Cyber Dreams 4.11 - Badhammer

And here's today's installment! I hope you enjoy this little setup to the next bit of the plotline. Let me know what you think.

Also, thank you very much to those of you who have helped me get Electric Angel off to a good start on Audible and Kindle! My fingers are crossed, hoping it does well over there. It seems cyberpunk is a little harder to sell than fantasy in this genre.

Anyway, thanks again, enjoy, and I'll see you tomorrow with another Victor of Tucson chapter.

Cheers,

Plum

Io Station was so large that Juliet felt like she was walking around in a city, not on a space station. True, the buildings weren’t something you’d see on Earth or even Luna; they were shorter, for one, and universally made of plasteel, though Diamatex, the same crystal-clear, super-strong material used in most dome construction, was ubiquitous. She saw it overhead, providing a view of the Jovian System, but also in shop windows, viewports, and pretty much anywhere something much cheaper, like plastiglass, would have sufficed. Io Station hadn’t been constructed with a shoestring budget.

The walkways were designed for pedestrians with a lane for electric bikes, scooters, and other contraptions like one-wheels, motorized shoes, and wheeled cybernetic implants. Juliet was content to walk, taking in the scenery, the people, and the views through the vaulted ceiling that exposed the lurking, orange-toned giant, Jupiter. From the current position of the station and Juliet’s location within, the great planet was the only celestial body visible.

When she first departed the cruise liner, she was caught up in a throng of tourists, forced to listen to their exclamations, plans, questions, and general chatter. As she made her way deeper into the central spindle of the station, though, she began to see more and more of the native populace. It was strange to her to think of people living permanently in a place like that, a plasteel city floating in space around a giant planet and its moons where more permanent settlements had been built.

Even stranger than their choice to live out there were the augments some space-faring citizens boasted. She saw everything from oxygen ports on necks to temperature-resistant epidermal treatments that made a person’s skin look almost like colored plastic. Juliet even saw members of the so-called “spacer” culture, descendants of people who’d gone through gene therapy to make living in low-G environments easier. They’d bravely populated the distant reaches of the system before AIs had conquered the mysteries of gravity generation. The spacers were easy to spot; they were tall, with skeletally thin frames and impossibly long limbs. In a way, Juliet felt sorry for them, but they seemed to get along fine there on the station, and she supposed they fared even better on the smaller stations, asteroids, and moons around the system, those without permanent gravity solutions.

Juliet glanced at her clock and saw she had about twenty minutes before she was supposed to meet Alice’s friend, Nick. He’d set up the meeting based on her transport’s public arrival time, and she felt like she was supposed to impress him, so she couldn’t really argue. Still, she wasn’t keen on going to a club carrying her backpack at nearly ten at night. She’d have liked to find some lodging, drop off her gear, and maybe change her clothes. “Oh well. If he wants me to have to deal with a bouncer, explain away my pack and my gun, then it’s on him if there’s some kind of scene.”

“A good outlook. If they won’t let you in, then we can message him, and he’ll be the one to look sheepish when he has to come outside.”

“Right on, Angel.” Juliet shifted her pack’s straps; they weren’t uncomfortable atop her motorcycle jacket, but she was starting to feel too warm, some sweat building up where they pressed into her shoulders. She wore her vibroblade under her sleeve, but her needler was openly displayed on her belt; the laws regarding personal weapons on the station were pretty liberal—a license was required, but all that took was filling out a form with your identity, passing a cursory, automated background check, and paying a hundred bits. No explosive rounds or calibers that might damage the Diamatex were allowed, but that meant that just about everything a non-augmented human could carry was permitted.

She walked quickly, shouldering past slower walkers, people who were strolling aimlessly or who had a naturally lackadaisical pace. As she followed Angel’s directions, Juliet reached up and pulled her thick, dark hair away from her neck, securing it with a tie into a high ponytail. The air hitting her sweaty neck felt good, and she briefly contemplated going with a shorter hairstyle. “Especially if I’m going to be wearing an EVA suit a lot . . .”

