Gallagher in Space

The first thing I notice, brothers and sisters, is the saliva on my tongue boilin’.

Now there’s a few things that a lotta uneducated Worldies seem to think about the human body floatin’ around in the void a space. The first is that, despite whatever yeh might’ve read, yeh don’t explode at first sign of the pressure droppin’. So long as you’re not daft enough to hold your breath, you’ll be sorted for a good fifteen seconds. Another is that you don’t freeze to death nearly as quick as they’d have you believe. My mate Fiore, aye, bless her soul, she said it’s because there’s nothin’ out there to carry the heat away from your body, hence, while it’s far from a bleedin’ picnic, yeh won’t be dyin’ as a human glacier.

No, it’s the asphyxiation that’ll get you first.

But that’s gettin’ aheada myself.

There comes a time in some men’s lives when they’re able to look back and say, fuck me, of all the places I wagered I’d end up in the world, this wouldn’t even be the last one on the list. A time when, for better or for worse, you start to wonder how things mighta turned out if you hadn’t said yes to one or two men in suits or made friends with one or two blokes better-connected than might be healthy.

Gettin’ hit in the face by a green dwarf in yellow overalls with arms the size of armchairs, now, that’d be one of those times.

The little fella in question was called, of all things, Bob. Bob wasn’t a true little person; he was just short and seemed to have gone in for Heavy-G treatment as a toddler. Kids these days. Side effects bein’ a surly disposition, a lovely guava-coloured complexion, and a darlin’ little growth stunt.

Smack.

I felt somethin’ go crunch in my mouth. I reeled my head back and my tongue felt along my top row, findin’ a dirty great gap where a front tooth ought to’ve been. Shite.

Another smack, and my right arm went numb. By now Bob had me pinned to the wall, peerin’ up at me somethin’ fierce with little dark eyes under a furry little brow.

Smack.

“Sh—” I began, before Bob’s stubby fingers swiped at my chin. I felt somethin’ go pop a little below my left ear.

“Shouldn’t—” I began again, and managed to dodge my head out of the way of the next swipe. It grazed my ear, which happily started to sing with pain.

“Jaysis, shouldn’t you at least be telling me what I’ve done to—”

Smack.

Bob said nothin’ and thumped me in the gut. My legs promptly lost feelin’, and when the little man loosened his grip on my chest I slumped to the ground. There was a godawful burnin’ around my solar plexus and the next thing I knew I was coughin’ red stuff up all over the metal floor of my office.

There was a loud clankin’ of disproportionately small feet on metal. I unscrewed my eyes just in time to see him take out a syringe full of somethin’ white, attached to a very big hypodermic needle.

“N…” I said, which was effectively all I could manage. If I could’ve unfixed myself from the foetal ball I was in, get my finger round the trigger of what was kept in my desk not two meters away, the encounter would’ve gone a wee bit more pleasant.

“N…” I said again, noticin’ that my legs still weren’t movin’. By now little bastard Bob was leanin’ over my face, breath stinkin’ of somethin’ foul and unnatural-like, and that needle a his was headin’ right to my neck.

I felt a sting around one of the veins, and the next thing I knew my face, my legs, my right arm, my teeth and the whole of my stomach felt like they’d been jammed under a transit train. Healin’ enzymes, I realised, as all the pain shot right up to my brain.

My eyes twitched shut, and there was the sound of somethin’ small and light fall to the floor, then more clankin’ as Bob headed for the door, a click and a drillin’ whine as it opened and a crash as it closed behind him. Then there was a dizzy silence as I passed out.

I woke about an hour later feelin’ like there was somethin’ horrible and pulsatin’ on my face, before I realised that it was my face. I got off the floor, clutched the side of my head, and then hastily opened my mouth and ran my fingers along my teeth. They were all there, though one of the front ones felt a little smaller.

Ah, Jaysis, where are my manners. Here I am prattlin’ on about teeth and you don’t even know my name. It’s Gallagher. This may upset some a you, brothers and sisters, but that wasn’t the first time I’d been roughed around and by Christ it wouldn’t be the last neither. Sort of thing that comes with the job, I suppose.

What’s that? Right. The job. Well, see, here’s how it goes. You got your big orbital stations, aye? Like the fair Anaximander where we lay our scene. Not like that Mir bollocks or the International wossname they used to have set up around the ol’ World. I’m talkin’ bleedin’ massive. It has to be, see, if it’s goin’ to be a diplomatic outpost for meetin’ our new extra-terrestrial mates. Part of it is the grandeur, sure, show off a bit of the ol’ Worldy ingenuity to the fancy E.T.s, and the other part of it is, really, if yeh’re gonna have people livin’ on the soddin’ thing, which is the general plan, yeh’re gonna have families around. Where there’s families around you’ll need space to breathe and stretch your legs. You’ll need size. So now yeh’ve got two new wee issues – what all these families are gonna do with their time, and how things are gonna be paid for.

So the Worldy governments had the idea of invitin’ privatised business about the place. Come live and be prosperous, meet new cultures, start a new a life in a city in the stars. Where there’s business, brothers and sisters, there’s rich people. Where there’s rich people, there’s someone gettin’ buggered and backstabbed. And where there’s that, there’s the need for someone who’ll poke his nose into the shite and not get the wrong sortsa authority involved while he’s at it. Type of bastard who’ll get the job done, for a marginal fee, and who’s thick enough to end up gettin’ tossed around by a little green orang-utan-lookin’ fella built like a Roman column.

A bastard like me, wincing as I bent over to retrieve the package on my floor. It had ‘Arthur Gallagher’ written on it, and apart from that it was otherwise blank.

I shook the thing, admittedly a wee bit gingerly. Nothin’ went ‘crunch’, nothin’ went ‘tick’, nothin’ went ‘clickbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepBOOM’. Decidin’ it was safe, I tore it open and shook the contents out onto my desk.

Somethin’ flat and pale grey tumbled out and clattered onto my desk, along with a little piece a paper. On the grey thing was a big red button. On the piece of paper were the words, “Please press the red button.”

I’m a simple man, me, with simple wants. Havin’ just gotten the livin’ tar beaten outa me, I knew that the right and proper thing to do would be to chuck the bleedin’ thing into the waste tube and be done with it.

