Kurt hadn't had the extra weight and resistance of a suit today, but he was still dead tired. At least he enjoyed being able to scratch his nose when he wanted, and go use a real toilet even if it was a portable set up in the main corridor. He'd spent most of the shift on a ladder, stretching his arms overhead, using muscles that didn't see much duty. Off shift finally, he had some supper now and was eating it, but every once in awhile he turned his head and stretched to the side, trying to loosen the stiffening muscles in his shoulders.
The General Tso's chicken was pretty good. It had a little bite to it, not just sweet, and they let you pick how much rice you wanted. If it was from freeze dried he couldn't tell. They had a stir fry of local vegetables on the side too, which was better than mixing them in to force you to take them. It was good though, still crispy, so he was happy to have some. Trying to force people to eat a certain mix just sent some food to the trash, and they couldn't afford to waste it.
A worker wearing inside coveralls, not a suit liner, sat next to Kurt on his left. It wasn't very busy, so it wasn't a matter of there not being other seats, there were even a couple vacant tables, so he wanted to meet. That was fine, Kurt was still getting to know quite a few new people. There wasn't the same tension he felt dealing with new people back on Earth, if only because he wasn't stressed by dealing with stupid people every day, city people who couldn't drive a car on manual out in the country where he'd been forced to rent, officials who couldn't fill out their own forms, and kitchen help in restaurants who couldn't read three items on the screen correctly after you'd keyed in your own order.
"Mr. Bowman, I've been meaning to introduce myself. I'm Greg King. My Central com code is 0487. You should commit that to memory."
The way he said it made Kurt realize something was off about this fellow. It came out as an order. His voice was wrong and his manner was abrasive in just those few words. Why did he think his number was so important? Kurt resolved to refuse to work with this fellow if he turned out to be his next boss.
Anyone being pleasant might have offered his own com code, or perhaps even his hand, although spacers weren't as big on shaking hands. But not in this hostile manner. Kurt just looked at him. Being dead tired didn't help him understand why the man was being strange. The fellow was looking down at his own dinner, not even looking over at Kurt. That just wasn't normal. There was something definitely wrong about him, so Kurt scooted his chair back to leave. He wasn't in any mood to deal with a weirdo.
"Stay," the fellow ordered.
"I don't know who the hell you think you are. I don't stay, roll over or fetch. If you are any kind of boss I'm going to refuse assignment to you. You're doing a good imitation of a mental case, and I don't want to have anything to do with you. I'm going to take my dinner to another table, one with normal people, and your best bet for a pleasant evening is not to follow me," Kurt told him.
"You have no choice. Your country is making some demands on you, Mr. Bowman. I have an assignment for you to gather information for us," Greg said. "I consider you an unlikely tool, a dull knife as it were, but I have my orders too. I don't expect you'd have the mentality to know what is useful, so I'll outline exactly what information we need gathered, and how to transmit it."
Kurt was amazed. "I don't intend to go back to Earth. I have no interest in Earth politics, no attachment to North America now. No interest in which faction you think represents my country now. I haven't formally renounced my citizenship, but I intend to claim Home citizenship as soon as I have residence. So you can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned. To my mind North America is a failed state. You're still swirling around the toilet bowl, on the way down, but for sure somebody stupid, likely your masters, pulled the lever a few years back, and it's on its way to the sewer. You don't have any handle on me anymore."
"Are you sure?" Greg asked. "Your sister still lives in North America, doesn't she?"
He could have probably gotten away with the implicit threat, but he had to demonstrate he enjoyed making it by turning his face full to Kurt with a smirk painted all over it.
