Rick disconnected the implant cable and stood, then immediately fell back to the leather chair in Alex’s SR array room.
“Whoa, give it a second there, Killer.” Her disembodied voice came from the ceiling.
“Don’t call me that. How fast until the money comes in?” he asked.
“It’s already there. Why?”
“How much? How long to transfer my share into my account?” He stood and swayed, then braced himself with the arms of the SR array recliner so as not to fall back down again.
“Five minutes, tops. Why?”
“I gotta get to—” A wave of nausea forced him to stop short.
“Rick, you don’t look good. You should go home and sleep. You’ve got a day.”
He shook his head and started for the exit. “What time is it? Are the trains running?”
She didn’t answer him at first. Then, she said, “It’s two in the afternoon. Trains are fine, and it should be slow. Are you—”
“Need to get the money to Hector. Talk later?”
“Yeah—”
He didn’t hear the rest as the door closed behind him. He staggered down the long hallway, then around the corner until the door to the outside world swayed in his vision.
As soon as he got outside, he vomited. Though there wasn’t much left in his stomach, he retched until he thought he might pass out. He wiped his mouth and gasped for air, waiting for his stomach to betray him again. When it didn’t, he stood.
Better. But was it truly better, or just better than vomiting so hard it almost made him black out?
On the train, an old woman looked at him with disgust. Probably thinks I’m drunk. “Drunk’s more fun,” he mumbled. She didn’t appear to hear him.
When he got to the warehouse, Manuel narrowed his eyes, as if curious, or surprised to see him. “Hey, hombre.”
Rick nodded, but didn’t stop walking. He feared if he did, he wouldn’t be able to start again. His limbs were heavy. Grateful for the handrails, he climbed the steps to the office and knocked.
“Get in.” Hector’s voice was muffled behind the door.
When he opened the door, he thought he might vomit again, but he breathed deeply and his stomach backed down from its threat. He sat.
Hector’s face was emotionless. “Little birdie told me you were coming. She already dropped the money in your account.”
Rick pulled out his phone. He ignored the two calls from Alex and four from Kristina. He swiped to his payment app, but when he saw the amount, he took a deep breath in, though he knew the size of the number he’d need beforehand. Never had he seen that much money, not in his entire life, and he doubted he would again. He stared at Hector; there appeared to be two of the man, though they were slightly overlapped. After he blinked, the two became one Hector once more, and he called up his payment app contacts. One press of the confirm button and the money transfer was done.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
A muffled “ding” came from Hector’s direction. He picked up his phone, glanced at it, then cleared his throat. “Congratulations. You’re paid in full.”
Rick nodded and made to leave.
“So you have the equipment to receive and store them, right? The cryo? You have a five-day APC in case the power goes out?” He whistled. “You live in a… rough neighborhood, and the grid there is shit. Hate to see all that effort go to waste. How about security?” Hector rolled his eyes. “A safe, even?”
Rick sat again and blinked. It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. He fought back another wave of nausea. “I…”
Hector shook his head as though disappointed, but his tone was paternal. “Didn’t think it through. See it all the time.” He stood and circled the desk until he stood before Rick, then sat on his desk and crossed his arms. “Lotta people with potential are just like that, y’know?” He frowned and tilted his head. “Lotta people do that, Rick.”
He looked up at his erstwhile boss. “That so?”
“Whew! You don’t look so good. You need some water?”
Rick shook his head, but Hector was already at his intercom. “Hey Manuel? Can you bring up a bottle of water?” He started to turn back to Rick, but he pushed the intercom button again. “Bring three.”
The speaker on the intercom came to life. “Okay, boss. Uh, flat or sparkling?”
“Two sparkling, one still.” He turned back to Rick. “The bubbles might help.”
Not a minute later, Manuel entered with the water. Hector opened a glass bottle of seltzer, something Italian, though Rick didn’t know how he knew that; he couldn’t read the letters anymore. Had he seen it in an upscale grocery store somewhere? He grabbed the bottle when Hector handed it to him and drank, though it took a lot of concentration to get it to line up with his mouth.
“He high on something?” Manuel asked.
Hector shrugged.
Rick paused after the first swallow, alert for signs of gastrointestinal complaint. When none came, he looked back up at Hector. What had they been talking about?
The room tilted and gravity went wonky. Hector’s bright blue tie shined like an iridescent star, dragged across the muddy moon of his…
*******************************************
The first thing Rick heard was the clack of his shot glass against the polished wood of the bar. The bartender, a stunning brunette with large-framed red glasses and lips painted the same color, gestured with a bottle, as if to ask, “Another?”
He nodded. She poured. He drank. He caught the sight of her back as she returned the bottle to the liquor rack. Her yellow polka-dotted black dress was cut low in the back, and colorful tattoos graced her skin there.
“Wow. Amazing work.” He said it in a low voice, thinking she wouldn’t hear. Rick didn’t like to hit on bartenders. It was their job to be nice, but he’d rather not be one more slob trying to get lucky.
“What’s that?” The bartender turned and smiled at him.
He shook his head. “The uh”—he pointed—“your tattoos.”
She winked. “Thanks, Killer.”
Killer? Why’d she—
“You’re a goddamned pansy, Rick Prophet.”
Huh? He turned in the direction of the voice where an older, bearded man with an angry face mocked him again.
“You’re losing it, Prophet. You won’t last another year. Fuck, in two years, I bet I could take you.”
The bartender giggled.
What? That’s not how it happened. He tilted his head at the man, who gave him an oddly expectant look that wasn’t nearly as unfriendly as it should have been. “Do I know you?”
The man was Charles McDaniels. How do I know that?
“Know me?” McDaniels pointed and turned the bar. “Guy asks if he knows me.” He turned back to Rick. “You kill me, man.”
The man, Charles—no, Charlie. It was Charlie McDaniels, a name a half-step away from someone who was famous once, long dead, a musician. This man was a musician too, he remembered from the family impact testimony.
“Wait, you’re—”