“You missed the turn.” Angel flashed a red arrow on her AUI, indicating a turn to her right. Juliet stopped, got bumped into by a woman who barked something in a language she didn’t understand, then turned to find herself in a plasteel alley littered with bits of refuse. The narrow space between buildings was illuminated by neon arrows pointing toward a right-angle turn to the left about forty meters ahead.

“Not at all foreboding.” The thump of bass rumbled through the ground, vibrating the soles of her feet as she made her way forward. “You think the businesses nearby like having their walls vibrate all the time?”

“The club doesn’t open until nine PM.”

“Right.” Juliet turned the corner and found herself in another narrow alley. Fifty meters further on, at the end of it, she could see a flashing, pink neon sign that spelled out, on two lines, “Bad-Hammer.” A dozen people were lined up, waiting for the bouncer to look them over and let them in . . . or not. Juliet sighed when she saw the club-goers; they were scantily dressed in tight, faux leather pants or see-through garments that revealed garishly colored and illuminated underclothes. They wore dancing shoes, had colorful hair, lots of exposed flesh, and they most definitely were not carrying any backpacks.

She stepped up to the back of the queue, scowling at the young man with spiky green hair who turned to raise a silver studded eyebrow at her. He smirked and turned away, and Juliet could hear him mutter something to the girl in front of him about an “old lady.” She had the urge to wrap an arm around his neck and choke him out. Sighing, blowing her tension out with a pent-up breath, she watched as the bouncer, a tall, clean-shaven man with a bald head, ran a wand over each would-be partygoer, letting them through. When she stood before him, he paused and gave her a head-to-toe once-over.

He folded his arms on his bulky chest, archly looking down at her. “Sure you’re in the right place?”

“Just got off a transport, and I’m supposed to meet a guy here.” Juliet shrugged, hooking her thumbs under the straps of her pack, taking some weight off her shoulders.

“We don’t allow weapons, but I’ve got lockers here. Not sure your pack will fit.” He jerked his thumb to the side where a stand of battered, purple-painted lockers leaned against the alley wall. They were plastered with stickers advertising concerts, energy drinks, and clothing labels. Two hung off loose hinges, but most seemed in decent working order.

“My pack definitely won’t fit.”

“If you set it by the wall there, I can try to keep an eye on it.” He returned her earlier shrug.

“I’ll take it with me.”

“Nah, I’m not having you walk around in there with a backpack. We have an image . . .”

“Dammit,” Juliet groused, then she walked over to the lockers, not wanting to hold up the line and be the center of attention any longer than necessary. She opened one, scraped out some scraps of paper and a crumpled drink container, then put her knife, pistol, and extra magazine inside. Her pack was too fat to fit on top of them, but she opened the zipper and started pulling out garments, stacking them atop her weapons. After she’d half emptied it, she was able to stuff the backpack into a second locker, placing her helmet on top. She slammed both lockers shut and pressed her thumb to the biometric locks.

“All right,” she announced, stepping up to the bouncer, cutting in front of a young woman with neon green and blue face paint. The line had grown while she’d been standing in it, and she didn’t intend to start in the back again.

“Excuse me?” the girl asked, her voice high but not necessarily unpleasant.

“Sorry.” Juliet shrugged, and then the bouncer waved his wand over her, gave her a nod, and gestured her through, perhaps trying to forestall something unpleasant. Juliet turned her attention to the swinging, pink plasteel doors and pushed her way between them. She was immediately inundated with the thump of music, and though she was in a short, litter-strewn entry hall, she could see the flashing strobes timed with the beat beyond the next set of doors. She walked past two sweaty patrons, one leaning against the wall, looking like she was about to throw up, and the other gently stroking her hair. Then she pushed through the second set of doors and was engulfed by the music, lights, and smells.

“I’m filtering most of the volume and compensating for the brighter strobes.”

