Chapter Text
“So who is this guy?”
I look up from the star charts I’ve been studying. “Hmm?”
She points at the display showing our navigation course. “Do we know anything about the guy we’re going to see? I mean, I get that he’s a tech genius who can maybe help us find our money, but do we know anything else?”
I eye her: the tense disposition, the slight frown, the fidgety hands. Rosie is nervous, and Rosie is never nervous.
She’s right to be, of course. What if Jason and this guy had some agreement to farm humans for fun–or something equally horrific? All we know about him is that he’s human, his name is Marlon, he’s agreed to meet with us, and that he’s good with alien tech. The tough thing is, we can’t ask around about him, not without potentially putting our friends in danger. Anyone who deals with illegal tech and has survived this long hasn’t done so by playing nice with the universe. The less our friends know, the better.
Maybe Rosie is right, maybe we’re barreling into this. Maybe I’m not nervous because I’m so desperate for this to save us. I need this to work. The thought makes me pause. Am I being reckless?
“What do you propose?” I ask.
She puts her current read down and absentmindedly pets Celine, who in turn nuzzles her hand. “I think we can at least send a message to Nebs asking about him.”
I nod. Nebs is a good idea. WAT can’t touch her. The most they can do is ask her questions, and since she doesn’t care for authority, she may decide to fry their insides instead of answering.
I open a comms band, type out a message, and then hit send. Even with wormhole travel, it will still take a day or so to reach her.
“Alright, I sent a message asking Nebs to look into this guy, but I also gave her our location in case we aren't heard from after this.”
Nebs may not be able to physically move, but she is essentially a crime boss, and I suspect she likes us enough to exact revenge on our behalf. Although that may not be a comfort if this guy decides to space us. He may not believe in manic pixie dream nebulae yet. I’ve seen one, and I barely believe in it.
“Smart. We won’t find out any information on him until later, but at least he’ll die too if he decides to space us.”
In a few hours, we reach the asteroid shelter where the reclusive tech genius lives (I know, what a cliche), and prepare to dock. When the rendezvous is complete, the ship's lock clicks and the atmosphere detector turns green. I walk over and examine it. It reads: Simulated Earth Atmosphere. 78 percent nitrogen, 20 percent oxygen, 0.93 percent argon, and less than 1 percent trace gases. My eyes widen.
Wow, an actual Earth environmental configuration. Even Tigmarii Station doesn’t quite have this makeup. Tigmii respiratory systems do require some CO2. And the presence of it in the station atmosphere is higher than that of Earth. The gravity is close, but slightly weaker than Earth’s as well. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place in the Intergalactic, our spaceship not withstanding, that is completely configured for human life.
Rosie hovers over my shoulder, looking at the readouts.
“This guy must be rich.”
Shit, she’s right. Asteroid junk yard aside, Earth's atmosphere is not a standard configuration. And with the size of the habitat, it would be expensive to build custom life support instead of using one of the pre-built configurations. It’s theoretically possible he DIY’d it, but it would take a small army to complete that. Hell, most human space trucker-pirates-independent-conractors didn’t have a custom configuration. It was simply too much work. The only reason Rosie and I did was because Micah helped us set it up on the side (which Rosie gave me lots of shit for).
“You ready?” I ask Rosie.
She finishes fastening her backpack and nods. We step up to the airlock and prepare to disembark, wondering what we are about to step into.
*****************
“I don’t understand. Is this supposed to be like The Wizard of Oz?” I ask, a bit baffled.
Rosie scratches her head and eyes the rope that hangs down in front of a large green door. Behind which, the small asteroid station is presumably sealed.
When we exited our side of the airlock and crossed into station space, everything was normal enough. But we didn’t make it more than 30 feet or so down the docking hallway before we ran into the giant, green monstrosity. The door looks simultaneously cartoonish and austere: silver and green filigree swirl on its surface and culminates in a pearly white center.
“It really does look like a little hatch will open up and a man will pop out asking for the password,” says Rosie.
I examine the rope that hangs lazily next to the door. If I didn’t know better, I'd say it was the kind of thing you’d climb in seventh-grade gym class. It's brown and thick and is even knotted. It snakes upwards and disappears into a small hole in the ceiling.
The whole setup is extravagant and superfluous and looks exactly like the kind of thing that a rich mob boss would think is classy.
“Why do you think it’s here?” says Rosie.
That’s a good question. I let my gaze roam over it. There’s no comms panel we can use to alert the host of our presence. The door has no handholds and no buttons that I can see. I run my fingers along the surface, just in case there’s something I missed. Nothing. Then it occurs to me: my original thought may have been right. The Wizard of Oz may not be far off.
