Fine by me, thought Corcey.  He’d never even heard of MidbiM until a few days ago, and didn’t know what to expect for customs.

Corcey could tell that Pov would rather read than rapport.  It seemed a fair trade: Pov doesn’t ask any embarrassing questions, and Corcey leaves him alone.

“Is there an infocel I can use?”

“End of the tunnel,” said Pov, pointing with his booq.

Corcey turned to the exit, and saw the relief flight crew coming into the room through it.  The last one entering was armed and had a Badge; undoubtedly Mahm’s replacement for the next leg of the flight.

Corcey needed information, both about his surroundings and his objectives.  He waited for the guard with the gun to go by, then went into the next infinite vortex tunnel to MidbiM proper.

The first nexus had two infcocels bracketing a wall of holofones.  Corcey went up to one and awakened it with a touch.

“Explain this place,” he said to the cel.

The station’s propaganda described itself as “...a non-qorporate collective committed to free commerce.”  Corcey understood the mercenary alliteration:  MidbiM was set up to sponge profit from Wilderness prospecting.  He tried to find out who ran the station, but the cel was programmed to give ambiguous, vague answers to the public on these confidential matters.  He did get a list of The Roll of the Community, which alphabetically indexed MidbiM’s permanent personnel without listing their duties.

Corcey cracked a smile when he saw a familiar name among the cryptic aliases.  That smile came because that name was related, if indirectly, to the real reason he was there.

Moving on with the cel, he tried to get a listing of what flights would be coming and going for the next day.  If he had the need to leave immediately, he wanted to know what his options were.  Unfortunately, the infocel was not linqed to the station’s mainchain, so it did not have any flight schedules.  It did tell him where to go to find out, and who he should have asked to speak to (had he there a year ago, when this info was last updated.)  Likewise of the sole lodging, a fifty-room honeycomb. Their (old) rates were listed, but not the current number of vacancies or occupants’ identities.

“Show me,” he told the cel, and a moment later a hologram floated before him.  It was hazy and fluttering: either a bad projection, or he was still tripping.  Probably a combination of neither.

Corcey made a cursory map on his mental template, learning his immediate surroundings in context with his objectives.  He at last closed in on the blinking Yellow URH marker, which showed him to be in Level Three Nexus Six, at one of two Information Orange infocels bracketing a wall of Communications Blue vidifones.

Corcey paused to consider the cel’s accuracy.

According to the holo, there was a Storage Green self-storage loqer on the other side of the Access Gray elevators.  That, at least, turned out to be true.  Corcey looked over the loqers over, pondering their integrity. The bags strapped across his shoulders were useful, but they were undeniably cumbersome.

He ended up renting three, and carefully put his gear inside each.  The carypaq was kept company by his rifle.  He stripped down to bare essentials, and loqing them up tight, pocketed the qeys.  Recalling the map, he stalked off on his next errand: the name from the Roll.

Even though he had never been to MidbiM or even met the man on the Roll, Corcey knew where to find him.

Æleƒ Ærikson’s

est 086

          The entrance to Ærikson’s was the requisitely cliché saloon double door.  Æleƒ’s policy was printed down the shutters.

                              no         name?

                              no         alibi?

                              no         worries!

                              no         money?

                              no         respect?

                              no         way!

Corcey pushed past six nos and strolled in.  Æleƒ’s was dimly lit, so the patrons could size up the newcomers first.  He peeled off his sunshades and shoved them into a greasy mop of unwashed hair.  The whites of his eyes were phlegm yellow, with a rose red roadmap surrounding minute coal black pupils.  He slowly took in the scene.

The bar itself was a blue-green snake that coiled into a short, phallic serpent’s head that looked like it had a menorah for antlers.  The tables were longboats, and sails, rigging, and masts made an obstacle course to be reckoned with.  The open sea beyond was a dance floor, lit in moody blues and rolling with music that will be all the rage a short season from now.

The unfamiliar decor confused him.  He wondered what it was as he navigated his way in, having more trouble with the ambiance than the patronage.  The place was all but empty.  Only two of the boats were full, the open sea was empty, and everyone else was at the bar.

At that, there were eight customers and two tenders.  Corcey observed the two men on the line.

The younger of the two was a giant with a bushy, blonde ’stache, and long, flaxen hair crowned by an ornate horned helm.  He also wore an armoured breastplate and a cape.  Very friendly, very precise, and he ignored tips completely.