“Thanks,” Juliet said, not bothering to subvocalize in the din. The club smelled like sweat, caramel, liquor, and fruit-flavored vapes. She didn’t particularly enjoy the mixture, and, for the first time in a while, she started to contemplate getting some olfactory augmentations. “How am I supposed to find this guy in a place like this?” The club was jammed with people moving about frenetically. Some areas were filled with people dancing to the beat, others were standing-room-only with people gathered close, drinking cocktails and shouting conversations over the electronic dance music.

“He said the bar if that helps.”

“Yeah.” Juliet frowned, looking away from the dance floor area to where people were jammed into a dim, blue-lit space, standing around drinking. Beyond the initial crowd, she spied some tall, slender tables surrounded by stools and figured if someone were waiting for her to talk to, they’d probably have snagged one of those. She wound her way through the clusters of drinking, yelling, and sometimes dancing people, glad she’d worn her long-sleeved jacket; they were all drenched with sweat.

She scanned the crowd constantly, and when she broke through the larger part of it and focused on the tables, Angel was quick to highlight one near the back wall, right next to an emergency exit. “There he is.”

“Got it.” Juliet pushed her way to the table, pleased and surprised to see that an empty stool sat across from the man she was meant to meet. Nick Grant looked to be in his thirties, probably around the same age as Alice, and he didn’t look like he belonged in the “punk bar” any more than Juliet did. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt with a collar, faded jeans, and, amazingly, worn, scuffed cowboy boots. His skin was tan and weathered, and his short, black hair was combed back from his face. She couldn’t see his eyes; they were focused on a tablet that sat on his table next to a glass of amber liquor. He didn’t look up as she approached the empty stool, but he took a long drag on a chrome-colored Nikko-vape that flared with an amber LED when inhaled.

Juliet sat down across from him and said, “Hey.”

“Hey.” He looked up, pale blue eyes beneath heavy dark brows narrowing as he took her in. “Not your kinda club?”

Juliet frowned slightly and shrugged, looking into those eyes, wondering what he was thinking, and, as if in answer to her question, his thoughts came to her:

Alice didn’t say she was a looker. Hah! She looks pissed. Good! Keep her on her toes . . .

His voice, clear at first, got lost in a din of others as her control slipped, and the crowded club began to overwhelm her:

Move it, shake ‘em . . .

. . . then we’ll pick up Ree . . .

. . . up and down, up and down.

One more drink . . .

Screw Pony and screw his stupid friends!

. . . where are they?

Just a little closer, baby . . .

Juliet shook her head, trying to clear the noise, trying to turn them off. They kept clamoring at her, though, and then Nick spoke, and his audible voice helped her to ground herself, to shut out the mental ones. “You okay? Damn, hope you don’t have a headache. This is the wrong place to come with a headache.”

“Long day. Long trip; didn’t sleep well on that ship.” Juliet rubbed at her head, hoping the excuse seemed real.

“Ah, sorry. You don’t have auditory implants? Have your PAI tune the noise down. Here.” He pushed his drink toward her.

“I’m good, thanks.” Juliet looked up, meeting his gaze, praying that her stupid psionic lattice wouldn’t trigger every time she looked into his eyes. She pointedly pushed his drink back toward him. He shrugged and lifted it to his mouth, draining it in a gulp.

“I know it’s weird that I wanted to meet here. I’m a creature of habit. My old buddy owns the place, and it didn’t used to be this popular. I just come here to kind of disappear in the noise, you know? My ears are off most of the time.”

“Sure, whatever.” Juliet forced a smile, annoyed that she’d given a weak first impression. “I’ve got it dialed down now; it’s cool.”

“So, you’re an operator, huh? Alice says you’re tougher than nails. You know how to fly, though?”

“Yeah, I know how.”

“Fighters? Interceptors?”

Juliet thought about the question and the half-truth answer she’d rehearsed. She decided to be a little more honest. “Not interceptors, but bigger ships. I’ve got good reflexes, though, and good software.” She tapped her head.

“High-G shunts?”

“No, not yet. Will I need ‘em for your kind of work?”

“Nah, not if you can take some pain. Have a good flight suit?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, what did Alice tell you about my work?”

