Red Noise

by John P. Murphy

  The provisioner stared and frowned, then peered at the Miner over the top of her glasses. “You’ve made a mistake.”

  The Miner peered back at her, trying not to loom but failing thanks to her enormous height advantage. “What do you mean?”

  “This order you entered… this says six person-months of emergency rations.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How many people on your ship? There’s not much water, and there’s nothing else–”

  “Just me. It’s what I eat.”

  The provisioner’s frown turned into an outright horrified stare. “You’re not supposed to live on them. They’re for emergencies. They’re… it’s right in the name.”

  “So? No law against it.”

  “They’re–” The provisioner stopped herself, then obviously took a moment to compose and restart. “They’re not intended for everyday consumption. They have a bitterant.”

  “I know, I’ve been living on them. I like it. It’s like coffee.”

  The provisioner massaged the bridge of her nose like she was getting a headache. The Miner was used to that. “I don’t keep much on hand,” she managed. “And I’m not going to sell you my whole stock. Someone who isn’t insane might need a brick or two,” she muttered, poking into the air at an interface only she could see.

  “I can sell you three person-months,” she finally announced. “That’s the limit. I know it’s not enough calories for a six-month span, but I’ve got flour blends, cricket flour, mealworm flour, lentils, and if you really are a culinary masochist there’s nutrient powder. But you’ll need extra water.” She frowned at the list. “You should carry more water than this anyway.”

  “Got any of that bitterant?”

  “Has anyone told you there’s something really wrong with you?”

  The Miner grinned. “All the time.”

  The provisioner reset the pad to a catalog, and the Miner spent some time poking through the rest of the stock, filtering out anything that wasn’t stable for at least six months at standard ship storage temperature and pressure, leaving most of their in-stock catalog. Not a lot of turnover, she figured. There was wheat flour, but it was exorbitant and probably rancid. The millet/cricket blend was cheap, but she mostly remembered it for making the shittiest beer she’d ever had, and decided she wasn’t that hard up. There was straight-up jiminy, too, but pure cricket flour wasn’t good for much on its own, and she might as well get it premixed rather than to try to do it herself and have to replace the ship’s air filters.

  It took almost an hour of haggling and poring through the catalog to put together a tentative order. She declined a free 50ml sample of France! Air, then declined to accept three credits to take a free 50ml sample of France! Air, then put the whole order on hold while the provisioner finally agreed to see if she could lay hands on more emergency rations.

  “Just make up your mind soon,” the provisioner said when they’d finished. “In eight hours I’m out.”

  “Off-duty?”

  She shook her head. “Out. I put in my resignation and I’ve got a berth rented on that last freighter. I don’t mind telling you, this place has gone to shit.”

  “Who’ll do provisions?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Then why don’t you just sell me your whole stock of emergency rations?”

  She shook her head. “The people staying here might need them. I owe them that much at least, poor jerks.”

  The Miner considered the doorway and the goons in the casino. “Is there a back way out of here? I was getting some looks when I came through.”

  The provisioner looked grim. “Yeah, there’s a service entrance. Hook a right to head clockwise; there’s an outer ring that goes all the way around, and you’ll get to the eastern spur. That’ll take you back to the galleria. Listen... I can’t promise it’ll be any safer that way.”

  The Miner shrugged. “I’m not avoiding a fight for my sake.”

  She slipped out the back entrance and heard a heavy metal ker-chunk behind her as the provisioner locked it. The long curving corridor had unmarked hatchways on either side, lit poorly. It smelled of piss and mold here and there, and occasionally she caught the whiff of blood on the warm humid air. The place was dead – no footsteps or voices, just the low whirr of the air movers, growing to a hiss and fading again as she walked past vents.

  The remains of a cleaning robot lay against the inner wall as she got to the intersection. It looked like it had been kicked to pieces, with its plastic chassis crumpled, wheels all askew, and the contents of its compartments strewn a little ways. She’d never been the type to romanticize robots – or anything, really – but she felt a pang of something looking at it. Not sadness, exactly, or at least not for the bot. The whole station was starting to grind on her.

