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.”
I nodded soberly, placed Joy in a pair of well-manicured hands, and made my way across the room. My goal was to get there in a short period of time but do it in a low-key, almost casual way. The usual pre-fight war of words was well under way by the time I arrived. I interrupted. “Good evening, gentlemen. Having a good time?”
The bigger of the two, a mean-looking dude with the words “Eat shit and die!” tattooed across his forehead and fists the size of miniature hams, looked me up and down. The sweet-sour stench of alcohol rolled over me as he spoke. “I’m going to rip this asshole’s head off and shove it up his ass. You got a problem with that?”
It’s always been my opinion that actions truly speak louder than words. That’s why I turned towards number two, smiled, and side-kicked number one’s left knee. Something crunched, and he went down gushing swear words.
Number two’s eyes got wide, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen, and his right fist went back in preparation for a roundhouse swing. I jerked my head to the side, let it pass, and sunk my fist into his gut. He bent over, barfed on his boots, and fell to his knees.
Pain lanced up through my right leg. I turned to find that bozo number one had sunk his teeth into my right calf. I shifted my weight to that foot, back-kicked with my left, and felt his teeth tear loose. The rest was relatively easy. I bounced number one’s head off a nearby pillar, towed him over to number two, got a grip on both their collars, and dragged them towards the door. An obliging patron helped me roll them out into the street, where the Zeebs would eventually cart them away. I thanked him and followed the path of blood and vomit back into the night club. Betty was waiting for me. Joy had taken up residence on her shoulder. The nightclub owner smiled. “Your methods are rather messy, Max. I prefer bouncers who use as little violence as possible.”
I felt my heart sink. The brain-cell shortage had surfaced again. A normal person would have used psychology, would have bullshitted the drunks out onto the street, then sent them packing. But not me, oh no, I had to kick the shit out of them, and blow off the only job I was likely to get. I looked down toward her elegantly clad feet. “Sorry.”
“On the other hand,” Betty said levelly, “talk’s cheap and doesn’t work all that often.”
I felt my spirits rise and dared to look up. She smiled encouragingly. “Tell me something, Max, is your little friend for sale? She looks like a miniature version of me.”
Joy seemed oblivious to Betty’s words and toyed with one of her diamond earrings. The thoughts plodded through my mind. I needed money, that was true, and Joy would bring a pretty price. But you don’t sell friends, even if they don’t qualify as human. I shook my head. “Sorry, but Joy was given to me by a friend, and she’s not for sale.”
Betty nodded understandingly. “Good. I like people with principles. You’re hired.”
16
“Once entrenched, new technology grows like an evil weed. Given sufficient time, it will overwhelm the garden of man and destroy that which sustains us. Our task is to identify the first twisted tendrils as they appear above the ground and destroy them before they can spread.”
From an “Ecological Manifesto,” by Hans Schmidt, father of the Radical Action Committee of the group known as Green Earth
Visiting hours started at 1000 standard and we were there when the doors opened. The women’s surgical ward was just that, a big open room with two rows of bio beds, each adjusted to meet that particular patient’s needs. Depending on what sort of surgery they had undergone or were about to have, the women lay on their backs, sides, or stomachs. Tubing and multi-colored wires snaked all around them. Most were miners, clearly identifiable by their short, easy-to-wash hair, but there was a scattering of spacers, tool heads, and freelancers as well. No corpies, though, since they had private rooms with hot and cold running robots to keep them comfy. My calf hurt where the drunk had chewed on it. I limped slightly as I made my way down the corridor.
The kid was located about halfway down the ward. Pull-out curtains screened her bed from the rest. Someone had combed her hair and given the bed permission to prop her up. Sasha was pale, and somewhat emaciated, but far better than when I’d seen her last. She managed a smile and held out her hand. It felt cold and weak. “Hi, Max. Hi, Joy. I like your dress.”
The little android squealed with pleasure, did cartwheels up the bed, and snuggled into Sasha’s lap. I perched on the edge. “Hi yourself. Howya feeling?”
“Like warmed-over vat slime. How do I look?”
“Never better,” I lied cheerfully.
“Liar,” she said equably. “They say I can bust out of here in three or four days.”
“Glad to hear it,” I replied. “We’ll have the apartment ready by then.”