Mr. Ungerson waited until drinks and appetizers were on the table before he started showing off his guns. He slid a manicured hand into his Faultless Dynamics sports jacket, and emerged with a sleek handgun, five inches long, gleaming in the warm light of the diner. There was no groping, no fumbling. The motion was so smooth, I’m certain I was the only person who really took notice. When the pistol hit the table, it sounded the plastic surface like a drum, setting the silverware rattling against the plates. Mr. Ungerson smiled like he was an aeroshuttle salesman. Mr. Ogata turned his head, watched the rain fall on the wide streets of the Pacheco Blue Zone.
“Nice, right?” Ungerson said, the smallest gouge of a smile on his face. “You can hold it if you want, trigger’s keyed to me so I don’t give a fuck, go ahead.”
My eyes flicked between it and Mr. Ungerson’s face. Ungerson leaned his arm over the back of the booth, his elbow colliding with the patrons behind him. A man in his mid forties, rail thin with graying hair, met Ungerson’s eyes, and he gave him a small jut of his chin in reply. A quick, rhetorical, “how’s it goin?” The man turned away quickly when he noticed the gun’s body between the plates and the jam basket.
“Service here’s kinda sleepy, huh?” he said, “and what, pancakes? Egg-synth-reconstitute? Seems… I dunno, bland? What’s the hook, Oscar? Why here?”
I glanced over his shoulder at the bar counter, where Polity and I had sat four weeks ago, atop stools that were just a touch sticky with spilled syrup. Polity had gotten us pastrami and potatoes, carrots, shaved brussel sprouts. Thousand island dressing over the whole thing.
Polity had mentioned that it wasn’t as good as when they had visited, years ago, with their father. Even back then they felt the flavors were dimming, the ingredients were losing some quality they didn’t have words for. Their father had said they were imagining things. That it tasted exactly the same as it always did.
It had made sense to bring Ungerson here. He didn’t kill solid restaurants. Just fantastic ones.
Ungerson held two fingers in my line of sight, tracing until he was pointing at the bar counter. He gave a look of bemusement to Mr. Ogata, who shrugged his massive augmented shoulders in reply. Ungerson motioned to the gun, which had not moved since he dropped it on the table.
“Seriously, Oscar? This isn’t some frontier shit, I’m not trying to goad you into a gunfight here, if you want to check out my kit you can, like, fuck. It’s not even my favorite gun, so I won’t blow my top if you scuff it or anything,” his eyes sparkled, and he pulled aside his jacket to reveal a second, concealed holster, the gleaming ivory grip of another handgun inside.
“There, that’s my baby boy. .38 special. Have to get the rounds made custom. You gotta load each bullet individually, it’s like counting prayer beads or something,” mercifully, Ungerson chose not to stack it atop its sibling on the table. Ogata made a noise of disgust at the very back of his throat. Ungerson cackled.
“Oh whatever. He’s just salty because he doesn't have a connoisseur’s bone in his body. There’s more to a gun than cost per round or electronic guidance or the ability to penetrate modern materials. It’s a classical thing, like Helix Pop or Diamond Body Cars,” Ungerson waved a crooked knuckle at me, “This guy gets it.”
I scowled at him in reply. Ungerson’s smile drooped until his jaw was hanging open, a little gap of darkness visible between his shining white teeth. He lifted his menu, eyes flicking past each item with tepid interest.
Our waitress marched over, head turned as she finished a conversation with another table.
“Hey guys, I’m Valencia, what do we want for drinks toda-” she locked on to the seven millimeter firearm resting between us. Her eyes moved from it to Ungerson’s large grin, Ogata’s chromed knuckles, vacuous grimace. Valencia saw me, saw how disheveled and dejected I was. How I tried not to engage with her. She didn’t take a step back, but her mouth flickered beneath her curls.
Ungerson flapped his menu down, stuck a finger on item number nine, the savory pancake platter.
“Hey honey,” he drawled, “great place, very kitsch, quick question, do you know where the cook gets his flour? Might change my order.”
I twitched. Mr. Ogata brought his index finger down on a single granule of sugar crystal, reducing it to atoms. I twitched. Mr. Ungerson gave me a smile and tapped his nose.
“Never heard of this place before, buddy,” he winked, “that’s a good start.”
I’m Oscar Yasui, formerly a professional food critic, currently an independent food journalist, and you’re listening to Gastronaut.
When you work in any career with adjacency to food, you’ll eventually find yourself playing tour guide. You’re going to get invited to a lot of parties, to mingle, to taste test, to tell stories about food poisoning and getting fish roe in your eye.
And it’s affirming. Really affirming. I can see why some critics can become completely lost in their own corona of fame. You’re paid for how cleverly you can construct a paragraph praising goulash or whatever–but at a certain point, they’re just paying you to nod or shake your head. Thumbs up, thumbs down.
That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. It’s a bit of jolly bloodsport. If your name grows to a certain point, like, for example, the point I reached at Palladium, you can kill a career. Nobody openly applauds the practice; we didn’t keep tallies on our pads or tattoo the names of dead franchises into our backs, but people in the know could feel the ghosts, so to speak.
…It was a kind of power. The kind of power that Ungerson craved.
At the diner, our food had arrived, plates heaped with generous portions of pancake stuffed with shredded cabbage, green onion, and imitation shrimp. The smell of Worcestershire sauce smothered everything beneath it, winding languidly over the table, hanging above it like a fourth guest. Mr. Ogata drove the edge of his fork against the pancake, cutting away a corner to inspect the interior. Mr. Ungerson brought his chin low, giving his own plate a look so measured, I thought he was going to produce a set of calipers.
I ate a forkful, barely tasting it. Ungerson’s gun remained where it was, neither customer or staff having any desire to do something about it. Its electronics package glittered with little silver lights, radiating beneath the sloped shield that extended from mid barrel to the ignition unit on the back . I chewed my pancake, teeth crunching through the crisp outside, sinking into the fluffed interior. The sauce was thin but potent, the ingredients inside crisply echoing through my head.
Mr. Ogata finished first, quietly logging his approval to the diner’s local network. Kind of him. I bet our waitress would appreciate the boost to tip share. Mr. Ungerson finally stopped measuring his damn pancake and took a bite, nodding considerately with each mouthful.
He only managed about five before he set his fork down. I know, because I was counting. “It’s… it’s good,” he said with a sigh. He turned to Mr. Ogata and gestured at his plate, “I mean, you think it’s good, right? Clearly, you’ve cleaned your entire plate.”
“I’m fond of pancakes,” Mr. Ogata rumbled in reply, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his reusable.
“He’s fond of pancakes,” Mr. Ungerson gestured, “literally making standby money eating pancakes on Le Straud. Dream job, right Ogata?”
Mr. Ogata gave a half shrug. Ungerson crossed his arms.
