Dances with the Past
----------------------------------------
“Straight to the hotel, customer?” asked a robotic Alliance employee, a big jellyfish with five tentacles equipped with rollerblades and carrying a canvas hood on her back. Her voice pitch would reach Olympus Mons’ summit—like a little girl.
“Straight to the Église,” Miles replied, holding out his half-closed suitcase.
“I meant the keister, customer!” the machine squeaked as she grabbed the luggage as delicately as possible before zipping it up. “But I can also give you a lift. For a small fare. Off the books.”
“A fare? You’re a free robot or a trickster?”
“Both, customer!” the employee replied, tossing the bag into the bottom of her basket. “I have a three-year time-leasing contract.” She presented one of her arms, helping the pilot to mount on her bulky head.
Miles stepped over the edge of the luggage rack. Looking up, he waved at the duck that had been watching him from the Forlorn airlock. “Don’t know if I’ll be back before next Friday. Take care of the ship while I’m out. May the Baltimore reactor go mad and slowly fry your brain.”
The red menace responded angrily, puffing up his wings.
Miles wagged his finger. “No gals. You know the rules.”
“Quack!”
“No blackjack, either.”
“Quack!”
“I left you enough money for three years worth of pizzas!” Miles replied before patting one of his carrier’s shoulders. “Onward, friend. After Enceladus and Old Dodge, I need to forget my copilot’s a grumpy goose.”
“Aye, Aye, Captain!” the robot squealed.
Her heat engine roaring, she crossed the Alliance facility, skirting the empty cells where once stood the largest fleet of Auxiliaries in the Rings. Alas, the hostilities outbreak on Titan had caused many of the hunters to flee towards Jupiter or risk their scalps near Kuiper. Miles felt sorry for the poor devils who chose the second option.
A long steel aqueduct connected the astroport to the automobile ring road running on top of the high black ramparts. Below, between the meteorological towers with large twisted antennas and rusty satellite dishes, mountains of multicolored plastic waste piled up. The shredded bales and torn sails from the Plantations—those large refineries coupled with oil-to-plastic plants—slowly decomposed in the acid atmosphere. Crumb by crumb, they flake the sewage leaking from the culverts to flow towards the ever still Herschel Sea.
Humming Like a Virgin to cover the horns welcoming her crazy cavalcade, the five-wheeled machine accessed the inner avenues after passing through the Shatalov gate. One hundred meters high, this city entrance had been dedicated to the first astronaut to set foot on Saturn I during the great conquests of yesteryear.
“Isn’t it too windy up there, customer?” asked the robot.
“So far so good,” Miles yelled. “I was afraid there would be more bugs.”
“Not many arthropods on Mimas this year. Heat waves almost wiped them all. GM-bee colonies and bird populations dangerously declined too. Earth cannot be emulated, customer. It’s like life, you only have one,” the robot concluded.
The arteries of Nouvelle Patrie first snaked between the last colonial blocks redeveloped into low-cost housing, where the workers of the oil fields and the few beachfront plantations dwelt. They later joined the concentrical neighborhoods of Belle Abeille and Chantilly with their underground shopping malls. Right after, the business district overlooked the small picturesque city center.
Wedged between the circular grid and the Herschel Sea, the peninsular historical heart of Nouvelle Patrie—once a simple Galactic Trade Company trading post and oil exploration base—resembled any 19th-century European city. Its pedestrian walkways—on which the delivery robot was allowed to drive—were paved with gray stone surrounded by facades of exposed brick and roofs of polished slate.
Miles preferred this neighborhood above all others, especially its main thoroughfare, Bourbon Avenue, with its wrought-iron balconies and colorful neon signs. However, his best memories of Nouvelle Patrie came from the Seawall, the floating district along the coast.
After asking the robot to drop off his belongings at the Hotel Monteleone—with rooms specifically reserved for Alliance officials, Miles ordered her to leave him down the avenue. There, an automated burgundy streetcar took him along the calm canals to the dike, home of Ferris wheels and cabarets.
Artificial twilight fell on Nouvelle Patrie. Unable to enjoy the sun or the warm light of Saturn because of the plastic coffin enveloping the satellite, Mimantean metropolitans followed the precalculated pattern of projectors scattered here and there on the roofs. And contrary to the well-cities around Jupiter—like Thebe—the inhabitants held to this “round-the-clock” routine. For after the hard day’s work, came the pleasures of the night.
“Have you heard the tidings?” a passenger asked Miles, handing him a newspaper. Pamphlets from the Separatist League mandating the recycling of electronic equipment for the Cause slipped through his fingers.
The Forlorn Hope pilot awkwardly grabbed the front page written in Chinese. “War?” he tried to read, trying to catch the other sheets with his foot before they could fly out the open door.
The passenger’s mustache stiffened to accompany his smile. “No,” he replied. “King Xiao’s dead. It happened a few months ago, thanks to you guys.” He pointed to Miles’s badge before heading for the running board as the streetcar slowed. “That’s the end of the Lost Triads throughout the system. Good riddance!”
Stolen story; please report.
“Alright, pal…”
Past Chinatown, Miles got off at the terminus, at the foot of a steel cathedral converted into a cabaret, simply called l’Église—or “Church” in Solarian English. There, next to a Statue of Liberty decorated with colorful bras hanging like a wish tree’s offerings, an eloquent android harangued the new arrivals of the pleasure district.
