Identity Read online

Identity

  By

  David George Howard

  ~~~~~~~

  Identity

  Copyright © 2013 David George Howard

  ~~~~~~~

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  **********

  For those who work for what is right

  ~

  ~

  ~

  Celirna entered the boutique and stood in the doorway for a few moments to take in the offerings. The previous evening they had called her and described a few things she might be interested in. She had said she was busy the next day, but they agreed to let her come in a couple of hours before opening to look at what they had. All the clerks on the concourse would readily jump at the chance to give her special attention. She stepped in and let the door close behind her, thinking this would alert the clerk that she had stopped by. Later that day, her husband would be coming on board after a separation of about six months. Parren did not like space travel, and as such only met her when the ship was docked in low Earth orbit. Her only reason for shopping that morning, if she were to admit to herself, was to avoid thinking about how that reunion would go.

  Farther into the shop, she saw a bright blue and red blouse that would make a good start to an outfit. Celirna went over, pulled it off the shelf, and held it up to allow the full light to catch the colors. She held it in front of herself and turned to look in the mirror. It was a striking splash of color, and she thought this would be a perfect match with her blonde hair. She had too long accepted the fact, though, that she was one of those rare people who could wear anything and make it look great. The fitting rooms were towards the back of the store. Whoever was working there must have been in the storeroom and certainly would not mind if she tried it on. She ducked into the room and changed within a few minutes. Celirna came back out and stood in the collection of mirrors that gave a look all around her. On second thought, the piece did not fit all that well. After a few turns to the side to get a better look at how it fell across the shoulders, she came to the quick conclusion that the shape was just not right. She was about to look for something else when a man came around from behind the mirror, a man she had not seen in there before. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’ll try more of a formed fit.”

  The man did not respond, other than staring at her intently for a moment. It was then that she realized that he was rather tall and dark, with a rough, weathered face and neck, not a person to be selling clothes in a fashion shop. With a motion so swift she did not see it coming, he clamped his hand over her mouth and spun her around in a vice-like hold in which she could barely move. Overpowered and unable to scramble or scream, she had no choice but to let herself be dragged out the back entrance of the store.

  1

  “Identity, please,” the woman said to Buckman. Buckman turned towards the brown-uniformed woman and knew he should not hold a grudge, since she was just doing her job. However, he did. He knew she felt the same way about him, and the other people in the train car he was riding. The hate and fighting ran too deep between their different peoples, and this was impossible to set aside when he left his home territory in search of a decent wage. The woman stood next to him, not risking a look in his direction. Her hand was out waiting for him to comply with the request. Buckman felt for the chain around his neck and produced the ID stick she was asking for.

  “See?” he said.

  “Remove it from the cord and hand it to me please.” A few of the other workers in the car appeared to notice what was happening, and he knew he really had no choice. Fighting was futile in this situation. This was one more indignity to bear. He unclipped the stick from the chain and placed it into her awaiting hand. The woman, a low-level security officer most likely, plugged the stick into a computer pad she was carrying with her. A bewildering array of information came up, to which she showed her interest by running her finger up and down the screen several times.

  “Follow me, please,” she said once the scrolling had stopped. She stood slightly to the side to allow him to stand up from his seat.

  “I don’t understand,” Buckman said, drawing himself up to his full height. He was often acutely aware of how tall he was, and did not want to look like a threat to her. Still, she clutched the computer pad in front of her chest with both hands.

  “Follow me, please,” she repeated. Her lips were a tight, straight line across her face. Buckman could see the muscles twitch slightly at the corners of her eyes, and he knew this would end unpleasantly if he caused a scene.

  Buckman held his hand out to indicate that she could lead the way to wherever they needed to go. The two of them began walking towards the back of the train, and with each succeeding car, the ride became smoother and quieter. Buckman had never actually been that far back in a train before, and had no idea how much different it was. Here, people stretched out in lounge seats, talking, eating or sleeping. There was a club atmosphere, and when he came through, all eyes turned towards him. One man even went so far as to grab some sort of case beside his seat and hide it away. A woman visibly recoiled at the sight of Buckman in his work clothes and muddy boots.

  He knew this is what the security woman had picked up on. His clothes were rougher, and his hair was cut in a quick fashion. Most others on the train, especially in the car he was walking through, were refined, or at least relaxed in an easy manner of dress and body language. Buckman was a Bent, a person with an angle to part of his DNA. These other, cleaner, people were Straights. Bents were not supposed to leave their provinces unless they were approved to work in Straight territory. Their movements were severely restricted, as they could not eat in certain restaurants, ride on certain busses, or stay in certain places. The work they did was manual labor, tasks that most Straights would be revolted to approach. Both Buckman and the security woman knew this, and it was her assigned job in the Straight society to check ID sticks.

  The stick was a fake, but he really did not need to worry. To do a positive ID, a person had to give up some bodily material, a lock of hair or a wad of spit. There were still privacy laws, and a warrant was needed to do this. There was a always a threat to turn this law around, but the fine Straights of the world did not want to hack one out every time they got on a bus. He had not needed to face any of these intrusions since the ID stick had been working fine for a couple of years through many detailed checks like the one he was about to go through. If it were found to be a forgery, the punishment was not severe. The first few times, you were sent back to the province; a few more, and you might spend a couple nights in jail. Truth was, and everyone knew this, the Bent labor pool was a much-needed commodity. Who else would sweep the streets, work in slaughterhouses, or, in his case, clean out sewers and trash? Certainly not the man he was passing, who was receiving a refreshed brownish whiskey in a crystal glass while putting his shoeless feet up on the footrest. The ID screening was a show of security, and there would always be ways around it.

  The security woman walking ahead of h
im would not be privileged to sit in these plush cars, either. Buckman watched the back of her head as they proceeded and noticed that her hair was pulled back into a severely tight knot. He imagined it was stretching her face into the grimace he saw when she first approached. She was only a few steps beyond his place in life, but that angle made all the difference. They reached the very back of the train and a tiny office. There was nothing else in the room besides two chairs, a small desk and plaque on the wall that said Terrial. Three white walls, a low ceiling and a glass door. “Sit there,” she said pointing to the blue plastic chair bolted to the floor. She sat in the gray one.

  She plugged his identity stick into a computer on the table. Within a few seconds, his face came up along with pages of data. Buckman leaned forward to get a better look, but the room was so small, he almost had his face on her shoulder. “So why am I here again?”

  Terrial’s head swung around at the sound of his voice. “In your seat properly, please. You realize you are only in this province because we choose to let you in. What is your final destination?”

  “Isn’t it there on the screen?” Buckman asked. Even though he had leaned back in the seat as instructed, he could see his registered travel plans. These had to be entered any time a Bent entered Straight territory. He now had an even better look at the side of her head, and he could tell her hair was tight to the point where the groups of follicles were raising the skin. Buckman pulled a small clump of his own hair for a few moments, just to get an idea of how much discomfort she was in. Plenty.

  “Answer the question.”

  “I’m traveling to Gardello Yards to board a service ship. I’ll be in low earth orbit for three months.”

  “I see you have traveled there before.” Her eyes did not waver from the screen.

  “I’ve worked three months on and one off for a couple of years.” This was one of the best jobs he had ever had, and Buckman was glad to take the risks he did, traveling through Straight territory under a false ID stick. Only a small number of Bents were given passes to work in Straight territory, while thousands of others resorted to forgeries.

  “And you live in Eastern Province?” she asked.

  “What does the stick say?” he asked. Still no hint of humor or emotion. Nothing except contempt. Straights, especially those of the lower levels, were not known for their outgoing personalities. Buckman wanted to try to get something out of her before this was over, if for no other reason than it was amusing. So many times when he had had this type of encounter, it was like these low-level Straights were not much more than machines. They were instructed how to stand, walk, talk, act since they were first screened as youngsters, and they unquestioningly abided. Most spent their entire lives in this semi-alert state.

  “I asked you where you live. Do you live in Eastern?”

  “I guess. There are days when I wander around and sleep wherever.”

  Terrial squinted at the screen for a very brief moment. “That’s not what it says here. Do you live in Eastern or not?”

  “Yes,” Buckman said. That line of amusement was now closed.

  “Are you traveling to Gardello Yards?”

  Good, a new line of reason for him to play with. “No, I’m looking for a Bank to rob. Do you know any good ones?”

  Her head snapped around and she pulled a small stun gun that had been attached to her belt. She aimed it at his arm and pressed the button. Buckman’s arm involuntarily shot out and hit her under the chin, producing a small clicking sound as her teeth came together. All possible bodily movement had been shut down, but his accidental striking of Terrial alarmed her. This time, she pointed it at his neck and held the button down for a good ten seconds. The total disorientation lasted for a minute, during which time the only thing keeping him from sliding out to the floor were his knees against her thighs in the chair. A couple more minutes passed before he could get his limbs moving properly, during which she did not drop her aim with the gun. Buckman knew she could play this any way she wanted. Striking a Straight security officer was a serious punishable offense, and she could completely incapacitate and restrain him.

  “You know where you are and what you are. Answer the question properly.” Terrial began to lower the stun gun, but kept it in her hand. With her other hand, she began to type a few comments into his file. He could see she had typed: required suggestive restraint, whatever that really meant. Well, he knew.

