#02 THE TWISTED HEIST
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A star had just vanished in the distance, sending its entire system—planets and moons—into oblivion. What was a simple life compared to a sun? Did the human existence that Earthlings highly cherished in the past deserve so much fuss? I would say no, of course, because I’m a cat. Our condition as felines will never have to pale in front of a shiny astronomical object made of burning gas. Mine specifically, don’t you think?
Oswald Avery was merely a Homo sapiens. A retired buccaneer, fermenting his adulterated sparkling wine on a drifting supercargo’s carcass; all under the remodeled sharp features of a former Galactic Trade Company’s pilot. Alas, regardless of the expensive genetic disguise, the FID rarely lied. It hadn’t fooled us and the masks had fallen off. Just like him.
I’m such a talented poet.
Anyway… Avery has had a long life of crimes and adventures. He was full of energy in his youth. And as in the universe, nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed, his “energy” reincarnated into a nice amount in our bank account right after the old picaroon bit the dust the night before.
“I still can’t believe we finally got him! And he was a traditional Martian contract,” I exalted sitting on top of the Kitty’s ladder. “That means we can cash the reward remotely on condition that the FID’s recovery has been approved by the Alliance’s system. How excellent is that?”
“God… Lee… you’re talking to yourself and it’s only 8 a.m.,” Ali grunted below me. Floating in the hold, my couch potato of an associate had her head still stuck in the jumbo cereal box she was nibbling before falling asleep binge-watching Captain Caveman.
“To begin with, it’s 8 p.m., Martian Time,” I huffed, looking sternly at my copilot as I drifted along into the weightlessness. “And tonight, we hypothetically have a positive balance for the first time in months! Do you know what that means, partner?”
“Shopping, bitches!” Ali shouted as she hurled herself, gliding towards the bath module with the cardboard box on the top of her head. This sugar bishop was swimming after the remnant cereals that floated on her path like Ms. Pac-Man.
“Hell!” I meowed. “I just opened Pandora’s box!”
To my great regret, a story-convenient titanic liner shaped like a dirigible passed by us the following day. With her forty-eight post-nuclear Baltimore-XVIII heavy reactors, the Danaë was making her annual cruise from Lunapolis to the suburbs of Ceres, in the belt. This gold and ivory spaceship composed of a dozen centrifugal ring-decks was one of the most luxurious epicenters of human decadence in the entire system; comprising hotels, casinos, megastores and amusement parks for everyone’s wallet, ready to be emptied—whether one was welcomed at the port or had joined during the crossing. Her size exceeded some inhabited asteroids’ diameter so she possessed her own substantial gravitational field.
“The Danaë is quite a symbol of mankind’s decline,” I said, pointing with my chin at the palace’s figurehead: a two hundred meters long green ceramic effigy of the Greek princess. Opening her mechanical arms, Perseus’s mother welcomed us onboard.
“Why?” my partner asked without caring whatsoever. “Spill the beans, Plato.”
The Kitty had obtained permission to dock and began her approach under the gaze of the green giantess. I concluded: “Humanity no longer erects great and beautiful things without turning them into shopping malls.”
But speaking of malls; it was obviously our first stop.
“I believe we should keep our savings for the Swallow’s maintenance. The dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree. Some parts need to be changed—”
“You’re so lame with your adult talks,” my partner cut me off as she dramatically came out of the fitting room of a luxury chain overlooking the main deck. “What do you think of this? Sexy as fuck, right?”
She spun around a couple of times. Her camisole didn’t hide a single square inch of flesh and I subtly pointed it out to her: “It’s a bit of a back-alley Sally.”
I took a blow on the nose which, this time, was amply justified.
“There’s nothing chicer than Borderline, Lee! You don’t know shit about fashion. It’s crazy!”
She was furious. It was entertaining but she was right. The human females’ fads were way over my head, and I wasn’t a good adviser. Mostly because I didn’t care. At all.
Fortunately, the upscale shopping center where I was collecting dust had provided us with a free assistant even more servile than a decerebrate canine. As usual, the robot carrier that accompanied us flattered Ali with its unbearable honeyed tone: “I find you charming, Madame. Here we have the latest fashionable lingerie on Mars. It’s an ephemeral collection that appears to have been specially made to mold your discreet curves which seem to have been sculpted by the seraphim.”
The nauseating prose had the desired effect. Ali gave me a satisfied look that I pretended to ignore. She then backtracked into the fitting room to put her black suit and pink jacket back on.
Displeased, I took the opportunity to climb on the shoulders of this silly robot, servant of our servants and last link of a hierarchy whose origins dated back to Ancient Egypt. “One more move like this and I’ll turn you into a gum dispenser.”
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The automaton apologized before my partner’s head emerged from behind the silk curtains which were far too fragrant for my taste. “Lee? I just checked. It’s too expensive so I ain’t buying it,” she announced. “Can you hail a taxicab to take us to the hotels’ ring? You’d be a sweetheart.”
She smiled. Ali never ever ever smiled unless she wanted something…
“Fine. But don’t linger,” I conceded.
Happy to leave this irascible human with her robotic slave, I proceeded to the nearest service terminal. By the time I requested a vehicle from the operator, a spherical flying cigarette dispenser lit me a Lucky from the tip of its telescopic arm.
“It’s forbidden to smoke in our store, Monsieur.” The salesman, in his blue silk suit with elephant legs, had popped out of nowhere. Yet, with such a shiny tie, this punk should have dazzled me from the Kuiper belt.
