Andromeda hotel
BOOK ONE - DIE!
CHAPTER TWO - REGENCY
The
spaceport's outside Tao City proper, so scubs rushing
to rip cargo out of the belly of Aegelweiss are helmeted; natives can survive awhile in the
low-oxygen, high alkaline "'mo" of this planet... some longer than
others... but can't work very well, for the distraction of breathing enough
rancid, unprocessed air in and out to go on living (the planet’s ammonia and
gaseous hydrochloric and hydrofluoric content hovers at the higher end of the
habitability spectrum). Bales and boxes
of cargo being busily transferred into the bowels of enormous hydrotrucks, some of them half as long as a pukkaball field.
Doilies and delicacies, dried morsels in vacuum that spring back to life
when hydrated... batteries, gems and spices and mail for the backwards-looking
denizens of Tao. Parcels
and infocubes from family and friends across a half a
galaxy. Even...
Turpin discovered in the hold during the voyage... an actual letter, inscribed in and sealed in pulp,
and... scented!
An epistle of devotion, no doubt, and resisting the impulse to rip it
open and devour its purloined contents proved surprisingly easy. Turpin is young, filled
with wonder of and appreciation for occasional manifestations the sacred common
to many young snakers, sentiments that inevitably
wither under years of danger, boredom and cynicism.
Umbarger and Captain Munson are locked in fevered argument
with the masked and heatsuited groundlings on the
unheated and bare tarmac when Broonzy and Turpin take
deep, final breaths of sim-air and shove out of the
transport. Die's atmosphere assails
their skin like fumes of a thousand thousand old antedispersal outhouses; so cold that piss freezes before
it shatters on the ground. They have
only the Company's shoddy flight jackets over their scrubs - second-hand, and
begrimed with advertising. Gulping great
gulps of thin, rancid atmosphere, they hover at the periphery of the quarrel,
see a sort of weasel-man who appears to be the over-Commander of the
bureaucrats shove his clipboard against Munson's chest.
"Go
ahead, call your Company... see if I give a tikken's arse. That vehicle's unsafe, and it's grounded
until the Regency says otherwise. I got
forty-one critical violations, hundreds of minor ones..."
"And the rest of my cargo?" Munson asks. To a man... liberally spliced with weasel,
rat, jackal and other noxious, nose-twisting traits... the Commander and his
bureaucrats smirk. "Your Regency's a pack of thieves!"
"They
make the laws, we enforce 'em. Maybe we should
take a closer look at your papers and those of that rawth
you call a crew. I'm sure there's
something irregular, there..."
"Wait
until we contact the company," Umbarger pipes
up, pointing a long, anthropoid finger at the bureaucrats. "They have connections all the way back
to Terra... plenty of 'em in Novo Brasilia..."
"The
other company's got a legation on Parrach. Faq? They've
got the swag in this Ennead... your people want to make some sort of galactic
hash out of it, they know what to do.
You care to wait out the outcome in a cell," the Commander leers
upwards... for Munson tops him by a head... "it
can be arranged. Otherwise, get your
stink out of here..."
"Demon!" Munson scowls...
"Been called plenty of names. Thing is..." and he nods to his uniformed security, who've removed their gibbs
from their holsters, "...you intend on doing anything about it?"
"I
will accept your suggestion, howsoever under protest, awaiting further
orders" replies Captain Munson, turning towards Umbarger
and raising a bushy eyebrow to Broonzy and Turpin,
skulking beyond. "This is what he
is. This
is how business is done in the Seventh Ennead."
"You're
trespassing, Captain," the bureaucrat presses his advantage. "This spaceport's for official business, and you're not on business anymore. That's the way out, after you've handed over
the registration tickets for this pile of rawth..."
"And
its cargo," Broonzy says, but under his breath
to Turpin, standing, fascinated, on the tarmac, eyes tearing with the bad air. "They'll impound it,
sell it off to the friends, claiming a health risk. Case makes its way to Galactic Court in
twenty, thirty soys, the Company might recover the price of the sale. Or not, depending on who's stacked the Court
by then..."
