Low Port Part 2

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 pa.s.sage 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 torchs.h.i.+p 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 b.u.mp 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. c.r.a.p.

My chit's good, but they don't even check it as they hustle me on to Facilities. We pa.s.s 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 f.u.c.king 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 princ.i.p.al'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 h.e.l.l, 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 harda.s.s who's gonna bounce my a.s.s downside for no good reason.

s.h.i.+t.

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 das.h.i.+ng 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-a.s.s uniformed goon stationed at the door behind me, ready to break me in two if I sneeze without warning. Yeah, sure.

f.u.c.k it. If I gotta go, let me go with style. Make some kind of raised-middle-finger gesture to the Man and to h.e.l.l with the rest. I get this crazy idea. f.u.c.king insane and start undoing the fastens on my jumpsuit. Maybe a little creative streaking is in order.

"What the h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.u.t.ton 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."

I lean back and tangle my fingers behind my head. Kind of relaxed, you know, but a forced relaxed. So he has a file on me. No fears. "All the air I breathe is paid for. All my food is kosher."

"And you don't go panhandling," Mead adds, "and you don't steal-directly, at least. You don't bug the guards when you get picked on by other moonunits."

"So I've done nothing wrong."

Mead nods, though it looks like he's agreeing only on the technicalities.

"I've done a lot right too," I tell him.

"How do you figure?" he asks.

"A lot of folks come up here not prepared for the more subtle differences between getting around Down There and getting around Up Here," I tell him, all serious-like. This is serious business. (Do me a favor and forget that getting-naked c.r.a.p) "I help them adjust. I show them how to handle their food tickets so they don't overdo it or trade them in for dollies for the tourie shops without getting ripped off. I play a bit of music from home for the homesick and add a bit of local color to the Concourse. Many's a time I've given directions to touries and techies alike without asking for anything in return."

The Boss tilts his head to one side. Oh he's suspicious all right. He's suspicious. "So what are you getting at?"

"I've even pulled the odd techie ch.o.r.e or three," I tell him, "under the roses, so the speak. I think if there's a job for a guy like me Up Here, I should get it," I tell him. There. Now it's out. A real job would mean real dollies and the sooner I could raise my stake for Mars.

"Well there isn't," he says.

"Then what are you going to do? Kick me off?"

"Yep."

"You can't. I broke no laws. You've said so yourself. I'm not a nuisance to any of the staff or touries and I pay my own way. I can raise a stink at the UNSA and then come right back Up Here and start all over."

"You scam your own way. Visa chits were never meant to be used as currency for b.u.ms."

"So the lunar commission is boohooing over the fact they can't reap off of other people's paid air?" Now I'm more than p.i.s.sed. They can alter visa policies Down There if they get the votes, but I'm so grandfathered in I got whiskers that reach the floor. They can't change the rules on me this late in the game.

He holds up his hands and shakes his head. "We're getting off track. Yes, it's my intention to put you off the moon, but you don't have to go back to Earth. How does Mars sound?"

I almost fall out of the chair. Ouch.

"Bulls.h.i.+t," I tell him.

"No bulls.h.i.+t. We tried to find you for the first s.h.i.+p, but you kept moving around and I've had my hands full enough with all the new folks arriving and pa.s.sing through. We were lucky, you were lucky, that Gracie's boys spotted you and tipped us off. The second s.h.i.+p leaves later today. Barsoom City needs a support staff with the Project Burroughs personnel pulling out. Trouble is, the only personnel we have so far who will be able to hack life on Mars are the scientists and technicians. We don't have a shortage of them, but we do have a shortage in another area." He looks at me curious. "Are you too proud to push a mop? Or handle some laundry or cooking?"

This is unreal. "No," I say. h.e.l.l, I've held down worse jobs in college.

"You sure? You weren't too far from a degree in engineering at one time. And most of the initiative you've shown up here has been self-serving. Can you serve others is my question. You'll actually be working, not loafing around with a bunch of other b.u.ms."

"I wasn't a prodigy student, even at my best," I admit to him. "My grades would have gotten me nothing more than a cubicle Down There, not a techslot on the moon. But I can make a good grunt. I can even do some tech work when it's needed. Ask around. Sign me up." Sign me up now, before you change your mind.

"You don't want to hear about pay or benefits?"

"You covering my air and food?"

"It's part of the package. The food won't be much better than the slop we give ticket holders here at first-not until the greenhouses and protein processors are online-but you'll get what the science and tech folks get."

"Sign me up." I tell him. Yes. Yes. Yes!

"Not so fast. You ready to take on a two-year long contract?"

"Earth years or Martian years?"

He chuckles and looks a little pleased with himself. "Martian, of course. That's about four Earth years. Give or take."

I think about it for only the briefest of moments. Nearly five years on the moon, four years on Mars. Who knows? Maybe out past Pluto before I'm sixty. And hey, people are living longer. The technology is only getting better.

"And of course you get a free ride back to Earth when your contract is up," he tells me.

"No," I say.

"No?" The guy looks a little surprised. He leans across the desk and gives me his best darkly-type scowl. "Look son, I can't make you take the job on Mars, but if you think you're going to continue coasting Up Here any longer-"

"No, I mean I don't want to go back to Earth."