  A lifeless quality returned to her brown eyes; or maybe it was his imagination, since his own sight was still wavering in and out. No, even to his uneducated perceptions the look on her face was clear. What he saw was resignation. Resignation of a life spent so far and forever in a tiny square office, with only the occasional smartass to brighten her day. An image of her entire boring life popped into his head. He saw her leaving this tiny office every afternoon, going home to a tiny spare apartment, and repeating the same thing the next day. That would be the sum of her existence. No use making this worse. He decided to cooperate. “Yes, Gardello Yards.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, she asked the same three questions over and over, in slightly varying ways. To which he answered consistently, knowing there was nothing here to be concerned with. When she had finished, she entered a few things into the system and handed the ID stick back to him. When Buckman had bought the stick from his cousin, he was told that a full scan through all the databases available took about an hour. The longer the scan took, the less there was to worry about. Buckman trusted his cousin as much as he could, though he did think there were gaps in the man’s knowledge. It must have worked this time, because the stick was handed back, and without any further commotion, she walked him back to his seat.

  Buckman rubbed his neck where the zap had hit him. These people have no sense of humor, he thought. They might be smart, maybe, but what good are brains without imagination? The soreness would be totally gone in a day or two, but neither shot was necessary. Smacking her in the chin was a complete accident, but at least she had not made matters worse. He ran his fingers over the spot and looked at his hand to be sure there was no blood or anything, before settling back into the seat. There were rules both of them lived by. Straights and Bents were to be separated as much as possible. Was her life any better because of this? Whatever. It made no sense, but this was the only world either of them knew.

  2

  That morning he had had breakfast with his partner, Marie, after spending what would be the last night home for months. Their apartment was messy and noisy, and often shared with a shifting crowd of friends, family, and whoever could help pay the rent. Since they were going to be apart for months, everyone left them alone in the bedroom so they would have a night of private time. He traveled far into Straight territory, and even into low orbit, which gave him some status as a provider for those around him. They depended on his earnings, and though many would never repay his generosity, when he wanted to have a night alone with Marie, he was able to do so. Besides, few would take issue with Marie. She had a wild shock of red hair and an intensity that matched, making her both beautiful and intimidating. These long trips were difficult for all of them, but many Bents understood the dangers and had long ago worked this into part of their lives.

  The night with her was not entirely restful. They had sex repeatedly, and then dozed and talked during the times in between.

  “Be careful,” she had said repeatedly as she kissed him on the neck, drawing her long legs onto him. ‘Don’t go’ was never part of the conversation.

  “Sure. I always am. I’ve been there before.” The hazards were not new, nor were they lost on him. “Charles will be there,” he added, then wished he had not.

  There was a small growl in her throat. “He’s a good man, but you know how he is. He finds trouble,” she said.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, drawing her close and bringing her head down to his chest. He could feel her
chin dig in below his collarbone.

  They were quiet for a few minutes, and though he had his eyes closed, he could tell she was looking at him. What he loved about her, he also hated. Her perception. He tried to hide his concern, but when she exhaled and turned her face to rest more comfortably on him, she had read his thoughts. There would be no discussion on the matter, though.

  The train rocked back and forth as Buckman settled into the seat and started to finally doze off. The trip would take about another two hours, and despite being in the front car, he had to admit the Straights had much better forms of transportation. The long bus ride to the border had been crowded and smelly. His seat was next to a fat old woman with a constant raspy cough and bad teeth. About every ten minutes, she would hack and wheeze, then lean across him and expel her DNA sample out the window. Eventually they had switched places and so she would have a clean shot when she needed to.

  His final stop on the train was near the end of the line, in a large industrial area. Once he left the train with the other workers, he walked a kilometer or so to the work yards. Work ships began to come into view as he approached, looking like gray, dirty, hulking mountains. This was a yard for vessels that did the grunt jobs for the low-Earth moored ships. They went out and cleaned, fixed, or disposed of whatever came back from deep space travel. Buckman walked up to the entrance gate and waved his ID stick to the guard in a two by two meter booth. Unlike his encounter with Terrial, this Straight guard had no interest in checking validity of the IDs and just waved Buckman through, barely looking up from his com screen game show broadcast. Buckman was walking with a small crowd of other workers, who all started to disperse once they passed the gate.

  There, about another half kilometer away, was Bertrand Geirer, his home for the next few months. The ship was essentially a flying sewerage treatment plant; an enormous storage tank with five massive Rolls-Royce Centurion Mk V Fusion Conversion Generator Sets (FCGS), each to power a garbage converting Raygeon Advance Mass Atomic Accumulation Regenerator (AMAAR). Bertie, as they liked to call her, was sitting away from the other ships, among the weeds, refuse, and smells of fuel and lubricants these kinds of places have.

  “Hey, you tall, skinny asshole, call it home son-of-a bitchin’ home,” Buckman heard a familiar voice call out from behind him. He turned to see Charles walking with another group of crewmembers.

  Buckman stopped to let him catch up. He was almost a head taller than the short, squat master plumber, a fact Charles seldom failed to point out. “I can’t wait,” Buckman said.

  “Fuck that. Any problems getting back?” Charles asked him. Charles came from the North Province, much farther away from where Buckman had to travel. The trip for him probably took about three days, with numerous bus and train rides. North was where they put the Bents that had an angle to the DNA that someone at some point calculated to be most likely to cause trouble. North had brutal winters and scalding summers, and was always in a state of unrest with either themselves or someone else.

  “Look at this,” Buckman said, pointing to the new red mark on his neck. He recounted what happened with Terrial on the train. Busting her in the chin by mistake earned a good laugh from Charles.

  “The little bitch,” Charles said. “That a good stick? Where’d you get it?”

  “A cousin of mine. Cost me a month’s salary, but I haven’t had a problem in two years.”

  Charles stuck his jutting chin out even further, making one doubt if he still had any remaining teeth. “Well, need to change it up. The bastards get onto you eventually.” Charles had been fighting these problems for more years than Buckman. In contrast to Buckman’s boyish blond hair and looks, Charles had short curly hair and a deeply lined face. Buckman was not sure how old Charles was, but he had to be at least ten years his senior.

  Buckman rubbed his neck again. “Still stings.”

  “I been hit many times. Couple times I crapped myself. It goes away in a day or two. Well, you couldn’t kick her in the nuts, but it’s a hell of a way to live, ain’t it?”

  They came to the ship and started walking under the massive belly to a boarding ramp on the other side. Before they went too far, however, they walked over to one of the struts settled into the ground that was supporting the ship. “Ready?” Charles asked. Buckman nodded, and he and Charles simultaneously kicked the strut with their ceramic toed boots, making a solid bong sound. Around them, other workers were doing the same, a few kicking the struts in rapid succession.

  “Why the hell do we have to do that every time we get on?” Charles asked as they walked away.

  “Well,” Buckman said. “I don’t know. I guess it’s the last time we have a chance for a while.”

  “It’s the stupidest mother jackass thing,” Charles said. They came to the ramp and scanned their ID sticks to register them coming aboard. “Hey, your woman, she twist your crank off before you left?”

  Buckman had to smile. “She just wanted to be sure I came back.”

  “With thighs like hers, I’m surprised you have enough left to piss with.”

  “What about your woman?”

  Charles left out a bellowing laugh that echoed up into the ship. “She’s took mine off years ago. Keeps ’em locked away. Genar’s a smart woman and knows a man always returns for his balls.”

  They walked into the ship and started up another tight winding staircase. “It’s some luxury cruiser this time,” Buckman said. “Not too bad.”

  “What’s it called, The Space Mother?” Charles asked. He grunted once trying to get his duffel back around one of the railing. “Shit, that ain’t right. It’s a stupid Straight name. Space Princess? Space Lollypop? No wait. Space Queen. That’s it. Who the hell names a ship the Space Queen?”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “Good point. They call her Queeny.” Charles snorted once. “Space Queen. Sound like some sort of antigravity transvestite whore.”

  3

  Parren boarded his private transport from a pad in the field behind the Estate. As was his habit, once he was secured in place a privacy screen came up, and the pilot could no longer see him. The craft lifted smoothly and began to make a trajectory out into the traffic lanes that would take them to the orbit into meet up with Space Queen. He rolled the term Space Queen around in his imagination and thought of the functionality and beauty of the name. The ship was a deep space cruiser that ruled the skies, serving as an adjunct government at whatever outpost she visited. Only people of high intelligence and purpose could have achieved such an accomplishment as deep space travel on a regular basis, and that ship was the pinnacle. He knew in his soul that without people like him, such things would never have been done. However, his efforts always needed to continue, and as the ground dropped away, he shut the view windows down and relaxed into the quiet for a few moments before calling the Senator.

  Parren adjusted his tie, combed his hair back, and checked himself in a mirror behind a panel built into the wall of the transport. When he was in order, he punched in a number and called the Senator, who had been working with him over the past few months on a border security problem. Within seconds, the Senator’s image came up in front on him.

  “Greetings,” the Senator said. “Hope you are in good health.”

  “Yes I am, thank you for asking, and I wish the same for you as well,” Parren said. He did not particularly like Senator Marcon, but then again, who really liked politicians? They were by nature a difficult group of people to nail down, though Marcon had proven a successful collaborator so far. Parren had been able to funnel considerable funds to his campaign through various channels, which he always saw as a small price to pay for the most important currency of all: influence.

  “As you know, the proposal has been stalled in committee,” Marcon said.

  “Stalled. What does that mean? It’s been there for months.” Parren had briefly run for public office but pulled
out before the race had actually started. Despite his altruistic intentions and putting his businesses and life on hold to serve the public, his original support and encouragement evaporated once he started giving speeches. The Bent comedians had a field day with his image, and his message was lost in a barrage of low-level humor about his clothes, his speech pattern, his body language, and even his hair. Parren gripped the seat’s armrest for a moment at the memory.

