Do yourself a favor and don’t get shot on Freehaven. Actually, I take that back. If you do get shot, make sure you die. There’s only one hospital on Freehaven. Its patients are all poor handlers of explosives, bad hackers, and the slowest draws after somebody’s been called a cheater. The service is pretty good, they’ll patch you up quick and get you back on your feet in an under an hour, but it’s depressing to be in the same building with so many underachievers.

Bucky is waiting for me when I check out. On his arm is the same girl he’d been with when I interrupted him yesterday. She looks bored. Bucky looks harassed. I point my chin at the girl. “Who’s this?”

“This,” the girl says, “is Bucky’s manager. You want to hire my guy here, then you go through me.”

I stare at her. My neck seems stuck and it takes a while to rotate my head at Bucky. “What. The. Fuck.”

The girl waves her hand in front of my face. “Over here, big boy. Let’s talk money. You obviously need Mr. Williams and I think ten million is a good starting point for our negotiations.”

I ignore her. “Bucky! Explain!”

“Mr. Stern, you gotta pay attention. You can catch up with your friend when we’ve settled on his salary, so why don’t we – hey! You can’t—”

The rest of her sentence is garbled. Might have something to do with my hand on her face. “Explanation! Now!”

“Easy, Rick!” Bucky says. “She don’t know you, and it was my idea, yeah? It was my idea. I’m no good with money and she keeps me from going broke, you know? I thought it a good idea to get an agreement, you know, up front, ‘cuz we’re backed by Chippers and I say take him for as much as we can get! Never know if we’re gonna make it past the first practice, the clans aren’t exactly dependable, you know? I’m sorry! Would you please take your hand off her head? I seen what you do when you’re really pissed, and I love her face just the way it is!”

“Your idea, eh?” I let go of the girl and shake my head. This is too much for one day. “I can’t believe this shit, Bucky, I just got out of the hospital and you’re out here with your fuck buddy-turned manager—“

“We’re getting married.”

“—trying to hit me up for – what? To her? Bucky, how long have you known her?”

“Love at first sight, man,” Bucky says, hugging the girl. She hugs him back and glares at me.

“Didn’t know your dick could see through your pants,” I retort. “You’ll get five hundred grand to start, five million if we win the Cup. Deal?”

“Sure, Rick, whatever you say, that’s good for me.” The girl elbows him, frowning and shaking her head. “Janine, that’s good. Please, for the love o’ God, don’t push it. The last time I saw him this pissed he shot somebody on the vid, live to the fuckin’ universe. He’ll do it here in the hallway with less than ten witnesses, no problem at all.”

I nod at Janine and let the matter drop. I really don’t mean to be such an asshole. I realize that I’m taking out all my anger at being shot by Laura on my friend’s fiancé.

Speaking of which. “Where’s Laura?” I ask.

Bucky shrugs. “Dunno. Mall Security grabbed her right after she shot you, so I guess she’s still over there.”

“Huh? What were they doing there? We weren’t even close to the Mall.”

Connected to the station via two tramlines, the Mall contains all of the legal commercial elements in Freehaven. Malls are fully automated mobile consumption behemoths. They show up, connect via a universal umbilical, and then provide a one-stop shopping experience for crap that people don’t need but seem to badly want. Shithole stations on the edge of the Rim might see a Mall once every couple of years. Freehaven’s Mall appeared a month after the station went online and never left.

“They took over station security during the war,” Bucky says. “The clans figured the Edochians wouldn’t have an excuse to come a-knockin’ if Fleet kept their wet noses outta clan business. Mall Security don’t need paying, neither, so it works out for everybody.”

“Did Laura resist?” I ask, a bit too hopeful. Malls have their own rules, and their robotic sentries have a habit of shooting first.

“Nah. Went quietly, I hear.”

“Hmph.” I rub my shoulder where the bullet went through. It itches. Nanomeds doing their work. I’ll have a scar for sure. “Well, let’s go bail her out. Then she’ll owe me for a change.”

“Doubt it, Rick. She’ll twist around so it’s your fault. Women, they’re masters at it. Ouch! Dammit, Janine, no kidney punches!”

***

I’m not a fan of Malls. They’re so retro. Every time I feel like it’s a museum and I’m the exhibit. The idea that people used to congregate with other people in a building filled with stuff nobody owned yet is bizarre. If I want something I just browse the ‘Net for it with my cranial implant, sort results by price, quality rating, and proximity to my current location. I might even see a video of the thing being used by a regular person just like me! My purchase shows up a few hours after I buy it, not bad considering some stuff can be on the other side of the universe. I can do all this without talking, without moving, without even opening my eyes. And even though I haven’t had a permanent residence for almost two years, the InGalEx shipping guys always know where I am. The days before micro manufacturing and tracking implants must have been the fucking Dark Ages.