“Fond. Of. pancakes,” Ungerson said, somehow popping each word. He reached across the table, stuck his finger through the trigger guard of his sidearm, and spun it like a child’s toy. The plates became a racket, sent skating and tottering from the weight of the weapon. Nothing fell, but I jumped all the same. Nobody looked. The staff, having realized one of their customers was an openly armed offworlder, had quietly shepherded the other guests away.
“Oscar, please, I’m begging you as your beloved guest to this beautiful little ball of mud and hot shit, stop fucking my ass.”
The handgun ended its spin in his grip. He lifted it up, barrel skidding against the textured plastic of our booth, before he gently slid it home to roost in the depths of his suit jacket.
“You’re a smart guy, Oscar, but you’re also a weasley, jumped up, passive aggressive content writer,” his right thumb worked little circles into his left temple. “So I’ll break down the waypoints here, help you… keep up with me a bit.”
His hand came down on the tabletop, two fingers to the plastic. “Oscar, I’m treating you pretty well, right? Paying for your last meal downwell, giving you some time to make your peace, and you’re over here feeding me what, seven out of tens, if we’re being generous? And I am very generous, by the way, especially considering your circumstances.”
“Lea te Suldan,” I replied, certain of where the conversation was going. Certain and wrong.
“Yuuuu- wait, what? The space station?” Mr. Ungerson searched Mr. Ogata’s face, who was idly stacking jam containers into little pyramids.
My face grew hot, Ungerson noticed and waved me away.
“I don’t, egh, nevermind Oscar, that’s between you and the Saints. I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about the bounty,” at the fear on my face, Mr. Ungerson tilted his head like a jackal, eyes glittering.
“Yeeeeaaaaah, there we go,” Mr. Ungerson lapped up my reaction. “Wild, right? That’s something really special. You’re a regular cowboy critic, Oscar. Ogata, what’s our man’s total?”
Ogata looked up from his jelly pyramids. Mr. Ungerson’s expression was withering. Ogata blinked in reply.
“The bounty. The bounty on Oscar’s head?” Ungerson’s bodyguard was silent, Ungerson leaned forward, hateful at having his big reveal disrupted.
“Ogata, what’s the current value, in Nu, on Oscar’s account?”
“1.5 million Nu?” Ogata asked. Imposing as he was, he appeared very tired.
“Yeah, that. Thanks for coming to the rescue big guy, remind me to miss your two ton ass next time I’m rounding up for trivia night,” Ungerson turned back to me with a friendly roll of his eyes.
“But he’s still dead on, Oscar. 1.5 million Nu, for ‘injury dealt to character, property, and mental well-being, as well as other crimes most heinous. Awarded to whoever can capture ‘Oscar Yasui’ fugitive from Martian justice, and return his person alive and with little harm to blah-blah, blah blah blah.”
I kept my face impassive. Ungerson snapped his fingers under my nose.
“Hey!” I met his eyes, “There we go. See, I’m active on both kinds of headhunting forums, but if you’ve got another bounty I haven’t heard about, I’m all ears, Oscar.”
I ignored him. “The Duke of New Caledonia?”
“High lord of Cancerdust Hill,” he responded. His eyebrows raised when he saw my grimace. “Yikes, then you do know. Look, you said it yourself on the buffer, the Duke’s one of those dramatic supervillain types. The kind of guy who will brick you up in his wine cellar.”
I was shocked, a little infuriated. “You listen to Gastronaut?” For a brief moment I considered the possibility that my listening audience consisted of everyone who despised me.
Mr. Ungerson idly stirred his fork across his plate, “Yeah, of course I listen to Gastronaut, I’m in the first episode, man.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m pretty busy with work and stuff, so I had a mid-grade interior intelligence cut out the fluff and punch up your writing a bit,” he paused, “aaand I switched your voice out for Ignacio Arturo since he does ‘deep register exposition’ better than you do. You should try it, I listened to all of season one in like, 45 minutes.”
Ungerson’s jab was well placed. That one hurt to hear.
“Ignacio Arturo?” I said, “From An Uncivilized War?”
Those of you in the audience who aren’t cinephiles, Arturo had died early at the age of 79 on the set of Meadows be Still from a massive stroke. As per his last will and testament, his estate ensured that his likeness couldn’t be immortalized into the typical interpolative artificial facsimile. The film Meadows be Still remains incomplete to this day. Mr. Ungerson had managed to obtain the ghost of a man who explicitly wished to leave no phantoms. At least Mr. Ungerson was a consistently wretched sociopath.
“Alright,” Ungerson groaned, rising to his feet, “let’s blow this pancake stand. If we drag this out any longer then you’ll start a second podcast about how unbelievable I am. And as great as that sounds, I’d really like my biography to be done by someone a little more talented,” a display rolled down his sleeve like water, and presented him with the receipt, plus a 20% tip. He considered it for a moment, then raised the tip to 35%, commenting “thanks for trying!” followed by a little winky face.
“Ogata!” Ungerson called out. Ogata’s hand reached out and grabbed my bicep. He stood, yawning, and I rose into the air, legs kicking out to find purchase against the floor tiles. From the doorway to the kitchen, I saw Valencia turn her head away from my terrified expression.
Mr. Ungerson crossed past the counter, striding for the door, joy in every step. “Let’s get you turned in and get me a mid-quarter bonus.”
Therevatti’s humidity blasted through the open door, the rain pattering down as it now constantly did. The road stretched out ahead of us, over flattened hills and filled valleys, towards the crown of lights that adorned Pau Pau station. Nearly a straight line, listeners. Out into the stars, then backwards, my forward progress devoured, returned to the custody of my least favorite dinner host in all the galaxy.
As you might have guessed, I found this absolutely fucking unacceptable. So I looked for alternatives.
Option the First: Fight Ungerson and Ogata. Lose. Ungerson hurt people as a hobby. Ogata hurt people for a living.
And, as my listeners continuously remind me, I am a slender nerd. If I tried to fight, I don’t think they’d harm me. It’s possible that Ogata might not realize my intentions. Ungerson would and Saints, would he laugh.
Option the Second: Call for help. Solid concept, but note that Ungerson had been playing with a firearm, in public, in an establishment that explicitly prohibited weapons, concealed or otherwise. Brightsail Security had not arrived. Good samaritans had not arrived. The most I’d gotten so far was a look of quiet sadness from our waitress. Ogata had my tablet, so I couldn’t call Polity.
So, for whatever the reason, no help was coming.
That just left the worst option on the menu.
“Ungerson!” I called out as we hit the street. “How about I treat you to a meal?”