"Somebody
have something to say?" the Commander turns towards them... weasel-ready,
in case one of the snakers has a gibb
under his scrubs. "No? You can pick up your tickets at the
Munson
removes a sheaf of papers, advancing on the Commander suddenly, as if to strike
him, but lets the documents fall to the tarmac.
The bureaucrat... braver than he looks, Turpin realizes... makes no move
to pick them up, and a desultory wind blows the top ticket away. The Captain of the soon-to-be former Aegelweiss
motions towards his crew, and they march, single-file, through a dishonor-guard
of thugs and Regency officials into
"Doesn't
trust the coms in this place... I
wouldn't, either," Broonzy remarks.
The
lead driver's a canine-simian hyde
in the headwrappings of an Old Believer. "The Yasrick," Munson
commands. "Hotel
entrance, not the casino."
"Yasrick
passengers pay in advance," the driver scowls. "Thirty-two soys,
Regency, for the lot of you..."
"Take
thirty-five," Munson snarls, "and not a lum
over, or I'll rip your throat open. And
turn up the jammin' air..."
The
driver mutters something to himself... a prayer to Rassoul
or, perhaps, a curse against cheap outlanders, but swipes the Captain's
personal card all the same, and... when it
validates... even adjusts the oxygen box.
As the vehicle lifts, slowly, swooping away towards the distant domes
and spires of
Munson has squeezed his bulk into the front seat of the taxi,
crowding and intimidating the driver into ignoring his passengers, or at least
pretending to. "Got a tiny
problem with the Company's finances," he turns to apologize, "they
won't authorize any advances without the kosh from
Customs, here, ain't gonna
happen anytime soon. Ain't
jammin' you, though, you're all my guests... on my
personal account... until the Company straightens things out.
“Know
when a planet is rawthed-up,” Broonzy
muses, staring out the window. “When the
words for years and words for money are the same rathin’
words.”
“Time
is money,” the Captain grunts.
"They'll
go to Regency justice to sort things out?" Turpin suggests, hopefully...
"More
likely give up one of them other company birds locked down in friendly
territory," Umbarger scoffs, "probably in
the First or Fourth Ennead. Happens all
the time! Never did... fifteen, twenty soys back, but the Regency's been rotten from the inside,
ever since..."
"That's
enough!" Captain Munson warns him and the driver speeds blissfully along
over the thin, metal rail bisecting a wasteland of reddish-orange rocks and
dust, pretending to hear and understand nothing. Now and again, one of Die's domed,
agricultural compounds looms up, then vanishes, but Tao City appears
suddenly... as if, perhaps, Turpin has fallen asleep, dreaming of better places
elsewhere where the 'mo doesn't reek of mushrooms and hydrocarbons. The planetary capital is guarded by several
concentric, clear domes with airlocks, through which the hovertaxi
passes after paying a toll at each. From
this approach, the architecture of the city bears distinct likeness to an
electrical or petroleum processing facility although, at its street level, the
unvarying shabby utility of urban outskirts all over the galaxy predominates.
The
taxi makes a left turn at the second intersection of the metal rails, then a right. The structures grow taller, older, less
functional - coated with filth that, for its greater age, sprouts presumptions
among the fungi and scaly barnacle-like growths that attach themselves to
thick, red stone comprising most of the buildings. The Yasrick yawns on a street of shops,
nightclubs and provincial casinos - the motley creatures scurrying to and fro
seem well-dressed, but there is a distinct, shabby ambience to the fashions of
persons, as well as its architecture... a dated quality of a galactic
backwater, a flea-market street where qualities come to settle years late,
mostly at second-hand.
Al here, now. Just Al... don't mind my interrupting.
Rawth like that happens at the Spaceport all
the time; rest of the Spaceports all over the galaxy too, I guess. Bunch of
gangsters, the Regency and the corprocacies too,
always testing each other, changing the rules. Full o'rawth!
Always been that way, always will. Most of the taxis
and trucking companies are owned by the local Regents, or friends, or relatives,
too, that's why the Spaceport's so far out of Tao City that the mag don't go there. World o'rawth, galaxy of broken promises. Don't need me to tell you. What happens next - well, that's just an old,
sad song. Older than
time, sadder than a kitten on the magway. It's no accident that they call the rawthin’ planet Die.
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