  The eastern spur led right back to the galleria, as promised, past a sleazy-looking clinic. Sure enough, three morons stood just at the entrance to the northern spur where she’d have come out. She stood and watched them for a moment, almost mesmerized by the stupidity, and half-wishing she’d come back that way and taught them a lesson. The thought of it made her implants buzz and warm up. She decided she’d rather have a drink, and took a chance on that bar.

  The sign by the door said “Kenichi Takata, Proprietor” and it was dark inside, but comfortable dark, not “closed for business” dark. An old guy with wild white hair and a big white beard sat in a corner booth with an empty glass, openly staring at her but not saying anything. The Miner wove through the tables and crossed to the two meter-long stained wood bar and picked the red stool on the far end from which she could see the exits. The taps didn’t have any brands she recognized, though she had a dim recollection that the one with the blue diamonds was popular.

  The back wall should have had dozens of full bottles of liquor, but didn’t. There were a few upside-down pint glasses and a baseball bat. There was a doorway behind the bar to some kind of back room, with a split blue-and-red curtain with fish printed on it hanging halfway to the floor.

  She planned to give it a minute before calling out for service, but the old guy in the corner booth beat her to it. “Hey Takata! Customer!” He was staring down into his glass by the time she looked, already bored with her.

  Another old guy with his iron-gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and a fierce mustache poked his head out from the back room. He looked square at the Miner and said, “Shit.” He disappeared, saying, “No beer. No whiskey. All out.”

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” she called after him.

  “He brings his own. Beat him up for it.”

  The guy in the corner either laughed or wheezed; she couldn’t tell which.

  “How about a water, then?”

  “Tap’s busted.”

  “Then I’ll have a glass full of air. You have that, don’t you?”

  That was answered with silence and then a sigh.

  “Look,” said Takata when he reappeared. “It’s nothing personal, but I gotta stay neutral. No side. That means I don’t serve your kind. Nothing personal, OK?”

  “You don’t serve miners?”

  “Of course I don’t… Oh. Hell, you’re no miner. Either kind.”

  She was amused, despite herself. “Yeah? Where’d I get that thirteen tons of nickel-iron, then? Did I beat up an asteroid?”

  He had the good grace to look sheepish, at least. “No shit?”

  “They haven’t finished the assay yet.”

  Takata shuffled over to the taps and filled a glass without asking. He stuck it in front of her with a dull thud that splashed the head over the side, then put the side of his hand in his mouth to taste where it had run over. “Sorry lady. But you got to admit, you got ‘tough guy’ written all over you. No offense.”

  “None taken. I’ve been getting a lot of that here.”

  “Welcome to Poisonville,” he said, waving to take in the empty galleria outside. “Population: stupid.”

  T
he Miner hadn’t had a beer in six months. She didn’t keep alcohol on the ship anymore even when she was flush with cash, and she hadn’t been. The amber liquid caught the low light, and all she could smell were citrusy hops. “Mind starting a tab?”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m good for it. Just have to sell that bunch of ore.”

  “You selling to Anaconda?”

  “Nobody else.”

  “That fucker Preston doing the assay?”

  She thought back, failed to remember the dockmaster’s name, and figured the answer was, “Yup.”

  Takata’s face twisted in a way that made his mustache bristle. “Ah, hell. It’s on the house. I suppose you want something to eat, too.”

  “Truly, your hospitality is legendary.” She thought about Preston, and mentally adjusted down her expected profit from the trip. If she had any other options, she’d consider canceling and moving on. As it was... at least there was beer.

  Takata disappeared into the back again, muttering something from which she only caught the word “asshole.” She took a long drink from her beer, cold and bitter, and enjoyed the feel of the icy glass in her hand and the faintly sour aftertaste. Civilization had its uses. She heard scraping of utensils on a plate, and Takata reappeared with a plate of rice and some kind of stew or curry.

  “I didn’t mean for you to give me your lunch.”

  He shrugged. “Beats turning on the griddle. Just eat it, it’s good.”