I wanted nothin’ more than to push that red button. I never said I was smart. So I stared at the button for about a minute before my hand snaked out and pressed it before my other hand could stop it.

There was a flicker, and the thinnest man I’d ever seen in my life appeared before me from the chest up. He had a chin shaped like the tip of a spear, cheeks so gaunt you could see the shadows of his teeth under his flesh, a nose that looked like it’d disappear if you weren’t lookin’ at his side profile, a tight puckered mouth under a tight puckered squint, and not a single hair on his skull-smooth head.

“Mr. Gallagher,” said the hologram in a voice like an empty tunnel, “I thank you for abiding by my written instruction.”

I glanced at the piece a paper again and decided that I probably wouldn’t ever loathe any other man near as much for as long as I live.

“My name, for the purposes of our future discourse,” said the hologram, “is Mr. See.”

Perfect. A man with a verb for a name. I reached for the top drawer and pulled out the nearest bottle.

“By now no doubt you have also met my associate,” continued the thin fella. His slit of a mouth started pullin’ about and resolved itself into what he must’ve thought a smile looks like. “I apologise for any inconvenience his presence may have induced. His methods are, inexorably, his own.” A cold chuckle, and then his faced seemed to relax into a glower. “But his orders are mine. I instructed him to securely deliver these, my instructions, to you, and to ensure that you would not follow him.”

I unscrewed the bottle and found myself sayin’, “Could’ve bleedin’ asked nice, like.”

“You see Mr. Gallagher, I am something of a private man. I invite only two types of people into my inner sanctum. My pets,” his skin-thin lips pulled back over hard-lookin’ teeth, “and my friends. Ah, but be assured Mr. Gallagher! The fact that you are viewing this recording, coupled with your reputation as a man of discretion who ‘gets the job done’ as they say, aha, shall indubitably mean that you and I are about to become fast friends indeed.”

“Get to the point, yeh gobshite,” said I, drainin’ about a third of the bottle without botherin’ with a glass. The throbbin’ in my face abruptly went away, replaced by an itchy creepin’ sensation all along my front and numbness on my lips.

“And now,” his needle-like fingers came into view and did a wiggly dance, “we get to the crux of the matter. Mr. Gallagher, I am but a humble businessman managing a modest enterprise on our fair homeworld. Earth.” He said the name a the place like I needed remindin’.

“It is in that capacity that I approach you. I am a stranger to the Anaximander and I reiterate: you are a man of some reputation here. I am aware that you have some experience locating those that leech off of the noble, law-abiding and prosperous marketers on this station. I consider them less than human. I consider them parasites. One such parasite, dear sir, goes by the name of Theodore Roust.”

The spellin’ of ‘Theodore Roust’ appeared over the thin fella’s head, presumably so I wouldn’t get it confused. The name didn’t ring a bell, but that wasn’t surprisin’. As I’ve said, the Anaximander’s a big ol’ place with a population to show for it.

“This aforementioned parasite,” a fleck appeared over the projected image and I realised it was his spittle, “was once an employee of mine, and has availed itself of an item quite valuable to me. A data recording containing information vital to my business. It is presently holding the data recording at an inglorious ransom. As a man, Mr. Gallagher, I am sure you understand me. I refuse to deal with parasites. My contract to you is thus: locate the parasite Theodore Roust, retrieve the data recording, and I will credit to you the following sum.”

A number appeared, hoverin’ over Mr. See’s head. It had enough zeroes in it to leave my jaw hangin’ open and the contents of the bottle spillin’ out onto my shirt and trousers. The thin fella then moved on to answer the question that’d been on my mind.

“Why do I not simply contact the authorities and have them deal with Roust? For two reasons, Mr. Gallagher. Firstly, as you have indubitably gathered, I am a great admirer of personal enterprise, such as yours. Personal enterprise keeps the grand wheel turning, and is nothing if not a facet of nature. Secondly, I wish for this matter to be handled with as much care and discretion as possible. Needless to say, you will be quite well-compensated for any expenses otherwise incurred in the course of fulfilling this contract.

“Regrettably I have no photographic samples of the parasite. Neither have my sources been able to trace… its… approximate location on this sizeable station. What I do know is that the parasite Roust is of a relatively low economic status, that it would have arrived at this station relatively recently, say, within the past two months, and that it is indubitably hiding like vermin. I ask you to ascertain Roust’s whereabouts as well as to secure the data recording, and deliver them both—preferably with the latter intact—to a location I shall transmit to you.

“I caution you, however, Mr. Gallagher. The information contained within the data recording is private and extremely sensitive, something parasites fail to comprehend. If my estimations of you are correct then you are a man who respects privacy. I advise you here and now – by no means are you to view the data itself.

“It is not my way to wish a man good luck, Mr. Gallagher, nor will I say ‘Godspeed’. I believe in neither. Instead I trust, from your reputation, that you will succeed, and in return, dear sir, we shall be… the very best of friends!”

With that, the little grey thing beeped and the hologram flickered out. I realised that the smell in my nostrils was my soakin’ clothes. I quickly got up and pulled a new set outa the closet.

Well now Gallagher-me-lad, thought I, buttonin’ up the clean shirt and reachin’ for my jacket. A high-payin’ job. Sure an’ the contractor’s a right ol’ wanker, but money like that would go a long way. And in my experience, no one ever got a payout from bein’ judgemental, wha? All I had to do was find a needle in a bleedin’ haystack, knowin’ nary but a name. What could go wrong?

If only I’d known.

Steppin’ out onto the Anaximander’s main Promenade deck, there’s a few things you’d notice.

The first is the great bluish dome stretchin’ out over everythin’. It’s there to keep the bad shite like radiation and wayfarin’ asteroids out. It’s also the closest thing that the good folk here have to a sky, and seein’ as how we’ve families up here, for some folk it’s the only thing they’ve ever known.

