Random Movements

Account Receivable

     It was time to get moving. Business often has its own time, when something must be done. I would have preferred to stay home with my lady, but I had bills to pay.
   I am a banker, an Operator who loans Credit Units to people who are too unreliable to borrow from real Banks. Such people usually repay as required by our agreements, with no trouble. Their chancy ways of making their livings give lawfully operating Banks nervous shudders, but I am the sort of private banker who feels such quivers as thrills, not fears.
   Sometimes, the chancy ones who come to me for a loan of CUs are just stupid fools, who never get their money problems straightened out. They often need a little extra motivation to respect their own given word in a deal. Usually, I try to work out an accommodation with them, give them some room to make good on their promises. I can't get my investment back, if the deadbeat is too busted up to earn it.
   Once in a while, there's one who is a true idiot. One who considers himself immune to unpleasant consequences. One like Razor.
   Razor was a sleaze who believed too much of his own brag. He floated through life in a delusional fantasy of being an Operator who got respect from other Operators. A mean, vicious child, with too much self-esteem. He owed me twelve thousand CUs, and seemed convinced I had simply given it to him. He had been boasting all over Under Station that he had punked me, that I wasn't going to give him any trouble about it. His talk had people looking sideways at me, wondering if their chance of doing something similar was worth a try.
   Respect, in an environment outside the rule of law, is all anyone has. It's a very delicate, complex abstraction that requires constant, obsessive maintenance.
   So, I had some maintenance and repair to do, to recover from my mistake in doing biz with an idiot. Business would suffer, and it would be a lot more messy bother to get it fixed, if I let the crap continue. It was time Razor experienced one of those life lessons that often improve the survivors.
   The evening could get exciting, so I made certain of my weapons. My gun was an illegally modified stunner. Everyone has a sonic stunner, and usually carries it, even in Upper Station, where legit prosperity has little to fear. Under Station is a bit more radical in style, and it's almost never enough to just put a miscreant to sleep. You have to do some real damage.
   My stunner mod had turned it into a needler. A legal stunner sends a cone-shaped beam of sound at the target that causes a severe vibration, momentarily disrupting nerves. Mine had been altered to send a very narrow beam, concentrating all the punch of the legal wide beam into a ten millimeter-wide jazz that powdered bones and ruptured cells. A hit was extremely painful, often permanently crippling, but almost never fatal. Well, a headshot would end someone's story, but a hit anywhere else was survivable.
   My backup weapon was a vibe, a sonic knife good for nothing at all except fighting. Everyone in Under Station has one. They're illegal, but so normal here, even if you get arrested by the Proctors they won't do anything more than bash it against the nearest solid surface and give you back the pieces. They'll likely marvel at your foolishness, if they don't find one on you.
   Time to go. I kissed my lady goodbye, then went out.
      ######
   The corridor was its usual crowded, noisy, busy nastiness. People everywhere slinking through the humid fog of bad breath, stale farts, and drug-smoke stench, looking for opportunities to get paid, any way they could score. Stains and smears gave the metal bulkheads character, and the deck was littered with the detritus of lives consumed by stubbornly ignorant decision-making habits. The occasional shout or scream broke the monotonous sussurus of ventilation fans and fast-talking, deceitful neediness.
   An Earther visitor once told me that the very polite attitude of Under Station was a surprise. He hadn't understood that simple courtesy gives you more time to gauge your chances of taxing whomever you might be talking to, by not provoking a useless conflict. Everyone in Under Station is a predator.
   I'd heard Razor had lately been frequenting a low rent establishment called The Hole. I trusted the gossip, because it came from individuals who hoped for misfortune to fall on Razor. Maybe they were also hoping it would sort of splash back onto me, but that was fine. It only further validated their info. The Hole wasn't very far - nothing was, back in those days - so I didn't need much time to get there.
   The Hole had doormen, of course. Someone had to toss the trash out when it misbehaved, and keep the riffraff from overrunning the place. I knew them both, having employed them on occasion. Mountain and Rock, named appropriately. They smiled as I approached. I smiled back.
   "Hey, guys! What's this? You actually got jobs?"
   "Howdy, boss. Yeah, you ain't been screwin' up enough to need us, lately. Got rent, you know?" Rock was the one with a functional brain, so he always did the talking. "Mountain got him a girl friend, didja hear? She's even cute!"
   Mountain grinned happily. He had always had to pay for attention from the girls, nothing unusual about that, but a man his size and toughness without a girl or two wanting his protection is rare. He wasn't any kind of gentleman. I wondered about who he had hooked up with. She would be rather large and tough, herself, I guessed.
   "Lucky man, Mountain! When do I get to meet her?"
   He kept grinning, as Rock replied, "Maybe you could visit our next day off, boss, bring your lady, have some buzz? You gotta see this girl, she really something!"
   "Sure, if I get through this thing with Razor ok. Should I bring something? What's she like? Beer? Smoke?"
   "Beer be good. She don't smoke nothin' is why Mountain likes her, right, Mountain?" Mountain nodded. "She keeps up on beer, too, puts it away good as us! She's great! You gotta meet her!"
   "Sure, I probly want to get loud with some friends, after I deal with biz. When's your next day off work?"
   "Tomorrow. Station inspector supposed to come around, make sure the Hole won't blow a hole in the hull, right?" He chuckled at his own wordplay. Rock believed he had a talent for talking. Sometimes, he did come up with some zingers. "Inspector got rent, too, so he inspects, I expect."