  “It’s a matter of some delicacy. The area in question is the home territory of several constituents who have considerable business interests across the border.” Senator Marcon was an unkempt man, something that always bothered Parren. He was never sure if this was intentionally part of his persona or if he did not care about his appearance. Parren did not trust him either way, as this lack of social decorum could lead to embarrassing encounters.

  “They must understand the security implications inherent with such an arrangement. Business is important, but we have a society to protect,” Parren said.

  This line of reasoning went back and forth for several minutes, with the conclusion that Marcon would gather more information on the opposing opinions, and Parren would work to see in what other manner they could be persuaded. Persuasion was not a matter to be discussed on a com line from a moving transport, plus he did not know who might be sitting next to Marcon in the room he was speaking from. Parren knew the people in question and would work to investigate them. Embarrassment, money, position: all these were on the table as far as he was concerned.

  As the call wound down, Marcon said, “Please enjoy yourself on the Queen. It’s a brilliant achievement. Are traveling with Celirna?”

  “Yes. The ship is an achievement of mankind. We have a private suite onboard,” he said.

  “Are you meeting her there, or is she traveling with you?” Marcon asked again.

  Parren shifted in his seat and imperceptibly slipped his hand across the viewer control. The screen momentarily went to gray. “Sorry, are you still there?”

  “Yes. Anyway, you might be getting out of range. Give her my best,” Marcon said.

  “It will be an appropriate reunion,” Parren replied, and then he shut off the transmission. The cabin darkened somewhat as he settled back into the seat. Marcon should know better than to probe his personal life. It was never a matter for discussion, and Marcon must have been aware of this. Parren’s lack of trust with Marcon was confirmed yet again, but that kind of ignorance and impropriety was what he had to deal with on a daily basis. There were still several hours until they docked. Parren straightened his tie, and did his best to get some sleep.

  4

  Bertie made the trip without incident. Once they were through the atmosphere, the ride smoothed out, and the crew could begin getting acquainted with what they needed to do. Within hours of moving into position with the Queen, the crew was gathering around their various supervisors to discuss their jobs. Initial instructions and assignments were given out. Charles, being the lead plumber in the facilities maintenance crew, would be one of the leads and the first to look at the assignments. Since a large portion of the work they needed to do concerned the sewerage treatment system of the Queen, Charles would go over and inspect the main system for any work listed to be sure it agreed with the maintenance log.

  “Goddamn Reg,” Charles said to the supervisor, looking over the list provided by the Queen’s maintenance staff. “Why don’t they just junk the whole cocksucker and start over? Looks like we’re rebuilding it from the inside out.”

  Charles had worked for Reg for many years and had grown to appreciate how Reg always insisted on signing him up ahead of time, often before a job was over. Reg was still a Straight, so Charles did not like him, but at least there was some decent respect between them. Both of them knew that if a Bent messed up and was let go, there were plenty more to replace him and work would continue.

  “Hey, if they pay us to do it, we’ll do it,” Reg said, not looking up from the data pad that had the list. “And that’s what they’ve done.”

  “More money than sense if you ask me,” Charles said as he bent down and started checking his tools.

  “You’re not being asked, so it’s best not to bring it up.” Reg handed the data pad to Charles. “You know how it is. You especially are always being watched.”

  Charles put the pad into a pocket in the tool pouch. Since this was only an initial visit, he was not carrying more than basic tools and inspection gear. “I know,” Charles said, standing back up. Despite Reg’s small stature, he was still a few inches shorter. “I beat up a few of them sons o’ bitches in a bar, and they can’t keep their eyes off me.”

  “You know what I mean,” Reg said. “But it doesn’t matter. I got you in here, and you’re the best man I got. We both know they’ll be on you and me if you mess up.”

  The bar fight was just one of many problems Charles had been involved in. He had fought in a few of the border skirmishes and had carried that hate with him. The Bents always lost those kinds of conflicts, and this only made things worse. When the Straights came into any engagement like that, they were always way better equipped and organized. In the end, it was more a show of frustration by the Bents rather than accomplishing anything. The wounds and death hurt just the same.

  “So what is it really?” Charles asked.

  Reg took the data pad back for a moment and added something. “What is what?”

  “Why the hell are we different? What the hell good is all the fighting?” This was the question he had asked many times, even when he was coming to blows with someone.

  Reg finished his entry and slid the pad back into the tool pouch pocket. “I’m not really smart enough to tell you.”

  “Think this makes sense?” Charles asked, though he knew the answer was no.

  “No,” Reg agreed. “But what are the two of us going to do about right now?”

  Charles adjusted his helmet and hoisted the tool pouch onto his shoulder. “I’ll get the recovery hold first. That looks the most fucked up.”

  “Good. But don’t take too much time. We have some uplevel bathrooms that aren’t working right. I’ll call ahead and get your escort for going in the hold.” Reg started walking away. He had a noticeable limp, something that had intrigued many of the workers but was never mentioned in front of Reg. Physical ailments were curable.

  “I can find my way. I don’t need no big lunkheaded dumbass showing me around.”

  “Watch your language when you’re on a com line. Do you have to swear with every other word?” Reg asked.

  “Shit. I’ve fuckin’ sworn piss since cocksuckers twisted asswipes.”

  Reg looked at him for a second. “I guess not. You put a contraction in there.”

  Charles grumbled, not knowing what a contraction meant. “Contractions are for pregnant women and blowjobs.”

  Reg spoke briefly with someone over a com line, then back to Charles. “A man will meet you at the entry to the hold. Get going and don’t waste time. Get that done as quick as you can. People are complaining their toilets don’t flush.”

  Reg limped away. “With all the wine and caviar coming out their butts, it’s no wonder,” Charles mumbled as he started walking towards the connection passage.

  Charles took the passageway over to the Queen and came to a door outside the facilities office that he was not able to get through. After a couple of minutes, a large red-haired man came up to him. “Come on,” he said opening the door and leading Charles in.

  The door led to a passageway that was brightly lit and completely undecorated, unlike the rest of the ship. “You got a name there, possibly something I can pronounce?” Charles said.

  “Artis,” the man said, turning his head to the side but not enough to look at Charles. Charles was a few steps behind, looking at Artis’s head, with the tightly cropped red, well, really orange, hairs all over it. What was inside that head, he wond
ered. Rocks, sticks; dried-up wood and gravel. Everything about these Straights was hard and inflexible, merely taking orders and following them.

  “Got a rock I can borrow?” Charles asked. Like earlier, when Buckman told him about his encounter with Terrial, these low-level Straights had a tendency to be devoid of imagination. Humor was confusing to them, which was something many Bents, smartasses like Charles, used all the time.

  Artis turned slightly at the question. “No. I can get one if you need it.”

  Charles shook his head. “I’ll let you know.” Artis was much larger than Charles, and had a slight body odor, like he needed a shower but had been too busy to take one. Charles followed along through a number of doors and passageways. Artis never turned around or spoke to him again until they reached the door to the airlock that would lead to the containment tank. They stopped at the door so Charles could finish putting on his protective gear and check his equipment.

  “Tell me something, Artis. Is there really that much difference between us? I mean, shit. Look what we do.” Charles knew that once the ship was back out to space, Artis would be treated much the same way as any Bent. Now that Artis had a chance, he would treat anyone beneath him with disrespect. But what really was the difference?

  “You know. What’s it matter? Can’t do nothing about it.” There was no emotion in his voice or change in his body language.

  “You happy with that? Get your ass over here, Artis. Go do that, Artis. You wanna hear that all your life?” Charles said, finishing buckling his boots.

  “Don’t matter,” Artis said. He took a passkey from his belt and scanned across the front of the door. The door slid open to reveal a freight elevator. Artis reached in, selected the level Charles would go to, and entered a code to lock out any other stops. “Welcome to Poopville.”

  The joke, no matter how plain, was so unexpected that Charles burst out laughing. For a moment, the inside of his helmet fogged up before the air system could clear it off. The joke was not so much funny as it was unexpected, and Artis did not even crack a smile. The door closed, and the last thing Charles saw as he was still laughing, was Artis with his arms at his side and his mouth slightly open.

  Charles was not an educated man, other than what trade skills he had learned. However, on the ride down to the hold, all he could think about was how stupid it was. How could a man like Artis, essentially one who merely went where he was told, in any way to be considered more privileged than himself? Straights and Bents were on the opposite side of nearly everything, and yet the difference at this level was nothing. Charles knew that the moment Artis was born, he was tested, and his life was predetermined. His intelligence, health, emotional stability were all calculated, and this then dictated what he would do from that moment on.

  The elevator door opened into a decontamination airlock, which then opened into the hold, presenting what was in essence a vast tank containing the human waste of the ship for the past two years. Charles knew there was a difference. He could not understand what caused this difference, but he knew it was fundamental. Charles felt Artis and Straights of his level were basically stupid and had accepted their place in life, and they were willing to let it go at that. Bents like Charles, who ventured out into the world looking for a living, had not accepted the way things were. They would always fight and distrust all Straights, especially those who set the rules.