The second thing is how many people there really are up here. We’ve got the maintenance crew in their dark green jumpsuits, the deckhands in blue typin’ or takin’ notes or muckin’ about with one thing or another, the security teams marchin’ around in grey, the higher-ups in shiny uniform leadin’ groups of bespectacled stockholders—representatives from PepsiCola, or Nikkidas, ChenkoCorp or Humasoft, big-player corporate types—an’ o’course the crowds of vendors and tourists and suits and every other sort, millin’ about, speakin’ every language, playin’ every type of music and livin’ together in one big family that sometimes, squeezed together as it is between walls of metal and plastic, even tolerates each other.

Theodore Roust was among ’em. If the bloke was a newcomer like the thin fella said, someone around here musta seen him comin’. I reckoned Fiore’s pub would be a decent place to start. It had the added bonus of bein’ right around the corner from my office.

I was in luck, too. At this hour the place weren’t too busy; just a few patrons havin’ their drinks in the dingier parts of the pub, and there was Fiore herself playin’ solitaire on the countertop, with a real deck’ve cards too. The metal fingers of her right hand flicked cards over to the fleshy ones of her left, an’ back again. Then quick as you like she dealt them out and started sortin’ them.

“Fiore,” I said by way of greetin’. She didn’t look up.

“Artie,” she replied, flippin’ a card over. She’s pretty much the only one calls me that, and I’d like to keep it that way. Comin’ from her, it’s not so bad.

She glanced up at me and said, “You’ve got the look in your eye tells me you’ve got a job.”

“Aye, well, I suppose I do at that,” I said, takin’ a seat at the stool across from her.

“Ain’t that always the case,” she said, with a trace of humour in her voice, though a smile never did cross her lips. “I can’t remember the last time you came in my joint just for a drink and some peace of mind. You know, the amount of times you come to me askin’ if I know anything about anything, you’d think I’d be gettin’ commissions.”

“It crossed my mind,” I said.

“Pay well?” Her left hand hovered over two prospective red queens, with a black King between them.

“This job? I’d say so.”

“Mmm mm.” Her right hand clacked and clicked and whirred as she drummed those skeletal metal fingers ’gainst the countertop. At some point or another I figure there used to be a hand there, a real one, but she never did tell me about it an’ I never did ask.

“Ah, fuck,” she said. “I’m dyin’.” She answered my expression by gesturin’ at the cards. Then she swept them up and started shufflin’ them. “Alright, lay it on me.”

“I’m lookin’ for someone.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Goes by the name a Theodore Roust,” I said. “A lowlife, or so the client says. Client also says he would’ve arrived here within the past coupla months or so.”

“That so.”

“Aye. Sure an’ I figure there’s at least a dozen places he might be hidin’, an’ that’s only off the top of my head like. Although,” I paused, lookin’ at nothin’, “there’s not a lotta places about the station that’d offer room and board without askin’ for a name an’ background info.”

“And this is important because…?”

“Because the wanker’s not listed in the ’net search I just did for station occupants. So he’s either stayin’ somewhere under an assumed name, or the place hasn’t listed its tenants. Either way it’d be a dive.”

Fiore finished shufflin’ her cards and spread them out again, her right hand clickin’ away. She said, “Well, at least you’ve narrowed your places down some. You do realise the lower decks’d be your best bet right?”

“Aye,” and I did. It was the first thing that’d come to mind. “Uh... well, how abouts I exhaust my options up here first, wha?”

“Right. Well, let’s see, I figure you can try the Pale Horse district on Deck E. Or Ali’s Alleys on Deck G. I hear Jemimah’s doesn’t look too closely at their tenants neither. That’s all I can think of. I’m sure there’s more.”

“Appreciate it,” I said. I remained where I was for a moment. Then I asked, “Fiore, you doin’ alright these days?”

“What makes you think I ain’t?” The fingers on her right hand clicked against the countertop faster now.

“Because the last time you played solitaire was when the husband walked out on yeh.”

The clickin’ stopped. Fiore raised an eyebrow, then seemed to deflate.

“Had… I don’t know, I guess it was looking for information, just like you. It just kinda scuttled in and start askin’ me and the customers questions.”

“It?”

“He, she, I think that’s the way it goes with those guys but you really can’t tell. Never really expected it, y’know? I mean sure, I grew up hearing about the E.T.s and how everything’s gonna change, that they’re some big glorious civilisation and all and they wanna be friends. And that’s the reason we’re here right? To meet them and start somethin’ new.”

She dipped her head. “But when that… thing, walked into my joint, asking about one thing or another about some missing crewmen of theirs, I mean I’ve seen ’em before on the screens but Jesus man.”

“I’ve never really seen one up close,” I said, and it was true: sure, the Anaximander’s been around for a little while now, because mankind’s been in remote contact with these blokes for about fifty years. They hadn’t never shown themselves until recently.

Imagine the look on everybody’s faces when they were expectin’ somethin’ tall an’ beautiful an’ grey or green or blue or whatever bollocks the Worldies used to believe in, you know, somethin’ some people’d want to aspire to, an’ instead on Contact Day out from the airlock stepped somethin’ entirely different. Four giant glistenin’ metal spidery legs, clickin’ an’ whirrin’, and above that a circular metal base on which is mounted a great transparent dome. One look at it an’ you’d wish you hadn’t, because sittin’ in that glassy dome, floatin’ in some kinda pus-coloured liquid, is a cancerous blob of flesh and teeth and tufts of hair and eyes all stickin’ out in different directions.

Because that’s what you get when you live for thousands of years in a galaxy-spannin’ civilisation with limitless technology. Ol’ Mother Nature gets left behind, and what happens when a baby gets born wrong? Fix it o’course. There’s things that regrow your hair, things to put in your heart, things to replace your bad eyes, things to cure your brain. So babies start gettin’ born wronger and wronger, an’ technology just gets better an’ better, until finally you can’t hardly recognise the thing you’re left with. Did wonders for the human spirit, like.

“Just got to me is all,” said Fiore, and while she sounded like she was back to normal she was starin’ down at her right hand, flexin’ the chrome fingers, tappin’ a metallic rhythm.