"You'll want to stay on Mars? Don't speak too soon. It's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Neither is the moon-but going forward beats falling backward. When the contract is up, I want berth to any other colony settlement that will take me. If there's nothing ready, I'll sign up for another Martian year until something does turn up."

"You're kidding," he says, staring at me all curious-like. "Son, Barsoom City isn't a big dome, although it'll get bigger in time. If you think you'll find better a better life on Ceres or someplace, you've got more than a few years of waiting."

"They'll need dishwashers on Ceres too. If not now, then eventually. And if not Ceres, than Callisto. Or on a deep s.p.a.ce explorer or comet rocket."

How did Columbus get all that crew? They weren't all seadogs and convicts. There must have been a few dishwashers who just wanted to see how far they could go, how many horizons they could cross. For a lot of folken, the ties to Mama Earth are too strong, but I was ready to be s.p.a.ceborn the first time I opened my eyes and saw them twinkling lights in the sky. Brahe City was just the first small step. One small step, baby, and it's the stars-our destination. Don't try to stop me now.

I look at Boss Mead and he ain't so bad seeming right now. I think of how Gracie laughed as I was dragged by, and now who's laughing? Mead and I talk some more, then he cuts me loose with a b.u.t.terscotch-colored chit, "Be at dock H in twelve hours. I'll forward your guitar to the s.h.i.+p. Use the rest of the time to gather your personals, but no contraband. Now beat it. And good luck."

And it's off I go.

I hit all my hideyholes, one after the other, and grab my stash. Of the chits I got left, I head out to the Concourse and give them to Tattooed Lydia and tell her to keep what she wants, give the rest to whomever. Same with the chit scanner. I also tell her to describe for Gracie the chit I'm wearing, but not to tell her where I've gone. Let her stew for a bit until she gigs it out for herself.

Lydia closes up early and we go shopping. I'll need some new jumps for Mars. Buy some books maybe and vids and geegaws and grimschiffles to trade. Even scientists and techies need toys. What's left over I put into an actual bank account, courtesy of a b.u.t.terscotch chit which makes me too official for words. Lydia and I feast on the rest of my meal tickets then hit Big Lou's for a spot of comfort time before I blast off.

I told you she's the friendly sort.

Brothers and sisters, listen well to the one who went before. Keep your eyes open. Keep your ears open. Be patient, but know an opportunity when it slaps you upside the head. Until then-make your own opportunities and be not afraid.

Who knows what's down the road, but I aim to find out.

THE GATE BETWEEN HOPE AND GLORY.

Holly Phillips

No question the rider was dead.

The repair crew, all four of them, stood on the rim of the cargo pod's airlock staring down at the body huddled against the pod's stained white tiles. Not the first hitch hiker to attempt the trip up to the station from the planet in an atmosphered pod, and probably not the last. Chouss and Awandi dropped a ladder into the pod and climbed down to deal with the remains. The pod's interior was slightly warmer than the maintenance pit; Chouss pulled off her gloves to unclip the harness that held the rider against the cargo restraints.

She-the rider was a she-had done everything she could: breather tanks, forged worker ID so the robot cargo handlers would ignore her, even a skin tight insulation suit under the gray coveralls to keep her skin from freezing. But without a vacuum suit and helmet no one could survive the total loss of atmosphere from the maintenance pump.

And anyone taking a vacuum suit down to Glory didn't get to leave again.

Chouss reached bare handed to remove the useless breather mask from the rider's dead blue face.

"Chouss!" Awandi said, shocked. "What if she's a denanos?"

Chouss gave her a pitying look. "Denanos don't leave Glory."

"Oh."

"Anyway, she can't bite me if she's dead." She slipped the mask free and smoothed the fine black hair off the rider's face. Awandi had never seen the crewboss so gentle with anyone alive. "Look how pale she was."

All Awandi could see was the slate blue of the cold vacuum dead, the same color as the corpses displayed on station news after the company ended the strike by venting gamma spoke's atmosphere. Cousins, neighbors, friends. Blue strangers, their agony frozen stiff on the screen behind the company spokesman's serene brown face.

Wen lowered a line and they hooked the rider to the winch, raised her up to the catwalk where Soje had a bag ready. They handled the corpse matter of factly, even kindly, having nothing against any of the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who tried to escape from Glory.

Soje handed the breather and mask over to Wen as salvage, then carefully straightened the limbs, looking surprised at how flexible the joints were. "Must have lasted until the pump," he said.

"They're moving fast down at docking ring," Chouss said. "Getting set for the backlog when the next s.h.i.+p comes in, on account of gamma being off line."

Off line. Awandi winced at the euphemism, thinking vented, thinking vacuum, thinking murder. But Soje-her brother Soje, who had been in with the strikers, who had been lucky to escape the decompression of the station wheel's gamma spoke and the arrests that followed-Soje only nodded, folded the rider's small hands across her chest and reached for the zip "Huh" said Chouss, already heading for the com to call authority. "She looks even paler up here, hey Wandi?"

Awandi looked again, and swallowed. "She is paler."