  Charles tried to put this into the back of his mind while he stepped out onto the catwalk above the tank. Tens of thousands of people over a two-year period can produce a lot of waste. Just plain shit, Charles would say. It’s nothing more than that. Even though the waste system contained compounds that broke the matter (shit) down into usable materials, there was still a build up after that long in space. The tank was 400 meters long and 200 meters wide. Before they were done, the entire tank would have to be drained, cleaned, and refreshed with the decomposition compounds. The system was self-contained, and to operate properly, the waste could not be vented into space or the compounds would go with it. It was not like the leftover concentrated shit was not useful; it was in fact, once neutralized, a valuable fertilizer. There’s just, God, Charles thought, so damn much of it.

  Charles began climbing around the tank, checking items on the list and adding more as he saw things that were questionable. There was an incoming line that was going to be moved due to a hull upgrade that would require a total rerouting to accommodate. When he had checked all the valves, lines, taps, sensors, he sent the list off to Reg. Whatever genius came up with the system had added a part that would automatically calculate the time needed to perform the tasks. Charles scanned down the list. Every recharge he had every done took two full weeks at best. The pad said this would be seven days. “Bullshit,” Charles said over the com line.

  “Pardon me?” Reg answer back. “Watch your language over an open line.”

  “These labor forecasts don’t make no sense. There’s two months of work here. At least. This says forty-five days. What the hell is that?”

  “Noted,” Reg said.

  “Noted,” Charles replied. “Noted. This makes as much sense as a rat’s whacker in a blender.”

  There was a silence of about five seconds. “Thanks for the input,” Reg said. “Call when you’re ready to go to the next location.”

  Charles turned off the com. “Input, my thick dick,” he mumbled to himself.

  5

  Buckman held onto the railing for balance. He was outside of the facilities office with a co-worker, Jack, high above the main hallway leading through the center of the ship. The artificial gravity took several days to a week to adjust to, so standing in a high location and watching things move could cause vertigo for a very brief moment. This was temporary and would not interfere with what they would be doing. What Buckman saw below him could only be described as a town center. Twenty to thirty thousand people in one location could not help but form a society. This was a moving, moderately sized city, with all the amenities for people who liked leisure. With this many people, the usual interactions were bound to happen; neighbors could turn into enemies or lovers, and crimes, both personal and violent, happened. All the same problems as on Earth, only floating around from station to station. Many people were there for pleasure and luxury, while others booked passage to a new life.

  Buckman and Jack were waiting for their assignments from Reg, who was with an area supervisor inside the office. “Hear the news?” Jack asked.

  “No, what’s up?” Buckman said.

  “Parren’s aboard. They said his wife’s missing. She’s a sweet piece too. Too good for a limp bastard like that,” Jack said, watching the people a hundred meters below.

  Buckman knew who Jack was referring to. Parren’s wife, Celirna, was in the news almost as much as he was. If there was a cause where a victim was involved, she was there, but almost always without Parren. People—Straights—disappearing was very uncommon. Someone of her stature could sneak away, though there were plenty of tracking devices around, and it was odd she would drop out of sight when her husband came aboard.

  “Where was she?” Buckman asked.

  “She was on the ship, then damn if anyone knows.” Jack leaned out over the railing to get a better look at the people directly below. “What about her?”

  “Don’t know much about her. I’ve seen her on the com news, but that’s all,” Buckman said.

  “No, numb rocks. The one with the pink top. Next to the guy with the hat,” Jack said.

  Buckman leaned out to look at the flow of people down below. After a few moments, he spotted the women Jack was talking about, but he could barely tell anything about what she looked like. “I…what? I can’t see her from here,” Buckman exclaimed.

  For a moment, Buckman thought Jack was going to fall over the railing, he was leaning out so far to watch her. Jack drew back, bent down some, and rested his elbows on the rail in f
ront of them, still watching her. “I can see her nipples from here. Look at that. Straights are perfect. All of them.”

  “Oh, sure. You’ve never seen a Straight girl naked. How would you know?” Buckman said. There were always images floating around, but they usually turned out to be a Bent girl posing.

  “I seen movies. They’re round and smooth. Each exactly alike. When they’re fourteen, they send the girls to boob camp to get them all lined up.”

  Buckman burst out laughing. “Do the guys go too?”

  “Sure, how else they gonna learn? Straight boys don’t know what to do with those. Show them movies and shit so they know how their wieners work. When it comes to humpin’ they’re lost. What a waste of so many fine titties.”

  The laughter died out, and they both stood there for a moment looking at the mass of people below, none of whom appeared to glance up at the two Bents watching them. “Sure. They’re all perfect,” Buckman said. “Every last one.” That branch in the DNA, the part that went straight instead of crooked, that was all the difference. Everyone below, with their beautiful hair and clothes, good health and everything that went with it. Jack and Buckman moved waste for a living. Their waste.

  “Sons of bitches,” Jack said. “I flick a booger and my ass is in jail.”

  Jack, in his crude way, made his point clear. The two of them continued to watch for another couple of minutes, when the office door behind them opened and Reg limped out.

  “Right,” Reg began. “Who’s going in today?”

  “Me,” Buckman said. There was always supposed to be a man inside the hull when the tank was being drained. If there was any heavy repair work going on, at least two had to be there for safety. They followed the regulations most of the time, especially at the start of a job. Buckman could also continue with the inspection work as the tank contents were drained.

  “He’s shitman today,” Jack volunteered.

  “Good,” Reg said. Shitman was a well-used slang term for the person stuck inside during the transfer. “A man will meet you here to take you to the airlock. He’ll have a few instructions, but it’s all like we did last time. Jack, you’ll be inside, monitoring from Bertie. Both of you will keep an open line in case something happens.”

  “This a full job?” Jack asked.

  “Full clean and recharge. It’s a big job, and we don’t have time to make mistakes.” Reg pulled himself up to his full height as best as he could. “They sign that part of the ship over to us while we’re in there. Don’t mess around. It gets expensive. Got it?”

  They both nodded for Reg’s benefit. They had heard his little speech enough times to know Reg had no speech. It came down to don’t break anything and don’t screw around.

  Buckman needed to wait for an escort to the hold. Reg and Jack turned around to go back to the ship when the office door opened and the supervisor called them back.

  “You two are Bents, right?” the supervisor said.

  Clearly, this was going to be the real speech, and Reg noticed this right away. “These are good men. The best. I’ve worked with them for a few years now,” Reg said.

  “Don’t care if they fart pixie dust,” the supervisor said. “These or any of your Bent labor show up where they’re not supposed to and they’re gone.”

  “We all understand the rules. I’m sure they do,” Reg countered. The supervisor turned directly to Reg.

  “Last crew we had, some got the idea to take a swim in the pool. I don’t like them here, but I need my ship cleaned. I hear one complaint, and you’ll be out too. No sitting in the café, riding around in the tram, nothing. They get locked up and you’re out of a job. Understand? I don’t need grievances.”

  The supervisor did not wait for an answer. He returned to the office and slammed the door.

  “I don’t need grievances,” Jack said in a nasally small voice. Reg shot him a look and turned around. Jack waited a moment, grabbed his crotch, and said to Buckman, “grievance this.”

  Reg ignored the theatrics. He said back over his shoulder, “Open your com line when you get in. You may have about an hour to wait while we get set up. Charles will be in there.”

  They left Buckman and walked to a stairway that led down to an elevator. Reg struggled some with the stairs, as his one leg that did not straighten correctly. A few moments later, a large red-haired man came up to him.

  “You going in?” the man asked.

  “That’s me. I’m Buckman,” Buckman said, picking up his tools and anti-contamination suit.

  “Good for you. I’m Artis,” Artis said.

  He led Buckman to another door to a passageway and set of stairs. They descended a long staircase into an area the passengers rarely saw. The outer part of the ship had shops and living spaces, and most of the people on board would have no reason to visit, nor have open access to, the working parts of the ship. Still, Buckman was impressed by the cleanliness of the area. Every passageway was well marked, and not a speck of grime to be seen. There had to be tremendous pride and order to keep this looking like it did. But, he reminded himself, this came at a price. People like Artis would not be allowed to mingle with the passengers, or go into their stores and clubs, unless under special circumstances. This was not only due to their employment as maintainers of the ship, but also because they were a lower class. The Straight hierarchy was strict, and the orders rarely mixed.

  “You been on for the full voyage?” Buckman asked.

  “Took on at R7-1,” Artis said.

  Buckman knew this was one of the remote stations, and that people who lived there rarely traveled this far back. “First time Home?” Buckman asked. Despite the colonies living off Earth for a few centuries, Earth was still referred to as “Home.”

  “Yes,” Artis said in a flat monotone. “It’s blue and white, like the pictures.” He continued leading Buckman through more immaculate hallways, until they came to a catwalk that led to the elevator into the hold. There was a small landing in front of the elevator with a bench.

  “Get your gear on,” Artis said.

  Buckman suited up and did a safety check of his air, water, and emergency equipment. He clicked on the com and reported he was about to enter the hold. One of his jobs while in the hold was to check of leaks of various types, gas or liquid. This required a monitor about the size of a dinner plate that was slung around his back. He turned this on briefly and everything checked out.

  “Where you from?” Artis asked.

  Buckman did not miss a beat as he made sure everything with him was ready. The question was not a mild curiosity, but was rather one with implication. This was a way of asking a person if they were a Bent or Straight. Artis would have known this before they had even met, so the inquiry was his way of letting Buckman know where they both stood. “Where do you think?”

  Artis sneered. “I thought you seemed smarter than most. But here you are. Good for you. We need people like you to clean up for us.”