Wonderin’ around Pale Horse district and Ali’s Alleys and Jemimah’s with only a name an’ really, not even that, isn’t nearly as simple as it might sound. I could spend time tellin’ you about how I went through pub after pub, hotel after hotel, even the bleedin’ barbershops (a man’s gotta get his hair cut at some point in two months, wha?), but I can tell yeh wouldn’t be interested. Private Investigatin’ might sound like a romantic career to some but really, most of the time it’s about lookin’, lookin’, gatherin’ information about more places to spend time lookin’ and lookin’, and maybe, just maybe, somethin’ll turn up.

Well, brothers and sisters, as luck would have it, it did. It was four days later in one of the Anaximander’s lower corner decks, in a district still waitin’ for the promised prosperity to rub off on them from the upper echelons. Place I heard some people call the Barefoot Walk – on accounta tourists go in walkin’ around wi’ their brand new Nikkidas sneakers an’ leave without ’em. Me, I’m not daft enough to go down there wearin’ anythin’ that costs more’n two day’s wage.

I tell yeh, in a station large enough to have its own gravitational field yeh really start to see differences in people. You get decent fellas like me—what? I’m a loveable sort, I promise yez!—and Fiore an’ the rest up on the brighter-lit main decks. You know, folks with their heads on right. Further up you get the rich tossers who, eh, give me business. Further down, where the lights don’t always work, where it’s cheaper, well, you get folks who’ve learned a few things. They’ve learned the ins and out of the Anaximander’s works, they’ve learned not to trust the security teams comin’ through there, they’ve learned to take care of ’emselves, and most of all they’ve learned to keep their eyes open and their heads down. Newcomers get lost easy, but they sure as shite get noticed by the locals.

Anyway, it was in a shite-hole of a kitchen in a shite-hole of a flophouse that it happened.

“Roust you say? Never heard of ’im,” said a kid with facial implants that looked like they hadn’t taken too well. When I got a better look I noticed there was a nasty greyish one that’d even started oozin’.

“He’s probably goin’ under a different name,” I said. “Here, they tell me you’re the sort who’s in the know about this area. So tell me. Anyone come in here in the last couple of months, new arrival, maybe look like he’s on the run?”

“Can’t help ya,” said the kid. As I turned to leave, he said, “Waitaminute… hold on, scrawny guy, nervous-lookin’ type?”

I looked at him and nodded for him to go on.

“I dunno about just ‘Roust’ but I think I heard of a Roustwick or somethin’. Couldn’t tell you where he lives but I think he frequents some joint around the corner from here. Arrived, maybe eight weeks ago by my count.”

“You count somethin’ like that?”

He started lookin’ shy. “What can I say, I think the guy’s kinda cute.”

I smiled. “How ’bout givin’ us a description then?”

The kid said, “Uh, dark hair. Kind of a widow’s peak. Ruddy skin. And skinny, like I said y’know? And a moustache. Thin fuckin’ moustache.”

“An’ the name a the joint?”

“I forget. Um, it’s the one with the purple neon. Trust me, you’ll see it.”

And, roundin’ the corner, I did. I’ll put somethin’ to you, brothers and sisters. You stick all these people up in space for this long and encourage private business, you see how long the world’s oldest profession rears her head.

I walked through the doors and found myself bathed in blue haze. It streamed out from the walls and the ceilin’, assimilated every other colour. I blinked, and looked around.

It was a low-ceilinged lobby of sorts. Great throbbin’ music came from a tunnel leadin’ downstairs. And next thing I know, my shoulder knocked against some bloke on his way out.

“Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’,” he said, and I reckon he fixed me with a glare he musta thought was intimidatin’. It was lost in the blue.

“Here, sorry mate but I’m new. You reckon you could tell us—”

“I ain’t answerin’ nothin’, get the fuck off me you Mick asshole,” he said, and walked out the door.

I’m a patient man, me, but some things just get to me. Right then that second though, I was being called over to the counter by a big fella who looked like he’d gone in for a wee bit too much custom body art.

“Hey,” rumbled the big fella. Four lens-like metal eyes stared back at me from a round fleshy face. A rusty red pipe jutted out from the side a his head and led off down his back. “Welcome to the Halfway Inn. We got pleasures of all flavours. What’s your preference? Black, white, green, synthetic, we got every kinda piece of ass you’d want.”

“Not today, like,” I said. “I’m lookin’ for someone. A customer a yours.” An’ I did what the romantic private investigators do. I slipped him some cash. “Name a Roustwick. Ruddy-lookin’, dark hair, thin moustache. You seen him?”

“Shit,” said the big fella. . “You mean ol’ Ratstache? I think he said Roustwick was his last name. Yeah, new here, been seein’ him all the time in the last couple months. Hell, he just started a tab.” He rubbed a finger against his plastic chin. “’Course he ain’t paid a cent to this tab just yet, so I don’t mind tellin’ you where you can find him.”

“Oh aye?”

“Yeah. He just walked out that door not thirty seconds ago—”

I was tearin’ outa the place, my head turnin’ this way and that. Where was he? He couldn’t’ve gone far.

There!

He was hurryin’, like he knew he was bein’ followed. I started closin’ the distance fast while trynna make sure not to make a sound.

My boot musta scraped on somethin’, ’cause his head whipped round and caught sighta me, an’ the next thing I know he was racin’ down the nearest sidestreet like his heels were on fire.

Fortunately, I was in better shape.

“HELP!” he shouted. It’d do him no good; as you mighta gathered, folks that live this far down probably hear this kinda thing ever other day. “HELP! This… fucker’s… trynna kill me!”

He rounded a corner, outta sight. I followed, skidded round and saw…

Nothing.

The narrow walkway stretched on, deserted. To my right, another walkway, also without a signa him.

“Bollocks,” I said, maybe a little too loudly. Very slowly I walked back around the corner I came from. Then I flattened myself against the wall.

When he crept around the corner lookin’ like a rat in a cat sanctuary, he had about half a second before my fist landed against the side a his skull. He dropped to his knees and I grabbed both his arms, twistin’ them into a lock.

“Oww oww OWW! Fuck!” He jerked and writhed but couldn’t break free.

“Jaysis but you are a wily wee bastard.” I yanked on his arms and his back started curvin’, trynna prevent me from breakin’ them.

“Now yeh’re gonna be a good boy an’ come wi’ uncle Gallagher, aye? There’s a right evil-lookin’ wanker wants to have a word wi’ yeh, but first yeh’re gonna take me to wherever yeh’ve stashed that data recordin’ yeh stole.”

