by Jason Hutt
“Words to live by,” Max said somewhat smugly.
Nick caught a few more distant chuckles from eavesdroppers around the room. Three men got up from their table across the bar from Nick and Max and started to slowly walk toward them. They looked from Nick to Max intensely before returning their hardened gaze back to Nick. Each of the men had the same grizzled, worn features as Max and, in Nick’s estimation, outfits that came right from the pages of Freighter Pilot Weekly. What they lacked in style, they made up for with tattered, ripped, and poorly patched clothing. The three men were a sartorial nightmare, though Nick suspected they weren’t coming to him for fashion advice.
Nick averted his gaze as the men continued to get closer. He took a sip of his beer and tried to stare a hole through the bottom of the mug. Nick braced himself, ready to defend himself by any means possible. He tried to remember if the stool was bolted to the floor. He tried to move it subtly, but it didn’t budge. His heart raced. He tried to look around without moving his head, but saw nothing within reach that he could possibly use to defend himself.
The largest of the men, a big, black man with close-cropped gray hair, put his large booted foot on the stool next to Nick, clenched his fist, and pounded it on the bar. Nick flinched involuntarily. Then Max started laughing.
“Oh, would you guys leave the poor kid alone,” Myra called out, “He’s half ready to go running out into the storm.”
The big man’s face broke into a wide, beaming grin and Max let out another round of laughter.
“The name’s Charlie Locker,” the man said with an outstretched hand. Nick hesitated a moment before extending his hand in return.
“Damn, Charlie,” Max said, taking a sip of his beer, “I think you’re going to have to buy him a new pair of pants.”
Everyone laughed at that; even Nick cracked a smile. Max received pats on the back from all three men as they settled onto stools around them and they all raised their drinks in salute.
“Good to see you again, Max,” said Roman Dupree, the oldest and smallest of the three.
“Likewise, Roman,” Max said, “Don’t think I’ve seen you on this route in a while.”
Roman nodded and scratched at the gray stubble on his chin. “Yeah, it’s been about two years, hasn’t it?”
Max nodded. “Lost the Medcorp contract?”
“They closed up shop two months ago.”
“Lousy bastards didn’t even have the courtesy to give him a goodbye kiss,” Charlie said.
“At least I didn’t get fired by the Conglomerate for gross incompetence,” Roman said derisively.
The smile disappeared from Charlie’s face.
“Don’t bring that crap up, man. They screwed me royally. There’s no damn way those food containers got contaminated in my hold.”
The other men laughed and the stories rolled on for another hour, maybe two. Nick lost track of time, withdrew from the conversation, and wondered what he was doing. At that moment, he would’ve given a lot for the cool ocean breeze that blew in from the shore at his parent’s beach house on Valhalla. He could envision the sound of the surf pounding the shore, the smell of the salty air, and the cool breeze that would pass through the open windows.
It had been a long time since he enjoyed that house, probably a year since he had last been back there. The last time he had been there was right before he had first stumbled onto his father’s files, before he learned what the man he grew up idolizing really did on a day-to-day basis, before he had begun to hate.
“You’re being awfully quiet, kid,” said Zanth, the oldest of Max’s three friends, “What’s your story? What the hell are you doing with this crotchety, old bastard?”
Nick hesitated a moment, slow to come out of his reverie. Admitting to Max that he was having family troubles was one thing; admitting it to these guys wasn’t something he was ready to do.
“Just looking to cut out on my own a bit. Thought the frontier would be a great place to go.”
“Oh, cut the bullshit, kid,” Roman said, “This is no frontier. Frontier means there’s something to explore. This is more like a dead end street. The frontier closed up shop fifty years ago. Hell, Central Exploration doesn’t even maintain a field office out here anymore and the Republic, well, they stopped funding exploration missions when you were in diapers.”
“Maybe you guys are just too jaded to see it anymore,” Nick said with a smile that he hoped appeared genuine.
Charlie looked at him skeptically and said, “You’re full of crap.”
Nick didn’t respond. He sipped his drink with as neutral an expression as possible.
Chapter 3
Nick woke up with what felt like a mouthful of cotton and sand. His mouth was dry but little granules of sand had wedged in his cheeks, tearing into the soft tissue every time he moved his jaw. He stumbled into the small, dimly lit bathroom and rinsed his mouth with a small cup of water.
He looked around the repurposed storage container that he called his hotel room and decided that on Valhalla no place that looked like this would deign to charge you to stay there. Rust streaked the metal walls. One light in the bedroom constantly flickered. The air smelled stale and musty. Better get used to it, he thought.
Nick looked at himself in the mirror. He had what passed for scruff coming in under his chin and parts of his cheeks. The skin around his eyes was puffy; he hadn’t slept well on the Hannah or in his first night in this room. His formerly rich, golden tan, earned from spending many days in the perfect climate of Valhalla, was starting to pale.
He plopped back down on the slab he called his bed and dug the vial of Vigor pills out of his backpack. He stared at the bottle briefly, running his thumb over the Marshall Conglomerate logo. He momentarily thought of not taking the pills, but decided now was not the time for a moral stand. He took two and within minutes started to feel revitalized.