Ungerson didn’t even slow down. His fingers tapped on the liquid screen of his jacket sleeve. “Yeah, gonna have to pass, but super cool of you to offer,” it sounded as if he was barely listening, “I’m still disappointed about your last pick, like, not to be mean or anything, but I think all this time out of the professional world has been murder on your tastebuds. But uh, y’know Thanks for providing me with a case study on what seven months of meal kits does to a guy, though, that was interesting.”
I tripped slightly, staggering to keep up with Ogata’s long legs.
“Sorry,” Ogata said. I ignored him.
“What about a real 10/10?” I said, “ What about something you’ll remember forever?”
Ungerson peered through the water, frowning, hand shielding himself from the rain. He perked up at the sight of an autocar skating towards us, water curtaining on either side of its wheels.
“Mmm, cute, but I’ve already been to Mercutio’s and Highball and, ugh, Calandaria. They’re fine, man, I don’t need to eat every menu item to know how solid they are. Besides, I just ate. I’ll grab dinner after the Nu hits my account, Ogata and I will pop open some champagne in your honor, promise.” The autocar rolled up, dark gray and marked with the logo of a small white sailboat on the doors. The first vehicle I’d seen in Pacheco that wasn’t a bus or armored car. The door scissored open, water dripping down across an entrance into a dark gray cabin, lit with an incongruous cheery yellow.
Ungerson shook his head at it. I swear he muttered something about deserving better upholstery than “gray polyester.” He swept his hand through his hair, a rough attempt to clear away the water. It made no difference.
“Alright Ogata, get him in before my scalp starts sporulating. Fucking Le Straud weather.”
Ogata hauled me forward like a disobedient child. There would be no clinging to the doorway, no making a fuss. I’d enter in one smooth motion.
“What about a place you’ve never been?” I babbled, “What about a place you’ve never heard of?”
Ungerson shoved his hands into his pockets. I was in the autocar now. It smelled as every rental has since cars were first rented. Ungerson squatted low, to eye level with me. “Oscar, I appreciate the hospitality but, and my therapist would bring up my trust issues, I still I can’t help but feel like you’re trying to play me. And I don’t want to play. I want to make a lot of money very quickly.”
“And you can,” I said, “We both know that the Duke isn’t ever going to change his mind. That bounty’s going to sit there forever. I’m alone, dozens of light years from Sol, on an alien planet in a city where I don’t speak the language. You can collect whenever.”
“Mmmmm,” Ungerson sucked air through his teeth, “Ehhhh, not forever. I’m technically still on call.”
“Sure, you can collect then,” I said. Ogata rolled the shoulder of the arm that held me. His look to Ungerson slowly crept from boredom to impatience.
“And when you collect, you’ll have the bounty, AND a list of restaurants nobody that matters has ever heard of,” I spluttered on rainwater, hair streaked across my face, “they can’t travel to Therevatti, to Le Straud regularly. Most of their companies are still negotiating with insurance networks, there’s too much risk.”
Ungerson sucked his cheek in, eyes narrowing, “and the smaller publications are too indie. Too niche.”
“Exactly,” I finished.
Ungerson was still for a moment. His tongue darted out and swept some rainstreaks from the corner of his lips. When Ogata cleared his throat, Ungerson snapped his hand at him like the mouth of a sockpuppet. He rubbed his temple, again. Finally, he clapped his hands and stood.
“Right, no, I can work with this. Let him go, Ogata,” Ungerson said.
Ogata stared at Ungerson like he really had sprouted mushrooms.
“Let him go, Christ-Allah, you’re rumpling his rainjacket… thing.”
Ogata released his grip, and I reflexively smoothed my arm. Ungerson fished in his suit jacket, his long fingers emerging with a small box of breath mints. He shook out two, offered me one. I declined and he snapped them up in a flash of perfect teeth.
“Wow me, Yasui. Let’s see what you’ve got..”
“What are the rules, Ungerson,” I asked, “how are we doing this?” I doubted he would let me set my own terms. The rain was constant, but I had seen worse with Polity in the outskirts.
“We go until we can’t, or until I don’t want to. If I don’t like the place, we hit the station. If something feels off, we hit the station. If you can’t think of a new place or you get tired or let’s say sick, we hit the station. And if I get called in to work-”
“I get it,” I said. Ogata grunted, fingers scraping together, knuckles glowing ever so slightly.
“Ungerson, I have to say-” Ogata began. Ungerson didn’t let him finish.
“Don’t be a rock, Ogata, don’t weigh me down, you’ll eat what we eat and you’ll make money doing it,” Ungerson gestured to the waiting vehicle, “I don’t have the patience to argue with a man who, I might add, I’m paying to follow me around. At least Oscar’s entertaining. Get in.”
Ogata’s eyes lit with the dim fury of a man trapped in a ferris wheel. The car pitched on its wheels as he got in, and the bodyguard returned to staring out the window, right ocular prosthetic twitching as he morosely trawled the buffer.
It was nice to know I wasn’t the only one in the vehicle held against my will. But, as Polity would say, “fuck em.”
The car sped into motion. Ungerson turned in the passenger seat, arm thrown over the headrest, “Alright, Oscar. Since you probably spent all of breakfast stewing over this little plan of yours, I’ll assume you’ve already got a place in mind,” the smile never left his face. “I’d really hope so, wouldn’t want to see you choke on your stall tactic.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” I replied, trying to keep my voice level through a dry mouth.
And we were off.
So, the situation then, listeners. Unlike the Duke of New Caledonia, Mr. Ungerson really did have a grasp on what made good food good. If the meal wasn’t to his standards, Ungerson would drug me into a coma and ship my skinny ass back to Mars–where I would be trapped forever. But if the meal was particularly excellent, then Ungerson would ensure the restaurant closed down to keep its memory all to himself. Just like he did at Cloudberry, the restaurant that got this podcast started.
A culinary high wire act, listeners. I’d consider it a fun challenge if my freedom wasn’t on the line. Again.
The autocar sped blessedly away from the center of the Pacheco Blue Zone, speeding towards the exterior gate, for the outskirts. As that great concrete demarcation came into view, Ungerson flicked his index finger up, and the vehicle slowed to idle. The gate towered above us, blistered with communications equipment and missile intercept hardware. Below its arch, last evening’s graveyard shift filed their way out through the security checkpoint, no doubt eager to rest, to get out of the rain. Ungerson considered, for a moment, then shook his head at the road.
“Nah, we’re not leaving the city. If I want to toss the outskirts for a good place, I’ll do it some other time,” he seemed to regret the chance to pursue the opportunity, “discard and draw, man.”
“No need,” I said, leaning forward and pointing near the gates. At the walls plumed heat exchangers, cycling waste heat for power. Columns of steam erupted from their surfaces, billowing in craggy towers from the pit-patter of precipitation. And among those heat exchangers, through the mist, lay a stall with a humming red neon sign. I couldn’t read it, but Polity had assured me that it displayed the name of the restaurant. We had come here hungry, through an early morning fog, catching each other when we would trip on hidden pipes and curbs. They had told me it was one of Pacheco’s worst kept secrets. They had said it made a good place to meet up if we ever got lost and couldn’t get back to the hotel.