Kurt struck without thinking about it, hand driven by rage that hadn't even reached his face yet to warn Greg. He wasn't even aware what was in his fist. He still had his fork, with a piece of General Tso's chicken on it. It struck Greg beside his Adam's apple and buried itself the length of the tines and a little more, and crunched. Kurt couldn't get it back out, so he wildly yanked the handle around trying to free it. Greg by now had both hands on Kurt's wrist, desperately trying to free himself. The stirring motion didn't make matters any better, and he was mute, because his vocal apparatus was destroyed. His grip on Kurt's wrist might as well have been a child's given Kurt's adrenaline rush and fury.
When he finally yanked the fork loose Greg's hands went to his wound and covered it, so Kurt stabbed again like a wild man, to the side of his neck. Greg tried to push him off, ineffectively. He stabbed three times before Greg made a shield of his crossed arms to ward off the blows. There was a lot more blood.
The attack pushed Greg over, still sitting in his chair, with Kurt following him all the way down in the slow lunar gravity stabbing. He was scrambling, trying to get up. All he managed was to push himself away from the table, back flat on the floor. After ruining his neck Kurt jammed the fork straight in the man's eye socket, the support of the floor beneath the man's head lending the thrust authority. When it wouldn't go further he drove it with the palm of his hand so that it bent and folded over. The last action cut his own hand open and injured it.
The pain from his hand finally cut through the berserker haze a little. He was on his knees over Greg, and fell back to a sitting position, holding his hurt hand against his chest, breathing raggedly and suddenly light headed. He had no idea how he looked, the other man's bloody hand-prints on his chest and blood smeared on his face and his right arm almost to the elbow. Kurt wasn't even aware the cafeteria had cleared out. There were plates with food and mugs sittings where people had abandoned them, except for two old veterans against the far wall who'd seen much worse in their day. They exchanged looks and the one went back to his pancakes.
When security came in they weren't nearly so blasé. Both had Air Tasers out, and the younger man was shaking worse than Kurt.
"You are under arrest sir," the older man said. "If you have any weapons, remove them very carefully without threatening us. Then roll on your belly and put your hands behind your back for my partner to cuff you."
Kurt nodded his agreement and soon felt the cuffs go on.
"He's bleeding pretty freely from his hand," the young cop said. "If we move him he'll dribble all over the place and it will be a huge biohazard cleanup."
"Get a big wad of napkins and shove it in his hand," the older cop ordered.
You – we'll get you to medical, but can you hold the napkins tight to stanch the bleeding?" he asked Kurt.
"Then roll him over and help him sit up," he ordered his partner.
Kurt tested it and found he could grasp the napkins. However, trying to sit made his head swim and he felt sick.
"I don't think I can stand. In fact, I may throw up," Kurt warned them.
The older cop uncapped a small can from his pocket and sprayed a mist on Kurt's face. It was cool, minty and medicinal, not riot spray as Kurt had expected. One deep breath of it went a long way towards settling his stomach.
"You're an outside worker. That's the same crap you can trigger in your suit to keep you from throwing up in your helmet," the old cop said, seeing Kurt's surprise at the spray. "We'll call a cart and we can all ride."
"I've never needed to use that in a suit," Kurt admitted.
"Try not to get blood on you," the older cop advised his partner who'd grabbed more napkins.
"Shouldn't you take him to medical first?" Kurt asked, nodding at Greg. He'd still been displaying some tremors when they first arrived, but he was still now and the pool of dark blood around his neck was much larger.
"
You should...uh, confirm," the younger cop advised the older somewhat cryptically, in an odd turnaround of authority.
"Yeah, cover my butt," he agreed, and took his full kit pad from his belt and scanned Greg. "Nope, this gentleman isn't going anywhere but the cooler until somebody decides what to do with him," he assured Kurt. "He's dead and way past where I'd want anybody to try to resuscitate me if I was him. He'd end up a vegetable at best, and have to be turned off again, which is always ugly."
"Oh... I didn't mean to kill him," Kurt said in a small voice.