I feel like Malls know me better than I do, and that scares the shit out of me. I know me really well, and I don’t need anyone else having that sort of insight. The science of targeted marketing isn’t even science anymore, it’s embedded in the bedrock of our existence, one of the cornerstones of the intergalactic economic foundation. Everything I buy is recorded. Everything my parents ever bought is recorded. The toys I liked to play with as a kid, the clothes I wore most often, the airbike I wanted for ten fucking years and could never afford, my ‘Net activity, everything I’ve ever looked at, bought, sold, lusted after, and fondled is tracked, categorized, and analyzed. The Mall knows what I’m most likely to buy and shows me those succulent and sexy things on every available surface. Yes, even the floor. I’m looking at my feet right now, and beneath them is an ad for the latest nano-boot add-on. Damn, those look nice. I’ll have to pick up the mod next time – shit!

“I can’t stand this place. Where’s the security office?”

“How the hell should I know?” Bucky replies. “I ain’t never really been too keen on looking for robots with guns, Rick.” Janine nudges him and whispers something in his ear. “What? It’s where? Oh. Rick, security’s over there under the escalator.”

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“How do you know that?” I ask her.

“What, you gonna actually talk to me now?” Janine asks. “Not going to crush my face?”

I throw up my hands. “Never mind! I don’t want to know how you know. I’m trying to like you because of Bucky, but you’re not fucking helping, for chrissakes. No, don’t talk! I’m sorry I said a goddamn thing.”

Janine was right about the security office being under the escalator. I know this because the business end of a pistol appears in front of my face immediately upon opening the door. Not a sleek pistol, either, one of those sexy jobs that could’ve been made in a vibrator factory. This thing looks industrial with wires, blinking lights, scraped metal along the barrel presumably from being used as a club and/or a spear. An ominous humming sound indicates that I’m just one electrical signal away from having a canoe for a head. Guess I should have knocked.

“State your business,” a mechanical voice says.

I look around the gun and see a Mall Security droid. Its voice issues from a speaker in its neck. Its face is was without features, just smooth silver metal over a brain wired directly into the Mall’s surveillance mainframe. More than a few fools have assumed that the droids can’t see very well and have paid a steep price for that mistake.

“I’m here to see my wife.”

“You are Richard Stern,” the droid says. What the Mall knows, the droid knows. “Your wife, Laura Rivens, is being held for questioning in the shooting of—“ It pauses. Typical robots can perform 100 teraflop operations per nanosecond, so it’s not every day that you get one that actually pauses to process information. "—Richard Stern. You.”

“That’s right. Can I see her?”

“You may, but the suspect will only be released if the charges are dropped.”

“I haven’t filed any charges.”

“Unnecessary. The suspect discharged a firearm within Freehaven. That is illegal.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Shooting another person is not illegal?” I was taking a bit of a chance here, trying to get into a legal argument with a Mall droid, especially one that still has its gun shoved in my face. Apparently, this is how they conduct civilized conversations and I had to agree. The threat of imminent doom does wonders for your manners.

“There is no law barring assault with a ballistic weapon on Freehaven.”

“I’m sorry ... What?” No law against assault with a ballistic weapon? No wonder Freehaven was the Wild West Yonder.

“Since the possession of firearms is illegal on Freehaven, laws against shooting people are redundant and take up time and space.”

“What’s the punishment? A fine?”

“Five years in a medium security penal facility.”

Five years, eh? I suppose I should be honest and admit that I took a moment to ponder the idea. I only ponder serious subjects, and this was seriously tempting.

She did shoot me, after all.

But I need someone to run my suits!

There must be somebody in the clans who can do it.

I’m going to get blamed for sending her to prison.

She smuggled in the gun!

I’m going to get blamed.

She shot me!

I’m going to get blamed.

It would be so funny to see her face on the way to prison!

She’ll go to prison, blame me every day, and then the first day she gets out she’ll find me and cut off my nuts.

Hmph. Well, when I put it that way, it’s a no brainer.

“Who has the authority to drop the charges?” I ask.

“The owner of the Mall,” the droid says. “This never happens.”

“Who owns this place?”

“The Freehaven Mall is operated by the Chipper Media Conglomerate.”

“Well, that certainly makes it easier,” I say. “Call Paul Chippers and tell him that Rick Stern needs him to drop all charges against Laura Rivens. Oh, and while he’s at it, he might as well give me and anyone I want amnesty while we’re out here. It’s going to be a rowdy bunch, and I don’t have time to come down here and let you stick that cannon up my nose every time somebody takes a dump on the floor.”

The robot doesn’t say anything for a bit, and then it replies, “Your request has been placed. You may see the suspect while you wait, if you wish. It could take some time.”