Corcey’s guess was that was Æleƒ.

The older bartender was short, balding, and stoutly filled his coveralls: clearly against the grain of the theme.  He had a casual, laid-back technique, and didn’t talk unless talked to.  The qash tips he collected reflected the wisdom of this.  He salted the drinks of those less appreciative.

Corcey’s guess was that was his Man on the Roll.

Corcey made his way out with the tide to Leviathan’s tail.  The man he presumed he was looking for was taking an order from the end of the bar.  That order was placed by one Saladrin, while its companion talked to a Human.

"We would like another spiced draft and two canisters of Jam'dyry," the first Saladrin told the bartender.

"I understand the delicacies involved on your end, but our guidelines for handling the qargo must be strictly obeyed" said the second to its Human companion.

That Human companion was clearly irritated at the umpteenth emphasis on handling.  “What, exactly, is the qargo’s shelf life?”

Chitinous mandibles clicked in response, which the translator built into its thin black atmosphere suit broadcast "Fifteen to life, depending on the judge."

The man nodded in understanding.

So did the bartender, when the order was complete.  He was about to go fill it when he heard a voice behind him.

"Hey, Jae."

Jae turned around to see what else the Saladrin wanted, instead found Corcey bellied up to the beast next to the arachnid aliens.

“How’s it going, Jae?” Corcey continued in Galaqommon, with a grin that would frighten a five year-old child.

“All right,” Jae the bartender replied unevenly.  He didn’t recognize or remember this customer, and he was pretty sure someone like this he would have.

The black-suited Saladrin stopped talking, looking disdainfully at the intrusion.  Its companion did so, too.  It’s atmosphere suit was white, and much more teqnical.  The lazer pod on its back gave a self-test beep, letting Corcey know he was standing too close.

The Thune ignored the neighboring insects, instead staring down his human target.

“Whatcha want?” Jae asked at last.

“Water,” Corcey mumbled simply, with a semi-polite nod of the head.

There was a caption above it.

REWARD

Other information in smaller print was also listed, but Corcey dropped the paper on the bar in such a way that the information was folded out of sight.

“Friend of yours, Jae.”  He said this as a statement, not a question, and stared the man dead in the eyes.  His eyes smiled menacingly.

The bartender, dodging Corcey’s disturbing gaze, concentrated on the holo before him.  He tapped the word Barbelo on the paper, and said “I don’t know anyone by this name.”

“You know her as Tazza Drazon,” Corcey correctly told him.

Jae’d met Tazza almost a decade ago, while serving time on Stone Grove.  He was in for assaulting a police officer during a bar brawl.  She was in for suspected involvement with the butchering at the Archives building.  She had told Jae she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He didn’t believe her for a second.

Jae liked Tazza, but didn’t really trust her.  He made sure not to become too good of a buddy with her, because infrequent times he ran into her, she was usually dabbling in something obscure yet sinisterly hard-core.

Looking at Corcey, Jae decided that Tazza had finally gotten in over her head.

He didn’t want to get in over his.

The chubby man picked up the paper in his plump, stubby fingers and tilted it to-and-fro, examining each angle of her laser-reproduced features.  The creases from folding caused murky blurs to run down her face.

“Yeah, that’s Tazza.” Jae admitted.  “Is Sophia her real name?”

“To you she’s Tazza Drazon, to me she’s Sophia Barbelo.  A name’s just a metaphor, but you do know the person it represents in this case.  She came through here two weeks ago,” Corcey told him knowingly.  He’d spent six hours reconstructing the deleted flight manifests.  Partial success: he knew what flight, and even the alias she’d used.  Liza Mohn.

Jae considered what Corcey had told him.  But not too long—to be a Licensed Bartender, you had to have a superior memory for a universe’s worth of beverages.

“I know; I ran into her.”

Corcey looked at him, and smiled encouragingly.

“She came in with the Convoy from Hell,” Jae went on.  “I think she had a layover and was just getting a drink.  It was really busy, and I didn’t get much chance to talk to her.”

Still studying the paper, Jae unfolded it to see what was written at the bottom. Corcey promptly reached over and retrieved it.  Deftly folding it up into another simple origami, he placed it back in his jacket.

“What’d she order?” quizzed Corcey.

“Seeya Tamara with extra moqqa,” Jay replied without thought.

“When was this?” Corcey asked.