"Well I would sure as hell hate to see what you would do if you meant to," the elder cop said. "We will have to get our Lady to decide what to do with you. I'm pretty sure she'll take time to hold a special court today, she's done so for much less. I'd give some thought to how you'll answer her questions," he suggested. "She'll use veracity software and know the truth out of you. But the truth can be said a lot of different ways."
"He threatened my family," Kurt volunteered.
"Did he hurt your hand?" the younger cop asked.
"No I was stupid and did that myself," Kurt admitted.
"OK, not any concern of ours," the older cop decided, looking at the stub of fork handle folded over the dead man's cheek bone. "The Sovereign will sort it out." He was happy with that actually.
The clinic apparently had a tech free when they called in, and he was on the cart when it came. A bio-hazard cleanup team wasn't far behind. Kurt was so docile the older cop decided to let his partner take Kurt in alone. It was good to make small gestures like that to show his confidence in him.
Chapter 10
"I'm getting all sorts of crazy reports and contradictory bulletins," Chen said. "Some of the local stations are saying the Sons of Liberty are assuming national power and some are claiming the same for God's Warriors. Some, especially the net systems, are honestly admitting they have no idea what is going on, but advising people to stay off the street because of fighting. A few local broadcast stations are just playing music. I guess they're too scared of getting on the bad side of whoever comes out on top."
"They're so busy fighting and blaming each other nobody is remembering to blame me. The Europeans are actually denouncing me more than the North Americans," Jeff said in wonder. "The Australians surprise me...The consensus there seems to be that anybody who steals a bomb to tinker with in their living room is a bloody fool. Somebody has some sense."
"God's Warriors detest us too," Chen reminded Jeff, "but they are objecting to the Sons provoking us unilaterally. They're supposed to have a joint government. As for Europe, they are tied to North American trade tighter than Australia now," Chen pointed out. "So it's no surprise they are talking their business interests. Oh! That reminds me, Mr. Holland the Australian journalist would be happy to speak with you privately if it still pleases you. I'll drop a sticky text file in your calendar right now with times he can be free to talk."
"They may be talking their own book. The Australians see us tied to Tonga and Japan, in their sphere of interest. And we're doing a big business with all three, not in bulk, but in value. They may see us as a hedge against the Chinese down the road too. They are in chaos now, but when China gets sorted out Australia will be back to being uncomfortable with such a giant neighbor looming over them." When Jeff looked quizzical, Chen explained. "You may not realize the depth of your reputation. It seems almost all the Earthies are afraid of angering two billion Chinese. It didn't go unnoticed you bombed the snot out of them without hesitation. I think the general opinion is you wouldn't hesitate to do it again in a heartbeat."
"Well I should hope so!" Jeff said, surprised. "That's the only way the arrogant creeps have any respect for you, if they are sure you're willing to rain thermonuclear devastation on them. I'd certainly rather invite them to tea and have a civilized discussion, but that doesn't seem to be part of the culture."
"And this is why we have Jon as spox," Chen said. "You don't have a subtle...or diplomatic bone in your body."
"Well, April has been working on that," Jeff admitted. "But the concepts can still seem quite strange to me," he admitted.
* * *
"You have to buy it right now if you want it," Myat told Huian.
"Myat, you have dealt with all sorts of people. Not just your clients, but I assume all sorts of business people. Do you go to market or do your servants all take care of that?" Huian asked.
"No, no, I can remember when I was little going with my mother and a servant to the market. She had the servant to carry our things to the car, but she dealt with the merchants herself. Not out in the zei picking things off of ground cloths like a peasant. The sort of custom she supported received her in a cool private room and the senior merchant offered refreshment and would have his man fetch little samples of what she wanted. Especially spices. She might ask a hundred kilo bag of rice and expect the quality to remain the same as previous purchases, but spices she wanted to see a sample from the lot she was buying. She always dressed to the hilt. One of her best outfits and enough gold to stagger a horse. When she finally took me along, after much begging, she insisted I dress well and borrowed jewelry for me, even if I was only nine years old. She said the merchants treated you better the more money you appeared to have. It’s one of my earliest memories of her trying to teach me something important. I…I’m babbling. What is the point of this?" Myat asked.