“I bet the rope is the doorbell.”
Rosie pauses and lets the words sink in. Then she bursts out laughing. “Oh, please let that be true.” She grabs onto the rope with both hands and gives it a little test tug.
Nothing happens.
No bell. No alarm. The door doesn’t open. But nothing bad happens either.
Rosie shrugs and jumps up, grabbing the rope a foot or so off the ground, and allows her weight to pull it down. A loud clanging noise rings out across the airlock hallway. I cover my ears to shield from the grating sound. Rosie falls to the ground as she tries to do the same.
After a moment, the bells quiet and the echo of the sound dies down in the hallway.
“Well, if they didn't know we were here before, they do now,” I say wryly.
At that moment, the circle in the door pops open (I knew it), and a figure, clad in what looks like a motorcycle helmet and a black jumpsuit, sticks their head out. The person is vaguely human-sized, but that's about all I can make out. They turn to Rosie, still on the ground, and then to me. And then nothing. They just…stare at me.
It’s a bit unsettling, and I stare back. I can't see their eyes, so I'm not really sure what I'm even doing at this point. Rosie makes a sort of obvious coughing noise next to me.
“Show me the inside of your arms,” motorcycle head says. Their voice is modulated using some sort of relay tech.
Rosie stands up and begins to roll up her sleeves.
“Not you,” they say, keeping their visor trained on me. “You.” They point a gloved hand towards me.
This…is not what I expected. This whole thing sets an uneasy pulse in my chest. I'm tempted to say no and just barge in, guns first. But I remind myself that I don't know what this tech looks like or how to use it. So I bite back a sigh and roll up my sleeves, showing off my arms.
They pause, looking me over, and then nod as if satisfied. They slip back behind the door, and the silver circle slams shut, sealing the door once again. Rosie and I look at each other, and she shrugs. With how strange this is, I’m glad we're armed. I instinctively touch the blaster at my hip.
I hear a large bang on the other side of the door followed by a clicking noise. And the door opens. A small amount of mist pours into our side of the hallway.
“What the…?” says Rosie.
If it wasn’t creepy as hell, this whole thing would almost be comical. But instead of being hilarious, it comes off like the beginning of a horror movie, and we are the hapless protagonists who don’t survive. A message pops up in the corner of my visual augments.
Rosie: I don’t like this. But I also kind of do like this?
Oh, I know exactly what she means.
Me: I wonder if it’s too late to turn around.
Rosie: No way. We gotta see this through. I can’t wait to tell Byron about this place.
I frown. But she isn’t wrong. We need our money back. And with everything we’ve been through, we can handle some loser and his fun house.
Probably.
I cautiously step to the other side of the door. The masked figure is gone. Which is strange because I don’t see any outlets or alcoves they could be hiding in.
The hallway is like any other small base. Metal paneling lines the walls in what looks like a typical station configuration. The only strange thing is the door, with mist still lightly rolling underneath it, and the fact that the hallway is lit like a gothic castle. Electric sconces dapple the walls in an unorderly manner. It’s as if someone haphazardly slapped them on the metal in haste to finish the job. I’m almost surprised none of them are upside down.
Rosie: Ashley, look at this.
I turn around and see Rosie peeking behind the Wizard of Oz door.
Me: What is it?
Rosie: There is a literal smoke machine.
I quickly move to peer over her shoulder. I’ll be damned. She’s right. If I didn't think this guy was weird before, I definitely do now.
Rosie: Come on. Let’s go before you change your mind.
The hallway leads to another locked door, although this time it's just a normal station entrance. As we approach, it opens into a cavernous room that could best be described as an ode to maximalism.
Trinkets and machine parts are strewn everywhere. The walls are lined with shelves full of books, electronics, scientific instruments, and who knows what else. The floor has so many pieces of equipment that there isn't a clear path forward. Mounds of droid parts and scrap metal stare at me, like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.
I can feel Rosie begin to vibrate with excitement. Better shut that down quick. I bite back a sigh. I suppose it's good she’s no longer nervous.
“Remember Aladdin?” I whisper.
“No,” she says, turning sulky.
“Yes, you do. You just don’t like what I’m about to say.”
“You can look but don’t touch,” she sighs.
I nod, keeping my eyes trained forward. Rosie absentmindedly brushes her fingers over a ham radio piled on top of some decommissioned puppy bot parts. I sigh. I’m going to have to keep an eye on her.
Me: What do you think we’re supposed to do now?
Rosie: No idea. What was this guy's name again?