“Oh god,” he moaned. “Oh god I knew you was him. The asshole followin’ me. OKAY! OKAY!” he cried, after I yanked at his arms again. “I’ll be good, just don’t… don’t hurt me, please.”

“There’s a good lad,” I said, hoistin’ him up an’, keepin’ a firm grip on him, reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a set a ’cuffs. I know, not exactly high-tech in this day an’ age, but a bloke like me does what he can, wha? I fastened them over his wrists and said, “Now. Mush, little rodent.”

He started walkin’, stumblin’ now and then.

“Jaysis,” I said. “An’ a fine little chase yeh’ve led me on.”

“Ya know my boss, figure you understand, man.”

“Aye,” I said. “Sure an’ you’re probably in for a worlda interestin’ times when yeh meet him, but things’d go a lot easier once yeh give us the data recordin’.”

It looked like we were nearin’ one of the main promenades on this deck. Already I could hear the buzzin’ of the crowd, pushin’ their trolleys and toutin’ their wares.

“Figures,” he said, and he squirmed. “Figures I’d get snatched up one time or another by one a his goons.”

“Me, a goon? That’s rich.” I reckoned there was no harm in continuin’. “Your boss contracted me to locate you and the data, and for a decent fee I might add, like.”

“You’re locally hired?” he said, and writhed some more.

“Aye,” I said. “Here, stop wormin’ around like that, or I’ll have to make things harder for you.”

“So ya live on this station,” he said.

“’Course I bleedin’ live on this station. Sure an’ you know Theodore, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is stallin’ talk.” We were only a few meters away from the crowd now.

“No one calls me that.”

“Eh?”

“No one calls me Theodore. It’s ‘Ratstache’. Only my dad ever really called me Theodore an’ he used to tan my hide somethin’ fierce whenever he’d—”

It came outta nowhere. His fist got me square in the face, and for a skinny fella he packed a good-sized punch.

“See ya, chump!” he shrieked, and I opened my eyes in time to see him run into the crowd. My handcuffs lay on the ground in fronta me. The wee rat had wriggled outta them.

Theodore Roust, or Ratstache to the people that know him, arrived at his shitty little rented room four hours later. Outside, the starry blue dome was darkenin’ into a deep indigo to simulate night-time.

He rested against the doorframe a moment, catchin’ his breath. Then he stepped in, the door closin’ behind him with a metallic crash. He surveyed the room, shadows fallin’ over everythin’. The only light came from the screen in the corner and what little filtered through under the heavy metal door behind him.

Ratstache Roust let out a long, low sigh, then walked over to the couch.

Then I did somethin’ I’d always wanted to do ever since I started workin’ this gig, and switched the light on from where I sat.

Jaysis but the look he wore when he saw me was worth ten punches to the face.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” I said softly. My index finger tapped against the metal of the gun in my hand.

“…fuck,” he said, and stood still.

“Yeh know,” I said, still seated, “yeh really have to give me a wee bit more credit than that, Ratstache. Yeh think I wouldn’ta tagged you with a tracer the moment I got my hands on yeh?”

He gulped. Oh but I was enjoyin’ this.

“You see this?” I waved the gun a little. “Do yeh know how hard it is to come by a firearm on a bleedin’ space station? You have to be reeeally well-connected for one a these wee darlin’s. An’ the annual license cost? Murder, my pedigree lad. Absolute bleedin’ murder. But yeh know,” I pressed the button on the side, an’ the click a the magazine preppin’ itself reverberated off the metal walls, “when it comes down to situations like ours, havin’ this on my side of the room really does make life seem all the more grand.”

“Look,” he said. “Look, can’t we talk about this?”

“You’re done talkin’, yeh gobshite. There are two things I don’t appreciate. I don’t appreciate bein’ called a Mick asshole, an’ I don’t appreciate bein’ punched in the bleedin’ face.”

“Look,” he said again, “I’m, I’m sorry about that, alright? Come on, I thought ya were one a his, you know, one a his guys. S-s-soulless fuck-fuckin’ bastards loyal to him no matter what.”

“I don’t see as it makes ’ny difference. Now, shut it, an’ make with gettin’ that data recordin’. Easy like.”

“Wait!” he shouted. “Ya don’t, don’t understand! It does make a difference!”

I waited, so he went on. “You’re a private contract-taker, right? You’re locally hired. This station’s your home. Right?” I nodded. “Well w-w-what if I told ya… what if I told ya all this, this whole thing, could mean the end’ve this fucking station an’ maybe, maybe even mankind’s relationship with those alien things, the E.T.s? Huh? Whaddaya say to that?”

“I’d say yeh’re talkin’ a lot of shite, an’ you’re to come over here before you reach whatever weapon yeh’re hidin’ under that counter.”

“Aw, I ain’t! I ain’t lyin’!” He thrust up his empty hands. “At least lemme show ya what’s on this god damn data recording, then you can decide!” With that he crossed the room, felt along the wall, then slid one a the corrugated metal panels aside. Lyin’ there was a little grey thing with a red button.

“I was just passin’ through, ya know? I don’t, I don’t generally hold down a job. Usually I’m passin’ a game or two off on the street, cups, cards, coins, that kinda thing. But times was bad so I got a job under the table as a coffee boy at a pharmaceuticals plant.” He picked the little grey thing up gingerly and carried it over to the centre a the room.

“Then one day I take a fuckin’ wrong turn and end up goin’ through a security door that I shouldn’t of. Just my luck, ya know? And what I see… Jesus, here I thought I could, you know, blackmail ’im but then he sends his guys… uh, well, I guess I better show ya.”

Ratstache tapped the red button and set it on the metal floor. There was a flicker, and I watched as an enormous head came into view. It was Ratstache, magnified.

“Christ I hope this thing’s on, oh Jesus,” boomed the hologram. “Okay, uh…” The projection shifted around, and a walkway came into view. Then the image seemed to zoom forward and tilt downwards to a large circular room below the walkway, so we could see…

“Jaysis,” I said, clickin’ the gun back into its holster.