Part of me hoped Polity would be standing there waiting for me. But no luck.
“Ah Tenda,” Ungerson murmured, eyes rolling over the sign, tongue probing at the corner of his lip.
“The travel blogs haven’t found it,” I said, “it’s out of the way, advertising is poor, and nobody cares about it but PriSec and the labor force.”
“I like where this is going already,” Ungerson said. “Let’s get in there.”
Ah Tenda was built out of prefabs, shipping containers, and well secured awnings. It crouched like a landed bird with a single wing outstretched, extended to shield patrons from the elements. Grey and blue tarp stretched across singing cables, dimpling under the wind, cradling delicious steam rich with citrus and oil. If, through the steam of the exchange you could see that wing outstretched, then Ah Tenda was open for business. If it was down, then the stove was cold. Polity said it was a way to see if you should seek shelter during extreme weather. Ah Tenda’s staff were a brave bunch; reputedly they stayed open during the Pau Pau Push. If THEY sought shelter, get off the streets.
Mr. Ungerson swept in, giving a small wave to the proprietor, Tenda Gashman. A man with sharp, slender features who Polity said would draw crowds even without the promise of incredible food. A man who looked like an A-lister hidden among extras, who caused Polity to blush with his very presence. His eyes locked to me instantly, dark and intense, looking between Ungerson and Ogata. He gave a wave with a cheery expression of customer service, tossed out a brilliant toothed greeting in Thetti which Ungerson returned with perfect fluency. We sat at the counter, watching little projections of fish and birds floating among each other on the awning above us.
The menu was laminated paper, the edges were worn to serration from how many hands had touched it over the years. I felt the sharpened ridges roll against the print of my thumb. Gashman busied himself behind the counter, giving us the time we needed to order.
“Starting cheap?” Ungerson winked, slowly dragging his nails across the bartop. Ogata sank onto a stool and took a deep pull through his nose, then grunted in satisfaction.
“Good start,” Ogata said, ever so slightly craning his neck to see the ingredients. Ungerson took note and joined him, freeing my attention to sort through an unfamiliar language on the menu.
There it was.
“What use is there taking you to a fancy place? You said already that Calendaria didn’t wow you, right?”
Ungerson nodded. I took the opportunity to continue.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but I’ll guess you’re already familiar with every high cuisine establishment in Pacheco,”
“I’m a busy guy, Oscar,” Ungerson said, “I’m not entirely free. Would be a gamble on your part though, if we’re shooting straight.”
“Exactly,” I said, “So we start here, with chicharrones from Ah Tenda.”
I paused for effect. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect Mr. Ungerson’s reply.
“Alright, cool. Let’s have ‘em.”
The high hsss of frying ingredients sounded out in the gap between our conversation. I turned the menu around, to face Gashman, pointed to the order Polity had pointed to last time. I tapped my finger on the letter “P,” traced it over to a yellow hexagon graphic in the corner, nearly glared at Gashman, willing him to notice. Polity had done work for him in the past, goddammit, they knew each other. Ungerson folded his arms behind his head, observed the coming and going of the patrons, like he always seemed to. He watched me out of the corner of his eye, reciting:
“Street food IS cuisine. Great food does not achieve greatness because of its stars, the stars are a celebration of its greatness,” he leaned forward, knocking twice on the table.
“The Dip and Dazzle. Which I wasn’t aware was something I did until you like, devoted a section of your indie podcast to it. Anyway, you’re putting together a whole song and dance,” he did a small juke back and forth for emphasis, “to get me to say that chicharones can’t be ‘real food.’ Because of classism or something?”
“Enough with the social commentary, Oscar, just put a meal in front of us.”
“I can’t speak Thetti,” I told Ungerson, “remember?”
Ogata craned his head, regarded me. Ungerson waved dismissively, “What he means is that he doesn’t speak Straad like the locals do. No worries, buddy, I got ya.”
He and Gashman spoke back and forth, Ungerson clearing each syllable with only one real stumble, the subject of the dish. He didn’t seem to notice, but Polity and I had been here enough times for me to be able to tell the difference. He said, “Sew-jer-ten” instead of “Sewj-ah-tuh.” It would be hypocritical to mock him. I made the same mistake the first few times until Polity corrected me.
Chicharrones, in case my listeners aren’t aware, are deep fried strips of meat, traditionally pork belly or skin. Crispy, not too oily, with a tender interior that stands in sharp contrast to the crunch of the outer layer. If you’ve had Kenneman’s Pork Bites, you’ve had a derivative of chicharrones, though Kenneman’s doesn’t use any form of meat in their product, much less actual pork.
Our meal arrived hot, with cheery curls in a basket, oil beading on wax paper. A companion of sauce sat in a pitcher, bright green and flecked with diced herbs and chilis. Guacachile; more examples of Therevattin cuisine and its ongoing love affair with garlic. Though who doesn’t love garlic? This sauce would add heat, flavor, and citrus to round out the meal.
Ungerson inspected his serving with the exacting eye of a jeweler. He even flexed it slightly in the light.
“Well that’s not pork,” he murmured without disgust.
“Is the green sauce spicy?” Ogata asked me. I nodded my head in reply.
“Mmm,” he sighed, pushing the small pitcher away.
Ungerson dollaped a bit of guacachile onto his portion, deep pull in through his nose. His cheeks reddening slightly with heat. He snapped the fingers of his right hand in a steady rhythm.
I bit into my own. Crisp, tender, but not the mild sweetness of pork. Instead there was a coolness with just the slightest base of salt. A sweetness of a different kind, the sweetness of the sea, of molluscs and shellfish.
“Octopus,” Ogata said simply, reaching for another. “Strange to find it all the way out here.”
He was dead on. Octopus. Nobody knows how Gashman manages to secure enough to run a business. Certainly, he doesn’t fish them up from the nearby rivers and lakes. Polity’s theory is that Ah Tenda has secured a deal with some kind of underground meat lab, which provides other businesses with flavors they wouldn’t have access to on an alien world. My opinion? Tenda Gashman is an evil genius of the nose, using local varieties of shellfish and careful chemical modulation of taste to accomplish his dark goals of flavor.
And yet, the sauce was too strong, too spicy, with a subtle grassiness that did more harm than good. It didn’t ruin the meal, just… it kept it from a five star affair. But I hoped it would prevent Ungerson from trying to annihilate Ah Tenda. And a genius is a genius besides. No other word describes the Sewjahtuh Chicharones. Like, really consider the skill on display here: A common mistake in chicharones is frying the meat too quickly in the oil, saving time to ensure faster return on product. Gashman slow fries his meat, then follows with a flash fry in a hotter set of oil. It’s a move of incredible confidence and skill; octopus tends towards being easy to cook into tough, almost cartilaginous slugs. His end product is heaven between the teeth. Consider the spices in the fry with the peppers and citrus in the sauce, and you’ve got magic.
