I passed through the sliding glass doors, followed some pedestrians towards an automated sidewalk, and climbed aboard. There were two lanes to choose from: the “arterial” lane, favored by retired mine workers, androids in need of repair, and newbies like myself; and the “express” lane, which catered to the likes of hyperactive children, robo-couriers, and amphetamine addicts, all of whom whizzed by at lightning speed. Thick, almost junglelike foliage passed to the right or left, interspersed with slower than normal waterfalls, and piped in bird sounds. It had the feel of a third-rate amusement park. Joy had made her way up to my shoulder and talked in my ear.
“Hey, boss…where we headed?”
I felt the usual sense of shame, considered a cover story, and decided to level with her instead. “I don’t have the foggiest idea.”
Joy grabbed my ear and swung out next to my face. She was naked as hell and still needed some clothes. Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Maybe I can help.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Take me to a public terminal and I’ll show you.”
An elderly woman was staring at us so I stashed Joy in a pocket, waited for the next exit, and hopped off. There were some unisex rest rooms, fast-food stands, and yes, a public terminal. The only problem was the fact that a Zebra was using it. I turned my back, bought a soydog, and smothered it with chili. It tasted surprisingly good and filled the time while the Zeeb did whatever it was he was doing.
People came and went, a small maintenance bot ran over my foot, and the Zeeb stayed where he was. I bought an Americano, and was halfway through it when the Zeeb sauntered away. I hurried to replace him.
Like most kiosks, this one had a grubby, overused feel. Doodles, limericks and com numbers covered all three walls. The word “Greetings” was white against the inevitable blue background. It blinked off and on.
Joy scrambled out of my pocket and made her way to the stainless-steel shelf. The terminal was voice or keypad activated. Joy chose neither one. She winked in my direction, wet her right index finger, and shoved it into a small recess located under the screen. Most high-function androids could do the same thing, but I was impressed nonetheless. Hundreds of screens’ worth of information scrolled by during the two minutes that we stood there. I used the time to puzzle out the words printed over the terminal. “Property of Minestar, a wholly owned subsidiary of Trans-Solar Inc.”
The knowledge seeped through my body as if someone had poured ice water into my veins. I wanted to run, pull my jacket over my head, and scream all at the same time. I remained motionless instead, but cursed myself for being seven kinds of idiot, and not asking the right questions to start with.
When Joy had everything she thought she’d need, she removed her finger from the machine, blew on it, and returned the imaginary weapon to its imaginary holster. I laughed in spite of myself. Joy received the visual and auditory cues that she’d been programmed to elicit, felt whatever robots feel when they’re pleased with themselves, and cycled to the “ready” mode. It was a strange interaction, but better than none at all.
“So,” I said, moving aside to allow an impatient miner access to the terminal, “what did you learn?”
Joy sat on the palm of my hand and let her legs dangle. She smiled coyly. “What would you like to know?”
I considered what I’d learned. “I need a disguise, a job, and a place to live.”
Joy nodded as if disguises were the most natural thing in the world and squinted as if the reflection from my head might blind her. “You could wear a bandana tied around your head the way the miners do, one of those black ball caps, and let your beard grow for a couple of days.”
I nodded. “Sounds good. Where can we get that stuff?”
Joy spent part of a second canvassing her newly acquired data. “Tom’s Gear Shop is closest. Follow that autocart.”
We followed the autocart for a while, took a left down a corridor packed with side-by-side stalls, and hung a right shortly after that. I kept a sharp eye out for Zeebs, poppers, and other homicidal maniacs but didn’t see any. Tom’s was two stalls down on the right. Tom was middle-aged and decked out in some of his own finery: a dirty T- shirt, some orange overalls, and a pair of work boots. He treated us to the same suspicious stare that most people reserve for chrome-headed giants. “Welcome to Tom’s. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a bandana and a ball cap.”
“Big spender, huh? Well, take a look over there.”
We left five minutes later. I had to admit that between the bandana and the hat, you couldn’t see any of my telltale white hair or highly reflective scalp. Not exactly foolproof, mind you, but better than nothing. And, safely wrapped in her new saronglike bandana, Joy was a lot less noticeable as well.
We paused by a rock garden. I said, “So, how ‘bout a job?”
Joy twirled and admired her reflection in the water. “There’s an opening for a metallurgist on sub-level six.”
“Funny. Very funny. I need a real job. One I’m qualified for.”
The ensuing thirty seconds of silence signaled how many jobs I was qualified for. Finally, when I was about to give up, she spoke. “There’s one job that you’re qualified for…and the pay’s pretty good.”
I picked her up. “Really? What is it?”
She looked me in the eye. “They need a bouncer at a nightclub called Betty’s.”
It took the better part of half an hour to find Betty’s. Like most establishments of its kind, the nightclub was located in a seemingly run-down section of the asteroid known as “Old Port.” I say “seemingly,” because the seediness was somewhat calculated and about as genuine as the bird calls emanating from the surrounding jungle. And, since drinking, gambling and fornicating are often associated with night, even the street lights were kept artificially low.
There were lots of joints, lots of miners, and lots of Zeebs to keep an eye on them. I checked to make sure my bandana was in place, stepped over a drunk, and made my way down the main drag. Dealers offered me dope out of the sides of their mouths, whores signaled me with sign language as old as their profession, and everybody else got out of my way. It pays to be big sometimes.
Like its neighbors, Betty’s was housed in what had been a processing plant of some kind. Noise, light, and the smell of booze leaked out through a variety of holes and beckoned us in. We accepted. I sidestepped a pair of whacked-out miners, stepped through the swinging doors, and took a moment to check the place out.
Betty, or an interior designer from hell, had taken full advantage of what was already there. The floor consisted of not-so-smooth native rock. Huge, rusty-looking I-beams held the ceiling up. A stage consisting of odd-sized cargo modules occupied the far end of the room. A fifty-foot bar took up most of the right-hand wall. It was made of hull metal and rested on a string of clapped-out mining carts. The floor was packed with miners, spacers, dealers, pimps, whores and scam artists of every description. I noticed that the furniture was made out of metal and looked damned near indestructible. I strolled over to the bar. A human was in charge and had two robotic assistants. I waved him over. He wore a brightly flowered shirt, black suspenders, and red pants. He plucked an empty off the bar and tossed it towards a recycle bin. “Yeah? What’ll it be?”
“I’m looking for the owner or manager.”
The bartender was in his early thirties, had slightly dissipated features and a somewhat arrogant manner. “What for?”
“You need a bouncer, and I’m interested in the job.”
The bartender looked me up and down like a butcher appraising a side of beef. “You’re big…but size ain’t everything.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agreed patiently. “Can I see the owner?”
“That would be me,” a soft, rather melodious voice said. I turned to find an absolutely beautiful woman standing before me. She had black hair, black skin, and a bod that wouldn’t quit. Kind of like a full-sized, flesh-and- blood Joy, clad in a long black evening gown rather than a bandana. Her dress was covered with black sequins. They shimmered with reflected light.
I took the ball cap off and held it in my hands. “My name’s Max. I’m looking for a job.”
The woman smiled. “Good. My name’s Betty and I’m looking for a bouncer.” She held out her hand. I took it, got lost in her eyes, and barely remembered to let go. Joy climbed up on my shoulder, and Betty smiled as if seeing herself in the miniature robot.
A ruckus started on the other side of the room. A pair of men stood, exchanged words, and started to square off. Betty gestured with her head. “Fights are expensive, Max. Break it up.”