  Buckman was finished preparing, and lowered his visor to indicate the conversation, what there was of it, was over. He wondered if Artis even had a concept of how offensive his comments were. Artis swiped his stick across the reader and the door opened. “Welcome to Poopville,” Artis said, barely loud enough for Buckman to hear through the headgear. He stepped into the elevator. Artis again swiped the stick and pressed the bottom button on the panel, and then stepped back with a small grin on his face. Buckman was not sure why he was smiling, but this gave Artis a scary clown look.

  The elevator door closed and dropped to the lowest level. The door opened into the airlock, which checked him over before releasing him into the hold above the enormous tank. “I’m in,” he said over the com, before stepping out to begin his job.

  6

  “Got a status on when we’ll start?” Buckman said, as he began climbing down a ladder to a platform where the main tank outlet was located. As soon as
he asked the question, he regretted it, because he knew Jack would not pass up the opportunity to jump in with a comment.

  “Hey, how’s it feel to sit on your ass all day watching turds float by?” This was expected, and normal at the start of a job before exhaustion and monotony set in.

  Reg broke in. “Watch the language, you don’t know who’s listening. We’re still getting the lines hooked up over here. Go to the main and wait.”

  “Time to start the inspect?” Buckman asked.

  “You might have half an hour. This valve hasn’t been opened in a couple years. We need you there when this starts. We’ll call you back when we’re ready.” There was a static click and com line when quiet.

  Buckman climbed back up to the top of the tank and began inspecting the vents, diagnostic equipment and incoming flow lines. There were a few problems, as would be expected for a ship that had been away for so long. Over time, many of the sensors needed to be replaced or upgraded, as did some of the vents and valves. The tank where the processing took place was gargantuan. It was inside an even larger containment hold that isolated the tank and other mechanical operations from the rest of the ship. Buckman was walking along the edge of the tank, about 30 meters from the side of the hold, to look at one of the main lines coming in. He heard or rather sensed a change, maybe a vibration. When he looked over the side, he saw a massive leak spraying up from the incoming line.

  He called into the com. “This left main is broken. Shut it down.”

  “What?” Reg said.

  “The left main, shut it down now. Emergency stop.”

  There was a hesitation on the com. Jack broke into the conversation. “You sure? Sensors don’t show it.”

  Buckman flipped on his helmet cam. “Look. Shut it down now!”

  Within a few seconds, he saw the spray decrease and slowly cease to a trickle. Buckman heard some conversation on the com, and then Charles's voice broke in. There was a heated discussion about where Charles was supposed to be, until Reg ordered him to the hold to check out the valve. From what Buckman could tell, Charles was supposed to start the renovation of the water recycling plant in the arboretum, and he would rather work there than on the sewage system. Buckman could not blame Charles for not wanting to travel the full length of the ship to service the main, but this was as close to a plumbing emergency as anything else going on. Buckman was told to wait there until Charles arrived.

  Buckman sat on the edge of the tank for about fifteen minutes before a grumbling voice came on. “I just got in the elevator, goddamn it,” Charles broke in. There was a profanity-laced comment for several moments. Something about a suit system that would not check out and let him pass.

  Buckman could see the airlock door across on the other side of the hold. He waited for several minutes before a light came on and the door opened. Charles stepped out and held out his middle finger as well as his gloves would let him. The com line had a local transmit that only went a few hundred meters to save energy. Buckman switched it over and said, “Same to you cheese dick.”

  “Ha,” Charles said. “You can go back to you the other side now. Check in about every fifteen or so.”

  Buckman agreed, and returned to the outflow main he was supposed to watch. Charles had been doing this for many years and was always ready to shoot his mouth off, but when the job started, he got down to business. He knew the dangers of working in that environment with large equipment and hazardous materials. The artificial gravity was about half of Earth’s and did strange things to a person’s sense of balance. A slip on a ladder or catwalk, and a person could fall a hundred meters. A suit could get a small tear, and a person would gradually lose consciousness without realizing what was happening. Buckman watched Charles walk out of sight across the hold before returning to the platform to wait for things to start.

  The main line coming out of the tank was about 20 meters in diameter with a triple redundant valve to make sure it opened and closed when it needed to. For the next half hour, Buckman had nothing to do but wait. He took the monitor off his belt and checked the line for any leaks. Nothing came up, so he switched it off and brought up an open com broadcast that was sent around the ship. Several news and entertainment channels ran constantly, and anyone could pick them up if they had any kind of link. He flipped through the channels before finally settling on a news station.

  Buckman always tried to watch the Straight broadcasts when he had a chance. Part of this was to see and hear the Straight bias. The main reason was that the broadcasts were so much better produced that he missed not being able to watch them in his home territory. The image of the well-dressed young woman was projected onto the inside of his visor as she read through various stories about markets and border skirmishes.

  This led into a discussion about enforcement of the borders and the role of Parren. In the last few months, he had been instrumental with raising the issue to key lawmakers, to some consistent success. Despite resistance, security forces had more than doubled since the year before, with more equipment and surveillance gear put into place. There was a short clip of Parren talking to a group of people about the need for such things. Buckman was about to switch channels when they mentioned he was visiting the ship, and that his wife had gone missing for several days. Reports had her going shopping early one morning, before most of the stores had opened. They even had video of her going through parts of the ship. When they showed the pictures, he immediately recognized her as the woman that had come into the territory several months before to visit a school. Straights wanting to get attention often did this, but they always left without accomplishing anything. However, she, on the surface at least, was different, not just because she was married to Parren and had a fabulously wealthy father, but because she had personally invested her own time and money into some of these areas. People did not just vanish, Buckman thought as he watched the image of the stunning blonde on his visor. His com line crackled to life, and the image blinked out.

  “Right,” a voice said. This was Captain Markley from Bertie. “All stop. We’re in position to start the transfer.” Reg ran the crew Buckman was on, but Markley ran the entire ship.

  Buckman stood up and watched the valve for about a minute, until he started to see the actuator move, and then stop. The actuator went back and forth several times in a limited range. There was a short discussion before they decided to shut it down while Buckman had a chance to take a look at what might be hanging it up. After several minutes, he was able to determine that after two or more years of nonuse, the rod-end bearings had frozen into place. With gentle persuasion with a hammer and a liberal amount of lubricant, they tried it again. The actuator moved like it was supposed to, and Buckman heard a hiss as the material began to flow. This grew until it became a full roar after several minutes, and would stay that way for days until everything was complete.

  “Buckman, report,” Reg ordered.

  “Looks good on this side. How ’bout out there?” Buckman replied.

  “We’re good to go. Get started on the inspect,” Reg said.

  “Don’t get curious and start swimming with the logs,” Jack piped in.

  “Shut up Jack,” Reg said. “Get started, report in every fifteen.”

  Buckman climbed back up to the top of the tank to start checking all the incoming lines and connections. He had just come to the incoming air line that was used to push material out of the tank when Charles broke in over the com.

  “Aw, what the hell happened?” Charles yelled.

  “Report,” Reg said.

  “Damn it. This main inlet is still spewing like a drunk teenager getting laid,” Charles said.

  “How bad?” Reg asked. As soon as he said it, Buckman heard Reg groan, because everyone knew what kind of response they would get.

  “How bad? Goddamn, Reg, didn’t you hear what I said? Shit’s flying twenty meters high. It’s a code brown poop storm
if I ever saw one. This’ll take weeks to clean up,” Charles continued, using words that Buckman was not sure even existed until that moment.

  There was a pause in the conversation. “It’s still spewing, you whack lickers! I said, shut it down!”

  “It shows it being closed. That line should be shunted to the backup tank while we clean out the main hold,” Jack said.

  “Switch that incoming line to the 1B backup,” Charles said.

  “Hold on,” Jack said. There was a two- or three-minute pause as the switch was going on. In the meantime, Buckman had walked over to the edge of the hold and could look down at the leak. Charles was right. It was still flying everywhere. The flow began to slow down and eventually come to a full halt. Once an all-clear was given, he saw Charles come over from the side.

  “Charles, you need anything?” Buckman asked.

  “Naw. Don’t jack around too much in case I need parts.”

  “I hear my name?” Jack said

  “Sure, I saw about ten tons of crap go by and it reminded me of you,” Charles said.

  “Oh, sure,” Jack started.

  “Will both of you shut up and get back to work.” Reg broke in. “Find out why that line was open and what’s wrong. Now. Report back in fifteen.”

  The conversation continued in a more mannered tone as Buckman went about his inspection of the other valves and lines. As the diagnosis continued, Buckman listened to the discussion at first with slight interest, but as all the logical conclusions, broken valve, clogged line, bad sensor, came to no end, the conversation stopped. Buckman continued on his duties, but the silence over the com line was getting his attention. There was a click and Charles’s direct broadcast came to him. Buckman heard him say, very quietly, “That ain’t right. Bucky, get down here.”

  “On my way.” Buckman went over to the side of the tank to another ladder that went all the way down to the bottom of the hold. The ladder had a safety cage around it like all the other ladders, and as he started climbing down, the monitor on his belt caught on one of the supports and pulled loose. The unit bounced once on the side of the tank and then tumbled through the air all the way to the floor, at least a hundred meters below him. There was no chance for him to have caught it without risking his life, so he had to watch it, hoping he could afford to replace it or prove it was not his fault. For a moment, he expected to see the guts of the tool splatter on the floor, but instead it disappeared. A couple moments later, he realized the leak must have been significant enough to flood the area below.

  “What the hell was that?” Charles asked.