“Said you flew escort to ships in the Jovian System. That’s really about it.” Juliet drummed her fingers on the table, contemplating ordering something to drink, wondering how long it would take to get service in a place like the Badhammer. That thought in her mind, she added, “What’s the deal with this place’s name?”

“Rudy, my buddy who owns the place, was a ship tech. His favorite tool was a brass ball-peen hammer his father gave him. He used it so much it had notches and grooves in the brass, you know, not a smooth spot on it except for the tip of the ball part. He called it his ‘bad hammer.’ Not sure why he named the bar after it, but there you go.” He rocked his empty glass back and forth over the tabletop, contemplating his next words. “Yeah, I fly escort. I see action, on average, twice a week. I’ve got more confirmed kills than anyone I know in this system, so it’s not surprising to me that Alice sent you my way for evaluation. I’m not trying to toot my own horn—I’m trying to open your eyes a little to the nature of the risk you’re taking by coming out with me. If you’re sure, though, I’ll do it.”

“I’m sure.”

“All right, well, here’s how I see things going. You’ll ride co-pilot with me for a couple of weeks and see how I do things. When I feel like you’re ready, I’ll give the stick to you, and we’ll switch roles for a while. If I’m impressed, and I mean impressed, I’ve got a friend who’s retiring and leases his ship to pilots who don’t have one. Before you get any ideas about just going around me and leasing it right away, you need to know he doesn’t talk to strangers.” He grinned and winked. “I’ll have to vouch for you. Anyway, that’s a month or two down the road, but I figure we’ll fly a few tandem missions, and if you continue to impress, I’ll give Alice a good report.”

Juliet watched his face while he spoke, wishing she could read his thoughts but figuring she’d give them a good listen when they weren’t in such a crowded environment. He looked serious, stern even, like he was talking to a kid. She supposed she couldn’t blame him; they were talking about serious business, flying very expensive hardware in lethal situations. She didn’t like the idea that she’d be hands-off for weeks, but she also couldn’t blame the guy. “Sounds like you’ve got a good plan laid out.”

“No arguments? No whining about having to wait?” Nick chuckled and took another drag on his vape. He had a gruff, scratchy voice, one that had been cultivated by plenty of chemical inhalations and too much drinking, but Juliet kind of liked it. He was a wiry man with prominent facial bones, and when he smiled, his skin moved a lot, crinkling around his eyes and exposing dimples in his cheeks. Even without knowing his thoughts, Juliet’s gut told her he was a good guy, someone who didn’t beat around the bush and didn’t play games.

“What kind of ship do you have?”

“Alice didn’t tell you?”

“No . . .”

“It used to be our ship. She owned it fifty-fifty with me. It’s a McDonnel-Chavez Ranger, Mark Seven—the Lady Hawk.

“Really?” Juliet quirked an eyebrow.

“Yeah, and before you go getting cute about the name, you should know I named her, not Alice.”

“Hah, no, no. That’s cool. I kinda like it.” Juliet drummed her fingers on the table and added, “How do you get service in this dump, anyway?”

“Hang on.” Nick stood up, slipping his vape into his shirt pocket. “I need a refill anyway. What do you want?”

“Something cold. Beer.”

“Be right back.”

As he walked away, Angel said, “The Mark Seven Ranger was mass-produced from 2087 to 2092. It’s a medium-sized, two-seat interceptor with above-average speed and maneuverability but a lighter-than-average weapons loadout. Several variants were issued that replaced the stock, twin thirty-millimeter canons with various energy-based weapons. A somewhat rare variant was also developed that boasted an oversized missile module mounted above the main drive. This variant, while gaining respect for being deadly, was also prone to exploding when damaged, even from relatively small caliber ship-to-ship munitions . . .”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Angel.” Juliet watched as Nick made his way back to the table with a drink in each hand. “I’ll ask him more about the ship after I’ve had a drink. I’m thirsty, and I want to relax for a minute. Can you turn the music back up a little? I kind of like this beat.”