Jim Munroe - Angry Young Spaceman.pdf - Jim Munroe - allforjesus2001

ANGRY YOUNG SPACEMAN

Jim Munroe

***

Bubbles over Plangyo,

Where did you go?

—Octavian folk song

one

I had a massive suitcase dragging down one fist and my Speak-O-Matic

case in the other.

“Let me help you with that,” said Lisa. I pushed my suitcase at her, but

she reached around it to snatch the jet black translator.

I let go reluctantly. “Careful,” I said, lurching on with my suitcase.

She swung it jauntily as she walked, smirking back at me from under

her messy mop of brown curls. I set the suitcase down and picked it up

with my other hand.

“‘What do I need antigrav cells for, Lisa?’” Lisa said in her stupid-guy

voice as she watched me struggle. “‘What a total waste of money!’”

I looked at the spaceport ahead and picked up my pace. “You

deliberately parked the floater far away to —” A guy with a jetpack

touched down between Lisa and I, cutting me off. I scowled at him as I

walked through his purple exhaust, my nose burning from it.

She watched me with a smidge of sympathy. “How’s your head?”

I shrugged. “Not bad, considering.”

“Yeah, it was quite a party,” she said with a crooked smile. “Were you

surprised with how many people showed up?”

I nodded. The rooftop had been packed, new people landing every

minute it seemed. I felt, again, a bubble of doubt rise, as I thought about

all the good friends I had on Earth. I could feel Lisa watching me. Ahead, a

rocket launched, its ignition-plume predictably lighting a burst of

excitement in my chest.

“It’s gonna be good,” I said, staring at it as it rose. I suddenly worried

about my boxes. They had been sent ahead and (hopefully) already sat in

the belly of my rocketship.

We reached the whisk-away and it slid us into the spaceport. I was able

to put the suitcase down for a minute and flex blood into my hand. We

passed through the field and stepped off near a bunch of shops.

Lisa checked her watch. I took my Speak-O-Matic back from her,

saying, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Sorry to get you here so early,” she said. “I gotta get to work.”

I smiled at her. “It’s not that early.” I thought about last time we were

in a spaceport together, back when we were going out.

“Well, I guess...” she said, folding her arms and looking at me.

“Thanks, eh,” I said at the same time.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Skaggs wanted me to give you something to

remember the gang by.”

I put up my fists.

She laughed and fished out a moviedisk. I took it and tucked it in a side

pocket of the suitcase, then picked up both my bags.

“See ya,” I said, and she lifted her hand.

I turned away, trying to decide if I should go to the bar or check in first.

“Oh, and here’s something to remember me by,” Lisa said behind me,

and I reluctantly turned around, hoped it would be a hug rather than a

kiss.

It was a perfectly-aimed right hook, and it knocked me cold.

***

“Lead the way, sir!” said the luggage-droid hovering above me.

I sat up, rubbed my jaw and neck tendons. My head was really

pounding now. There were a few curious onlookers, but as soon as I stood

up they lost interest.

“Where would you like me to carry your bags, sir?” chirped the

luggage-droid. It made my massive suitcase look infuriatingly light,

bouncing there in mid-air.

“Nowhere! Drop them,” I growled.

It set them down. I picked them up.

“Please deposit zero credits,” it said to my back, then buzzed away as it

realized the stupidity of that request.

I headed into the washroom. There was a medvac installed on the wall,

which was great — it meant I didn’t have to go rooting through my

suitcase. I set it to medium and stood in front of it as the healing rays

swept over my face. I shut my eyes (one hand on my suitcase) and smiled,

thinking about Lisa. She couldn’t resist giving me a pug send-off. So

sentimental.

I spat in the sink — no blood — and felt my head. There was an egg

under my crewcut where my head had hit the ground, but it wasn’t leaky.

The medvac had snapped off so I turned it on again, crouching awkwardly

so it could reach the back of my head.

A Yenatian sprung suddenly over the door of the toilet stall and made

me jump.