“Yup-yup-yup,” Ungerson said, wiping his mouth off with a napkin. “Good start, Oscar. Consider this round of tasting survived.” He flashed a thumbs up. Ogata leaned forward, barely audible over the other diners as he quietly thanked our cook, first in Japanese, then in Sol Standard. Gashman returned his compliments with a crook of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile.
The day carried on like that, until it became evening, until it became day again. The rain surged, abated, and renewed. I saw rainbows at dawn and stormclouds at night. I saw twelve different menus. I kept a running tally of fonts, formats, and flavors in my head. Every meal was a juggling act. Engaging Ungerson was critical, but I had to constantly evaluate where to go next. If we weren’t eating, we were ordering. If we weren’t ordering, we were already in motion to the next location on my list. And that list was shrinking at a rate I hadn’t guessed was possible.
Ungerson had stepped away, left me under Ogata’s guard while he chatted with some mercenaries from Brightsail Colonial. Their boss gave Ungerson a polite smile that barely crept into the corners of his emerald green eyes, but the other mercenaries kept Ungerson at a distance. A few threw glances my way, commented in low voices. Notably, Ungerson did not show these men and women either of his firearms.
If I wanted to, I could refrain from eating. I often did, in an attempt to slow the hemorrhaging of my account. Mr. Ungerson would accept whatever I’d order for him but it wasn’t like I could just keep the man satisfied with breadsticks and polite conversation. After he returned, mid way through the second night, he caught me lurching, my eyelids heavy, my mouth open, trying to grind thoughts past fatigue.
“Uh oh… you’re not getting tired, are you, Oscar? Starting to feel the evenings? Or is this just a little food coma?”
I had spent a lot of time watching the back of his head as we traveled. A lot of time wondering if I could steal a fork from an establishment and thrust it into where his hair parted. During one of those long, murderous glances, I had noticed the seam.
“You’re augged,” I said. Ungerson put some local gumbo on his tongue and smacked it against the roof of his mouth. It was a solid batch, well seasoned, but the ingredients were in a battle for dominance with no clear winner. Ungerson nodded with enthusiastic frustration at another almost but not quite perfect dish.
“Oh yeah, absolutely, augs are almost essential, I mean, nobody says you gotta but you better believe I’m going to get my fuckin’ buffs.”
I had always thought Ungerson was just on stimulants like everyone else up the corporate ladder. The old work and play mentality. I wanted to ask more but… a trick you learn in journalism is to know when to keep quiet and let the other person talk.
“Brain and skull, neurochem and hardware, sleep cycler like ah, Ogata you’re a freak for fish, what’s the special dolphin name?”
“Cetaceans,” Ogata said bluntly, visibly enjoying his shikanji , swirling the acerbic beverage between massive gleaming fingers.
“Blammers, and just like that he’s back on the trivia team. It’s derived from the ‘graduation cap’ rigs grad students and pre-meds like to get, just better in basically every way. I don’t dream of fucking dentagel commercials for one, poor kids.”
It took me a few moments to realize his face held a pursed lip expression of pity. His cheeks seemed to tremble with the effort.
“Yeah, anyway, I sleep like, once every two weeks. Spikes my caloric intake like you wouldn’t believe, and y’know, cognitive dialysis is a bitch, but Oscar, you’ve got my full attention twenty four hours a day, baby.”
He saw me fight to keep from gritting my teeth. His smile was perfect, carnivorous ivory.
“Y’see,” he leaned in, like he was sharing a secret, “I’m impressed you’ve kept up this long, I’m even happy to give you the extra time, so long as you’re paying, but Oscar, man, I don’t want you getting any false hope here.”
He rested a hand on my shoulder, sent some of that misaligned pity my way, “It’s a pretty sweet rig. Gives me more time for hobbies, frees up my evenings. I don’t wanna say ‘sleep is slavery’ like an Ascendite but-”
“Kyoto,” I growled.
Ungerson stopped himself, “What? The city?”
“The Global Food Gather, Kyoto, Japan. I was 29, freshly hired by Palladium, both myself and about six other intern content liaisons. We had to cover the entire event.”
Ungerson turned to Ogata. Ogata shrugged, “It was a nice event,” he said evenly.
“Great for both of you,” Ungerson said.
“Not my point,” I cut in. “We had to cover every booth, as many panels as possible, and the entire city’s culinary response. I wasn’t a drink and cocktail specialist, so I had to crawl through as many venues as possible, eating nearly my weight in food.”
I was glaring at Ungerson now, and he and Ogata shared a small unspoken conversation. “It was naked winnowing. Palladium’s staffers and editors and pencil pushers wanted to evaluate their new crop of manpower,” I raised four fingers and thrust them into Ungerson’s face. “Four. Days. Four days of nonstop eating. Maybe two hours of sleep, stolen in mag trains and autocars, or the occasional bar counter.”
Ungerson was starting to nod along, intense expectation filling his eyes,
“Okay,” he said, grinning.
“Your… Brain kit. Ain’t. Shit.” I spat at him.
Ungerson whooped. It would have startled me if I wasn’t absolutely livid, “Here I thought I was just playing with you, but fucking A Oscar, nobody told me you actually considered yourself anything resembling a goddamn competitor,”
He fumbled in his pockets, long fingers emerged holding something glittering like fire. He tossed his corpo credit card on the table between us. His face was pink, and he had the savage glee of a football hooligan who had just found a brickbat.
“Fucking game on, Oscar! This one’s on me, hell, let’s have the next ten be on me. I wanna see you fly, you long winded fake shy prick!”
I did not smile in return. As insulting as his words were, they rang with an unmistakable pride.
“Nah,” I flicked the card forward, “keep your Nu. I said I’d pay. I’m paying.”
Ungerson’s smile threatened to split his head apart. “What? Are you sure?”
I nodded, and he slipped the card back into his jacket with a small flourish. “Well, Oscar, uh…let it be said that you’ve got some serious glint under fire. Either you’re cocky–you think you’re walking away–which I’d love to see, or clearly you’re under the impression that you’re not going to need money anymore, which…” He paused, laughing, “I mean, it’s at least an introspective take.”
I seethed about draining my accounts, but purchases were the only way anyone could track where we were. Polity and I had managed to keep our purchase history completely clean since we arrived on Therevatti. I only hoped that they would be scraping the buffer for any info they could find on me. All these digital receipts would shine like roadside flares. I scanned the crowd for them. For a flash of yellow, for glinting eyes and the tapping of ragged nails.
They had to be looking. My hope outweighed my doubts. They had to be.
The last place we visited was a tapas location by the name of Silverfish, home of the micro empanada stuffed with local olive analogues. Its sign displayed a projection of a river of little bewhiskered fish, Therevatti natives I think, swimming in formation. The food was under seasoned, but only just so. I was beleaguered, ears buzzing with fatigue, one eye always shut or nearly shut. I was stretching what little energy and funds I had left. Ungerson looked like he could do a backflip and then go on to run a mile.
He sat back with a heavy sigh. This behavior had increased in frequency at each meal’s conclusion, becoming something like a punctuation mark–announcing satisfaction and, shortly, that I would need to scrape together a new location for us to visit. He was insatiable. The venue list I carried in my head was becoming threadbare, exhausted.
“Oscar…” Ungerson started, letting his words trail off. I raised my bloodshot eyes to him, kept my chin up as I spoke, even as every limb on my frame sagged.
“The next place doesn’t have a name, but I still remember the address. Should be a great compliment to the empanadas if you’re alright with ice cream with a twist.” I rolled my shoulders, worked my tongue to get spit back into my dry mouth. The organ felt bloated with fatigue. Flavors were like stone bludgeons. I craved plain oatmeal, water, gruel. My head felt awkward, swollen. It felt like I was going to float away, a bulbous balloon man.
Ungerson was having a think, knee jerking up and down beneath the table.
“You’re just… you’re really something else, man. I’m sitting across from you and fuck, I don’t know what to find more impressive. That you’re still upright after three days of this, or that you still keep managing to pull an entire restaurant out of your ass.”
Ungerson watched the crowd, head tilted like a dog hearing something out of the human range. A single laugh slipped softly from his lips.
“This place… Y’know, I never would have given a hole like this single thought. I know you’ve got Le Straud’s colonial nature working for you and all, that the cuisine scene hasn’t caught up but… Saints askance, you’re acting like you arrived here with a guide.”
A flash of terror. That he somehow knew about Polity, that even a potential rescue was just part of humiliating me. That he’d somehow set all this up to drag Polity into custody as well. I knew people were looking for them; they had a bounty of their own.
Ogata lifted his head to regard Ungerson. The knot of synthetic muscle that had formed above his jaw’s anchors had not shrank. His eyes seemed to burn as he stared at his charge, but Mr. Ungerson paid him no mind. Ungerson leaned in with an expression I’d never encountered in all my life: a sneer of admiration rested on his lips.
“It took me weeks to track down Cloudberry. Weeks of just… buffer scrolling. Me and two internal intelligences combing reviews and running them through trend sniffers and zietscopes and a thousand other algorithms with pissy little adnames,” his sneer melted into resignation, and he collapsed back into his seat, eyes towards the ceiling.
“Fuck. Me. Man,” Ungerson whispered, “Palladium screwed the proverbial pooch letting you slide out the door.”
I gripped the table, half in anger, half to keep myself from collapsing from sleep deprivation.
“Yeah, well,” I slurred, “I imagine someone was leading the charge to get me fired,”
Ungerson raised an eyebrow, then gave a little chuckle. Which leaked into a snigger, then gave way to a voluminous laugh. His smile shone through, somehow without the malice it typically carried. For a moment, he didn’t have a care in the world. By the end of his display he was wiping a tear from his eye. Ogata’s hand cracked a salt shaker he was using to season the last bite of his empanada.
“Careful there, buddy,” Ungerson said to his bodyguard.
“Of course, sir,” Ogata rumbled.
Ungerson filled his lungs before he spoke again,
“Yeah, guilty,” he said, barely containing gleeful malice. His tone dropped, and he became slightly more somber before he continued, “I mean, ugh, I got kind of nervous staking my claim on Cloudberry and all. Thought you might race to beat me there, first time I’d really been up against anybody from inside the industry, y’know?”
I did not respond. My teeth were locked behind closed lips, molar against molar, grinding enamel like a mill. Ungerson took notice.
“Whoa, whoa, wait, I just asked some folks to slow you down, really,” he raised his eyebrows, “No, really, I’m being serious, quit it with the death stare, fuck.” he smiled, teeth glinting, “I feel terrible,” he laughed, “like, I’m sitting here wracking my brain for some way to make it up to you.”
“You could let me go,” I replied.
“Yeah,” Ungerson sighed, “yeeeaaaaah. I could just let you go,” his face grew serious as he considered. “Damn, that’s the moral thing to do, right? The 1.5 million Nu apology. I kind of like the ring of that.”
My spine tickled in my back. Ungerson clapped his hands.
“I’ll… I’ll give it some thought. How’s that sound?” he said.
For a moment there was silence, save for the other patrons. Dishes on dishes. The kitchen steaming away another excellent meal.
“Sounds like a fucking lie,” I hissed. Ungerson frowned, shrugged his shoulders, ready to pour pathos my way.
“Oscar, cmon, man. It’s 1.5 million Nu. Have a little empathy here, will you? Nobody in or out of the Sol System is going to let that go.”
My right elbow trembled with terrible violence. Ogata gave a sullen glance to the knife and fork at my side, evaluating his reflexes against mine.
There was a persistent buzz from Ungerson’s left wrist and he clicked his tongue with dissatisfaction. “Oh, damn it,” he grumbled, swiping through a fresh column of messages. “Sisterfucking swamp pricks, Ogata, we gotta get ready to go.”
Ogata stretched, exhaled. Ungerson gently shook his head at the screen on his wrist.
“Brightsail is shitting themselves over this two mile strip of quagmire, vacation’s over, I gotta go back to the office. This? This was a lot of fun though, and I gotta say, wow I sound like such a softie, I’m really gonna miss you.”
Fear leapt up in my heart. “Ungerson I still have a few-” He held a single finger to his lips.
“A-buh-buh-buh! No,” he said, “I gotta put my foot down. See I’m not built like you are, I actually want to keep my job, yeah? Ogata.”
“Finally,” he grunted, grabbing me so roughly that I felt like my shoulder was going to collapse into a singularity. Bones scratched bones.
“Let’s go!” Ungerson sang out, and I was dragged up and out from the table, “seriously appreciate the recommendations though, I’m absolutely following up with these places some other time,” he panned his view across the crowd, took in the air, calculated the demographics of the patrons. “Hell, probably sooner than later at this rate, gotta get a jump on the tourists, right?”
Through the waver and murk of my exhaustion, hatred ignited and coiled itself, hissing, around the cartilaginous ribs of my trachea. Hate and grief. None of the places I had chosen were perfect, each had some flaw that should have been their rescue from Ungerson’s interests. But either his bar had sank or his malice had grown. He talked as if he intended to ruin them anyway. It was going to happen again. In buying myself time, I was selling the safety of others. Like I had done with Rufus and Kali. Like I had done with Sad-Eyed Girl.