   "Damn, Rock, you should go pro, get on a stage, somewhere." This really pleased him. "I'd like to carry on with this, but I got some biz. Razor here?"
   "Yea, he's here. One of the table booths at the back. Been talkin' lotsa silly crap about you. Got two yonderboys new on Station with him, like they're his boys. You might need a little help, you know?" Rock was looking hopeful. He and Mountain liked to fight, especially if they could get paid for it.
   "Who's going to watch the door? One little scuffle with a couple yonders could cost you this gravy job, guys. It's biz. You gotta tend to it, you know?"
   "Aw, c'mon, boss! We can't let you have all the fun! Anyway, the place full, right? Lots people in there might take advantage come up behind you."
   Damn. He was right. Any number of those in the crowd might try my back, while I was busy with Razor and his boys.
   "Well, damn, you're right, Rock. But I don't want you guys losing your steady payday. How about just Mountain, to just watch my back? A doorman has to talk, but talk only gets in the way you want to knock out some sneaky fool, right?"
   Mountain's happy grin turned carnivorous. Many nasty people had changed their minds, or found themselves standing alone when their friends abandoned them, seeing that smile. Yea, I wanted him watching my back - things should stay quiet. Quieter, anyway.
   Rock looked disappointed, but saw the sense of what I'd said. As he'd said earlier, rent was always due, sooner or later. "You be careful, you hear me, Mountain? They'll be armed!"
   Mountain just showed more teeth.
      ######
   Entering The Hole was like walking into a noisome, squashy wall of something you don't want in your home. Or anywhere nearby. It was quite impressive. Spilled fluids and people covered large portions of the deck, some still moving. The lighting was a bit iffy, the overheads damaged in various ways, leaving a number of dark zones in the room. It was hard to tell, really, but the worst of the stinks and noises seemed to emanate from the worst-illuminated parts of the large compartment.
   Some of the people nearest the entry saw Mountain and me come in. They knew us, and knew why I was there. I started forward into a rapidly growing gap in the crowd, Mountain looming behind me. Almost immediately the noise level began to drop, as more people became aware of us and got themselves out of our way, opening a lane toward the back.
   In those days, the population of Under Station wasn't nearly what it is, now. All Unders knew all other Unders, by sight, anyway. An Operator, like me, was known by sight, name, and the nature of his or her biz. The people in The Hole all knew of my problem with Razor, and had been eagerly anticipating its resolution. We were that evening's floor show.
   By the time Mountain and I had gotten halfway through the room, the lane had opened all the way to Razor's table, and an open space around it had cleared. Most of the noise, now, was from people shoving for a better view and shushing each other. The stench had actually changed, as the excited animal anticipation of the crowd increased.
   Someday, I'd like to find out if that effect was real, like pheromones or something, or only in my own head. Never mind. Back to the story.
   Razor just sat there. I thought he looked nervous, but he kept a smile fixed on his face. The two yonderboys kept glancing at him for cues about what to do. This told me they were his boys, as Rock had thought, and that the relationship wasn't truly established, yet. The three of them wouldn't coordinate well in a fight. Good to know.
   I decided to get right into it. Razor was a talker, and would expect a lot of wordy preliminaries, trying to impress everyone.
   "WHERE'S MY MONEY, DEADBEAT!? YOU OWE ME TWELVE K AND I WANT IT NOW!"
   I stepped up to the table, saw the three of them had frozen in surprise for just long enough to let me get into position. Razor was sitting behind the table, his mobility limited, the yonders on either side.
   The one on my right stood, reaching for something under his arm. I kicked him hard as I could, below his belt, displacing his pubic bone an inch or two. He folded with a sort squeezed scream, head moving toward me, where his left eye met my thumb-and-foreknuckle jab hard enough to pop the eyeball loose in its socket. He collapsed instantly.
   As he fell, I planted my right foot, raised my left foot above the table, and heelkicked the other yonder. The crunchy pop! of his jaw breaking blended nicely with the clong! of his head meeting the bulkhead behind him. He slithered bonelessly into a heap under the table at Razor's feet, effectively trapping Razor behind the table.
   I turned my kick recovery into a long step left, taking me out of Razor's immediate line of fire, and drew my needler.
   Razor looked stunned, then angry. He reached with his right hand for his needler, under his left arm. I shot his right elbow, exploding the joint, doing such damage that he might never regain the use of that arm. The short high-pitched screech of my shot segued into Razor's scream, a girly squeal that would be remembered.
   "WHERE'S MY MONEY, DEADBEAT!? I WANT IT NOW!" Damn, I hate raising my voice. He only squealed again.
   I turned around, to check on Mountain. He was just standing there a couple of paces away, with his back to me, nothing happening. A real pro, undistracted from his task. The crowd's eyes glittered.
   Back to Razor. He had stopped screaming, and was regaining some focus.
   "Where's my money!? You got it on you?"
   I reached across the table and grabbed Razor's right wrist. He screamed again, as I dragged him toward me. He helped with that, because it maybe made it a little less agonizing. When I had him laid across the table, I started going through his pockets. I put his needler in my pocket, valuable merchandise, and found his stash. It had a stack of high number CU plaques in it, but I didn't try to count them. I pocketed that, also.
   "If there's not enough here, you'll see me again. You got that, deadbeat? I ALWAYS get paid what I'm owed!"
   I turned away from him and examined the crowd. Mountain was blocking half the view, standing quietly, watching them. I decided he deserved top rate, for such professionalism.
   "Ok, Mountain, I think we're done here. Let's get some air."
   The walk toward the exit was very quiet.

October 2016