Cirrus Asteroid Station
That's one of the things I loved about being a reporter working the deep space beat; thanks to hours of communications lag, I could always be drunk by the time my editor's response came to whatever crap story I turned in. That, and the zero-g heaves, and the high acceleration strains, and the low pressure cramps, and oh yes, the constant smells of canned humanity. The spacers said, ‘don't worry, you get used to it,’ but each ship, station, and mine-hollowed-asteroid village was a new, nauseating experience. And the wonderful assignments . . . "Check out the three headed baby on Ceres," . . . "Get down to Titan Station and give me a thousand words on the miniature cow races," . . . "Need some filler for the science section next Sunday."
I sat in an unnamed bar, nursing the only constant in my universe: vodka and gin, with a twist. I didn't want to smell like some alcoholic bum, whatever the unvarnished truth may be. The joint was typical of asteroid architecture, the 'converted mine tunnel' look – thick layers of drippy sealant sprayed over porous bore walls and hand carved booths. Peeling paint and recycled plastic fixtures, like places across the solar system, except the fact that my butt stayed on the barstool without restraints. Gravity meant spin, and spin meant resort town in the Asteroid Belt. I was here trying to avoid the vacationers and tourists, seeking the solitary oblivion that can only be achieved in back alley, locals only bars.
The bartender was typical too, a heavy balding guy wearing a stained apron over his old minejack coverall. Not that I had room to criticize his wardrobe; my casual gray suit was ten years old, and cheap when it was new. He silently filled my first three orders, but seemed inclined to speak as he brought me number four. I ignored him as he stood there, waiting for me to notice him. He finally got tired of waiting.
"Are you here for the ghost?" His voice was lowered, like we were at a funeral.
"What?" It wasn't what I expected, but that just bothered me more.
"You're a reporter, I thought maybe . . . " He motioned vaguely at the press pass still clipped to my collar.
"No, I'm here for getting drunk, quietly. Any way I can get some privacy?"
He blinked a couple of times, then shoved a thumb toward the end of his tunnel.
"Back there, got a booth. Just buzz me for refills." He turned away, making himself busy with wiping glasses. Briefly, I felt bad for being rude, but a ghost story? I tucked my press pass into a pocket, picked up my drink, and carefully walked to the booth. That is how I came to be sitting alone, pickled, in the back of a no-name tavern when the shift ended at the mines.
The party grew quickly around the short side of the bar, and spilled down the long side with the bar stools. About the twentieth time I heard someone greet 'Lefty' at the top of their lungs, I hit the call button.
"Yeah?" came the bartender's muffled response.
"Bring me anotha' round, Lefty. I can shtill feel my lipsh!"
I heard laughter from the crowd. The bartender must have made public fun of my vocal pathology. That's fine, I thought, just wait 'til he sees the tip I'm leaving. My drunken patience was just about gone when the bartender finally appeared, drink in one hand, a huge jar balanced in the other. The group trailing behind the bartender caught my eye; a few minejacks and their ladies had come to watch the show. A trickle of fear raised my hackles and sober suddenly seemed a little more attractive.
The 'clunk' of my new drink hitting the coaster brought my attention back to the table, which is what the bartender was waiting for. With a bowing flourish, he presented the jar and deftly set it on the scarred plastic table where a companion's drink would be.
"Huh?" I said, looking back at the bartender, buying time while I tried to get a handle on myself.
One of the women tittered through lace-gloved fingers, which chilled me; if my nervousness amused her, how long until her companion decided to crank up the entertainment value of the night? I suddenly recalled other bars, other crowds, other humiliations; there were more than I cared to think about. I was struck by the sickening, hopeless realization that this was now my life, for as long as it took me to finish it off. Fear forced my mouth into a smile, a smile I tried to fill with confidence.
The bartender, a showman at heart, let the tension build a moment longer, then used his left hand to motion my attention back to the jar. I questioned him with raised eyebrows, but he just repeated his gesture, so I reluctantly looked at the jar, expecting to see some disgusting pickled animal part I was going to have to eat tonight.
