The landing pads were at the base of the scar against one of the rock walls. On the ship’s external lenses I saw our manoeuvring engines fire as we slowly sank into the crater. We were tracked by weapon systems all the way. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being swallowed. I barely felt the landing, though I heard metal protest ominously throughout the ship. The cargo airlock concertinaed out to mate with the Loser’s Luck.
We’d already used the ship’s comms to text ahead our request to meet Wilson Trace, the BPIC regional director who ran Freetown Camp 12. We’d been pleased that he’d agreed to a meeting. We were less pleased when we saw his conditions. Before we were allowed anywhere near Mr Trace we had to have security locks put on all integral weapons and an inhibitor jack in one of our plugs to dull enhanced reactions. It went without saying that we had to be unarmed. We didn’t like it, but it was either that or we would have to mount a major operation and make yet another powerful enemy to get Merle out. Besides, it would be nice to not have to resort to violence for once.
The plush office was a marked contrast to what we’d just walked through. There had been no luxurious carpet, no laser-carved basalt desk and very few recessed windows looking out over the tangled industrial mess of Gorgon’s scar. Instead we had seen deep-set eyes lined with scar tissue from botched re-implant jobs on the faces of gaunt, indentured miners who had little care that their stale sweat added to the stench of oil and badly ventilated air. Many of them showed signs of radiation poisoning or seemed to have respiratory problems. They bunked in the streets. The bunks were stacked high, each with its small locker. The miners were charged for them. Fights were commonplace and nobody did anything, though BPIC Armed Response watched on. The guards even had exo- armoured personnel and light mechs in case the miners got out of hand. I couldn’t see that happening – it looked like most of the Belt zombies had given up years ago.
As desperate as the miners looked, they were nowhere near as sad as the wrung-out-looking, presumably once-attractive men and woman who worked the vice franchise. At least they weren’t slaved, I’m not sure I would have coped with that. Gaudy, badly maintained neon signs promised pleasure that the reality of the bars seemed to refute. The Yakuza had won the vice franchise for Freetown 12. The gangsters and the guards were the only people who looked well fed. Many of the Yakuza were stripped to the waist, gangster ink on display, and all of them wore shades. They had watched us pass impassively. The miners and the hookers had looked at us less impassively. I could feel their resentment.
For some reason Pagan had seemed pleased that the Yakuza were running the vice franchise and had split off from the rest of us to speak to them. I hoped he wasn’t going whoring. Mudge had given him a list of exotic pharmaceuticals he wanted picked up. Pagan had seemed less than pleased about this. It would have been better if Mudge had gone with Pagan but Mudge insisted that his people skills would be of use to us with Trace. I had my misgivings.
We’d walked right through the so-called entertainment area of the station. It had been so quiet. People weren’t talking, just drinking or rutting or taking some recreational substance to try and make it all go away for a little while. There were no sense booths. Nobody here could afford them.
As we climbed through the levels towards the corporate offices, the bunks in the alcohol- and blood-muddied dirt of the street became small wage-slave cubicles. The offices got larger and more luxurious the higher we went until we found ourselves in Trace’s.
He kept us waiting so we understood how important he was. When we were finally escorted into his office we found ourselves covered by four guards with M-19 carbines. There was also an automated twin fast-cycling rotary laser system protruding from the wall above and behind Trace’s desk. That was overkill. It was the kind of weapon used for point defence on spacecraft. I guessed this guy was paranoid.
Trace was obviously engaged in a sub-vocal conversation on his internal comms link. He continued with it apparently oblivious to us. It looked social judging from his occasional laughter and easy-going demeanour. Of course this was all for our benefit. He looked like every other suit I’d seen. Indeterminate age, handsome but indeterminate looks bought in a salon somewhere. Neat, tidy. Probably paid over the odds for a suit, the specifications of which would be important to people who knew such things. I was going to forget about this guy as soon as he was out of sight. He was a corporate cliche complete with katana and another shorter sword on a rack behind his desk.