This was unacceptable.
“That’s not going to be possible,” I said, fingers groping, unconsciously trying, and failing, to detach Ogata’s fingers from around my skeleton.
“Uh-huh,” Ungerson was flicking his finger through his sleeve display, “very cool, glad to see you’re keeping your dignity.”
“I’ve recorded all of this,” I grunted, heels kicking against the ground. More than a few patrons had noticed how I was being treated, but others were quick to wave them away. Spacers hurting Spacers. Not worth getting arrested or shot over. Ungerson raised his hand, Ogata stopped, breathing heavily. It wasn’t like he was tired, he swung me around one handed, like a child’s least favorite stuffed animal.
“So, great bluff, but first, I’m arresting a fugitive, which is a public service, and second,” he listed each point off on his fingers, “Ogata was thankfully professional enough to take your Peregrine away, so… you don’t have fucking... anything.” He pushed his finger against me, manicured nail grinding between my eyebrows.
“I don’t just record on my Peregrine,” I said, hunched beneath Ogata’s grip. “I’ve got other devices you never even bothered to check for,” my turn to push an animal grin, “I’m rocking that prison tech, Mr. Ungerson, I’ve got shit recording where the rain doesn’t fall, and I’ve got it updating every solar week. Now look me in my eye and tell me I’m lying. Watch me blink!”
Ungerson held my gaze for a moment. I channeled the steely glances of three dozen action heroes. My face burned with the effort. Ogata shifted from one foot to the other. A few patrons were starting to stir, starting to talk a bit more. If I had been dragged out in a rush, then we would be a curiosity. But now we were causing a scene. Ungerson’s eyes darted from me to the crowd, to Ogata. He narrowed his eyes, asked an unspoken question. Ogata seemed to count the other patrons, confirmed the exits.
He shook his head, no.
“Maybe you care if people know you dragged me around for three days torturing me with sleep deprivation,” I continued, “maybe you care that Brightsail gets on your back for making a scene. I don’t know.”
I leaned in, as best I could while wedged in an alloy grip.
“But I know you’ll care if I announce the names and locations of each of these restaurants to all my followers. Tourists, foodies, traveling types, there’s even some industry folks that shadow me, trying to skim content for larger, better articles. How many places have we been to, Ungerson? How fast can you close each one down?”
Ungerson’s expression melted right off his face. Collapsing into that same, untroubled gaze of total neutrality. Just as it had done at Cloudberry. He snapped his fingers once, and motioned for the door.
“Right then, have it your way Oscar,” he said, voice a near monotone, “we’re going to sort this issue out real quick. Let’s go.”
Ogata wasn’t gentle, I was dragged from the building, towards an empty lot soaked with rain, I felt a sense of relief, listeners.
Ungerson had bought my lie.
A few moments later, Ogata set me against the wall of an apartment complex. Trash crushed beneath his boots, into the small of my back. Again, Ungerson had contrived to wedge me between dumpsters. I actually felt affronted, was he trying to tell me something?
“Search him,” Ungerson waved, face blank, but hand pushing up through his stark white hair, his expensive shoe tapping with piston like rhythm.
“My contract doesn’t permit cavity searches, sir,” Ogata said with a deadpan of such ferocity, I thought the rain would explode into steam. Ungerson rounded on him,
“Great, awesome, very, very helpful, scan him for fucking signals!”
“I have,” Ogata said, unfazed, “nothing outbound.”
“Well, you haven’t exactly been on your A-game the last three days, so forgive me if I ask that you scan him again.”
Ogata closed his eyes, intoned, “ich, ni, san, shi.”
“Hey big guy, can I get an ‘affirmative’ or something?”
Ogata did not respond. He stood with his eyes closed, shoulders tensed. Occasionally, I saw a slight twitch thrill through his knuckles.
Ungerson charged at him, lifting a bony leg and slamming it home against the small of Ogata’s massive back.
“Hey! I’m fucking talking to you!” Ungerson shouted.
And, to both of our surprise, Ogata, all six feet and ten inches of him, tottered forward into the garbage. His chin ricocheted off the lip of a dumpster in a brief shower of sparks, his shoulder colliding with a trashbag with such force, that the thing exploded into a burst of foul smelling leftovers.
Ungerson staggered forward, losing his balance. He, like anyone, probably expected his foot to glance right off his bodyguard. Honestly, I’d be surprised if a speeding car could do anything to displace Ogata’s well armored physique.
“What?” Ungerson choked, “I don’t… what?”
On the ground, Ogata’s eyelids flickered, the orbs beneath staring at nothing in particular. One pupil had grown to nearly consume the whole of his black iris, while the other dilated and contracted unhealthily. His legs kicked behind him, scattering a small wake of trash at his heels. He did not rise from where he lay on his belly.
I dove for Ogata, for where my tablet was slipped into his Faultless Dynamics Series V Tactical Jacket. For the second time in three days, Ungerson pulled his gun on me.
“No, nuh-uh,” Ungerson shook his head, inclining the gun in a gesture for me to return. I could hear the weapon adjusting as its microgryos adjusting themselves, adapting to his movements. Water slid down the grip, dripped off its magazine. “I’m not sure how you managed this, but you aren’t moving an inch.”
Far behind Ungerson, a flash of yellow stalked forward. Polity stowed a small, blunt antennaed device into a holster at their hip. I willed myself not to look. Ungerson wasn’t smiling now. His hair was soaked through, his jaw was wired. But his gun did not shake, did not divert from my chest.
“Congrats, Oscar,” Ungerson said, “you’ve effectively illustrated the dangers of playing with your food.”
Behind Ungerson, Polity hefted something, as quietly as they could, then began to make slow, even creeps towards his back. Ungerson hadn’t noticed yet.
Listeners, if there is one thing I learned in journalism, sometimes it’s best to be quiet and let the other person talk.
“You see,” Ungerson continued, “now we’ve got a real fucking fork in front of us. Because I’m split between getting my money or putting a 7mm deadmetal round through all your award show memories.”
Polity was close now, their bright yellow jacket haloed in the rain.
“But see,” Ungerson said, a little grin forming on his face, “the thing that separates me from your average goon,” his eyes flicked to the chrome metal mirror of Ogata’s fingers. Where Polity stood, their reflection small and warped.
“Is I’m not an idiot!” he crowed, whirling around like a gunslinger, barrel of his weapon pointed directly at Polity’s stomach, catching them as they wound up to swing a section of corroded pipework.
A few things happened very quickly then.
Ungerson pulled the trigger. A small red light flickered on the back of the gun. Ungerson’s ferocious sneer of triumph, for one second, melted into wide eyed shock. Polity’s eyes were the only feature on their face that was smiling.