It was a hand.
It was a right hand, spinning slowly in dirty, red-tinted fluid. It had been roughly removed, leaving a jagged bone stump protruding through the ragged flesh of the wrist. The back of the hand looked dark, scorched maybe, and a ring was just visible on the third finger. Some poor guy, I thought, is walking around without . . . ah. I watched it turn briefly, then looked back at the group.
"Lefty, I preshume?"
The bartender looked shocked, the crowd stunned. Then he snorted and guffawed; the little group laughed with him, surprised, happy laughter. In relief I laughed along, and that was that, I was in for the night. Not that I was part of their party; I was just no longer a candidate for the floor show, and that was fine with me.
Later that night someone joined me, sitting behind the jar. For some drunken reason I failed to notice exactly when he sat down across from me, but soon as I saw him I treated him to my whole sad story. I told him about those first orbital assignments as a cub, where I learned to hate space, and my joyful assignment to the National desk, where I saw my first front page by-line. Then came Beth, the love of my life, whom I met on my first really big investigative assignment of the '37 elections.
Later that year I had misquoted the VP on the front page in a last minute election night interview, which busted me back to assistant on the International desk. Then came Zora, evil seductress, the destroyer of my marriage and career. She'd fed me false U.S. diplomatic tips with pillow talk in a scam to discredit my paper; I fell for it, all of it. Last was divorce and my reassignment to the Local desk on Ganymede, then 'released' to become a stringer. Paid by the word, a small stipend, temporary assignments; newspaper purgatory.
He seemed to be a nice fellow, and listened quietly with the occasional shake of his head or gentle 'ah'. He was such a good listener that, by the time tears and final curses came around in my tale, I felt I owed him. Anyway, my drink was empty and I was losing my buzz.
"What can I order ya, Mac?"
He considered this, then whispered, "Tequila Sunrise?"
I thumbed the call button and ordered our drinks. "Bring me another round, and a Sunrise for my friend. What the heck, make it real orange juice, too!"
"Thanks, been a while since someone bought me a drink."
"Hey, we're buds, don't worry. What's wrong with your voice?" He looked surprised, then grinned.
"I guess it's not all here. So you're a reporter?"
My respect for my newfound friend wavered, but I knew from experience how confusing a drunken life story can be, so I let it ride.
"Yup, I'm a real, live newspaper reporter. What's your game, Mac?"
That seemed to sadden him, and I could barely hear his response.
"Deep Well Geologist."
Something in my nosey reporter genes perked up my ears. I casually reached inside my jacket to turn on the built-in recorder as the bartender placed both drinks in front of me. The Sunrise had a straw in it, supposedly the same straw that had been on the orange juice zero-G pack, to show that real juice had been used. I slid it over to Mac, then pretended to sip mine. The bartender shook his head, and left. It was the first time I'd really looked at Mac, probably because he wasn't very noticeable; not too tall, not too skinny, washed out sandy hair, pale eyes, faded clothes.
"So, you're working this asteroid?"
"Not working anywhere, anymore," he whispered, as anger darkened his face.
"Where was your last job, then, if you don't mind my asking?"
"My last job . . ."
I waited while he mused. Maybe it was just the drinks, or my loneliness, but something stirred me about my new friend. He had a story, and I was going to get it.
"I worked in the oil field, a deep well consultant; people called me when they were having problems with the hole they were drilling. I lived in Houston, but worked all over Earth. Earth . . ." He seemed to fade a little as he looked inward; I knew exactly how he felt.
"How did you end up out here?" I tried to sound sympathetic.
"I got a call while I was workin' a gas well in, in Africa, I think. They were drilling for gas and havin' problems with a deep fracture zone, kept losin' their mud, kept threatenin' high-pressure blowouts."
As he got further into it, I could hear him better, and his Texas drawl became more obvious. I made encouraging sounds.