  “Report, shitman,” Jack said.

  “Aw. I dropped the monitor,” Buckman said.

  “Go get it, dumbass,” Jack said.

  At that point, Buckman’s ear felt like it had been jabbed with a screwdriver. “Everybody, just shut up!” Reg yelled over the line. Buckman guessed Reg was not having a good day. “Shut up. Just shut up. Go get it. I don’t have time to send another one over. Get the damn thing.” There was an exasperated sigh. “Dammit. Jack, get another one sent over to the air lock. Buckman, it’ll be there if you need it.” The com line clicked off.

  Before getting on the ladder, Buckman should have packed the monitor away rather than clipping it to his waist. “Roger that,” he said, hoping to sound official. Then over his local communication with Charles, he said, “be there in a few minutes. I have to find it.”

  Buckman knew about where it landed when it fell. If he was lucky, he would be able to feel around for it in the viscous decomposition material in the bottom of the hold. He continued climbing down the ladder until he reached what he thought was the bottom rung. The ladder seemed to extend into the material, meaning it was much deeper than it looked.

  The bottom of the hold had large support beams that also formed containment areas. Buckman looked around before he stepped off, and guessed it had to be almost a meter deep. After a few years of doing this kind of work, Buckman had thought he was over being affected working with the waste of other people. He continued to try reminding himself of this as he gingerly stepped off the last rung and into the yellow-green-brown pool of effluvial matter and decomposition chemicals. “Effluvial matter” my ass, Jack had said in a meeting before. It’s all crap, no matter what you call it. His feet dangled for a moment and then touched the bottom when he was about waist deep. After a few slips, he gained his balance and started moving over to the area where the monitor had gone in. He moved in tiny, sliding steps, hoping to stay upright and out of any holes. It took several minutes, but finally his left toe bumped into something that was about the right size and shape. Now came the part he was dreading. He reached down into the material and closed his eyes. He kept reaching down farther, until his helmet was partially submerged. The unit was too slippery, so he had to reach both hands in, completely engulfing his head in the gelatinous liquid. Despite the filters and protections of the suit, he took in full lungs’ worth of the gases, as some of the liquid must have gotten into a vent. He put both hands on the monitor and started pulling it out. As his head came out of the liquid, he opened his eyes and the visor began to clear. He stopped in a bent over position with the monitor still held in the liquid around him.

  There was glint of gold coming from one of the tank support beams. If he had moved his head further up or to the side, he would not have seen it. He pulled the monitor out and wiped off what he could with his gloved hand. It started as it should and went through the standard self-check. At least he would not have to pay for a new one. Holding it by the handle, he attached it to his belt and looked back under the tank at the glint he had seen a few moments before.

  The area under the tank was fairly dark, so he switched on a light attached to his helmet. Buckman began wading his way over to the location. For the first few steps, he did not see the glint, but as he moved closer it came back, along with the view of the wrist it was attached to. He moved closer, and an arm came into view, as did red and blue cloth. Then, unmistakably, there was blonde hair.

  7

  The support beams crisscrossed under the tank, and he had to step through the various openings to get to her. He was standing behind her, as she was lengthwise along the beam, her hair just starting to touch the liquid. Buckman pulled the hair aside slightly and saw that it had already been decomposed by the chemicals in the fluid. Looking at her from the other side, he was able to get a confirming view that this was Parren’s missing wife, the woman who had been all over the news since he arrived. There was blood smeared on what little he was able to see of her face. Still, he could tell, between the clothes, hair, and skin, that this was a person who had lived a privileged life. Jack’s earlier comment about them being perfect, vulgar as the thought was, came to mind. She was in her mid-thirties, if he remembered right, about the same age as his sister. Straights tended to have fewer children and later in life. Part of what Buckman earned went to support his nieces, nephews and his family. This woman’s family would no doubt be wondering where she was.

  Buckman clicked open the com line. He needed to report what he had seen. “I found,” he began. But, then he looked closer at her hand and became confused. Instead of a marriage ring, the skin had been ripped off, like the ring was grabbed and forcibly removed.

  “What,” Jack said. “Found what?”

  “I, uh, found the uh, monitor,” Buckman said.

  “Thanks, uh, lot, uh. Does it, uh, still work, uh? Jack asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it?” Jack said with a sarcastic squeak.

  “Yes,” Buckman said, still looking at the bloody hand. “It checks out.”

  “Get back on the inspection,” Reg said breaking in on the conversation. Before he clicked off, Reg started saying, “Jack I told you…”

  “Roger that.”

  The line clicked shut, the noise replaced by creaks and groans from the hold. When a Straight
was married, they exchanged rings as people had done for thousands of years. However, certain groups took this to an extreme. These tended to be people who looked upon the DNA divisions as the sole determining factor of who and what you were. They were a controlling group who made their voices heard throughout the society and had considerable influence. Parren was a leading member, a direct descendent of one of the Generators. When these people became married, an ID chip was inserted in the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger. The women typically then had a tattoo on this location as a permanent sign of commitment and acceptance. In the rare case of a divorce, the chip and tattoo were surgically removed, leaving a scar. In Celirna’s case, it had been torn out, leaving a mangled thumb barely attached to the hand. She must have still been alive when this happened, judging by the blood covering her arm. She had been murdered and crammed into the beams of the hold to be absorbed by the materials from the leaking line. Eventually the sludge would rise to a level that would engulf her body and then decompose her remains in a couple of days. Whoever did this was violent and had something to show. But, why not just toss her in and be done with it, rather than leaving her to be found?

  Buckman backed away, having an intuition that, even as bad as this looked, there was much more going on. This was planned out. He waded around the side of the tank to where he could see Charles still struggling to get the valve broken down. Charles was about 10 meters above him, where the line came into the wall.

  “Charles,” Buckman said.

  “What’s your beef, Chief?”

  Buckman put his hands on both sides of his helmet, letting Charles know to be quiet. He then pointed in the direction of where he had found Celirna’s body and motioned Charles to join him. Charles knew enough to stay quiet. He put his tools on the platform and climbed down the ladder. His legs were short and stumpy, and when he took a short hop off the end of the ladder, he was nearly up to his chest in the material. They both shut their com lines off.

  There was a safety backup communication line between the suits that was activated by touching the other person. Charles touched Buckman on the shoulder and whispered, “There a ghost down here?”

  The joking tone of Charles’s voice was gone, as if he knew what Buckman had found. “She’s down here. The woman. Parren’s wife.”

  “Damn,” Charles said. “Where?”

  Buckman began to wade back over to where she was. As they approached, the clothes and blonde hair came into view. They both worked their way over until they were within arm’s length of her hip. Charles went around to the other side and took a closer look at her face, and merely nodded his head. He came back around to Buckman and put his hand on Buckman’s arm. “This is fucked up. Somebody busted the valve. Tool marks are fresh.”

  “What do you think?” Buckman asked.

  “I need some parts from Bertie. Let’s head back and talk. Give me a minute,” Charles said.

  Charles waded back over the ladder and hoisted himself out of the material. It dripped and ran off his suit as he climbed back up the platform. Buckman looked back at the place where Celirna lay. Buckman knew the score and was sure Charles did too. He was not an educated man, but this did not mean he was not wise to the way things worked. They were Bents working in the waste hold of a ship run by Straights. Buckman and others like him had spent a lifetime figuring out how to slip past the authorities and make a living in a hostile society. They had tried to avoid situations just like this. The leak was no more an accident than her body being here. Moreover, he was not sure how, but he believed his and Charles’s being there was not an accident, either. The choices ran through his head. A Bent reporting a murdered Straight was a problem. A Bent is always a suspect. If they did not report it and any remnants were found, their movements could be traced back here, and they would have the same problem. Neither option was good. For a moment, he was angry with her for putting them in this problem, but then this turned to brief sorrow. She was what she was, but her end must have been terrifying. Her family would likely never truly know what happened to her, and the killer would never be found. Charles came back down the ladder and waded over to him.

  “Not much of a grave,” Buckman said.

  “Don’t matter at this point,” Charles said. They both clicked the com line back on and reported they were coming out to get some parts for the broken valve.

  They went back over to Bertie to gather up the parts. Reg was upset with them for not being able to continue with the inspection, even though the unload was stopped for some other reason. Reg gave Buckman a half hour to leave the hold. Once they were alone in the parts storage, Charles starting pulling crates off shelves and taking parts out. Buckman followed him around.

  “You know how this looks for us,” Charles said as he sorted through a collection of seals.

  “Sure,” Buckman said. He found a box of seals Charles was looking for. “This it?”

  “Grab two of them. You never know what we’ll need.” Buckman did, and entered it into the warehouse log. “Come over here. We’ll need a backing plate.”

  Buckman followed him into another backroom that was even further removed from scrutiny. He knew that Charles had all kinds of thoughts running through his mind.

  “Cain’t say a thing about this,” Charles said, as they wrestled the big plate off the shelf and onto a cart.

  “Nobody?” Buckman said. He knew the answer, but for some reason he had to ask.

  “Nobody. Not even your family. This gots to be our secret. We’re in deep as it is.” He stopped and shook his head, looking down at his boots.

  “What’d you see?” Buckman asked. The comment made by Charles just before he found her was clear in his mind.

  “I was wondering what the hell was wrong with the valve. It was fucked up on purpose,” he said barely above a whisper. “That plate, one like this, the bolts were all loose, but not stripped out. I saw the tool marks from the wrenches the bastard used. It was the wrong kind of wrench and it slipped off a couple of the heads. Whoever did this just backed the bolts out and let the shit fly. The sensor must be broke or else it would be flagged. They probably rigged it to not work.”