“Do not move,” the medvac chastised with the voice of a grumpy nurse.

The Yenatian bounced to the door and out, his characteristically

innocent eyes looking me over. I tried not to glower at him. It wasn’t his

fault that most of the universe was engineered for people with

door-opening appendages.

The medvac switched off. I checked the spot on my head, and other

than the residual numb tingle it was back to normal. I picked up my

suitcase and left for the bar, with a plan to make the rest of my head

numb.

***

“Could you stop that?”

The charliebot continued polishing the shot glass. “What?”

“The polishing. You weren’t doing it when I came in.” They have some

subroutine that gets them doing some pointless busy-work. It’s irritating.

“Just stop the polishing, willya?”

“Uppity human,” he growled as he rolled away.

That was a bit extreme. Someone had been in here talking revolution,

or at least bitching about Earthlings. The idea was that it gave each

carbon-copy bar its own character, for better or worse: the bar near my

place had a charliebot that spouted the annoying pretentious witticisms of

its lunarian regulars.

I resisted the urge to ask what species had used that phrase — it’d just

feed my own prejudices, after all. It was odd, though, ‘cause bars were

mostly a human thing. I looked around, a little paranoid. I couldn’t see

anyone, but that didn’t mean anything.

“How many people in the bar, Charlie?”

Charlie’s head extended about a foot on a thin metal pipe neck... turned

one way clickclickclick .... turned the other way... clickclickclick... then

turned his jug-eared lump of a head back to face me. From on high, he

reported: “It’s just you and me, buddy. No other patrons present.” His

head dropped down with a hydraulic hiss and he asked: “So who owes who

a drink?”

When the charliebots were being test-marketed, the locals (after they

got tired of mocking it and getting it to repeat various naughty phrases)

started taking advantage of its sensor functions, usually with a little bet

involved. The manufacturers saw this and capitalized on it, adding

theatrics — a charliebot doesn’t have to extend its neck to count the

people in the bar, for instance — and, naturally, the follow-up pressure

sell. Don’t ask me how I remember clavinish facts like this, but the craven

and clever tactics of business are in my blood, I suppose.

Of course, I also remembered all the times they had slipped up — asking

the one person in a bar who was buying, for instance. An “if barpatrons=1

then...” statement would have done the job.

“Come on, don’t be a cheap bastard. Our house beer is only eighteen

credits, buddy!” The charliebot’s hose arm extended, poised above my

glass, waiting for my OK.

I sat there quietly. With sales-happy robots, no input is the best input,

if you can stand it. Sometimes, they’ll presume consent, and if you haven’t

actually ordered it... I sat there quietly.

Charlie started filling my glass. Like beer, silence can be golden.

“Who’s paying?” he said, driblets falling from his retracting draft arm.

“The other guy,” I said, watching as it paused to sense for the “other

guy.” There was no theatrical flourish this time, just a quick attempt to

get its hose into my glass.

“Whoa, Charlie,” I said as I snatched up the glass. It would have sucked

it back up in a second if I had let it. The charliebot has its charms, to be

sure, but when it comes to class and breeding — well, it’s no jeevesatron.

It stood there for a second, processing the fact that it couldn’t charge

me for a drink I hadn’t ordered, nor take a drink out of my hand. Then it

rolled away. When it stopped, it barked a word I recognized as a curse

from the ghettos of the most depraved Nebular planets. A word,

incidentally, I had never used — even in a joking, over-the-top way with

my friends. How was it getting exposed to that kind of language?

Jesus, I thought. Spaceports are weird places.

And then it got even weirder.

***

Before I even write the next line I want to put in a disclaimer. I can’t

stand the thought of someone reading this and thinking “Oh wow, this guy

is total xenophobic trash!” Because that’s what I would think if I read the

next few lines cold. This is the situation: I was totally paranoid because

the charliebot was talking some serious evil-alien shit, and I was worried

they were regulars. I wish it wasn’t the case, but aliens often make me

Jim Munroe - Angry Young Spaceman.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: