When Justin realizes everyone is waiting for his decision, he shrugs and says, “I’m up for whatever, man.”
So that’s it. They won’t disband, but they’ll need a new medical technician. That shouldn’t be too difficult on Earth, and Jack already has someone in mind.
An automated voice drones over the loudspeakers: “Attention crew of B-class freighter Belinda. You are confirmed for docking at 1600 hours SST. Please confirm your reception of this message.”
“That was quick,” Stetson says.
“Eat up,” Jack says. “And if you’ve got shit to do planetside, make arrangements fast.”
He’s talking more to himself than anyone.
Belinda has two airlocks. The first is in her bow. The second below the cargo bay. An enclosed loading tunnel connected to this airlock peels away from her belly and attaches to another ship’s dock, a bit like a giant straw. To move cargo, Jack’s crew operates bulky machines called shovers, which do exactly what the name implies. About the size of a compact car, they work just like any extravehicular maneuvering pack (EM-pack), spurting compressed air to move them through Zero-G. The four front forks clamp the end of a shipping container and away it goes. They’re slow moving and difficult to steer, and Jack only has two of them for the time being, but it’s better than cracking the ship open and using a crane. Dino has been training Justin how to operate them, so it takes a bit longer than usual. Nearly three hours after they began to unload, they strap the shovers back into the rear airlock chamber and prep for reentrance to Earth’s atmosphere.
Their regular landing zone is an Upstate New York nowhere town nobody’s ever heard of. It’s winter in the Northern Hemisphere. They come down in a field where the snow is three feet deep, exit through the loading tunnel with their hands held against the wind. The air shocks them, cold and refreshing and somehow full. To Jack, arriving on Earth always feels a bit like coming home, and that makes him edgy.
There’s a hypertram stop two hundred yards to the west, a tram already idling.
They clamor inside and take their seats, leaving gaps between themselves. Strangers on a bus. The world zips by at 600 miles an hour, a white blur. The car rattles and groans.
In 20 minutes they reach the Rockwall tramport. It’s crammed full of pedestrians with suitcases. Parents dragging children along the moving sidewalks. Color and noise and blaring advertisements. Holograms calling you by name. One image repeats on all the screens—a generic video feed of deep space. Field of steady pinpricks.
They agree to meet back in exactly 22 hours. That will give them a window of two hours before the buyer knows for certain that something is wrong, and will come looking.
Darius and Jack split off from the main group. The others are, according to Dino, “Going to find some fit young men to fuck.”
“You can have all the men you want,” Stetson says. “It’s holo ladies for me. STD free electricit-y.”
Darius does not say goodbye. Just disappears into the crowd.
Jack doesn’t linger, either. He leaves the others to their vices, finds a rental place and reserves an autocar, the domed kind usually reserved for couples. Best not to search between the seats. It waits in the pickup area of the parking garage. It pops the door for him and he slides inside, crinkles his nose at the chemical stink of new-car spray over the tang of cigarettes and alcohol. He lowers the window half an inch.
“Hello and thank you for choosing Autocar Supertime Transport!” a voice from the speakers says. “Where are we—”
He states his destination.
“Great,” the car says, then repeats it back and tells him to buckle up so they can get moving. “If you’d like to purchase refreshments for an additional—”
“No.”
“Great.”
They pull out of their spot.
“Are you interested in watching a film for an additional—”
“No.”
“Great. How about the news? You’ll get all the breaking stories. Did you hear the latest out of the Kuiper Belt? Some are saying—”
“No.”
“Very good. For an additional fee, you can use the touchscreen to select—”
“Will you please let me sleep.”
“Great. I’ll let you sleep. Let me know if you need anything.”
Families stand at crosswalks. Holding hands. They watch Jack and Jack watches back. Strangers going about their lives. Here and there a face he recognizes. His heart swells and then he shudders. Dead men, ghosts. He blinks them away, rubs his eyes. Just strangers.
He rolls the window fully down, inhales deep. He’s been feeling a bit spookier than usual. That run-in with the pirates may have jarred something loose. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so trapped.
Anijira lives with her new husband in Nulleport, a city too small for hypertrams to pass through. He sets his arm on the window frame and lays his head.
He jolts awake a moment later as the seatback screen trumpets out an ad. “Jack Kind, isn’t it time to smell like a real man?”
He can’t find the volume.
“Jack,” the car says, “you seem to be searching for something. How can I help?”
“The fucking volume. Turn the screen off.”
“I’m sorry. Video advertisements are just one way Autocar Supertime Transport earns important revenue that helps keep your transportation experience super. Would you like to pay an additional fee for an ad-free experience?”
“For shit’s sake. Yes.”
“Great. I’ll fix that for you.”
The screen goes blank.
This is what so many men and women fought and died to preserve. An ad-free experience. For a fee.
Chapter 3
The portable buzzes against his chest and when he hits the holodisplay Jim Dandy’s face appears in the middle of the car, a still image. Orange-blonde hair, rosy high cheekbones. Lips puckered slightly and accented pink. All for effect. The first time Jack met the Dandy was on Juno Station over Jupiter. The man had been wearing a blue dress with a fan of peacock feathers stuck in the top of his head like an insane Geisha. Jack was unloading munitions with his crew, eyeing this odd figure vaping and muttering to a lackey. He knew who he was based on his fashion. Yet there are plenty of other reasons to know the Dandy. Turns out there was some kind of religious uprising in Jupiter’s system. Dandy was buying the munitions from a third party and selling them to both sides, making a fortune. That was his idea of a good time. He’s the kind of guy who’d have no problem cutting the throat of a thief. Say, a smuggler arriving on Earth and failing to meet the buyer.
The call goes to voicemail.
Dandy leaves no message.
Jack looks out the window. He’s nearing Nulleport. Defunct roadside diners and charging stations, dilapidated houses with chicken coops frozen in the snow. The Space Boom was especially rough on small towns. He has a theory why Ani’s new husband built his mansion out here. He’s a world-renowned lawyer. Travels the country defending famous athletes and politicians and actors. Ani stays here, watches the kid and drinks her wine while he slips between hotel sheets with “enhanced” blondes. Jack knows this because it is what he used to do.
He considers again what he might say to his son. Nothing feels right. Last time he saw him, his cheekbones seemed more defined than ever, the baby fat melting away. Somewhere in there was a budding young man, just a few years away. The thought stings now. He feels ill.
The house could be a restaurant. Jack’s been inside once or twice, but stayed by the front door for fear of getting lost. It’s set back from the road at the end of a winding driveway, blocked off from the street by a security gate. The car lets him out there. He keeps the meter running.