  Buckman gave this some thought. Whoever did this had some knowledge of how the system worked. “There’re only a couple of ways in and out. They both have a decontamination cycle. They’d have to override it.”

  Charles ran his stubby fingers down his face. All these years of fighting the system were seen in the wrinkles under his eyes. “There’s an emergency hatch, but whatever. Can’t do that alone. Have to cover the tracks, set it up. Straights are evil sons of bitches, but smart. Clever.” He said this last word with resignation.

  The anti-grav on the cart made it easy to move around despite the weight of the plate they had put on it. Buckman bumped the cart back and forth slightly. “Damn. You know they have a reward out for her.”

  “Sure,” Charles said. “Soon as we open our holes, they lock us up. What good’s a bank full of money if they got you tied up in a shit hole?”

  He was right. The reward could just as well be a way to draw them in. Giving money out was not done. “You know,” Buckman started saying. “Sounds like we been set up. Probably gotta look at it that way.”

  Charles bit his lower a lip a moment until Buckman thought he would start seeing blood. “It weren’t leaking yesterday. I swear on my left nut. I was in there. Puts me there. At the right time.”

  “We’re both in there.” They stood motionless in the supply room for some time. She had been reported missing right after they had arrived. The timing was close enough that they could be at least be connected to the crime, either in doing it or covering up.

  “Look, you ain’t supposed to be here,” Charles said. “You got an illegal pass stick. Soon as they prick your finger, they’ll figure it out. A few hours later they know you ain’t who you say you are. You’re
gone, chained done. Just leave it to me.”

  Buckman looked at his hands folded together on the cart, knowing that just being in the hold with her body there made them suspects. “Naw. Look, even if, even if we hadn’t seen her, it wouldn’t matter. They have us in there.”

  “That big, dumb gorilla that showed us in would be all too happy to claim the reward, see us locked away.”

  “Sorry, Charles. Sorry to drag you into this,” Buckman said, not looking up at Charles. “If I hadn’t seen her, we wouldn’t be in this.”

  Charles slapped his hand on the cart. “No wait, that don’t make sense. You found her, we can do something about it. Who’s to say anyone will find her now?”

  “They will. They're looking all over the ship.”

  “If they find her. If. We push her in, and she’s gone. You know how that crap works.” Charles started pushing the cart towards the door. Buckman followed him out.

  Buckman thought about how he found her stretched across the beam, the end of her hair dissolved by the material. “If I hadn’t found her, she would have disappeared in that leak in a couple days.”

  Charles started loading the rest of the parts and tools onto the cart. “Look, it’s simple. We push her in, problem solved.”

  “I don’t know,” Buckman said. The thought of her body being dissolved away was unsettling, gruesome. Once they touched her and did that, they were even more tied up in this.

  “Listen. Listen to me,” Charles said. “You know how these buttholes operate. You know, well, I know this was set up, and we weren’t supposed to find her. We done got lucky you seen her. If you hadn’t dropped that monitor, damn, they’d be in there. You watch, somebody’s gonna show up to search that area. Straights are lying, cheating cocksuckers, but they’re smart. Smarter than us. They’re also dull and just keep poking their dicks around ’til they find a hole that fits what they want.”

  The last comment brought up a strange image of hundreds of Straights wandering around with their pants pulled down. Buckman was not quite sure how that figured into their immediate problem. “What?”

  “Never mind. You get what I’m saying, though.”

  “Sure, but that makes us part of it now.” The risk was there whether they did this or not. Buckman thought there must be a better way to handle this, but he also had a feeling Charles was right. If they left her there, she would be found, sooner rather than later. Maybe he was right. Finding her had been a stroke of luck. When he was in the bottom of the hold, a meter either way and he would not have seen her. The inspection of the bottom of the hold was not part of what he was doing anyway. There had to be something else they could do, but he was at a loss. They could report it, but then that would put them into trouble. They could leave her; however, this was even worse. Carrying her out was not possible. Making her disappear was really the best solution.

  Charles slapped him hard enough on the shoulder to let him know they were done talking about it. “Come on. Help me get this over there before Reg pukes a brick.”

  “How long will that stuff take to work?” Buckman asked.

  “The Alkalinium? About two days. Stuff’s good. It works faster the longer a body’s been dead. Get it on your skin and it’ll burn like a motherfucker, but it’ll stop in a few minutes. Throw a dead goat or a load of logs in, and it just eats it. Two days, she’ll be gone forever.”

  Buckman was not sure he could be that patient. Two days seemed like a long time to wait for them to be in the clear, but it was better than having her draped across that beam for weeks or months until they found her. “Let’s go, get this over with.”

  They pushed the cart out of the parts storage and hooked it up to a small vehicle to take it back over. Charles drove across the temporary tunnel between the two ships. They met up with Artis again, who methodically took them to the same elevator and entrance to the hold. Obedience and order were what the Straights based their culture on, or so they liked to have people believe. As evidenced by what they had found that morning, this did not prevent violent behavior. Acts of violence were rarely reported, but there were always enough rumors to know these kinds of problems existed. If there were incidences, the offending parties were dealt with swiftly and severely, and the problem was considered settled. Whether the punishment for deviant behavior was driven by revenge or a need to keep the order, Buckman was not sure. Either way, Celirna must have done something truly unacceptable for her to end up like this.

  They brought the cart over to where Charles had been fixing the inlet valve. Charles climbed up to the platform, and Buckman set the anti-grav to lift the cart up to him. It took several minutes for Charles to get things set up, and during that time, Buckman stayed below. He glanced back and forth between Charles above him and the area below where Celirna was. Buckman remembered going to a funeral when he was very young and hearing a man speak of the person they were burying. The deceased was a family friend who had spent his life peacefully, fully accepting the society they lived in. When the speaker began, he reminded everyone of the rule the man had lived by: that the separation was artificially created, and therefore, both sides suffered. Buckman always wondered what this meant and had not really believed it or knew how this could be true. The Straights had everything they wanted. He had seen too much. However, knowing this woman, Celirna, would be going to an early grave, an ending she surely did not deserve, brought some truth to the words. Her family would never know what happened to her, and the people responsible for the crime would never be caught. That was it. That was the price they paid for the world they wanted.

  Charles finished what he was doing and signaled to close the com lines. He climbed down the ladder, and they both started wading back through the Alkalinium over to where she was. At first, Buckman thought she was gone, but they he saw her leg and the back of her head. Charles and Buckman looked at each other and kept moving until they were within arm’s length. Charles put his hand on her shoulder and then nodded his head to indicate Buckman to the same. He put both hands on her hip and began to roll her off the beam. Charles jerked his hand back as her head came around, and Buckman had a spastic intake of breath. Her eyes were wide open, and as she fell into the pool, she appeared to be looking right at them. The injuries were clear, though. Part of her head was deformed, and sticky blood was caked into the blonde hair. She was gone. Her body landed into the liquid and a small wavelet came out from around her and lapped against Buckman’s waist. Within a few seconds, the material began to flow around her. First her legs went under, her waist, and finally her head. The last he saw was a stream of hair before she was finally engulfed. The Alkalinium would do its work, and in a few days she would be gone forever. Charles put his hand on Buckman’s back. “Turn it back on. Let’s get to work.”

  8

  Parren had been told about Celirna’s unknown whereabouts since the day before. As he had first responded, it was not unusual for her to disappear for a day or two in her various travels. Parren seldom accompanied her on such adventures as the uncertainty of an unplanned excursion was not something he enjoyed. However, the news broadcasts had been fairly regular as speculation swirled about where she was. She had a way of inserting herself into situations, and this latest disappearance could be seen as her manipulating the media, as she had done before. This was relatively easy, as cameras liked her, and she had always been adept at using publicity. Parren remembered the first time he saw her being interviewed, when she was on one her many goodwill trips. The image was surreal, and he could not believe a woman as beautiful as her would belong to him. People seemed to flutter around her as if they were trying to get some of the magic that terribly attractive people seem to have. She could be difficult, argumentative even, and often at odds with his goals of stronger laws and more defined separation. The frustration between the dichotomy of her physical appeal and emotional involvement with social matters was something h
e struggled with.

  This morning, he was to get a briefing from the ship’s security officer on the search for her. Parren had insisted the man meet him in the office of his private suite, complete with an imposing view of the space sky and Queen itself. Morgan, Parren’s personal assistant, would attend as well. On the desk was a com pad with a list of questions Parren would be following, though he knew the discussion could veer off in numerous directions. The point of the discussion would be that the man was not doing enough to find her, and that his livelihood was at stake. Both of these were true, since Parren had already been given the communications of the search, and strategized how he would conduct such an investigation. They were doing a decent job, but further steps could be taken.

  Parren looked at his reflection in the window, and patted down his suit jacket, and ran his hand over his hair. There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” he said.

  Morgan stepped in. He had worked with Parren for a number of years and had grown to be a person he trusted to some extent. However, never too much. It was better that way. “Captain Dorran is with me.”

  “Of course,” Parren said, stepping over to the conference table. Dorran, son of mid-level parents and graduate of a mid-level school. Married thirty years, with a son and daughter, both attending similar mid-level schools. There were other points of interest, but that was all he was able to read up on the man in the hour since Morgan forwarded his name and record.

  “Sir, it’s an honor to meet you,” Dorran said.