There was no mistakin’ the four glistenin’ spider-legs in restraints, the metal base and the glassy dome fulla pus-coloured liquid, containin’ that horrible blob of cancerous flesh. The image sharpened and the whole scene zoomed closer.

“You no doubt understand me,” said a voice I’d heard before, and the thinnest man I’d ever seen came into view, talkin’ to the E.T. “Regrettably this is indeed necessary. Ah, I would advise against attempting to communicate with your brethren. There are precautions already set up in this place barring any form of wireless signal; state of the art you know.”

The thing in the glassy dome seemed to bubble and froth, and its metal legs twitched and clicked in agitation but were otherwise held fast.

“You are preserved so very remarkably. It is a shame that it must come to this, but one must consider the practical obligation of the scientist. I suppose as a fellow technology-driven race you might even know where I am, aha, ‘coming from’, as they say.”

The whinin’ sound a drilling started up and drowned out the next few words.

“…shame indeed that I am obliged to do this. You know, if you were to divulge at any point the nature of some of this marvellous technology holding this body of yours together, this indubitably messy process will pass by much faster.”

Drillin’ again, and one a the legs snapped off, spewin’ black liquid.

“Remarkable,” said Mr. See. And, to someone out of view, “Again.”

I fancied I could almost hear it scream.

Ratstache bent down and tapped the red button. The projection faded. He stood up and handed the little grey thing to me.

“It goes on for a little while like that, uh, but you sorta get the idea.” He was shakin’ a little.

I looked at the grey thing in my hand, turned it over a few times. Smooth, simple plastic and metal. One large fuck-around about it.

“So uh… what now?” asked Ratstache. I looked up at him and opened my mouth to answer.

Then a three-foot-tall miniature tank with green skin and yellow overalls wrenched the door open, threw somethin’ at me; there was a blur and a lot of pain, and then everythin’ went black.

There was a godawful smell under my nose. It was a sharp, stabbin’ kind of thing that reached up and struck right at the fronta the brain and made my eyes water.

I coughed and blinked and opened my eyes.

Mr. See grinned down at me like a skull in a crypt. I could see now he was a good six and a half feet tall, and would yeh believe it, the camera’d added a few pounds onto him in the recordings.

“Mr. Gallagher,” he said. To his right stood Bob, glowerin’ up at me. Mr. See’s skeletal hand was slowly and carefully strokin’ Bob’s thick clumped hair.

“At your service,” I said. I coughed again, clutched my throbbin’ head, and then realised I wasn’t tied down. I was seated on a chrome chair in the middle a the room. Ratstache on the other hand, was bound an’ gagged in the corner. I gave him a glance and said, “Wish I’d thoughta that.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. See.

I said calmly, “I take it yeh had a tracer on me, wha? You were keepin’ tracka me.”

“Every step of the way, Mr. Gallagher. Remarkable progress. You are indeed worth every dollar.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“However, my associate here,” his fingers lovingly scratched the backs of Bob’s ears, “has informed me that you have sadly betrayed my trust.”

“Did I now.” I made as if to check my chest for bruises. My gun holster was empty.

“You viewed the data recording, despite my explicit instructions to the contrary. I am disappointed.” The tight skin of his face pulled at the corners and the fleshy mounds where his eyebrows shoulda been creased upwards to make him look almost sad, were it not for his clenched teeth.

“About that,” I said. “There was nothin’ I could do. The wee wanker just played it for me before I knew what he was doin’ an’ next thing I know—”

“I am not interested in the circumstances, Mr. Gallagher. I am interested now in posing a question to you. It has to do with the fact that you are not currently restrained, unlike… that.” He gestured at Ratstache in the corner while very carefully not lookin’ at him.

“Mr. Gallagher,” he said, “allow me to illustrate the core difference between civilisation’s two dissimilar denizens. Parasites,” he spat, “die as that lowly thing in the corner will die. Cowering, struggling and ultimately bound by their betters.” He grinned again, and my stomach gave a wee twinge. “Men die on their feet, make no excuses, and accept the rules given them. So I ask you,” he said, an’ his bony hand tightened over Bob’s scalp, “how is it that you would like to be defined? Would you prefer to die a man… or as a parasite?”

I sighed. I could practically feel Bob’s fervour emanatin’ from him like a wound-up spring, like a blood-crazed dog tied to a post. When I looked up at him I could see he was visibly shiverin’, eyein’ me like a piece of meat.

“I will not ask you again, Mr. Gallagher,” said Mr. See.

“Yeh don’t need to,” I said, and reached down, and from my boot I grabbed my backup pistol, the one I never did get registered, the one I’d get sent back to a bad ol’ Worldy jail for if security ever caught wind’ve it, and stood up and shot Bob clean in the forehead.

The wee green bastard fell hard, an’ I could swear the floor groaned when he did. Mr. See looked down at him, an’ then he was lookin’ at my finger on the trigger as I pressed the barrel between his eyes.

“…hmm,” he said.

“You listen good, yeh useless bleedin’ sacka shite. If there’s one thing I hate more’n a punch to the face an’ havin’ my heritage insulted, it’s villains wi’ speeches.”

“Mr. Gallagher,” he said, “I urge you to reconsider.”

“Oh aye? Reconsider? Sure an’ this case has issued to me at least three separate bleedin’ migraines from head trauma alone, an’ listenin’ to you prob’ly constitutes a fourth. Now,” I pressed it harder into his skin and felt a lick of delight as his eyes creased, “we’re goin’ to have a nice wee chat, you an’ me.”

“Mr. Gallagher,” he said, and his voice tremoured just a touch, “this does not have to end this way. The sum promised to you can be transferred to your account with but the push of a button. Upon reflection, you don’t even know my name, do you, so any form of threat from you after having viewed the data recording is, ah, for naught. Hm?”

“Wrong,” I said. “I do know your name. Somethin’ had been naggin’ at me ever since your boyo on the floor there injected me. Who’d waste expensive an’ hard-to-come-by healin’ enzymes like that on simply makin’ a big intimidatin’ show for a fella like me? And only a handful’ve people might profit from kidnappin’ an’ experimentin’ on E.T.s like you did. Ratstache—sorry, Roust—himself told me it was in a pharmaceutical company. It’s a toss-up between Kotaro Medical and ChenkoCorp Pharmaceuticals. My money’d be on the latter. An’ o’course,” I inhaled, “I recall what yeh said in your message to me. ‘A humble businessman managin’ a modest enterprise.’ Right. An’ here I thought ‘See’ was a verb. It’s an initial. You’re Mr. Chenko himself, aren’t yeh. Only a bloke like you coulda offered an amount that bleedin’ high.”

