Chaos in the Night 6

Chapter 6

The Y. Penslar was a star tonight in Earth's orbit. Around the docks, the interstellar ship was known as Big Dog, so called because of its captain's habit of parking his ship in the jaws of Canis Major at its instance of heliacal rising. The moment was fleeting, but the name stuck, and Penslar's mongrel crew climbed down from space barking mad.

They fell over each other in a drunken mass entering Bastard Jarlon's crappy bar. Years ago, Jarlon came out from the Kuiper Belt a wealthy oreholder, but it didn't take long for him to blow his asteroid scrip on frivolous chit. Virtual chicks, infrared mellow. You name it; everything that could be had in the Belt was amplified on Earth. The drugs and women, they were cheaper here – but they were everywhere, and Jarlon fell into a trap all too familiar to Company inspectors. The collectors came knocking and shredded his iridium flix. He was given three choices. Go on Company payroll – the unofficial one – or go into hibernation for transport to Titan's deep mines. Oh, the third choice; run. Jarlon tried that. He lost every stub of hair on his body and half the skin on his left side was crispy fried bacon. The hack Company docs replaced his charred epidermis with synthskin, cheaper stuff than even the Model T%'s wore, and it itched all the time. Jarlon still threw punches for the Company, but he was well entrenched and his own holdings grew. Tonight he conducted a rowdy game of Face Eaters in the center ring. The activated crowd was ensiesta with pitchers of blonde octane, held in check by electric spheres, and Jarlon slid down a ramp for the interim, smearing a blue cream onto his left bicep.

“Bastard!” A scant crewman slid into the bar, seemingly passing through the negative spaces, creating a deficit of friction. Weasel maneuvered to Jarlon's focal point occupying the minimum amount defined by physical law. “Aha; Bastard, my friend; oh have I got the goods for you. Will you deal?” Weasel lived loosely in the Company universe, flitting in and out, wheeling and dealing goods from the Outermost to the inner and back out again, as he pleased. Technically he was a supply clerk on Y. Penslar, but really he had his wiggly paws in everyone's pie, and the fruit he pilfered was for sale.

Jarlon slapped his back or slapped at it, but Weasel shifted, “'Eh, Weasel boy. I got a big payin' thrall on here, my man. Why don't ya get on up to the bar there and have Elwi pour out some of the good stuff; on me.”

After, beyond the thrall, Jarlon had some of the bodies removed to the quickfix tubes out back, while others were lucky enough to find a padded booth and dial into intravenous recovery consciously. He ushered Weasel from the bar into his office. Weasel pulled a delineated satchel onto the desk and toggled the pixelation tag, and the bag revealed itself as hardshell luggage, easily twice the size as its cloak suggested. “Inside here, my good friend, are goodies from Titan, the likes you've never seen before, or smelled.”

“Ha, Stick the friend shit, Weasel; let's see it. I got a raid planned for later.”

Weasel lifted out capped pipettes of Jupiter juice and some bars of Sola' ice. These were items Jarlon had seen before, but there was always a demand, so he began to select a few things to trade for. “S'good, but no big deal. You got any stressed diamond, or purple flakes?”

“Ah, yes, my...Bastard, I do. But I have this, too.” Weasel undid an inner side compartment and pulled from it two wrapped packages. He gingerly pulled off the paper from one and then unzipped the seal. Immediately the room filled with an unmistakeable pungency. Both of the man grinned and laughed aloud.

“Okay, okay, seal that bugger up.” This was a cake of pure Titan ambergris. Unrefined it had a sickly sweet odor, bordering on an all out reek. Its direct effect on the nervous system was of debilitating humor. But once processed into a resin or perfume, the scent of Titan ambergris became a most sought after potion. Small, even tiny amounts could turn fortunes on end. So the price for these two cakes was immeasurable. “You weasel! And how did you come by this? And what makes you think I can afford the price?”

“Oh, I don't imagine you can. But we can work something out I'm sure. I have enough of this to keep you supplied for a long time; and in the meantime you're a good fence for me – I trust you. And you can keep the Company off my back. Capeesh?” Weasel replaced one cake into the case, but handed the unwrapped piece over to Jarlon. “Now, shall we deal?”

“Indeed, let's,” Jarlon reached for the package, but swung his left hand up and sliced through the weasel's neck with an uncharged foil. Certainly, Weasel's honed senses would have recognized a heated weapon, but nobody used archaic arms anymore, they were too slow and blunt. The body slumped crookedly behind the desk, out of sight. Jarlon dropped the blade off to the side, and picked through the case, pulling out three more cakes of the ambergris. “Jackpot!” These alone should buy him a way out of this Company shithole forever. Maybe he could even outfit a miner and get a new crew together; get off of this crummy planet for good.

Then he felt the nozzle of a flash laz on the back of his head. “Oh, my friend. You didn't think I'd walk into your little deathtrap with a fortune in my pocket, just ripe for the taking, did you? You see, Bastard, maybe you're not up on the new pixelates; this one I have has got some major substance, you know. Not up to par with a Squidge remote, but you'd of seen right through that, wouldn't you?'

Jarlon nearly had a quippy reply worked out, but the front of his face disintegrated as the full force of Weasel's laser beam lit up his skull.

–

They walked by a photograph of Omja Phookan standing amidst vapor wearing a fetus tie. A brown pair of endorsed Catalan cats swung like infinity marbles from a hook underneath a holo atrium.
“Do you see this cabinet hinge?” he asked Annie. They held hands as they strolled. “It's a metronomic anomaly filter. Yeah, really. And this house plant, have you ever seen a Green Nepthytis; Syngonium podophyllum? No, of course you haven't.” Omja pulled a chair back from the cafe table; it scraped over the locally mined chert. “Pull on this leaf, and 'phoom', quick release escape valve. Why, back in the 60's I retrofitted my earthbound kitchen with a kit lunar lander, so I think I can get you and your friends off of this fetid rock easily enough.”

She had made some discreet inquiries and found Draybeck and Stephen's general whereabouts in the mazes under Titan. What she couldn't know was exactly where they were, or minute by minute information. Like how their health was, or even whether or not they still lived. Anything could be bought on Titan, and the cost of two malnourished, half-dead miners who probably wouldn't make it through next week came pretty cheap. Still, there were a lot of hands to be greased. Annie had talked Elena Consuelos into backing the escape, what she didn't know was that Annie planned to fly as well.

Omja Phookan was a middleman, and he had the meter running. He was a man of integrity, but he didn't come cheap. Happily, he employed a vast harem of quality, and taste. So, although he eyed Annie appreciatively, he respected her above many, for her beauty and accomplishment. He bobbed his head many times at her inquiries.

“You know,” and he bobbed; Annie bobbed in return, “she will come after you; she has uncounted resources. She may even employ me. Might be just to bring you back. Consuelos will be grief stricken. But if she can't have your love, then....”

Annie hadn't thought that far ahead.

“You have not attained the right to discard your aura, you are lowly indeed. There are ones who, for a price, can erase it however; that and your identity-code.”

“Can you arrange it. I mean, without Elena finding out?” There was much to work out.

He led her out of his spacious cave to a zip tunnel. “Wait for the signal, lovely Annie. Namaste.”