Nick pulled a loose fitting, synthetic cotton shirt out of his bag and slipped into it. The cut of the shirt was loose; the fabric was cool. At home, he would’ve blended into the crowd. Here, he knew he’d look like a star among men. Nick didn’t care and grabbed his faux leather pants and metal boots. Finally, he slipped the sleeve of the wrist computer over his right forearm. Within seconds, the screen conformed to the shape of his forearm.
Nick then clomped his way down to what passed for the hotel’s restaurant. It reminded Nick of his middle school cafeteria. He took a seat at an open table that would allow him to see the news broadcast being projected on the back wall. He tapped the control on his table and turned the volume up to a low level. The news report was at least a month old. Might be too soon to catch the report out here, Nick thought. It was odd to think that he had probably seen this broadcast already, before he had decided to slip away from home in the middle of the night.
The brown-haired, soft-featured female anchor of the Central News Agency was speaking.
“Food riots erupted today on Canis One,” she said stoically, “Twenty people were injured in clashes with Republic security forces.”
Nick knew this story. He had seen the report before, just a week before he left. It had sparked a debate with his father on why in this day and age people were still scavenging for food.
“That’s why population control laws are in place,” his father had said.
“But we should be able to synthesize food for any who need it.”
“Food is available for those who want to earn it,” Henry Papagous responded.
Their conversation devolved from there. His father’s point-of-view rankled the moral backbone that had been instilled in Nick since he was a little boy. The Church said you should help those in need, not bleed them dry. Nick had taken that lesson to heart and he could tell that it displeased his father to no end. The Vice President of Research and Development for the Marshall Conglomerate did not give anything away for free; he sold it to whoever could pay the most.
Nick tuned out the memory and concentrated on the br
eakfast menu projected on the tabletop. He didn’t recognize most of the choices. After a few minutes of searching, he gave up and selected something that sounded like a mushroom omelet.
Max slid into the seat opposite him, sipping from a cup of hot coffee. The older man glanced at Nick’s outfit and chuckled.
“You look like you just stepped off the runway,” Max remarked.
“Good,” Nick responded, “This place could use someone to instill a little bit of fashion sense.”
“What good’s a fancy shirt and shiny pants if the sand outside will tear it to pieces within seconds,” Max responded as he scrolled through the menu choices.
“See that’s where you’re wrong, this stuff is practically indestructible. It’s made out of the same fibers that line Republic Security uniforms. I bet it could hold up to a little rough weather.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell me how comfortable it is when sand gets in between the tight legs of your pants and your skin or when your boots fill up with sand,” Max selected something, then looked at the screens on the wall.
The image now showed a recording of the clash between a crowd of angry rioters and the line of Republic Security forces. The rioters had symbolically armed themselves with empty dinner plates of a variety of shapes and sizes. The plates didn’t do much good against the stun batons and riot guns the security officers were using.
“Damn fools,” Max commented.
“Why’s that?” Nick asked, tearing his eyes away from the screen to look at Max. Max had trimmed his graying beard slightly. Nick could see lines etched into Max’s forehead that became more pronounced as he talked. He looked weathered and tired.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” Max responded, “What good does it do those poor folks? The Republic will squash them like the little bugs they are.”
“Don’t believe in sticking up for your rights, letting the government know when they’ve overstepped?” Nick responded as their food arrived, hand delivered by an old man with a crooked back and an ancient wheeled cart. Whatever was on Nick’s plate, it was not a mushroom omelet. In fact, Nick was pretty sure there were no eggs in it at all. After what he was witnessing on the news though, he felt he needed to be grateful for whatever was on the plate in front of him.
“Just a realist, Nick,” Max said, “They’d all be better off channeling that effort into finding a better niche for themselves.”
Nick frowned; Max’s words reminded him of something his father would say. He cast a downward glance and wondered if that’s what Max really believed. Nick didn’t. After all, that’s why he was here. Nick started idly pushing the food around his plate. Eventually, he took a tentative bite and was surprised at how delicious the food was.
“Wow,” said Nick, quickly taking a second bite, “This stuff is great.”
Max smiled.
“I would have never guessed,” Nick said as he shoveled the food into his mouth.
“See, we’re not all savages here. Lot better than military-grade nutritional paste, isn’t it?” Max asked with a knowing smile, “You could use a little meat on your frame, Nick. I thought that storm yesterday was going to blow you away.”
“Very funny,” Nick said.
Within minutes, Nick had cleaned his plate.
“That was tremendous,” he said, “I still can’t believe it. Where do they get this stuff?”
“Chef’s secret, I’m sure,” Max said.
Nick pressed his thumb to the tabletop to pay and briefly considered ordering another plate. He looked at the time on his wrist computer.
“What’s the plan for today?” He asked.
“I’m going to check the job listings and see if there’re any suborbital jobs that need to be done. Fracture usually needs something hauled its way.”
“Is there a Chapel around here?” Nick asked.
“Second sub-basement in the Governor’s hall,” Max responded, “Though they may have converted it to storage after years of neglect.”
