the sports networks.
“No. At least, not yet. A talented amateur. Her joints were crushed last year in an accident. They told her to forfeit the leg and hip for prosthetics. Your company offered her an alternative. She learned the sport as part of her physical therapy. Now she’s considering a professional career.”
Meriel wondered if John had some business deal that would require continuing treatment for people like Phillip and this girl.
“What about the radiation patient?” John asked and looked at his link. “Mr. Thompson?”
The doctor smiled again. “Released last week.” He looked at Meriel. “An impossible case, you know. Mining accident. Just remarkable. Stage IV melanoma spread to his lungs—incurable. He came here to die, to waste away where his family could not see him degenerate.”
“Bone-marrow regen,” John said.
“That’s right, Mr. Brown,” the doctor said. “Genetic replication for hematopoietic regeneration. Your company also provided the cancer-cell tagging. The regenerated T-cells wiped out the melanoma completely.” He looked back at Meriel, clearly moved. “Death comes easy for some who have nothing to live for. This man recovered remarkably fast and returned to children who loved him.” The doctor walked ahead, and Meriel and John followed a few paces behind.
Meriel could remain quiet no longer and whispered, “John, it’s cruel to withhold treatment for business reasons.”
“Yes, I agree it is immoral and unethical to withhold it,” John said, “but treatment is also extremely expensive.” Meriel opened her mouth, but John raised his hand to stop her. “That’s why their treatments are free.”
Meriel raised her eyebrows. “Then what’s this ‘final understanding’?”
“In a moment,” John said. The doctor stopped by the door to a small office, and John turned to Meriel. “If you will excuse us please, I’ll be out shortly.”
Meriel waited for a few minutes and then went back to watch the women playing racquetball. She looked at the screens with interior views of the ankle and watched it flex and extend. The graphs spiked with stress each time she planted her foot or cut in a new direction.
The young woman’s faint scar caught Meriel’s attention again, and she recall
ed Phillip’s scar-free wrists. She rubbed her shoulder above her left breast. Maybe his people can heal me, she thought.
John came up beside her. “Well, what do you think?”
“Well, it’s not stim. Can…” Her voice trailed off, and she blushed, not wanting to expose her disfigurement to another round of “poor girl” or “oh my God.”
“Does the scarring treatment work on…old scars?” she asked.
“As far as I know, yes,” he said. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing. So what’s this ‘final understanding’?”
“It’s a trade for marketing,” John said. “Each treatment is custom to the patient and still very expensive until we can get equipment and replicators near the point of treatment.”
“Their treatments are free?”
John nodded. “And no one else could help them.”
Meriel thought she had misjudged him more than once today and looked at John with newfound respect. She pointed to the women playing racquetball. “Which was your product? The joints or the instrumentation?”
“Yes,” John said with a smile and led her back to the entrance of the clinic.
“Uh, which?”
“Both. When we first introduced joint regen, the doctors could not distinguish the performance between the original and the regenerated joint without better instrumentation, so we had to invent that, too. All of our competitors had joint replacements, but no one could heal the bones, nerves, and muscles at the same time. We can. The standard postop goal is mobility. We’re changing the goal to performance functionality.”
“Why so much secrecy?”
John looked around them and smiled. “Not here,” he said and led her outside the clinic and flagged a personal shuttle heading back to the docks in blue-zone.
***
Blue-zone included the docks and had its own shops and bars that were functional, sterile, and resilient because spacers from different ships tended to mix it up. Stationers thought spacers brought vermin with them and were hard on their fragile decor, so they mostly forced spacers back to the facilities near the docks. Station police harassed the blue-zone bar owners with sanitation orders that kept most of them alternating between repair and fumigation.