His spear-like chin shook. “Why… why are you…?”

“Tellin’ you? Because the fallout would damage my business, yeh eejit. An’ so you know aheada time while I tell the world. Sure an’ ’cause it’s fun to watch a parasite like you squirm. Oh aye, that’s what I called yeh. You were jus’ gonna watch while relations with the E.T.s deteriorated, weren’t yeh, while you played mad scientist with some of ’em an’ jump aheada the business game. Was that the plan? An’ even if the E.T.s did decide that the missin’ few of ’em were worth startin’ some sort’ve interstellar war over, yeh’d still be sellin’ off your products to whatever war effort an’ either way the profits off it all would be—”

“Astronomical,” he said. There was somethin’ fair wicked in his eye. “I do so love the word. It speaks of reaching for the stars. Is that not why we are here? Is that not the practical obligation of the scientist, Mr. Gallagher? Is that not truly the goal of a man?”

Somethin’ green swatted at my stomach and all the air left me as I hurtled a few feet away. Bob was standin’ there, a decent-sized dent on his forehead. I was a piece a meat again. The enormous muscles beneath his yellow overalls rippled and tensed as he waited for his master’s order.

“Reinforced bone density. Fascinating what some children will do to themselves. I suspect Bob here is a prime example of things to come, you mark my words. Now.” An’ with a voice as hollow as the devil’s heart he looked down at Bob and said, “Kill.”

Bob leapt. I fired a few shots. I may as well have thrown a wet tissue at him. I fired three more anyway an’ missed.

Just before he came down I rolled outta the way. I reckoned I had about a second before his orang-utan arms would make a swipe for me, an’ if they did I’d be done for.

I dove to the side, an’ his fingers nicked my boot. I sprawled, knocked off balance, an’ collided with a filin’ cabinet. Bob stood up and started advancin’, fixin’ to corner me.

Chenko. If I could get Chenko between us I might get the edge. But when I tried to dive towards the thin wanker Bob sidestepped, cuttin’ me off. And the wee green bastard kept gettin’ closer.

Then when he was almost on me, he raised his arms, his green hands clenched into solid fists. I braced myself.

“No!” I heard, an’ there was Ratstache, clingin’ on to Bob’s little back, trynna get his wiry arms over Bob’s muscle-bound ones. Bob grunted, spun, an’ Ratstache was on the floor.

Chenko was backin’ up behind his desk. I made for him, knowin’ that it was the only way, knowin’ there was nothin’ else I could do…

I heard a wet crunch behind me. I heard the sound that bone makes when it breaks.

“Bastard!” I bellowed without turnin’ to see what it was, because I didn’t need to. Already I could hear the clank of Bob’s boots behind me.

In a second I reached the desk. I leapt, managed to get a hold on Chenko’s neck—

—Bob gave a growl as he lunged for me—

—an’ it was then that I noticed where my last few shots had ended up.

For a moment, it seemed like everythin’ was frozen. There were the three bullet marks on the reinforced glass lookin’ out into the void a space. There were the cracks formin’ around them.

There was Bob’s three-foot-tall muscular bulk sailin’ towards me, for all intents and purposes a big green bullet.

I’ll explain somethin’ to yeh about why firearms are next to impossible to come by on a space station like this one, even if the windows can deflect space rocks. You know how they say an egg is so tough on the outside, on accounta the curve or some shite, an’ yet a wee baby bird on the inside can crack it open just fine?

Same principle.

So when I ducked outta the way and Bob hit the window with all the might kept in that short orang-utan body, I knew I was good an’ properly fucked.

Noise and wind and papers and drops of what might’ve been blood spattered and swam around me. I grabbed for somethin’, anythin’, and realised too late that it was the desk I was grabbin’, and the desk was presently sailin’ out the window.

I was tumblin’, swallowin’ what I could of the air that was escapin’, an’ I saw an’ felt a rough green hand grab me by the wrist.

There was Bob, hangin’ onto the windowsill by one arm. There was Chenko, scrabblin’ for purchase on Bob’s wee ankle.

Somethin’ red flew by and I realised it was Ratstache, or what was left a him. Then Chenko lost his grip and within a moment was flyin’ off into the black.

Bob hadn’t noticed. By now the air had rushed out and my ears were popped. There was that ringin’ noise of absolute an’ utter silence. A cold descended on me that left me utterly drained. And Bob had me by the wrist, pullin’ me closer, fixin’ to act on his master’s last command.

An’ the stupid wee eejit was holdin’ his breath.

It only took a few seconds for the pressure difference to kick in, an’ it wasn’t pretty. First his eyes bulged and his neck went swollen. He let go of the windowsill an’ we started driftin’. Then he let go of me an’ started clawin’ at his torso, rippin’ open his yellow overalls to reveal a dark red mark where his lungs used to be. His eyes rolled back in his head, an’ he was gone.

An’ that about puts me here, brothers and sisters. The first thing I notice, as the seconds of my life tick away, is the saliva on my tongue boilin’. It’s a curious warm sensation an’ just about the only thing I can feel right about now.

The open window is gettin’ smaller. Ah, there’da been no chance for me anyway. By now I expect the failsafes an’ such are goin’ off all around the station to try to keep the breach contained. Alarms are ringin’ and announcements an’ the like are soundin’, and there might even be a patrol sent out to check on the damage an’ see if anyone made it. I imagine it’d be half-hearted. By the time they get suited up and come out here, I’d be long dead.

Death of asphyxiation, then. Fancy that, I live out in space an’ it never did occur to me that this might happen. I suppose when yeh get right down to it, livin’ in a place like that with all those people and all that life… it’s easy to forget how much bare nothingness is waitin’ just outside.