"You know how to shop and how to bargain. What do you think when somebody says you have to buy it right now, and puts the hurry-up on you?" Huian asked.
Myat laughed. "My mother would say run! Hold your purse tight and run for your life!"
"Indeed. I’ll forward this information to Jeffrey Singh. I’m sure he will present it to the group he’s organized to buy a ship. But the man is young, not stupid. And most of his partners are older and even more conservative. I can already hear what he’ll say: 'If the market has crashed so bad they have a three year old vessel for sale at near scrap prices, maybe next month they’ll have a one newer and cheaper.' And that might be right," Huian decided. "The drastic price drop makes me concerned I'm missing something here."
"I can see why the urgency is alarming. But my broker friend usually deals in vessels that need to be scrapped as older and obsolete. Yes, there may be some other modern vessels like this come on the market if shipping doesn’t recover soon. Just not necessarily through him. This ship is decent enough that someone else may buy it to reflag and put into service, instead of cut it up for scrap. As always, the official predictions say this is a seasonal lull and the economy is sound. There are always a few who are easy to convince because they believe what they want to happen. Some such optimist may grab it. You can commit as much of the funds I’ve sent you as is needful, if there’s a shortfall," Myat offered.
"You’ve mostly convinced me," Huian said. "But I will present this neutrally. I’m a bit afraid of my own enthusiasm to recommend it. We’ll see what the others without my emotional attachments say."
"That’s fair," Myat decided. "I’m attaching a file with all the ship specs and photos and a history of its very short life. Let me know what sort of feedback you get."
"Of course," Huian agreed. "I have it. Good Bye dear."
* * *
"You may go back to your regular duties...Carl," Heather said, with a little hesitation. It was bad to not be able to call your critical personnel by name, but all of them were critical. There were only about five hundred residents at Central now. Surely that wasn't too big a stretch for her brain.
Carl hesitated. "Would you like him cuffed again?" he offered.
Heather was amused, but he was sincerely concerned, so she didn't reprove him.
"Dakota and I are both armed. He doesn't seem to be offering any resistance," Heather pointed out. Indeed the man was still so unsteady Carl had suggested seating him rather than making him stand before her judgment. "I thank you for your concern, but we're good."
Carl, still looking dubious, gave Kurt a last
hard look that seemed to be a veiled warning, and left.
The other woman, Dakota stood and formally announced court was in session this tenth day of August, 2089. Kurt supposed she must be doing it for a recording and public record since it was just the three of them present.
"You are brought before my judgment at the request of Central Security," Heather informed Kurt. She had a sudden thought..."I don't believe we've met. Are you aware I'm the Sovereign of Central?"
"I've seen you on video. I was aware...uh...I'm not sure how to address you," Kurt admitted.
"I'm unimpressed by forced titles. You may just call me Heather," she invited.
"The security guys called you their Lady," Kurt remembered.
"They are both sworn to me," Heather said. "You are not. I'd remember, believe me. Only about a quarter of our residents are personally sworn to me. Foreign residents are welcome. But of course you still live under my justice."
"I sort of figured that," Kurt admitted, "though nobody spelled it out. You're under local law wherever you go. I intend to become a citizen of Home. Well I did..." he corrected, with a sick look on his face. All that seemed in jeopardy now. "So I never asked about becoming a citizen here."
"You may be surprised to know that I too am a citizen of Home. We have no bar to being both. But I don't encourage anyone to swear to me lightly. We take oaths very seriously, and there is little reason for you to become entwined with us if you are just here for a job and will be moving on. Indeed I have no need of citizens in great number scattered to other jurisdictions, because the obligations run both ways. I owe my subjects quite a few things and owing them to a widely scattered population might become difficult."
April 8: It's Always Something Page 12