  “Yes. Take a seat, please, and review what you have learned so far,” Parren said. That was the opening question on the pad.

  “Let me just say, I’m sorry for the concern this must be causing you and your family. This must be a terrible burden,” Dorran said, placing his information pad on the table as he sat down.

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Continue, please.”

  “The investigation so far has not led to any definite clues. Her whereabouts were traceable up until two mornings ago.” Dorran picked up the pad and poked at it a few times.

  “Please describe her movements that morning.” Parren crossed his legs and brought his fingertips together just below his chin.

  “Sir, please be assured we are making all possible efforts in locating your wife,” Dorran said. His brow furrowed for a moment.

  “Have you found her yet?” Morgan asked.

  “Exactly,” Parren said, finishing his thought and line of questioning. “If you haven’t found her yet, I disagree with saying you are putting all your effort into this.”

  Dorran set the pad back onto the table and leaned forward on his elbows. “Sirs, we have a top security staff here. These kinds of investigations have to be done methodically and thoroughly.”

  Parren rubbed his fingertips together. The man was easily defensive about his job. Some pride there, but then again, he would not be a security officer if he were a brilliant man. “Understand. Please describe her movements that morning.”

  Dorran exhaled and picked the pad back up. “The evening before, we had her at a party on the forty-fifth deck. A penthouse belonging to a man named Casion. She was identified as being in good spirits and was one of the last people to leave, around 1:30am. She was alone.” Dorran stopped and looked at Parren for a moment. Parren did not change expression or position. “And came back to your suite about ten minutes later.”

  “Have you talked to this Casion or people at the party?” Parren asked. This was a man he had never heard of.

  “Yes, by all accounts, it was exactly as I described.”

  Parren turned to Morgan. “Please verify his claims.”

  “Hold on,” Dorran said. Parren had not guessed him to be a man to have a spirit. Maybe he was wrong. “This is an active investigation. I can’t allow outsiders to come in and start running their own review.”

  “Rest assured your investigation will continue. I, however, did not bring you here to simply listen. Please continue with your description.” Parren made this statement in a low even voice. Nothing Dorran could say would alter Parren’s belief that he was infinitely smarter and skilled than the police officer could ever dream of being.

  “Sir,” Dorran said. “Very well. Right. The next morning she left your suite. Before you ask, we were respectful of your property, but we had to search this premises.”

  “Understood,” Morgan said. “You had a property search warrant.”

  “Correct. We searched the suite and found nothing out of order that would suggest any foul play. It seemed to us that she had packed belongings for a trip, but these were not removed from the rooms.” Dorran scanned over the data.

  “I concur,” Parren said. He had seen the haphazard way she had thrown all her “things” together, a trait that irked him to no end.

  “Good,” Dorran said, placing the pad back on the table. “From there, her whereabouts lead straight to the shops on the third ring. She had breakfast in the suite and left before the shops had actually opened.”

  “Why would she do such a thing?” Morgan asked.

  Parren knew the exclusive access Celirna had. “She often did not want to be bothered by crowds. Shop owners were always too accommodating to have her come in early or late for personal attention.”

  “The security cameras have her going to the third ring but then never coming out. She went into a clothier, but there is no record of her buying anything. The owner never even saw her come in.”

  Parren gave this some thought. “The name of the clothier, please.”

  “I won’t do that,” Dorran said. “Again, let me explain my position here.”

  “Morgan,” Parren said turning away from Dorran. “You can find that easily enough.”

  Dorran slapped his hand on the table, making a loud popping noise. “See here. You will not interfere with this. We have investigators combing this ship and spreading out to transports that have left.”

  Parren shot a glance back to Dorran. “You mean you have a disappearance, and you are letting people leave this ship?”

  Dorran said, “Everyone that leaves, every piece of luggage, every ship is searched before it sets off, I assure you.”

  “That’s not good enough. This is no ordinary cook or schoolteacher you are looking for. She is a member of one of the most prominent families in the world. I want every craft leaving stopped. Nobody gets off this station until she is found.”

  Dorran’s face turned red. For a moment, Parren thought the man was going to pass out. He was enough overweight, and according to his last physical, there was an indication of elevated blood pressure. He looked at the pad again to be sure. “I will not take orders from you.”

  “I ask, no, demand, you stop all ships coming and going from this station.”

  “You have no jurisdiction here,” Dorran said, his voice rising to match his red face. “You have no right to address me in such a manner.”

  Parren appeared to ignore these comments. With one hand, he worked the pad and found the page he was looking for, and read the information for several seconds. He could hear Dorran’s agitated breathing. Finally, he held up the pad. “You report to this man?” Parren asked.

  Dorran did not answer. The portrait was of an elected official Parren had been heavily backing for several years. He was a man on a track to achieve great things, and Parren preferred to keep such people on his side. “He is a friend of mine. I have given him campaign money for several years. Is he in your chain of command?”

  Dorran still did not answer, but his flitting eyes were enough to let Parren know where they both stood. “That would be yes,” Morgan answered for him.

  “Correct.” Parren punched up a few more things on the pad. “Ah, says here you ran into some difficulty with a mortgage on a home. Some payments missed. Ah, legal action from a housekeeper. And a few other things. These could be problems, again. Maybe.”

  “You guys
always win. What do you want?” Dorran finally said.

  “As I said, stop anything coming and going. We will do our work and let you know what we find. Double your efforts and search places she would have no business visiting. Everything top to bottom. I can arrange for further investigations on transports that have already left,” Parren said. The pad remained on the table, and he crossed his legs again.

  “This conversation never happened,” Dorran said.

  “Your efforts are greatly appreciated. You will be rewarded for your diligence, both in assets and reputation. Thank you for listening to reason,” Parren said, then without further conversation, he left the room. Morgan left as well through another door, leaving Dorran alone at the table.

  9

  Buckman made his way to the airlock at the end of his shift, leaving Charles to finish work on a vent line. On the way across the catwalk, his eyes lingered on what he could see under the enormous tank. There was no shaking the fact that they now had a hand in what happened. Finding her was an accident, but that accident caused them to face hard facts and do what they did. Buckman tried again to figure if there was another solution, but he knew he was not smart enough to do anything other than go to the authorities. And where would that lead? That was the problem. It could go anywhere, and from personal experience that would eventually lead to trouble. Charles had seen these kinds of problems before, and both of them had known well-intentioned people who were dragged into years of legal problems or thrown into jail. That really only left them the choice they had taken. If they had not touched her or never seen her, whoever was searching would have eventually come into the hold. As the door opened to the airlock, he had to admit he just did not know. There was no way to predict the future, but hopefully they had tilted the odds in their favor.

  When the decontamination was complete, he rode the elevator back to the entrance he had come in. The door slid open, and he was greeted by two men dressed in protective gear. One of them held out his hand. He thought of the body rolling over and sinking to the bottom of the pool of Alkalinium. Charles said a couple of days, but these men were going in right now.

  “Stick,” one of the men said, wanting to see Buckman’s identity stick.

  “Let me change.” Buckman sat down on a bench and began to remove his gear. The two men stood on either side of him, watching every move. The entire process of unbuckling and removing everything took about a minute. At one point, the cuff of the coveralls caught on a boot buckle. One of the men reached down and yanked the pants leg off the boot, almost pulling Buckman onto the floor.

  “Hurry up,” the younger of the two men said. Buckman stood up. Both men moved to either side of him.

  “How long you been in there?” the older man asked.

  “Does it matter?” Buckman said. Within a second, the younger man had his forearm across Buckman’s throat. The hold was not very tight, nor well applied. Buckman had been in enough scrapes to know he could take the man if he needed to, or at least give him an even fight.

  “Easy,” the older man said, pulling the other one back with a hand on his shoulder. “Answer the question. You know we got a missing person.”

  The two stepped back several feet from Buckman. “About six hours. We had to go over and get parts about four hours ago.”

  “Stick,” the younger man repeated, and then pulled it off from Buckman’s neck, snapping the cord. He plugged it into a small reader he had with him.

  “See anything unusual?” the older man asked.

  Buckman gave this a quick thought. They had reported the valve leak, and nothing else. “Well, found a valve burst open. Made a large spill in the bottom of the hold.”

  “How long you think since it let go?” the older man said.

  “Don’t know. I would guess at least a day. It was running out in a heavy stream,” Buckman said.

  The older man punched in some data into the pad he was carrying. “What else? Open doors? Was a man named Charles in there as well?”

  “He came in shortly after I did at the start of my shift.” Buckman could see Charles’s picture come up on the screen. “That’s him.”

  Both of the security men perused the data on Charles. “Shows he was in there yesterday for one hour and forty-seven minutes.”

  They stood there for a moment looking at Buckman. “Is there a question?”

  “What was he doing in there yesterday?” the young man asked.

  “Look, I really don’t know. Probably an inspection or checking the work orders. He’s the lead plumber and has to check over jobs to be done.” Buckman was confused by the line of questioning. Both of these men had to understand there was not much he could add. He started gathering his gear. “I have to report back in.”

  “An hour forty-seven sounds like a long time to just look around,” the older man said.

  “Any reason to keep this?” the young man asked the older man, holding up the identity stick.

  “No, give it back.” The man tossed the stick onto the bench, rather than hand it back to Buckman. The two men finished putting their gear on and moved over to the elevator. The door opened, and they stepped in. Buckman called ahead to Charles and told him to expect visitors, before taking his prescribed way back to Bertie.