The only thing that did stick out was his eyes. They were obviously expensive designer implants but they weren’t designed to mimic real eyes. Nor were they the non-light reflecting matt of our hardened plastic lenses. His were shiny black mirrors. You saw yourself in his eyes and you looked small. I didn’t think I was going to like this guy. Mudge had also made up his mind.
We were expected to stand. There was some shouting and Mudge almost got shot when he threw himself into a seat. I wished I’d gone with Pagan. Mudge lit up a cigarette.
‘Actually, it’s no smoking in here.’ Trace’s accent was one of those weird non-accents that people who lived in space had. I’d always thought it made them sound desperate to not come from anywhere.
‘I know,’ Mudge said agreeably. I groaned inwardly and Cat glared at him. We were off to a good start. A little bit more sub-vocalisation and Trace finished his call. I inclined my head towards the guards and the lasers.
‘You’re safe. We just came here to talk,’ I told him.
His mouth twitched into a momentary and humourless smile. ‘I’ll keep this brief. Merley Sommerjay is a thief, a bad one, and you have committed terrorist acts against this very corpora-’
‘What terrorist acts?!’ Morag demanded. Trace looked annoyed at being interrupted.
‘The release of the God virus into our systems. The removal of which is an ongoing and mounting cost, not to mention how much setting up dedicated and secure God-free networks has been.’
‘Oh,’ said Morag. I think she’d forgotten.
‘Any conflict between Earth governments and their colonial forces has nothing to do with us as a commercial organisation and we do not wish to take sides.’
‘You worked extensively with the Cabal, didn’t you?’ Mudge asked as he stubbed his cigarette out on the basalt desk. Trace stared at him. He let Mudge see himself small in the reflections of his eyes.
‘We do business with those who can pay,’ he told Mudge.
‘No ethics?’ I asked. I was answered with a sneer. I looked away from Trace to try and calm myself. I was amazed that nobody had ever put the drill arm of a mining mech through his window. Spaced this sweetheart of a man. I watched a long range strike craft sinking into the asteroid’s scar. It was similar to the Spear, the craft we’d taken to the Sirius system, but an older model. I turned back to the conversation.
‘… you will be slaved.’
What the fuck? I turned my attention back to Trace.
‘You will join our mining operation, except -’ he turned to Morag ‘- you’ll make an excellent addition to the executive-level vice operation. Initially anyway. You’ll work your way down and end up servicing the miners like all the others. Perhaps you’ll see your friends again. I understand you have the experience, otherwise I’d break you in myself.’
Morag just looked bored. She’d heard it all before. I wanted to kill him. I was also wishing I’d been paying more attention.
‘Did he just say he was going to slave us?’ I double-checked.
‘Apparently so,’ Cat said. ‘Remind me again why we walked into this trap.’
‘Because Jakob keeps on hoping he’ll meet someone reasonable some day. Tell me, Wilson – it’s okay if I call you Wilson, isn’t it? I mean presumably it’ll be your sexy masterness when we’re all slaved,’ Mudge said.
‘Do you have a point?’ Trace asked. I was wondering the same thing.
‘Why’d you take the meeting?’ Mudge asked.
‘Because of our previous working relationship with Sharcroft.’
‘You did use to work with the Cabal then?’ Morag asked.
‘And you seem like such a nice guy,’ I muttered.
‘Really?’ Mudge asked. ‘Because you have to know, even with your guards this is dangerous. No, I think you’re gloating. Which is weird because what do you have against us?’ Mudge had such a good eye for weakness because he embraced his so openly. ‘How old are you, Wilson?’ Trace didn’t answer. He was starting to look angry. The sort of angry that came from being found out and not being able to argue back. ‘See, you fucking clones all look the same to me, but I’m guessing you’re in your late thirties, right? But the Savile Row suit, the Musamoko katana, Zeiss designer eyes… You were someone once, weren’t you? But this is a pretty shitty posting for a rising