Me: Marlon.
Rosie: Are you sure he knew we were coming?
Me: I sent a message and received a date and time to meet up.
A loud crash rings out across the hall, which is impressive because this room is so full of stuff I wouldn’t have imagined anything could echo here. The crash is followed by an intense round of heavy muttering. Both Rosie and I instinctively grab for our blasters. I make a conscious effort to let the handle go. We are guests here, and we should try not to be antagonistic. I motion for Rosie to do the same, and she reluctantly follows.
“Hello,” I yell. “We have an appointment.”
The muttering stops. The series of consecutive clangs that follow head in our direction. I once again resist the urge to grab my blaster.
“An appointment, you say. I don’t remember that–”
A man pops his head out from around a stack of dishes piled almost to the ceiling and freezes. He is wearing an oversized gray apron with various tech components and wires hanging out of the pockets. His hair is jet black and long enough to pull into a pony tail. Oversized, square spectacles hang lazily on his nose. And a small port lies flush against his temple, allowing for a neural interface connection. It's hard to see but notable. Not many humans have opted for surgical modifications, instead preferring augmentations such as the glasses I wear.
Anger flashes across his face at the sight of us. “What are you doing out of uniform? I told you that–”
“Master,” interrupts a modulated voice. Rosie and I both jump back in surprise as the masked figure steps out of the shadows and stands next to the man. “These are the visitors you received word of a few days ago.”
His gaze roves us, confusion plain on his face. “Visitors, you say? Both of them?”
“Yes, sir. Both of them.” There was a sharp edge to the modulated voice.
There's something odd about this exchange. My hackles rise, but I'm not quite sure why. “Yes, I’m Ashley, and this is Rosie. We’re here to talk about transaction tracing tech.” He still looks a bit bewildered–like he thinks we might be pulling some sort of practical joke.
“Jason sent us,” says Rosie.
His eyebrows raise, and the frown on his face eases into an easy grin. “Oh, Jason! The human chaser.”
“Exactly,” nods Rosie.
“I don’t understand what people see in him. He oozes sliminess, and he’s frankly a bit of a weirdo.”
I resist the urge to laugh. I mean–he’s not wrong. But it’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black.
“My guess is it’s because he’s new. Once we as a species have been in space for a few centuries, he’ll have to get a better personality to attract a boyfriend,” I say.
The man, whom I have guessed by now must be Marlon, scratches his short beard and narrows his eyes at us. The masked figure stands as still as a statue next to him.
“You know what?” he says, slowly, “I think you might be right.” He claps his hands together, and a few wires fall out of his apron pockets. “Alright. Visitors. There’s a first time for everything.”
Without another word, he turns around and walks away from us, quickly maneuvering around piles of component parts. The masked figure follows silently behind him. Rosie and I just look at each other, both at a loss for what to do.
“Keep up, you two! People have been known to get lost in here.”
We follow Marlon through stacks of crates filled with basically anything you can think of: books, wires, cutlery, food, and dolls. (Yes, I said dolls). I don’t understand how someone managed to collect this much junk. Humanity has only been in the Intergalactic for a few years. I wonder if it’s even his junk? Maybe it was here when he moved in?
Rosie: Who do you think the masked person is?
Me: No idea. Did you remember to check if this is a secure channel?
Rosie: Good call, I’ll look.
Rosie: Yeah, we’re good. Do you think they're dating?
I look at the stiff, masked person, completely clad in a shapeless black outfit. I believe them to be a woman, but apart from that, I can tell next to nothing. Their body language is stand-offish at best, and their voice is modulated to the point where only the strongest inflections show through. They keep a fair distance from Marlon and seem to tense whenever he looks at them.
Me: They are definitely dating.
Marlon: Did I forget to tell you that there is no outside channel that can be secured on my network?
I jump back in surprise. Goddammit. Not this again. A wave of embarrassment pours over me. Rosie, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a beat.
Rosie: So…
Rosie: Are you guys dating?
Marlon laughs.
Marlon: No. No, we aren't, and that’s all you’re getting out of me!
Rosie just laughs at that.
Marlon stops abruptly, and she knocks into him. The masked figure reaches out a hand and pulls her back. We’ve reached what I believe to be the center of the Cave of Wonders. This area looks like the eye of a storm. It’s not a room per se because that would imply walls. But it’s cordoned off in a manner of speaking. The stacks continue to rise up around us in a large circle, but the interior is surprisingly clear of clutter. A large marble table, that is of course covered with more garbage, sits in the center, and an even larger wall of computer monitors hang to the left. A small ergonomic chair has been placed in front of them with a keyboard jutting out of the wall. The whole setup reminds me a bit of an 80s sci-fi movie.