“Oh,,, thirteen days ago,” said Jae, going through some mental arithmetic.  Under Corcey’s stare, he felt compelled to explain: “There was a chemical spill on the station: took ’em two days to clean it up.  I was talking to her when the All Clear sounded.  Then it got really busy: half the people had to go back to work and ordered last rounds.”

“When you were talking to her, what did she say?”

“She bitched that you can’t get decent moqqa in the Wilderness.”

“That it?” Corcey inquired.  His soft tone belied intense curiosity.

“Well, she said goodbye when she left, but we were still busy.”

Corcey stared Jay down a silent moment.  Something in Jay’s tone tasted like equivocation seasoned with bullshit.

“Here,” Jae added during the pause, and put a  glass of water in front of him.  Corcey had not realized Jae had already filled one.  “No charge.  Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s kind of busy.”

Jae disappeared down the bar, and, correctly guessing it would be a while before he returned, Corcey turned his attention to the synthiglass before him.  Slowly, he opened his paraphernalia and took two tablets out of each container. Dropped into the fluid, one began to effervesce, the other merely dissolved.  Corcey took hold of the glass with long, slender fingers, and downed his drink in one extended gulp.  Room temperature water slid into his dry, sticky mouth, washing half-dissolved pills down his parched gullet before he had time to savour.

The drugs reached his brain ten seconds later.  The amphetamines would give him another fifteen hours of energy and unconsciousness.  The painkillers would work as name implied for hopefully the same length of time.

Unless it was all psychosomatic, in which case he would instantly drop dead awake in agony.

     ...thump...  ...thump...  ...thump...

In ten minutes, blood would enter his brain.  Cells would turn white and become pitted with decay.  This would continue for the next fifteen hours.  Corcey would feel every atom dissolve.

As the drugs hit his system, a speed rush enveloped him, and a thin trail of crimson sloshed down from a nostril.  The drop became enmeshed in his lengthy stubble and moistened his lip.  He methodically wiped it off with the back of his hand.  The action was successful only in smearing most of it across his face, where it would dry into an unholy warpaint.

Jae returned with the Saladrin’s order, and the four quickly left for points of privacy away from Corcey.  The Human pilot sipped his spiced draft between questions, and the white Saladrin hooked up a Jam'dyry to an intake valve on its suit.  The black suit lacked such a valve: it didn’t partake during business.  Dulled the reflexes, and it’s qargo required excellent claw-to-eyestalk coordination.

Corcey turned around, leaned against the bar with a deceptive casualness, and again took stock of his surroundings.

The crew of one longboat drunkenly sang their Qorporate fight song, while at the doq (booth) next to them, a lone man in a red robe contemplated his cup.  Before him were a sonic sword, his ship’s ignition wand, and a map of a star.

Floating through the ropes above was a slick gun-metal gray sphere.  Corcey recognized the model: S’ku^A security orb.  However, someone had tacked on crude wings and a tail to it.  Corcey followed its flight path, noting the orb’s difficulty in coping with its artificial avian additions.  It staggered like many of the drunken patrons beneath it.

“That’s Val, our seagull,” said a booming voice behind Corcey.

Without moving his body, Corcey turned his head completely around to face his addresser.

“Can I get you another?” Æleƒ asked, indicating the empty glass.

“Please,” Corcey replied dryly.  “Water.”

Æleƒ took the glass and filled it from a spigot without spilling a drop.

“Val needs a beak or a bill to balance the weight,” Corcey told Æleƒ as he awaited his refill.

“We tried: then it really crashed into things.”

“Haven’t seen a S’ku^A since The Swarm.”

Ælef smiled synthetically.  “Some Hamaddi traded it to us to settle her tab.  Having been owned by a Hamaddi, it was naturally defective.  About all it could do was fly around, so we put it to that use instead.”

Actually the S’ku^A worked fine: Æleƒ had disabled it.  Aside from bartending, he was also the Ærikson’s bouncer.  He viewed the intruding security with professional jealousy: with muscles like his, no orbs should be needed.

“Does it have vidio?” Corcey asked.

“Not any more.”  That was one of the parts Æleƒ had sabotaged.

Corcey was disappointed: if it worked properly, he could potentially have witnessed the bar two weeks ago and possibly picked up clues about Sophia.

“I have a feeling we’re going to have a whole flock of them soon,” Æleƒ said cryptically, and put the glass in front of him.  “Fifty bits.”