“Bienvenue à la Digue! Welcome to the Seawall! The beating heart of Nouvelle Patrie!” he said with a strong French accent, holding his palms up to the sky. Along his metallic fingers danced holograms showing the cabaret’s drink prices, as well as the evening’s program in several languages. “Who cares about what Techno-Senator Davis and our other wonderful rebel leaders think, Mimas’ heritage iz Martian! Cyber-humans, free robots or mutants with hair and fangs, please enjoy the alcohol, flesh and fire of our frivolous cabarets!”
“Tell me…” Miles asked him, pointing to the Église’s entrance. “Is the arcade still under the archways?”
“Well, certainly, mon bon monsieur! Not all of the cabinets have been recycled!” the declaimer replied, pivoting on his rubber legs. With a snap of his fingers, he conjured up a brilliant holographic representation of an arcade terminal. “Would you like some chips?” He then brought his other hand to his ear. “I’m being told in my earpiece there are long lines at the exchange booths on the first level!”
“Can’t use my quarters?”
“Alas, non. Nowadays, the new Rings currency simply doesn’t fit in the slots formerly provided for that purpose.”
“Need to get my cash changed. Don’t pay with my FID either.”
“No wrist computer too? Monsieur is old school. And Monsieur is right! That iz okay, I still accept dollar credits,” the robot explained and Miles handed him his remaining change. “You can also buy a drink or a STD-free girl with tokens. The holosex booths are on the Chinatown side, but still on the Digue. The brothels—second floor of ze Église.”
The Alliance man smiled as he collected his tokens in the receptacle at the bottom of the android’s belly, who wished him a good evening as he lifted his bowler hat.
Stuffing the chips in the pockets of his jeans, he walked into the crowd gathering in front of the high doors of the cabaret lost in the artificial vegetation. After a few minutes of waiting in the cigarette smoke and the volutes of perfume, he entered the building.
A huge concert hall with balconies spread over five stories welcomed him. On each of the floors, bars and restaurants were packed with people—their tables and chairs oriented to enjoy the show on the main stage below. That night, a Strip Can Can dance number was especially popular. Four years earlier, Miles had seen Dolly Parton and George Michael on the same stage.
Very few bounty hunters or Alliance officials went to the Église because of the hazardous presence of culprits of all kinds. A few badge holders always wanted to zealously replenish their poker losses, and conversely, a felon often sought revenge for a loved one shot down in orbit. But the Église was a lawless turf run by the Marcello crime family, and no altercation was allowed at the risk of being thrown into the heavily polluted Herschel Sea, tarred and feathered.
Miles diverged very quickly to the right, under the colonnades and archways of the second level. With his first free soft drink in hand, he sat down at a booth to take a look at the show and crowd between two sessions of Centipede.
Despite the distracting dancing of performers in Can Can dress and the lively pop music, he scored well again tonight, renewing his legendary mastery of video games. Alas, a surprise awaited him on the scoreboard.
“What on Saturn…” he boasted, seeing the high scores exceeding 10 million, well above his own. “BM1? Who’s this BM1? How did he spam all those scores?”
“Billy Mitchell, sunshine…” replied a raspy voice behind him.
“Billy who?”
A luscious woman with apple-green irises came to put down near the control joystick her martini in which dried square-shaped olives. “A braggadocio with an unlikely tie and an equally questionable haircut. He stopped on Mimas for a whatever-local-game show and crushed most of the scores of your youth.”
“Jess…” Miles said as he recognized the blue-haired gal. On this night, she wore a plastic dress that was as plain as it was fluorescent.
The woman stroked his cheek before ordering a new drink which was served to her in less than a second by a small flying bot.
“Billy Mitchell? The guy from Donkey Kong?” He sipped his soda. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the little drone’s waiting to refill it with alcohol.
“Don’t know…” Jessica replied, swallowing a floating olive. “Your nerd stuff ain’t no glamour…” She then finished her glass dry and her green eyes flickered. “How long have you been on Mimas, my scant daredevil?”
“Just dropped the anchor,” Miles retorted, inviting her to sit at a nearby table. “Dancin’ tonight? Didn’t see you on the program.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the program,” she replied as she snatched two drinks from the tray of a human waiter. “Just like you, I do what I want, when I want, where I want. And never mind the conséquences, right?” She then took a long look at the scars running along Miles’ throat and hands. “Oh. That’s new.”
Embarrassed, Miles hid his fingers under his sweater and readjusted his collar. “Still drinkin’ to the old times?”
“To the end of time, now.” Jessica sipped the glass she hadn’t handed to Miles, her gaze lost on the dancers finishing their routine. “May it come with this absurd war—to engulf Luna, the Martian hypocrites and the Rings in a gigantic fireball.” Melancholic, she then turned back to him, and sketched a sad smile. “Where are you stayin’?” she asked.
“In town.”
Meanwhile, the drone filled his empty glass with gin.
“Better than upstairs, I guess,” the seductive woman sighed. With a leap, she stood up before grabbing a pack of Marlboro Menthol stuck in her suspender. She shoved a cigarette at the corner of her lips. A soldier in a gray parade uniform came to light it for her before disappearing behind a LaserTour cabinet. “You’ve been away for three years. You owe me a lot.”
“A lot of what?” Miles chuckled as he left the table to seize the menthol from her fingers.
“A lot of sex, sunshine,” she whispered through the mint green smoke. “A lot of long and sad sex.”