Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #1. Рэй Брэдбери
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out of the toilets and snags two of my batteries out of her bag.”
I shrug, totally unsurprised now, but I didn’t tell him to go and do something like that. “Why cry to me? You know who he is. Finger him.”
“Oh yeah, like Security is going to help me grab back batteries I stole from them to begin with. Cheesehead. The spaznik’s gone underbelly and you were the last person to talk to him.”
Underbelly, has he? Hope he don’t get lost. Spazniks come in two flavors. Some manage to secure an early homecoming, then party off what little few dollies they have as noisily as possible. You’d be surprised how many times they change their minds about leaving, but by then it’s too late—the loonie goons always seem to know.
Then there are ones like Kimochi who will never be described as ‘people-persons’ and go into hiding as soon as they get their return ticket for fear of getting robbed by folken as desperate as them. Chances are, ole Kimochi Stan won’t show his face again until boarding time—if he doesn’t get himself fatally lost.
“I didn’t tell him to steal anything,” I tell her.
“Dammit, Digger,” Gracie bounces me against the wall then grabs me by the shoulders, lifts me off the floor, and pins me. “I want those batteries back or they’re going to find you stinking up the ventilation shafts.” Her goons grin real nasty-like.
Man, I so hate people trying to whale on me. Maybe I can wriggle free, but not with the Beach Boys right behind her. Nor with Amazing Gracie outweighing me by a max factor. And let’s not forget her amazing army. She sucks about half the longhaul transients up here into joining her racket, and a good chunk of the other half are at least on retainer. No place to run to, Digger. No place to hide.
“Deal?” I offer. What the hell. Beats becoming a smear on the wall.
“It better include two batteries, dustmite,” she says, “and while we’re at it, shake your pockets loose.” Off to the left I see three more of her bully boys, Huey, Dewey, and Frank (where do they come up with these names?) turning the corner. Anytime she wants, she can pulp me even without her bruisers tagging along. Gracie has a very ‘hands on’ personality, but the goons make for serviceable camouflage against the cameras. Oh, this is not good. Security won’t waste their energy for a simple rough-up. Maybe if Gracie kills me, that’ll put a dent in her long-term plans—but I’ll be long past caring. With goons covering her back, no one sees nothing.
Calmly, calmly, I push my hands inside Gracie’s elbows and she grudgingly lowers me back to the floor. Where am I going to go?
“Look, batteries are long gone,” I say. “Traded those an hour after Kimochi uploaded them to me. And you know how things work, they change hands a double-dozen times by now. Hell, someone in your network probably has them.” That’s not entirely true. One is sitting in a hideyhole, but I’m not about to tell her that and be forced to take her there.
“That doesn’t mean you’re getting off,” she says. Her goons are crowding behind her now. Covering us up real nice now. Crap-squared.
I reach down my shirt and pull out a tag. Unlike all the plain gray ones, this one has a gold-colored strip running down the back. I watch her eyes as I take it out. Oh good Gracie; I have you now. “Seven months left,” I say.
She loosens her grip on me and doesn’t even notice I shrug the rest of the way out. Her jaw goes something slack as she stares at the chit. “That’s not real,” she says. Her goonies are just as gawking.
“Sure ‘nuff ‘tis.”
“No tourie gets a year-long visa. You gotta be pro to get one of those. It’s a phony.”
I smile, “This spaz was a university fellow who blew his funds at Lucky Dick’s. I tripped over him the first week he got here and he was already on the road to ruin. He must have blown more than money at Dickie’s because he was a bloody mess when I found him. An act of mercy got him to the infirmary and he somehow, accidently, must have swapped this chit for a monther that was almost up.”
“Fuck, Digger. Why not wait until he was dead before you robbed him?”
“Professionalism.” I turn the chit over and let her see the hologrammed logo next to the strip. “You got a reader? Good for seven more months.”
She jerks her head and a tall blond beach guy with a reader slung around his neck comes around. I put my hand around the chain and lean forward to let her run it through the reader. They machine beeps cheerily.
Gracie frowns. She’s suspicious, sure as spit, but that don’t matter. It’s real, and I got her hooked. “Why you giving it up?” she asks.
Shrug. “Got more chits. Figure I give you this and you call your goons off, plus I get a couple of free rides.”
“Your ass.”
“My ass is purty, thank you. You take chit, free and clear, and you and your goonies don’t hassle me for seven months.”
“And if we just take it from you?”
I yank the chain back, pop the chit in my mouth and set my teeth against it. She knows I can ruin the codes on the strip if I start grinding my teeth together, but if she gives her word, she’d has to keep it. That’s how she got to be Amazing Gracie—mean and ugly as she is. If it got out that her word was as good as a holed spacesuit, she’d be without her army and probably downside within a week. That’s just how things work. Nobody likes a dishonest crook.
Grace spits on the floor and nods to the other goon. Spit flies funny at sixth-G, in case you didn’t know.
The other blond guy comes forward and pulls the chit off over my head, “Seven months, dustmite, then you’re dead,” he says.
I smile all pretty-like. Gracie sends her goons back and then smiles back at me. Not a pretty smile—she don’t have many of those left for anyone. She growls through her teeth, and leaves.
Easy, Digger.
I relax and lean back against the wall. My own freaking fault. My best chit. Granted, I got more, but still—that was my best chit. When Kimochi gave me the batteries, I knew he must have done something that would send Gracie gunning for me. I should have never made him an offer for a quicker ride home in exchange. Stupid is as stupid does.
But no worries. I got more chits, and I can wrangle more when the need arises. Digger has lots of tricks still.
I whistle, straighten my jumps, and pick up my guitar. Time to get to work. I head out the corridor and make my way toward the observation decks.
“Spot check.”
I turn my head. A loonie goon with a blue stripe on his arm stands there by the exit like he was waiting Just for me. “Pardon?”
He looks at me and taps a shock stick against a gloved hand. “Spot check, Digger. You know the rules. Transients got to have a valid visa chit on their persons at all times or are subject to deportation following a term in Facilities.”
I know the routine, and realize Gracie must have ‘lerted me out at the very first chance to this slap-happy goon. No time for games, so don’t even grin. I just reach into my leg pocket and take out a dull gray chit and hand it over.
The goon frowns, but sets the chit into his belt scanner. Beep! Digger is kosher! He hands it back to me with a grunt.
“I hope you enjoy your final week with us here at Brahe City.” His voice is nice and sarcastic-like.
Ha! Yeah, my emergency backup’s got a week left—almost ready to pass off to the next spaznik I see in trade for a fresher chit. But with what I’ve got back in my hideyholes, I’m covered for at least another three months easy. No way am I going back Down There.
I got other plans.
Four years, 8 months, 25 days