  It was good. There were a few chunks of meat – she couldn’t tell what and had learned not to be picky – and potatoes and carrots, with little flecks of ginger. The aromatic steam in the dry station air flooded the space around her, reminded her of busy mess halls full of banging trays and clattering tableware.

  She found herself eating fast and forced herself to stop and sip the beer so she wasn’t wolfing. Takata just leaned against the back wall and watched her eat, a kind of bemused but satisfied look on his face. He cleared away the plate the moment she finished.

  “Best meal I’ve had in ages,” she said truthfully, tossing off the rest of her beer in one swallow.

  He kind of ducked his head and shrugged, acknowledging the compliment, but she could tell it pleased him.

  “Hey, how about some for me?” called the old guy in the corner.

  “Shut up, Herrera. Pay your tab,” said Takata without malice in his tone. Herrera just cackled.

  Takata returned to cleaning in the back while the Miner sat and cooled her heels. No word yet on the assay, so she sat and watched the empty galleria. The vacancy grated on her somehow. She hated crowds, but there ought to have been one. There’s a comfortable emptiness, she decided, and then there’s abandonment, and this was the latter.

  A short wiry guy, pale and balding, appeared from the eastern spur, peering around and then hustling straight across the galleria, weaving his way between the empty tables and making straight for Takata’s bar. He was clutching a cardboard bottle under one arm and not really paying attention to where he was going.

  When he got to the restaurant entrance he kind of hopped through the door like it might spring shut on him. He started for the bar, then noticed the Miner and stood stock still. She was reminded of nothing so much as a startled lizard.

  “Howdy,” she said, nodding and breaking the staring contest.

  “Hi!” he blurted out. Herrera raised his head in brief interest, then huffed and looked back down at his glass. “Hi, hi, how are you? Nice to meet you. Didn’t know you had customers, Mr Takata.”

  Takata had come from the back room, and groaned. “Finn.”

  “Heya, Mr Takata. Listen. I know you’ve got a slump going on, and I wanted you to know something.” He scuttled forward and leaned in like he was sharing a secret. Eyes wide, he said, “I have a tequila now.”

  Takata groaned. “No tequila, Finn. Look, your vodka’s decent. Your white whiskey’s good. Let’s stick to those. If you’re hard up I could stand some more vodka.”

  Finn drew himself up to his full height, looking offended. “No, no, no. I have to diversify, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “People get tired of vodka.”

  “Nobody gets tired of vodka.”

  “I get tired of vodka,” Finn said, then rubbed the back of his bald head. “Making it, anyway. I guess drinking it’s all right.” The Miner wondered just how much of his own supply he drank, and whether he’d gotten all the methanol out.

  “Look. Finn. Remember the gin?”

  “Come on–”

  Takata planted both palms on the bar. “Remember the gin?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s entirely fair.”

  Finn looked like he wanted to argue the point, but instead waved the cardboard bottle. “You won’t try the tequila?”

  Takata opened his mouth, then gave half a smile. “All right, Finn. She’ll try the tequila.”

  “Wait, what?” The Miner didn’t like the looks either of them were giving her. Takata already had a shot glass out on the bar, and Finn got to filling it.

  “Try it! Free tequila, just like your free beer and free lunch. Tell me how it is and I’ll call it even.”

  “What was wrong with the gin?”

  “Just drink the damn tequila.”

  Finn held it out with both hands. The glass was full of an oily liquid with a faint yellow tinge. She took it and got it too close to her nose.

  “Jesus, is that benzene?”

  Finn answered too slowly, “Nnnno. No, no, it’s definitely not benzene.”

  She frowned, her eyes watering. Takata said, “Drink it. What do you have to live for anyway?”

  She sipped. The taste of pure alcohol numbed her lips, and the tip of her tongue burned. There was a whisper of flavor there that she might eventually have guessed was supposed to be agave, but which she would otherwise have thought was a yeast vat with a bacterial infection. Or maybe scotch made by burning rubber gaskets instead of peat. Keeping her face still, she swallowed the sip and suppressed a cough as the back of her throat caught fire. The vapors crawled up into her sinuses and burned those too. It wasn’t the foulest thing she’d ever drank, but that wasn’t saying much. Staring it down, she picked up the shot glass again and tossed the rest back.