Nick ignored the comment. “I’d like to go by there quickly, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” Max responded, “Meet me at the ship in an hour.”
***
Thankfully, both the Drifter Hotel and the Governor’s Hall were connected directly to the subway. Nick was very happy to not have to be exposed to Dust’s harsh elements. There was only one other person on the subway with him, a middle-aged woman whose eyes were red-rimmed with tears and whose face was a picture of sheer exhaustion. She kept her eyes focused on the floor in front of her, avoiding any eye contact with Nick.
He was compelled to ask her if she needed help, but decided against saying anything just as the words were about to pass his lips. Nick did not feel up to providing any comfort to her. When the subway stopped at the Governor’s Hall, she immediately got up and hurried off into the building. Nick intentionally moved slowly, letting her get the distance she wanted between them.
Nick passed through the subway station doors and into the lobby of the Governor’s Hall. A robot attendant, identical to the obsolete subway station attendant, was available at a kiosk just inside the lobby. Otherwise, the lobby was empty. The woman on the subway had just passed through a set of doors on the left, which led to the local branch of the First Republic Bank. To his right, Nick saw the barred entrance to the now abandoned Central Exploration Agency offices. A layer of dust lay undisturbed around that door.
“Directions to the Chapel, please,” Nick requested. A floor plan suddenly appeared on his wrist computer with arrows guiding him in the appropriate direction. Nick stepped forward and entered the lift heading for the second sub-basement.
“Shall I request the presence of the pastor?” His computer asked.
“No,” Nick said, wondering just how long it would take to find one.
Nick exited the lift and slowly made his way through the surprisingly long corridors of the underground structure. He passed the Colony Clerk’s office, a shipping and distribution center, IT support offices, and another abandoned set of offices that were labeled Department of Tourism. Finally, he arrived at another dust-covered door clearly marked Chapel. Nick opened the door tentatively and was relieved to find the room in decent condition.
The room was dimly lit with a crude stain glass mural depicting a bible scene Nick couldn’t quite place dominating the front of the room. The only light was provided by the artificial light behind the mural which bathed the pews of the chapel in a soothing array of yellows, oranges, greens, and blues. Nick walked to the front of the Chapel, kneeled, and blessed himself with the sign of the cross. He then sat in the first pew to his right.
For several moments, Nick sat in complete silence, unmoving. He stared at the mural and tried to quiet his thoughts. He needed guidance. Somewhere else in the galaxy his father was looking for him and looking for the crystal he had in his pocket.
Nick pulled the small data crystal from his pocket and leaned forward in the pew, letting the dim light shine through the crystal. He knew that the information it contained could be very damaging to the Republic, to the Conglomerate, and, most of all, to his father. Knowing what was on the crystal made it uncomfortable to hold in the light of day.
Holding it made him realize he had no idea what to do with it. He had no idea who to send it to, where to post it, or how to get it out to the masses. He knew, based on the information in those files, that as soon as the information was released, it would be discredited as aggressively as possible.
He needed time to sort things out. Here on Dust, he felt safe and he was more than willing to enjoy that feeling a while longer. Max would want to leave in a few days and make their way back to Nexus. Nick needed to find a way to stop that from happening.
***
An hour later, Nick clanged up the entry ramp of the Hannah in his metal boots. He found Max sitting in the cockpit, drumming his fingers on the console. The old man was covered in sweat and a thick crease formed in his forehead due to the scowl he wore on his face.
Nick hesitated in the hatchway.
“Kid,” Max said, his tone sharp, “If you’re not going to be on time, don’t bother showing up. People pay me to bring things when they need them and I pay you to make sure we get their things to them on time. Do this again and I dock you a day’s pay. Understood?”
“You should have sent me a message,” Nick said.
“I shouldn’t need to,” Max said, “I told you what time to be here.”
“You knew where I was though.”
“And it was your responsibility to get back here on time,” Max said, “Instead, I had to load a dozen sonic augers into the cargo hold myself. Just because I can look up your location on the computer, doesn’t mean I should have to. Show a little damn personal responsibility next time.”
“Why didn’t you just get Reggie to help?” Nick asked.
“Because I would’ve had to spend another eight hours cleaning the sand out of his joints,” Max yelled, “Christ, kid, learn when to shut up.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. He sat down in the co-pilot’s seat and buckled himself in.
“Don’t be late again,” Max said, “Now, let’s get out of here. There’s another damn storm coming in. You’re lucky we’re getting out of here before it hits or else there really would have been hell to pay.
“And while we’re en route, change out of those ridiculous pants and boots. You’ve got some heavy lifting to do once we get to Fracture.”
Nick nodded and stared into the distance as a wall of sand quickly approached. He didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.
***
Nick loaded one of the oversized augers onto a small industrial hover sled while Max stepped to the side of the Hannah’s open cargo hold and leaned against a strut. The blazing midday sun of Dust beat down upon them. Nick wiped at the caked-on layer of sand and sweat that had settled on his cheeks. The only shade here was cast by the shadow of the ship and the other abandoned structures that surrounded the small landing pad.