Corcey looked at the glass, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.  “M’man didn’t charge me for the last.”  He plunked a credit coin worth one byte on the table, covering his tab in qash.  Paying by Credit left a trail one could follow on The Beast.

“Thanks,” both said in chorus.

Corcey considered the giant before him.  The horned helm was giving him problems: in silhouette, Æleƒ looked like a demon.

“What is that?” Corcey asked him, referring to the headgear.

“An inaccurate attempt at ambiance,” Æleƒ replied with some mirth.  He enjoyed the subject, and would go on until told to shut up.  “How’s your Earth history?” he asked.

“Exquisitely detailed in some areas, blank in others, and lots of random bytes that are trivially irrelevant and probably wrong.”

“Does the word Viking mean anything to you?” asked Æleƒ, warming to the subject.

“No,” admitted Corcey.  “Can you write it out?  In the original, I mean.”

Happily, Æleƒ took a coaster nakkin and wrote several terms on it, both in phonetic Galaqommon and the Nordic original.  Corcey looked at the paper.  He tapped the Runes, between Valhalla and Ragnarok.  The reverse orientation of the rest of his body made the move awkward.

“I understand,” he told Æleƒ, who was visibly pleased.  “I’m just not familiar with these expressions of them.”  Corcey indicated the bar’s trappings.  “Interesting place. You’ve been here two years?”

“We were one of the original investors in the station,” the Nordic android said with pride.

“I’d think you’d do a good business off the trade.  Is it normally this slow, or any Convoys from Hell come through recently?”  Corcey’s hand floated up to the pocket that held the origami.

“This is slow,” lamented Æleƒ.  “The Phoenix embargo put a crimp on qommercial trade, plus people are still edgy about the Rathgeans and afraid to leave the Core Sys...”

“Æleƒ?” Jae interrupted, quickly coming up behind him.  The towering musculature of Æleƒ made Jae seem all the more diminutive.  “Fone,” he said, simply but quickly to Æleƒ, who turned and nodded.

“Excuse me,” he told Corcey.  “We’ll continue this in a minute,” he said with a smile, and went off to answer the fone.  Jae disappeared with him, to the head of the bar.

Corcey turned back around so his full body faced the room.  He arched his shoulders, cracking his back audibly, and then stretched his neck and rolled his head in a wide, lazy circle.  The chorus of knuckle-cracking snaps as vertebrae popped back into place seemed to be in the same frequency as nails on chalkboard, and a female patron a few stools down winced visibly.

Corcey found that Val had wandered out to sea.  There was a storm over the dance floor: random strobes simulated lightning, and the thunder was timed to the beat.  Val’s dysfunctions actually fit the mood, and it seemed as if the S’ku^A were attempting to dance.

The lights were really getting to Corcey, leaving faint trails in spectrums painful to the eye.  They flashed in synq with the music over the empty dance floor.  The holosoniq sound system was blaring in Groove cruise control. The percussive beat was heard fifty meters away from the bar.  It was one of those driving drum circles designed for dancing.  Polyrhythmic, but the base was a beat in 3/4 time.

     ...thump...  ...thump...  ...thump...

Corcey tried to concentrate, couldn’t.  Partly all the outside distractions, partly the mental state he was in.  Most people would have had problems with structured thought and planning while in a speed or Ba’alistti rush, but Corcey hung on by the nails from grim experience.  Unfortunately, his mind would have been racing a thousand kilometers an hour without all the drugs.  His mental drive, which was what kept pushing him on, was growing very sluggish—traveling at mach one but not moving a millimeter.

Only slowly did Corcey became aware of a new presence.  He put his mental quibbling aside and allowed his eyes to drift to it.

She was dressed provocatively in white lace of some synthetic material.  Her credit card hung over her heart, dangling between teasingly revealed nipples by a white gold chain.  The card was red, identifying her profession (another archaic tradition that, like the true origin of lipstick, almost nobody remembered correctly.)  In white gold engravings, her name was spelled down the side of the card: Qrystyn.  Her short, silky hair was silver-white, as indeed was her skin.  The hue two shades whiter than albino identified her as being native born to the frigid Caandelen’s Star system.  With some imagination, she bore resemblance to an old flame and friend of Corcey’s, another Caandelenian universally known as Blade.

“Hey,” she said in a soft voice that might have melted an ice cube, “You look cold.  Need me to warm you up?”