“So remind me what you’re here for?”
I clear my throat. “We need the ability to track the location of transactions for a given Intergalactic currency account.”
“Alright, excellent. As long as we are all in agreement that we are dealing with something very illegal.”
I nod. There is no reason to pretend that what we are doing will somehow not end in our deaths if caught. WAT won’t just throw us on some prison planet where we can live to tell the tale. They won’t make an example of us. We will fade quietly from existence–quietly, but likely painfully.
“Before we begin, there is the small matter of payment.”
I was ready for this, but it still hurt when asked. I pulled out my credit chip, and the masked figure scanned it. This was partially, if not mostly, why I wasn’t angry at Byron anymore. When I told him what happened, he basically threw the money at me. Normally, I wouldn’t be inclined to borrow anything from anyone. It’s risky owing someone in the Intergalactic, but Rosie’s college was on the line, and I just didn’t have it in me to say no. Byron is the reason we can afford Marlon’s fees.
The masked figure scans the card and hands it back to me. I gingerly pocket it. “Thanks,” I say. They stand stoic as ever. It’s a sad sight. They act almost like a robot, waiting silently for the next input from their owner. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name on our way in.”
They don’t move. The silence of the question hangs between us. Marlon, who is sitting by his collection of screens, stops messing with the interfaces. The air grows tense.
Marlon coughs and says, “Don’t be rude. Your name is Amanda. Isn’t that right?”
The almost-robot turns her head towards me. “Yes, that is correct.” Ahh, so she is a woman.
The whole thing is so creepy. I regret every decision in my life that has led me to this moment. I suppose Amanda is his employee, but I don’t understand the theatrics around her appearance. Something isn’t right here. Maybe he’s just a bit crazy and wants to lean into the mad scientist stuff. But something tells me there’s more to the story.
“Alright, Amanda, it is,” Rosie says, unsuccessfully trying to sound nonchalant. “So are we set to trace the transactions?”
“Ah, yes. Almost ready,” says Marlon. He pulls out a small device and places it on the cluttered table. It appears to be a modified chip reader with another device attached to its shell.
Once on the table, the modified reader flashes to life. Marlon must be connecting and booting it via his neural interface. “Card,” he says, holding out his hand.
I pull the credit chip out and hand it to him.
“What’ll this do?” says Rosie.
He takes the card from me and shoves it into the reader.
“We’ll use this to create a small transaction, something that doesn’t look out of the ordinary. Think of buying lunch at a station mess hall. The modifications I've made to the device will capture the transaction data.”
So far, this makes sense. Every transaction is likely encoded with metadata, telling WAT’s Central System information about the sender, receiver, amount, location, date, and time.
“This will give us an identifier that we can eventually use to trace back to you two. It will need some data cleansing, of course, and we won’t be able to trace transactions that have already occurred, but it will allow us to set up a trap.”
He stops talking, and his face hardens in concentration. The neutral interface must be taking a significant amount of his focus.
“That should do it!” he exclaims. He slams his hands down on the table in triumph, and the device rattles. “Go ahead and take your card back. I’m uploading the data to my system, and then I can transfer it to you.” Marlon makes a few delighted squeaks and heads over to the Central Control near the screens.
I grin at Rosie, and she grins back.
“While we wait for the upload, I do have a question for you two. Why are you trying to track this down?”
It crosses my mind, just briefly, that I should consider lying. But the crimes we’ve committed in the last five minutes ensure all of our deaths if caught, and I discard the idea. “We woke up one morning and found my account emptied.”
“Emptied?”
“Well, not completely. But mostly.”
He stares at me. “That’s–That’s not supposed to be possible. It should be encoded to your DNA as well as a few other genetic markers to prevent theft.”
“I know. That’s why we need to trace the transactions.”
His gaze flashes to Amanda briefly. I don’t understand, but the tension in the room ratchets up in a way that makes me jumpy for my blaster.
“Are you sure…that you didn’t just misplace it?”
“Misplace it how?” says Rosie. “It’s in a WAT account. We can’t just leave it lying around.”
“That’s true.” His movements become slow, jerky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amanda turn slowly in place. Rosie’s eyes flit to mine.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” says Marlon quietly.
Rosie doesn’t even wait. She pulls out her blaster and fires a shot at Amanda, who dodges behind a pile of ship reactor cores. Amanda, in turn, drops to her knees and pulls out her blaster. But before she can get a shot off, I cover Rosie and fire my own.