“Please be kind and get me a New Coke instead of ruining my eyesight,” I grumbled in response.
I was in an awful mood. I hated shopping. And people. Alas, the pedestrian avenues of the Danaë had a very exceptional population density. Voluminous perms were making a strong comeback, as well as neon tattoos, crop tops and overly open flowered shirts. Under the false UVA/B sun, it was a true dance of tan flesh, tempered steel and plastic bodies with assumed nudity. Implants and surgery erased the hazards of the genetic lottery for better or worse. It was so superficial. So futile. So human.
“Hello, handsome!” Ali cried out, suspiciously grinning from ear to ear.
My partner had just joined me, arms loaded with bags massive enough to live in it, start a family and park my chromic Pontiac Firebird. All were filled with C$400 t-shirts and sneakers she didn’t need and would only put on once.
“No smell. Hologram,” I grunted, throwing my cigarette butt through the smiling ghost.
“Shame!” Ali sighed before glancing at her terminal. “Do you think I have time to grab a Swatch module? They’re on sale. I saw some GD-8 that would go well with my new Game Pocket! This boat is fucking rad!”
Once again, here came the smile.
“Yes, dear…” I complied even if I had to rub my temples to avoid a migraine before the arrival of our taxicab.
Taxicabs were miniature limousines with double fake leather benches, facing each other at the back. They involved an armrest minibar with expensive multicolored drinks, and also a mini-fridge with sugar-soaked snacks, the sapiens’ primary source of calories and high-gs space travel drug. For the sensitive snowflakes, the ceiling fountain provided diet sodas with aspartame—but no one ever used it. Finally, free Gauloises cigarettes waited for me next to the door ashtray. Alongside some Tylenol!
“Easy on the Coke,” I advised Ali.
“Ain’t listening,” this one answered, two XXXL wax-coated cups in hand.
“As always…”
Right after, the soft voice of a young woman, who appeared to us through the armored porthole separating her from her customers, emerged from the cockpit: “Good evening, guys! Meera at your service. Hyatt Regency, correct?”
I nodded. Wearing the fancy yellow uniform of the boat’s crew, the girl smiled at us. Her incredibly dark night metal skin contrasted strongly with her curled silvery-white hair. The cyborg also had charming ivory eyes with absolutely no reflection. They were a mesmerizing void of light.
It was so rare to deal with a real person and not an AI, that we engaged rapidly in a lovely and honest discussion with Meera. We mostly talked about life on the Danaë. As she stated, the rules on board were very strict, even military. All was done to make sure every customer had the most pleasant time at the expense of everything else. According to her, her condition shouldn’t be pitied. And she was fully satisfied with this precarious semi-nomadic existence.
“And what about you? Are you here on vacation or in transit for work?” she eventually asked. “What do you do for a living?”
Should we have told her that we were executing notorious criminals so Ali would collect expensive oversized t-shirts and I could fulfill my nicotine addiction? No.
Instinctively adjusting her left phosphorescent hoop earring, Meera resumed as we remained silent: “Don’t get me wrong, guys, but I saw that you had a gun. Are you in the police… or are you pirates?”
It wasn’t the first time someone asked us this question. Although weapons appeared to be allowed on most ships and stations, it wasn’t wise to display them unless you were looking for trouble. Unfortunately, hiding such a large caliber under Ali’s tight vest was a Herculean task.
“You can get much farther with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone,” quoted Ali between two loud slurps, her forehead against the scented stickers-covered window.
Meera laughed. “Very well, Al Capone! I understand that you’re not the type to let yourself be taken advantage of.”
After leaving the fashion district and its golden life-size Parthenon, the taxicab entered the large central expressway beneath the water park. When, suddenly, an alarm rang out in the cabin.
“What’s going on?” I gasped, ears on alert, as something hit our vehicle from behind. We swerved violently to the left.
“Buckle up, guys!” our driver yelled, the left hand anchored to the handlebar.
After crushing the safety railing, we fell from one rotating deck to the other in a frantic cavalcade. Judging by Meera’s muffled swear words, this ride wasn’t part of the show. Dodging an open-air aerobics class and a group of children coming out of an arcade, the taxicab crossed the fourth ring main concourse and finally managed to recover in extremis. It was about time, because we almost passed through our hotel’s bay window and crashed the tea dance taking place there.
“A thousand apologies! Another one of those mor—clients from the Middle System who doesn’t know how to use a rental car,” Meera shouted. “Are you guys hurt?”
“No, thanks to you,” I replied, my soda-soaked tail spiked over my head, taped to Ali’s neck covered with bloody scratches.
Although my human’s forehead grew a bump on it the size of a golf ball, it was true that Meera had just saved our lives. This young girl had unsuspected driving talents despite the lack of handling of the taxicabs. She didn’t belong here, playing the steward in a circus uniform. This woman should fly a starfighter or join the space racing association on Canyon Creek.
“In any case, you’re in front of your hotel,” she replied as we stepped out of the vehicle. “You don’t have to pay anything. And I apologize again for the scare.”
From the outside, the taxicab looked like a can of nutrigel after going through a crusher. Yet, it still worked. May God Darwin bless Venusian steel.
After thanking her, we wished Meera a good day. But the miraculously still-functioning cockpit window suddenly went down on the passenger side. The smile of the driver had faded. She had tears at the corner of her ivory eyes. “Wait, please! That weapon—do you really know how to use it?” she asked.