It’s cold out here. An’ lifeless. An’ dark. But the stars are shinin’. At least there’s that. I hear chokin’ to death is one of the worst ways to go. But let’s not let it be said ol’ Gallagher died a soft ol’ soul. Let me die a man then. Embracin’ the hard parts a this ol’ universe. Aye, they could sing a song or two at Fiore’s maybe.

Jaysis, I never found out about Fiore’s right hand. What did she say? Fifteen seconds is what I have, right? Jaysis an’ how much have I used up? I didn’t keep count. Heh. Heheh. Maybe if I had that oozin’ implant kid to keep count for me, yeh know, the one who thought ol’ Ratstache… Ratstache…

He’d come for me. He’d wriggled outta those bonds an’ insteada runnin’ away like a rodent he’d come for me, knowin’ full well he didn’t stand a chance in all hell. At least he didn’t die like this. No, for him it would’ve been quick.

There’s a star I’m lookin’ at now that if I focus my eyes right looks like an angel.

I reach out for one a the stars, then, like Chenko said. Seems like a pretty daft ol’ gesture to me now I’m doin’ it. Here, what’s this? I can feel somethin’. It’s smooth. And flat. An’ there’s a… a button on it…

Fancy that.

The angel star is gettin’ brighter. It reaches out to me, an’ now it’s got me, its arms are wrapped around me, an’ it’s pullin’ me towards it, and… its arms feel cold… cold as metal in space…

When I come to there’s somethin’ horrible lookin’ at me from within a transparent dome fulla pus-coloured liquid.

A claw-like arm shoots out from its circular metal base. It’s holdin’ what looks like a standard comm radio. I reach out with my empty hand and grasp it.

The claw-like arm shoots back in, an’ a voice made-a steel an’ iron crackles in the radio, neither male nor female.

“You are Gallagher.”

I manage to say, “Aye.” Then, sittin’ up, I realise that I’m breathin’.

The cracklin’ voice says, “You are safe. You are recovering.”

“I’m…” I swallow a breath of air, an’ then for the sake of it I swallow another. “I’m on, one of your, your ships.”

“You are,” crackles the voice. “You were found drifting after a breach in your station’s containment. Preservation of life is crucial. You are rescued.”

“Ah,” I say. Then, “The others?”

“You are alone. No others could be salvaged successfully. Two had already expired upon arrival. The other expired despite salvage efforts.”

So that’s it. They’re dead. And then I realise that I’m still holdin’ onto the thing in my other hand.

“There’s… there’s things need tellin’ you,” I say. I try to stand, but my knees buckle an’ I fall back down. I show the E.T. the little grey thing. “This. This’ll show yeh. It’s a… a… video recordin’.” When it says nothin’ I say, “Like when yeh have somethin’ happening in real life and then yeh… oh Jaysis, here, yeh press the red button an’ it plays for you. It has to do with your missin’ mates.”

The metal claw hand slides back out and snatches it from me, and retracts still holdin’ onto the data recordin’.

A moment passes. I look about me. All I can see is wall-to-wall smooth chrome, with a window lookin’ out at nothin’ but black. Some parta, the part that’s not still gaspin’ for more air, thinks: “Borin’-lookin’ spaceship.”

The metallic voice in the radio crackles flatly, “Evidence of violation of trade sanction regarding life-preservation technology. Perpetrator is one of the expired humans.”

“Sure an’ I know that bleedin’ much, his name was Chenko an’ he was a bleedin’ wanker. The point is he had nothin’ to do with the Worldy—that is, Earth’s—government or the Anaximander’s people or anythin’ like that. So you know. There’s no need to go an’ blame the resta us for what he went an’ did.”

Then I say, “Wait, what bleedin’ trade sanction?”

“Sanction forbids trade of specific technology to humanity,” crackles the voice, an’ it sounds almost apologetic.

“Why?” I ask. “I mean, this whole bleedin’ thing, you’re sayin’ it wouldn’t’ve happened if yeh’d just told us everythin’?” Ratstache surfaces in my mind, an’ what his corpse’d looked like when it’d flown past me. “All yeh had to do… all yeh had to do… why? Why why why the law against lettin’ us have more? Tell me. Tell me why it had to happen this way.” I can’t seem to muster much of a forceful tone. I’m havin’ trouble stayin’ afloat. “Was this… was this about keepin’ us under your thumb?”

The thing in the dome seems to regard me for a while. It’s even more hideous than what I’d seen on screen. Bulgin’, unseein’ misshapen eyes stickin’ out in all different directions, clumps of teeth and tufts of hair bunchin’ together under and around globs of mutated flesh. But somehow, the thing with its glistenin’ metal spider legs seems to sag and look, in an eerily human way, almost sad.

“We regret the consequences,” crackles the voice. “We regret the loss of life, which we hold sacred above all else in the universe.”

“Then why—”

“We do not wish evolutionary entropy upon you. We do not want,” says the voice, “for humanity to become as we are now.”

The E.T. turns to go. The voice says, “You shall be returned safely to your home. I shall notify my brethren of the truth behind our lost crewmen. Diplomatic ties with your government will not be threatened by the deaths incurred. We recognise that there is dissonance within humanity, and in that dissonance lies the potential for greater synthesis.”

“Good…” I say. I don’t quite understand what it’s sayin’, as everythin’s becoming cottony and dark. What I do catch, however, is the word ‘home’.

I’m back in the office the next day. The command types’ve been debriefed. I conveniently left out the part where it was my gun that’d led up to the blown-out window. Some things best left unsaid, wha? They remembered to thank me for, you know, savin’ the human race a fair loada shite to explain away. They even tossed me a medal before sendin’ me on my way.

Sure an’ I still didn’t get paid. But maybe the PR from this thing’ll bring more business my way, like. I’d like to think that I came away with somethin’. Maybe I’ll visit Fiore for an actual drink an’ some company.

Though now I think about it, I might even take some time off. Lord knows I haven’t seen the ol’ World in a while. Suddenly the metal walls of this place seem a wee bit too close, like. An’ Jaysis, I can’t remember the last time I saw real sky.

So that’s the enda my tale. Thanks for listenin’. Yeh’ve been a decent audience, brothers and sisters. Good luck to yeh on your travels.

Good night.

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