“You’re not going to convict her until we hear back from Chippers?” I ask.

“She will stay in holding until your request is processed.”

“Which could take a while.”

“That is correct.”

“Hmm. Are you going to feed her?”

“It is not our job to make suspects fat and happy.”

***

Laura looks pissed when they let me into her holding cell. I suppose if I were chained to a table and forced to watch targeted marketing on every surface of my cell, I’d be angry too. Not just the walls, floor, and ceiling, either. Ads for cheap lawyers, penal colonies – low-risk prisoners can sometime choose their hells – even rescue squads promising escapes from jail with only a 85% chance of a gory death, flit across the table and benches in the room. Malls never pass up the opportunity to advertise to a captive audience.

I sit down on the bench across from her. “Hey, babe, I’m working on getting you out of here, so don’t worry.”

She leans forward in her chair and fixes me with one of those I wish you were bleeding out from multiple stab wounds sorts of stares.

I smile at her. My smiles always work. “What’s wrong?”

“I wouldn’t be in here with me, if I were you,” she growls.

Normally when a woman growls, I get a rising in my nether region. The only thing rising this time was the hair on the back of my neck. I look down at her hands and see white knuckles. She’s shackled to the table, but Laura is an electronics expert and I wouldn’t put it past her to pick the lock. I realize then that my self-awareness is kicking my self-interest in the ass. With cleats. I stand up and back out of the room, you know, the same thing you do when you’re trying to get away from a cobra.

“She’s really mad at me,” I say to Bucky when I get back out into the hallway.

“How mad is mad? As mad as when you slept with that Veeni?”

I automatically turn to Janine and say, “That wasn’t my fault. You know how Veeni woman affect human men, right?” She shakes her head and gives me the same disapproving glare that all women seem to know at birth. “Well, it wasn’t my idea,” I tell her, and then to Bucky, “I wonder if there’s a way to ask Chippers to delay her release a bit.”

“How long?” Bucky asks.

“I dunno, a week maybe?”

Bucky grunts. “I didn’t think you were in there that long.”

“I get the feeling she’s been saving it up for awhile now … what the hell is she doing here?”

Kissy Kissy is standing at the end of the hall chatting with one of the security droids. If anybody can chat with a faceless, emotionless robot, it’s Kissy. Maybe they have secret handshake or something. She finishes with the droid and starts towards us.

“Um,” Bucky says, “I think she was Laura’s one call.”

“What?” I turn and shout at Kissy, “She called you? What the fuck for?”

Kissy’s smile makes me nervous. She steps past me into the holding cell, and then closes the door in my face.

“Now I’m really confused,” I say. The soundproofed cell door seems to be interesting stuff, because I can’t take my eyes off of it. What the fuck are they doing in there? What possible reason could Laura have for calling Kissy? Maybe they’re plotting some horrible death for me, when I’m not expecting it and about to achieve a great victory. That’s usually how it goes with women – you do all this work to get to the top of the mountain and then they push you off a cliff. They say it’s their duty as women to keep us from getting too sure of ourselves. I say they do it because they think it’s funny.

The door opens a crack and Kissy sticks her face out.

“Well?” I ask. “What’s the story?”

“She wants you to apologize.”

“Huh?”

“What you said to her was hurtful. She was mortified that you said such things in public. You should say you’re sorry.”

“Didn’t you hear what she said about you?”

“I’m a robot. You can’t hurt my feelings. She isn’t. Apologize.”

Do you ever get the feeling that you’re drowning, even though there’s no water? I fold my arms across my chest, feeling mutinous. “She started it. I’ll apologize if she does first.”

“This isn’t the school playground. Say you’re sorry.”

“You’re right, it isn’t! This is clan territory! Apologizing for no goddamn reason when I was fully justified for saying what I said is grounds to get you shot! And that happened already! So when you get down to it, I think I’ve paid my debt to society, thank you very much!”

“She said you would react this way. She demands an apology. If you find this too onerous, you can also find yourself a new suit expert.” Kissy pauses, and then adds, “And a new quarterback.”

Personally, I don’t think anyone should ever experience sheer rage followed by sheer panic in less than three seconds. “WHOA! Fine, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that, I should have laid down on the deck and let her walk all over me. I’m sorry I tried to grow a spine, it won’t happen again, or at least not so publicly annoying.”

Kissy raises her chin. “That will be sufficient.”

Rage to panic to elation. Sparkles appear in my vision and my breath rattles. “Great! Tell her what I said, and as soon as Chippers sets her loose, we can get out of here.”

“Not so fast,” Kissy says, raising a hand. “You must apologize at least as publicly as you humiliated her. A station-wide broadcast will be fine.”

The memory is hazy, but I’m pretty sure I fainted at that point.