  It took her a second to trust herself to speak. “Not bad,” she said cheerily, her voice husky. She slid the shot glass down the bar, and Finn eagerly refilled it, splashing. “Give it a try.”

  Takata looked suspicious, but did. The coughing and spluttering fit was just as entertaining as she’d hoped, and if the look of betrayed injury on his face hadn’t started her laughing, Finn’s utterly crestfallen expression would have. At least she didn’t fall off her bar stool.

  Herrera hooted and laughed, and clapped twice. Finn just stood and looked uncomfortable. He plucked the shot glass from the bar between thumb and forefinger, sniffed delicately, and drank it. “So, uh. Back to the, uh, back to the drawing board?”

  “Don’t pour that shit in the septic system,” Takata coughed. “You’ll burn a hole in it and we’ll all die.”

  Finn winced but took it with grace. “So, three liters of vodka?”

  He had to wait for Takata to stop wheezing and rub the tears from his eyes. “Four,” he croaked, showing the count on his fingers, “and two of the white whiskey.”

  Finn snapped a half-decent salute, and fled.

  Takata poured himself a half glass of water from under the bar and drank it all in one go. When the Miner finally let out the cough she’d been suppressing, he gave her a venomous glare.

  “‘Not bad’,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

  “Didn’t say it was good.”

  She met his level gaze for a few seconds until he cracked up.

  “What was wrong with the gin?”

  Takata made a face. “Real gin needs aromatics, or it’s just vodka. Trouble is, there’s not much in the way of aromatics on a space station, especially juniper. F
inn’s not the kind of guy to let an obstacle like reality get in his way, so he… improvised.”

  “What did he use?”

  “I asked. He said, ‘If I tell you, you’ll just be prejudiced.’”

  “Oh.”

  Belly full and feeling the pleasant edge of a buzz, the Miner swiveled on her stool to look out the door. The security guard was still asleep, though the drunk had apparently stumbled off at some point. “So what’s the deal here?” She waved with one hand to take in that scene.

  “No deal. The place is dying, and I’m only still here to watch it die because I’m vindictive, stubborn, and lazy. Plus if I break the lease on this piece of shit restaurant space it’ll cost me what’s left of my credit. I was dumb enough to renew it seven months ago, right before it really all went to hell.”

  “What’s killing it?”

  “Greed. Stupidity. Gangsters.” He looked like he wanted to spit. “You can still get supplies, though. And you can get gone. Around here those are the only things worth getting.”

  ON THE SHIT LIST

  Screwball didn’t want to take the ice pack away from his face, but if he didn’t then Ditz couldn’t tell that he was staring daggers. So he peeled it off and gave him the full measure of his righteous irritation. It didn’t help. Dude was off in his own muddled stoned-but-pissed-off little world.

  “I can’t believe Raj pushed us off like that, man. What the hell, man?”

  “Pushed me off,” Screwball corrected him. “You fucking ran away, you asshole.”

  Raj had been enthusiastic in revenging himself, and Ditz had been nowhere in sight.

  “Maaaaaan,” Ditz said. “Don’t be like that. I was going for help. Calling in the cavalry!”

  They’d slunk back to the hotel to report Raj running them off the dock, and old man Feeney had gone redline. Screwball should have ratted Ditz out as a coward, but didn’t for some reason, so now the worthless little eggfart thought they were friends again. Fucking asshole. Ditz had stolen some ice from the kitchen for him, about the only food in the place, and now they were kicking around the service entrance. In theory, they were on guard duty, but mostly they didn’t want the old man to see them while he was still angry. Feeney couldn’t take it out on Angelica – if he could, they wouldn’t be in that mess – so he’d take it out on them or anyone who looked at him funny. Which meant that in turn, by all rights, Screwball ought to take it out on somebody lower down the pecking order than himself, except nobody actually was lower down than him. Even Ditz had some kind of connections. So that just left him to sit and stew.