“Which fish is the economy of Brink in this analogy?”
He cocks his head slightly, considering the question for a second before he answers. “Maybe another example would be more apt,” he says, thoughtful. “Consider the chalk weevil. Its relationship with human beings could be called symbiotic. We get an elegant, cost-effective solution for processing calcium from organic waste. On the other side of the equation, they get to exist. If at some point, for some reason, the little bugs stopped providing that elegant, cost-effective solution… or if something more efficient and more cost-effective came along… SCAPE would stop making them, and there would be no more weevils.”
He takes another step toward me, the heavy brushed-metal revolver in his right hand still aimed vaguely in my direction. I can’t keep my eyes from glancing at it. He’s only a few meters away now. One more step and I might be able to pull the knife and cut him before he could get an accurate shot off.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he takes two long steps back, taking a more precise aim at me. “Solely for the sake of argument,” he continues, “if, for some reason, people suddenly think that the calcium supply has been artificially constrained, and that all that hidden currency is about to come flooding back into the system, what do you think will happen?” It’s clearly a rhetorical question, but he takes a significant pause for effect. “Hyperinflation, a run on the banks, the collapse of extraplanetary trade. The other colonies use us as a waypoint because of the exchange rate. Imagine what happens when that exchange rate is no longer so… advantageous. Your money will become nearly worthless overnight.” Pressing home his point, he asks, “Why do you think Brady agreed to help me?”
I give him a bitter, accusatory look, and the Commerce Board auditor finally speaks. “He’s right. The economy can’t handle it.”
“I know our system is not perfect,” Greenman continues. “There are winners and there are losers. But it could be much, much worse. Surely you know that?”
So this has all been a sales pitch. Good. I don’t have to buy. “You think I can just step back and walk away from this?”
“Your name can be cleared,” the rich man offers. “Who knows what evidence hasn’t turned up yet?” With a sly little half smirk, he adds, “Maybe even an actual bomb tuned to the frequency of the detonator they found in the hands of the man you shot.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a small object, which he tosses to me. “Catch.”
Against an instinct not to, I do. Opening my hand, I see that it’s a vial of dark gray powder.
Chalk weevil eggs.
“For your cooperation,” Greenman says. “That, and more.”
“You think I would use these? I’m not some sick bastard like Marvin Chan.”
“Black market buyers will pay well,” he replies. “And more importantly, your complicity ensures that you don’t go back on your word.”
“You don’t know me,” I tell him. “All I’ve ever wanted is to get off Brink.”
“Actually, Brady’s made me aware of that.” He takes a long, satisfied sip from his ceramic cup. “If that’s the out you choose, you could be on a ship next week. Fully paid.”
I’m about to snap at him in anger, but I stop myself as his words sink in. A ticket off-world. For my entire adult life it’s been the very thing I’ve wanted most, the only thing I’ve wanted really, the goal I’ve built my career around. For him to offer it with one offhand sentence almost breaks my heart, with both hope and hopelessness.
Stop, Taryn. This is not worth being conflicted about. It’s not even a real offer. It can’t be. “Who’s to say you wouldn’t have me killed down the line?”
“Why would we?” he answers. “Whatever flimsy proof you think you have at this particular moment will evaporate with time. A live body off-world raises fewer questions than a dead one here.”
I look him in the eye, trying to read him. His head is tilted back slightly, his blue eyes cold but clear.
Next to him, though, Kearns seems tense. “Taryn, I wouldn’t let you be hurt,” he says. “You have to believe that.”
I glare at him, refusing to give credence to his supposed feelings. Greenman’s offer to ship me off-world appears to be genuine. Silence hangs heavy in the air. I want that ticket off-world, I do, but do I deserve it? If I accept these terms, can I live with myself? Maybe Greenman and Kearns are right, maybe the planet is doomed if the exchange rate drops, maybe it’s all symbiotic. Maybe Brink is fated to some level of misery no matter what. For most of my life, I’ve believed that to be true, and that resignation has only grown stronger in my years as a Collections Agent, immersed elbow-deep in the desperation and cruelty and despair of existence on this world.
So why am I doubting this?
“I’ve worked in Collections for nearly five solar years,” I think out loud, figuring that at this point there’s no reason to stop myself from speaking what I’m feeling. “In that time, I’ve seen people selling their teeth to pay rent, loan sharks taking femurs, people selling the bodies of their loved ones on the black market. Only reason I lived to adulthood is because my father did just that. Every damn day I go out and I take back calcium for the Commerce Board, and I bank my five percent. But if I cashed out my account, you know what I would have?”
I hold my hand out in front of me and drop the little plastic vial of weevil cultures to the floor. It bounces a few times on the cement, then rolls to a stop a few meters away, between me and the two men staring at me silently.
“I’d have a couple of handfuls of chalky dust that people on Earth could go to a drug store and buy for a few hours’ wages.” I force myself to break from the temptation and commit to the direction I’ve chosen. It comes out at a volume barely above a whisper, but I manage to say the words, “Your answer is no.”
Greenman lets out a barely noticeable sigh. He takes a deep, slow drink of his coffee, then without warning hurls the porcelain cup to the floor, smashing it into hundreds of tiny white pieces scattering with drops of brown liquid across the cement. “A shame,” he says, his voice frigid cold. “I suppose you’ve given me no choice, then.”
I put my hands up to show surrender but reach for the paring knife hidden underneath my cap. Greenman levels his big revolver at me, staring down the narrow brushed-metal sights with his focused right eye. As my fingers slip underneath my cap, I stare back at him over the deep dark abyss of the barrel.
Hum-click.
The sound of a gun, but not the sound of one firing. Not any sound a revolver might make.
A pistol is aimed from point blank range at Aaron Greenman’s head—a compact semi-auto with an electronic firing mechanism and recoil stabilization, held by Brady Kearns.
“Finger off the trigger,” he says. “Now.”
“What is this?” the rich man hisses, his shock subdued under indignation.
“I’ve been recording all of this, Greenman,” Brady threatens.
“Recording what?” The company man chuckles. “Friendly chitchat, speculation on your guilt, economic theory… ” With convincingly sinister confidence, he adds, “I wouldn’t be so sure you’ll get a chance to play that recording for anyone, anyhow.”
“With the Brink Chairman of SCAPE hostage?” The auditor adjusts his hold on the checkered polymer grip of the pistol.
Greenman glares at him for a long moment, a condescending sneer on his face. I pull the paring knife out from under my cap, holding it in my fingers as I wait for the powerful old man to give an answer.