They swung their pipe with all the force their arms could muster. They didn’t say anything witty, they didn’t roar, they didn’t even grunt. Just a perfect arcing blur of rust red that terminated with a meaty thump against Ungerson’s left arm. He sprawled into the trash, cheek smashed against the same rotting fruit rinds that had spilled from Ogata’s tumble. His jacket stained red with moldering pomperri juice. By instinct, he tried to push up with his forearm, hand still clenching his defective gun.
Polity ran forward, bent their knees, and struck Ungerson three times in the back with their pipe. Each impact reverberating off his vertebrae, sounding his chest cavity, leaving him gasping and writhing in the trash.
“Oscar,” Polity cried out, breathing heavy from exertion. They kicked Ungerson’s gun, sending it skidding beneath a dumpster, they threw the pipe aside with a clatter, “are you alright?”
I yelled for Polity, fingers fumbling at the latch of my Twinnon Peregrine, reaching for the knife hidden inside, “He has a second-”
Ungerson’s arm came up from his jacket, a five shot revolver clasped in his hand. Polity froze.
Two pops. Tinny sounding crashes that echoed off the walls of the apartment complex. It sounded nothing like the movies.
Polity toppled backwards, knees bent high, propped up on one hand, the other clutching their ribs. Ungerson got to his feet, lifted his pistol, formed a perfect line between his right eye, the revolver’s barrel, and Polity’s rising chest.
They made a high breathy noise in their throat, nothing but air and vowels. I lunged forward, knife in hand. Something caught around my ankle, I fell.
One final pop. Polity pitched to the side, toppled, curled half fetal, lay still.
“Fuck me,” Ungerson breathed, wincing around his injuries, “fuck! Ogata, you good?”
Ogata rose from where he lay, massive hand clasped around my ankle. He drew me back like a bowstring, opposite hand crushing around my wrist, and the small knife it held. I dangled in the air like a two string marionette. I couldn’t take my eyes off Polity’s body. The wind ruffled their jacket. Made it appear as if they were breathing.
“What’s he got there, huh?” Ungerson held his revolver low at his side. He wiped a rivulet of blood from a skinned chin. “What’s he got in his hand?”
The revolver twitched up for a moment. Ungerson’s eyes were wild.
Ogata adjusted his grip, scrutinized the knife Eldest Sister had gifted me. His bright white pupils trailed up the edge of the blade. The color drained from my world.
“Burner phone,” Ogata said.
I didn’t understand. I still don’t entirely understand. But that’s what he said.
“Yeah?” Ungerson said.
“Yeah,” Ogata said.
“Okay. Okay. Give it here.”
Ogata looked at me. Looked past me, at the surrounding apartment windows. He sniffed once, at the air and the rain. He shifted his feet a few inches in either direction, probably did a few ballistic calculations. Then he turned in a tight circle, converting the world into a violent blur of color, and he threw me a story into the air, through the sliding door of a nearby apartment.
My shoulder hit first, probably broke when the glass did. I barely had time to register that I was airborne. One moment I was with Ogata, and the next, I was lying on a bed of broken glass, bleeding from a dozen freshly made gashes. The pain was bright and clear and terrible. My ears struggled to make out what I heard below.
Ungerson was apoplectic, his voice rising to a pitch that cracked the edges of his usual silk and venom.
“What are you doing?” he cried out. Ogata’s footsteps thumped through the drizzle. His voice seethed.
“Point that thing somewhere else, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Embarassing-” Ungerson choked on his words, “I might just fucking shoot you in the head!”
“Feel free,” Ogata said, “but pull that trigger and my defense contract is rendered null,”
Ogata’s voice dropped, he whispered something. I only made out the words “...there won’t be anything left to prosecute.”
“Alright, alright, I’m just… I’m just a bit heated, okay?” Ungerson caved, “just words, big guy, nothing to get all bent out of shape over.” I could hear him rustling in his clothes. There was the sound of the dumpster being dragged, suddenly and violently.
“Your gun,” Ogata said.
“Thanks, thanks,” Ungerson replied. “And uh… also, uh… thanks for the assist back there. I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for… for throwing him, right? Just uh… fuck… climb up there and get him. I think we can up your cut of the bounty from two percent to seven after this, maybe get you some firmware updates.”
Ogata didn’t respond. Ungerson cleared his throat.
“Hey,” Ungerson said, “cmon, let’s get moving, this isn’t the frontier, someone’s gonna call those shots in.”
“I’m resigning as your bodyguard,” Ogata said.
“What?” Ungerson asked, “No, goddammit you shiteater, you’re not strong-arming me here, not now,” he was cut off by a scream of imploding metal. The building shook and windows rattled. Concrete dust sifted down from the ceiling, stuck to my bloody limbs like fresh fallen snow. I cowered beneath my arms, I imagined the building collapsing.
“This isn’t a negotiation, Ungerson,” despite his display, Ogata’s voice was even, “I’ve gladly taken your Nu up until now, but these last three days have been little but sadistic, brainless, hedonistic excess. I don’t expect you to possess the capacity to care, but the executable that was injected into my implants could have rendered me vegetative. I’m washing my hands of this endeavor. Legal will be in touch within the next two solar standard business days. Collect Oscar’s body yourself.”
Heavy footfalls departed the lot, then Ungerson’s voice rang out, growing fainter with distance.
“Ogata, wait, hold on!”
And then there was only the tip tap of rain. I hauled myself back to my feet, pushed out into the air, into the smell of slick concrete and rotten food waste. I pushed myself over the railing, lowered myself as far as I could go, and landed, knees shrieking, on the roof of a dumpster.
Polity lay in the exact pose they had curled into when Ungerson had shot them. Their limbs did not stir. Their hair drooped across their face, nearly concealed by their hood. The skin on their fingers was ashy, robbed of its usual blushy warmth.
I limped over, kneeled at their side. I shook them. My hand came away sticky. There was no hidden vest, no illusion or magic trick. Awful holes had been dug through the person I cared for.
I put my ear to their chest. Nothing. I clumsily held my fingers to their neck. They were warm and still, but I couldn’t find a pulse. I pulled their red smeared jacket open, apologized, and rolled up their shirt. I put my ear to their bare skin. I pinched my eyes shut.
“Please,” I murmured, one word flowing into the same word, flooding out of me, “please please please please.”
Thin and reedy, a whining gasp from inside their chest. A heartbeat, panicked and frail. The sound frightened me more than Ungerson’s gun.
I slipped my arms beneath Polity’s legs, I hauled their body over my shoulders, head lolling towards the ground. I bled from cuts that glittered with micro shards of glass.
My heart thundered in my chest. Loud enough for both of us. I fled for the Pacheco Blue Zone’s exterior gates.
Already, I could hear the call of distant sirens.
For Gastronaut, I’m Oscar Yasui signing off.