When they dropped down into Barc’s atmosphere Jolo was reminded of why he liked Duval better. Barc was covered in ocean. Only about ten percent of the surface was land so most solid ground was man-made. There were some smaller settlements under water, but they were experimental and upkeep was more expensive than the man-made islands. Barc was the largest exporter of seafood in the Fed system and operated giant fish harvesters all over the planet.
Each island was numbered, and Jolo and crew set down on 226, which was the best island to unload items with what Jolo liked to call “ownership issues”. On 226 you could land in an open dock without the usual Federation hassles like valid ship ids and current captain’s auth codes.
Jolo, Koba, Greeley and Hurley stood on large, metal platform next to the Argossy and stared out into the ocean. The sky was dark and angry and the waves, about 50 meters below, churned and white-capped.
“Welcome home, boys,” said Jolo, trying to imagine Katy, Marco and the whole crew living there, but his words were lost in the howling wind that blew in off the great expanse of gray water. Jolo stood there staring out at two ends of a giant harvester, a massive net between them, his hair whipping around his face, the salty spray touching his lips. The harvester bots on either end of the net were massive. They floated above the water and held half a kilometer of netting that caught the large mandrale, kazen, breems and other fish that were sent out all over Fed space.
Koba started yelling something that Jolo didn’t hear and then pointed out beyond the harvester: a black ship hovering just above the water a few hundred meters out. And then it dove down into the ocean and disappeared. Even on Barc, the BG won’t leave us alone, thought Jolo.
Jolo was anxious to check out Greeley’s “spread,” a tiny stretch of man-made land not too far from 226. He figured he and Marco, and maybe Katy, could hide out there and take their time finding their own spot. But business came first. They headed to a small room under a giant pachinko parlor owned by Besen Hess, who could move anything. Anything except hydrangeas.
The pachinko was easy to spot. It had large pink and green banners outside and the front had a false facade full of neon lights. The tubes snaked across the entire surface in long wavy rows, the colors undulating and changing like the building was alive with electricity. Inside the noise was deafening: each machine buzzed and whistled. A steady, rhythmic music with a heavy bass pounded away in the background.
Jolo strolled through at a fast clip, resisting the urge to cover his ears. He wanted to cut the music and tell everyone to get out, to go live. This place was a slow death. On Jolo’s first trip to Barc, he’d put some hard earned credits into one of the noisy machines and the little silver balls bounced around and it made a lot of cool sounds, but in five minutes he’d lost 100 credits.
“Vargas, I’ll take the parts and the med box,” Bessen said in his basement office, the pachinko noise mostly gone except for the steady thump of the bass beat. “You can have the plants. Why’d you bring that shite here?” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a brown towel and stuck a thumb under his thin belt. Jolo wondered how such a tiny bit of leather could keep his massive girth from exploding out over the plastic table. Besen jabbed at the screen in front of him, numbers popped up, then were swiped away, then he scratched the back of his head and grimaced. Jolo knew this was all just part of the show. And then the fat, sweaty man started poor mouthing: “Well, the med box might could go to Anders ‘cause negotiations with the ice harvesters have gone south, but I just sent a box there…” He started to go on but Jolo didn’t need to hear any more.
“250 each,” Jolo said, “you take the plants for free, and send out Billy and his crew to repair my ship and you got a deal. Otherwise, I’m taking my shite to Shuri Kanazawa on Mephis.”
“200 and I fix your broken ship. Again. And Shuri can kiss my arse.”
“Done.” Jolo smiled, he thought he might have to go down to 150, but Besen was a little quick to settle. And then he noticed Besen’s face looked pale, and the bags under his eyes were a little darker than normal. He was always out of breath but he seemed like a man who’s head was just above water and needed more air. “You okay, fat man?” said Jolo.
“Perfect, get the frack out,” he yelled.
Jolo turned to leave, but stopped. “I saw a black ship go under out on the platform,” he said. And then Besen looked up at him and sighed, started scratching his head again, his fingers lost in curly white hair.
“You seen the water lately?” said Besen. “It ain’t as blue as it’s been. The tannin levels rose, maybe from all the Duval rock we use to support the islands, I don’t know, but its been hurting the harvest. Luckily the Grana have stepped in to try and fix it. Turns out the worms love breems, so they’ve started installing water conditioners on the floor. Ain’t seen no good from it
