Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #1. Рэй Брэдбери
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from a goon. Don’t know why. Don’t care. I figure to dive deep into the tunnels for a few days.
I hear assailants-unknown jumped Kimochi Stan before he could make his shuttle home. My name is mentioned, which is so not good. He’ll be at the infirmary for about a week and then on his way home whenever Lunar Authority thinks it has room on another shuttle. Poor sap.
As for yours truly, I can’t be too worried. If Security really wants me, they’ll figure out a way to get me. That they don’t flush out the rabbit holes might mean they know I had nothing to do with Stan. And I’m legal, but hey—discretion and so forth. I low profile it for awhile and just haunt.
Four years, 8 months, 28 days
Rumors that Project Burroughs is going civvie are true—only now it’s called Barsoom City though it can’t be more than a couple of domes. We got a whole mess of folken up here making ready for a torchship heading to Mars. Between the techies bound for Mars, their friends and family seeing them off, and distracted loonie goons, I lose myself in the crowds and restock my food.
Four years, 9 months, 2 days
Still no word on why Security is looking for me, if they still are. Can’t be because of Kimochi. Even if he didn’t see who jumped him, why would I want to rough him? I take a chance and grab my cleanest, freshest chit and play for the Barsoom City-bound crowds and make more money in one day than I have all month! Still have a long way to go though before I can get off this dusty rock. From the skinny I hear on Barsoom, the cost of the passage is more than I expected and the visa rules stiffer. Thankfully, I’ve got patience and time to build up my stake and wait for the rules and regs to lighten.
Mars or bust, man! Just you see.
Four years, 9 months, 5 days
A torchship went out to Mars the day before yesterday and another one goes off tomorrow. Brahe City Security seems to have better things to do than chase down innocent little moonunits like me, so I keep playing and making my way.
Later I cross the Concourse and see the Beach Boys giving me the evil eye, then start following me. They aren’t supposed to give me any trouble for a while to come, but maybe they’re running rogue. Either way I don’t like their look and lose them through the food court.
Outside, I bump into Stan who looks better than I expected. Battered and bruised, but not fidgety or nothing. He looks surprised to see me though and says something about having to wait another three weeks before Authority will send him home. I give him some meal tickets and he shuffles away too quick to thank me.
Some people, you know? Well, at least he’s alive. Maybe he’ll have better luck back home.
I decide to head towards the science dome to see if any of the techheads are on break and in the mood for some music. With all the hubbub in Brahe City these days with the traffic and all, they must be looking to unwind.
I turn a corner and run right into loonie goons. Crap.
My chit’s good, but they don’t even check it as they hustle me on to Facilities. We pass right by Amazing Gracie’s corner, where she and the Beach Boys are busting their guts laughing.
My chit’s good! It’s good! No fucking way is this going down.
Four years, 9 months, 6 days
I spend the night in Facilities pounding the walls. The loonie goons took my guitar and emptied my pockets so there’s no mucking about with the locks. I get a cold sandwich and bug juice at some point, then this big bruiser of a goon shows up to take me to see the Boss.
Boss Mead.
This is the big cheese, head of Brahe City Security. A no-nonsense, cheerless heavy who ain’t never had a good word for the moonunits or anyone else who skates on this side of legitimacy. Bet he’s tone deaf too. We come to an office and I sit in a chair and wait. The big loonie goon stands by the door and keeps a watchful eye on li’l ole me.
Man, this is like being sent to the principal’s office-triple-squared. Maybe Mead’s not a bad guy, I tell myself. Maybe he’s got a wife and kids and spends quiet off hours playing board games and the like. He might read poetry to puppies for all I know. But hell, the door opens and in he comes all gleaming in his blues ‘n whites and looks at me. I don’t see Major Mead the family man, I see Boss Mead, the hardass who’s gonna bounce my ass downside for no good reason.
Shit.
End of the line, Digger, old boy. You kept your nose clean and you didn’t make a nuisance of yourself and you helped out from time to time and it’s still gonna end with the big dump on the wrong side of the gravity well.
Mead sits behind the desk and calls up something on a datapad, reading all quiet like there is nothing major happening at all. I’ve been up here for almost five years. Five! And he’s acting like deporting me is as routine as deciding whether he’s going to have the pudding or the pie for dessert.
Oh sure, I think of jumping out of that chair and dashing out. If I could make it through the Concourse, maybe I could evade for a week or three with a sprinkle of hope that if I stay under their radar long enough they’ll forget all about it as a bad job and we could go back to normal.
Yeah. That’d be the thing.
Except I’ve got this big-ass uniformed goon stationed at the door behind me, ready to break me in two if I sneeze without warning. Yeah, sure.
Fuck it. If I gotta go, let me go with style. Make some kind of raised-middle-finger gesture to the Man and to hell with the rest. I get this crazy idea. Fucking insane and start undoing the fastens on my jumpsuit. Maybe a little creative streaking is in order.
“What the hell are you doing?” barks Mead, looking up from the file. From behind me, big meaty hands clamp down on my shoulders.
I force myself to relax under the grip and continue working on the suit. As soon as big boy lets me go, I can slither out of it soon enough. “Getting naked. Why not? You’re going to boot me out no matter, like a baby from the womb, so why not indulge?”
The hands grip my shoulders tighter and the goon leans on me real hard, hard enough to even make a difference Up Here. Mead just stares at me, this totally dumbfounded expression on his pugly. He looks at me for about half a minute, then sits back and shakes his head. He waves a hand at the goon who hesitates, then releases me and leaves the room. I start to shuck out of my suit.
“Stop that,” snaps Mead, like I’m a child. Well, duh.
And suddenly sure I feel all foolish and the like. I’m making no great claims to rational thinking at this time. Futile dumb toddlerbabe gestures can’t be the best I can do. I’ll skip the tantrums and go with dignity, boy. But whatever the hell is going to happen, I’m still going to make him work for it. I refasten my suit and sit there.
He puts down the datapad and folds his hands. Then he looks me over with a disapproving kind of frown.
“Rough day?” he asks.
Okay, so I’m rumpled and wrinkled. You’d be too. And I’m a little irked. “Rough week. What’s the story? You can’t toss me. I got valid chits.”
Mead sits back and presses a button on the desk. A computer screen flashes on. “Joseph Dagwood Hill,” he reads, “born in Syracuse, NY. Attended Brown University. Majored in engineering but dropped out midway through junior year. Formed a band called Diaspora then disappeared from the music scene a year later. You reappeared at Brahe City under the name Joe Hill but go by Digger while on the Concourse. You’ve been here for over four years and nine months which makes you the longest-lasting civilian transient on the station.”
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