Corcey was actually good looking, when he made the effort.  Alas, that effort was sadly lacking.  No razor had touched his head in months, nor had he bathed in over two weeks; he visibly bore the grime and crime of several planets splattered across him.  Corcey didn’t worry from morning until evening about what he would wear, but his threads truly looked lived in and died in.

Plus, he just didn’t smell right.

He was a warrior and a priest; she was a prostitute.  It was a meeting of the minds of the three oldest professions.

His reply was immediate.

“I already stand near the fire,” he crackled in passable Caandelenian, and flashed her a look that she wasn’t sure how to interpret.

He slid off his stool and seemed to glide as he disappeared towards the saloon double doors.  Qrystyn watched him walk off, and shrugged.  On a busy night she’d pass him up without thought, but it was slow, and her dues were late.

Jae came over.

“Friend of yours?” she asked.

“No,” Jae said coldly, and began to cleanse the place of Corcey’s visit.

That was when he found Corcey’s tip.

The glass of water was undrunk and upside down, trapping fluid against a flat scale.  Inside was a stack of coins.

Disgustedly, Jae picked up the soaked nakkin.  Water had caused Æleƒ’s bold handwriting to blur badly.  He’d seen the inverted glass trick before—in fact, it landed him in jail on Stone Grove for punching out the police officer tipster.  The nakkin was the tool to flip it over without spilling; he tossed it away and wrapped a towel around the glass.  Lifting it up, the trapped water soaked into the towel shroud.  He reached in and pulled out the wet coins.  Jae counted thirty.

Æleƒ came over.

“No one was on any of the lines.  Who qaled?”

“I don’t know,” Jae replied distantly, still staring at the silver stack of bits in his hand.  “I think it was either a bill collector or a solicitor.  If it’s important, I’m sure they’ll qal back.” He looked up at Æleƒ.  “Hey, I have to take care of something, and I may or not be back shortly.  Okay?”

Æleƒ nodded in understanding and eagerness.

“It’s slow; I can handle this.”

“Thanks,” and Jae slapped him half-heartedly on a bulging bicep.

He left through the back, and used access-only shortcuts to the Hive.

The only lodgings on MidbiM for non-permanent employees was the ship you rode in on, or the Hive.  Unfortunately, Jae could not remember which comb held the bee he was looking for.  A short description and a friendly smile to the receptionist got him the information.

“She in?” he asked.

“No idea.  Want me to buzz up?”

Jae passed on the offer, opting to check for himself.

Outside the comb in question, he looked around.  He had been doing so constantly since leaving Ærikson’s.  He was fairly sure that Corcey hadn’t followed him.

A fat hairy finger jabbed the buzzer.

No answer.

After an awkward pause, he tried again.

At the end of the hall, the elevator opened.  Jae snapped to look at it, fully expecting Corcey.  He only saw a Saladrin skittle out on spidery legs.

Easing down, Jae considered his jumpiness.  Maybe I should just get out of here.

On the panel, the microlense viewer dilated, then died.  Turning at the soft, raspy sound, Jae saw the lens again rotate into focus so the occupant could see who was calling.

Long pause.

A soft humm, and then the hexagonal door opened.  Music, soft in volume but harsh in disposition, seeped from inside.  He entered, and the door closed behind, sealing him in.

“Hey Tazza,” Jae said once safely inside.

The woman he called Tazza stared at him bleakly.  Smeared blue eyeshadow auraed eyes that bore the pain of a hangover she’d been hoping to sleep off and through.  She was still wearing last night’s black dress, and shuffled over to kill the music that had been looping through the evening.  Collapsing back on her bed, she looked at Jae through overstrained eyes.  Her head pounded, veins throbbing loudly in her ears.

     ...thump...  ...thump...  ...thump...

“Girl, I think you’re in some shit.”

Tazza groaned: this was not how she wanted to start her day.  When she arrived yesterday, she rented the room and then headed straight for the bar.  On the house from Jae, so she ended up under the table and almost under a lan navigator.  The rest was a dangerous, drunken blur.

If Corcey had shown his poster to Æleƒ, he would have responded, “sure: she was that drunk on the dance floor from last night hanging all over Jae.”

     Game Over.

“What’d I do now?” she asked blearily.

“Some shrinkwrapped freak was just in with a reward poster for you.”

Could be worse.  She knew of several, which ranged in severity.