“Had a seed job,” he says to Shaine, “and it went a little sideways.”
“A seed job?”
Nixon nods. “And it went a little …”
Shaine doesn’t let him finish. “The Uzeks?”
Suddenly his face explodes with recognition. “That was you? Uzel?”
Nixon lifts the bottom of his cloak and exposes the Uzek blaster he’s been carrying with him since the fight.
“So you’ve heard about … it?”
“Your little fight? Everyone has heard about it, hot shot.”
“Don’t make fun.”
“I’m not. But, man … you’ve really … wow.”
“I know. I’m in a spot now. It’s all I’ve been thinking since it happened. That and I don’t have the credits I need to pay for these drinks tonight.” He checks his data pad again, still hoping for some kind of miracle. “I don’t have the credits to hole myself up someplace that’s not here and hope to just hide out for a while.”
Shaine nurses what’s left of his drink and asks, “You were desperate enough for a seed job? Are desperate enough?”
Nixon shrugs. “I’ve got to eat. I’ve got to earn credits. I didn’t want to do it, but what choice did I have?”
“How many times have you run seed?”
“A few.”
“How many?”
“Six. No, seven.”
Shaine leans back on his stool. “Seven times? So you were becoming a regular. Why didn’t you come to me?”
“And do what? Take a job that earns you credits? You need them too, maybe worse than I do. With Mira and the kids.”
“I’ve got jobs. We have credits. Don’t worry about me. But you don’t need to be running seed again. And you can’t really stay here, can you?”
Nixon shakes his head and takes another sip from his glass.
“I know a guy who needs some work. Pay’s good because It’s not exactly above board. But it’s not running seed. The job is yours if you want it.”
“What exactly are we talking about?”
“Courier job. He won’t tell you more than that. Just give you an address and a name. If you are OK with that being all you know, it’s pretty easy.”
Nixon is hunched over, elbows on the edge of the bar and the weight of the world on his back. He blows a long breath into the bar top and begins to slowly nod.
“Yeah. I mean maybe. Let me think about it?”
Shaine calls the server over and shows him his datapad. The server scans the code on his screen.
“I’ll get these tonight.” He looks back at his pad and swipes a couple of fingers across the top then shows the screen to Nixon.
“Remember this address. Tomorrow morning. Early, just after first light. If you’re there, job’s yours. If not, I’ll keep it for myself.”
++xxx++
Nixon’s home is a small mud-walled single room. There’s a mat on the floor for sleeping, and a small fire-heated cooktop that vents smoke out through a hole in the wall.
Nixon lays on the mat and repeats the address Shaine had given him over and over in his head. He doesn’t want to take this job. He doesn’t mix friends and work. Not anymore. It’s a standing policy, and one that’s served him well. It keeps things from getting complicated if a job doesn’t go well. And it keeps motivations clear. Friends are friends because they like each other. They aren’t friends because one can provide work or the other can complete jobs. Just easier. SHaine taught him that.
A small fire crackles in the heat box next to Nixon, and he puts a hand above the hot plate that sits on top. It’s warm. Nixon grabs a small container that sits up against the wall and pulls out the last two slices of Bowtan steer meat. He lays them on the hotplate. A few moments later their aroma fills the small space.
Shaine’s been a friend for a long time, the longest of anyone that Nixon knows. The two boys grew up together, both being sent to the same forming school at the same time. The two new kids in class sticking together, fighting back bullies, establishing reputations as a couple of toughs. Then moving here to Exte after school was over and building lives for themselves.
Shaine had been more successful at establishing himself. Tonight, he’s laying his head down on a real mat with a real pillow and blankets. He’s eating real food cooked on a respectable cooktop. He’s not here, eating tinned meat and checking his credit balance every 20 minutes hoping that it will somehow change.
He’s not going to spend the entire night trying to sleep with an Uzek blaster laying heavy on his chest, a finger on the trigger and an eye on the door.
No, Nixon doesn’t like to mix friends and business, but with Shaine it’s different. He’s not a friend; he’s more than that. Still, sometimes you have to do what you don’t want to do. You have to break your own rules. You have to take the work that will provide you credits.
03
The ceiling in Nixon’s hole is low, and he has to stoop-stand to put on his cloak. He tucks the Uzek blaster back into his waistband and takes one last look around his little place. This is a courier job he’s about to go accept, and if it pays what he hopes then he’ll have enough credits to find some place in the new city—or, better, new planet—he’s going to. He can lay low there for a bit. Let the Uzeks here get distracted by something or someone else. Then he can return. Maybe.
No matter what, though, this is the last time he’ll see this place. He thinks for a moment about kicking the little heatbox until the mud sides crumble and the still-hot coals spill out onto the