"I wouldn't have taken a job while workin' another usually, but the Africa job was in the bag, and the new clients offered me twenty K just for a consultation. I told 'em I'd be there in two days. I made sure the crew on the work floor was mixing the concrete right, sat the driller down and made damn sure he knew what to do, and jumped in my truck. Forty hours later, I landed in Houston."
"Concrete? What was that for?" I asked a leading question while I quietly tried to confirm my recorder was actually working.
"Those guys were usin' an older rig, and pumping in a few bags of concrete into your mud is an old trick to plug a fracture zone. The depth they were drilling at made it more complicated, but that's not what I wanted to tell you."
Good, I thought, my eyes were gonna cross soon. I settled back and allowed myself a small sip of my drink; the voice activation was glitching, so I'd started full recording to make sure I caught his quiet story.
"Those fellas waiting in Houston were from a big-time orbital interest, and gave me my twenty thousand dollars before we said much more’n hello. They didn't waste any time coming to the point, either. They wanted me run a drillin' job in the asteroid belt, and cost was no object. I said, ‘maybe ya'll wanna rethink that, cause we think pretty darn big here in United Texas.’ They said ‘Is five million too big?’ without a blink.” He shook his head.
“When the haggling was over, I'd rented myself out for a year and a half. They were footing the bill to hire someone to cover my contracts and keep my office open in Houston, I got one million dollars up front, two million on completion, and a sliding early completion bonus of another two million if I could do the job in less than ten weeks."
"Shit," I blurted out. Order coffee now, stupid, I told myself.
"Damn right," he said, then laughed dry and distant. "I was thinking the same thing. The jackpot had come knockin', and I wasn't lettin' it get away. After I signed the contract, I passed out paid vacations to the whole office, and told 'em there'd be another when I got back on top of their regular time off. They gave me a party."
He seemed wistful, remembering those good times. I could almost see that party, tequila and Coronas, retro bluegrass and country music blasting from the pickup load of sound gear, bonfire and dancing on that Gulf of Mexico beach, Charlie Daniels and Faith Hill. I shook my head to lose the eerily clear vision, then ordered two coffees. He shook himself too, an unsettling sight through the jar, and clutched his drink where it sat. For the first time I noticed his outfit resembled an old-fashioned spacesuit. You're too drunk, I thought at myself, straighten up.
"But they wouldn't tell me the job, or at least any particulars. I specialized in older technology, so I figured that was why they wanted me, but they insisted on total secrecy. Six months out, six months back, six months on the job, losin' ten thousand a day off the early completion bonus after ten weeks, and I had to start the job cold, damn them." Mac's face twisted in fury briefly and his dark eyes held mine. "I didn't deserve that. None of us did."
His anger raised sparks from the embers of my own memories. Frank had the election assignment, but withdrew at the last minute, and I was happy to jump into the real thing finally. Sure, I should have reviewed the recording, cross-checked Frank's notes, but who had time? It was a breaking story. There was a deadline. I didn't deserve ending up like this.
"You understand.” His voice rang with anger and conviction. “What happened didn't need to happen, none of it."
I nodded along with his words. That damn Zora, I'd been drinking, how could I have known, who could have said no?
"If they had just told us, just told ME, maybe it wouldn't have happened, I could have DONE something. We didn't deserve what happened."
His face grew closer with every word, black eyes blazing, dark hair wild. Oh no, I thought, that's weird. I'm gonna pass out, lean right, don't pass out into the floor, c'mon man, you don't deserve . . .
. . . I was dreaming. I couldn't breathe, and I was in terrible pain, all my joints burning, my head almost exploding. I was watching long sections of pipe streaming out of the ground at incredible speed, crashing into a tower of girders, the impact pushing the rig further and further off the ground in a cloud of sparks, flames, and twisted metal. Despite the appearance of disaster, and my own pain, I was happy. Everything got dark and quiet, but with a sense of great speed. Finally I approached lights, a city underground, and I violently fell into it. Darkness . . .
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