They had been promised robots. Robots that could terraform inhabitable moons. Robots that could build skyscrapers in a sea of liquid methane. Robots that would turn an acidic atmosphere into breathable air. When the government broke ground on Mars, they promised it would be the first and last planet terraformed by humans, a process which had cost countless civilian lives. They were told that the field of robotic innovation was moving at an incredible pace. But in the end, the only robots humanity got were robots that could mix drinks. And even then, they still made for shitty bartenders. Which is what made the sight of one of the loathed bartending robots turned safecracker so remarkable. Especially in a shitty little pawn shop in a shitty little place like East Tharsis.
Fearless and Vicious stood on the other side of the counter, mesmerized. The robot had humanoid features with latex skin stretched over its metal skeleton, which gave him a nightmarish facade. In one hand, it held a drill that was currently obliterating the locking mechanism of a heavy steel safe. In the other, a cocktail shaker. It turned its head toward them. It knew it was being watched.
“What’ll it be, cowboy?” The robot spoke with the high-pitched twang of a Southern school girl.
Fearless cleared his throat. And whispered to Vicious. “That’s a dude, right?”
Vicious deadpanned, entranced by the robot. “I’m not sure about anything at this point.”
A gruff female voice called out from the other side of the room. “I see you’ve met Bernard.”
Pouncey limped into the room. She had a robotic leg from the knee down, repurposed from Bernard. Her silver hair was slicked back, which gave it an almost chromium quality. Likely somewhere in her mid-sixties, she wasn’t the dashing safecracker they’d come to expect from the movies. She looked like a pirate who had sailed every corner of the solar system and could most certainly hold her own, even at her age.
Fearless was genuinely terrified of her. Managing only a simple, “Hi.”
Vicious took the lead. “I take it you’re Pouncey.”
She mulled this over in her head for a moment. “That depends who sent you.”
“Goldie.”
Pouncey chuckled wistfully, as if remembering a past lover. “Well, in that case, yes, I am Pouncey. How’s my protégé doing? Still knocking off diamond dealers in the rock district?”
Fearless and Vicious traded a glance. Clearly she didn’t know who Goldie worked for these days and they weren’t about to out their friend.
“Goldie’s in the import-export business now,” Vicious said as he placed the titanium briefcase on the table. “And she told us that you might be able to open this.”
Pouncey ran her hand over the case as if it was a fine fur, admiring its texture and metallic coat. “Ah yes, the McCallister X-7 attaché. Made of pure, single origin titanium with double magnetic tungsten-reinforced locks that require two separate three-digit alpha numeric codes that change every fifteen minutes. It’s waterproof, fireproof, bulletproof—and if you had one, nuclear bomb proof. It’s utterly impenetrable.”
Fearless raised an eyebrow. “So can you open it or what?”
“No.”
Vicious recoiled. “What? Goldie said that if anyone can open it, it’s you.”
“That’s true. But that case has a vibration-sensitive failsafe. Try to drill into it and even the steadiest of human hands will set off an internal infrared flash that will incinerate anything and everything inside.”
Fearless chimed in. “Like a hard drive?”
“Exactly like a hard drive.”
Vicious took a deep breath. “Well, do you know anyone else that can open it?”
She smiled. “In fact, I do.” And motioned to the robot behind her. “Bernard.”
Bernard turned to them and repeated what seemed like the only phrase he knew. “What’ll it be, cowboy?”
Fearless cringed. “That never gets any less weird.”
Vicious brushed him off, continuing their negotiation. “And how much is it going to cost Bernard to open it?”
“Fifty thousand woo.”
Fearless interjected, shocked. “You want fifty thousand woo? To open a fuckin’ briefcase?”
She smiled and nodded. Unfazed. “Yes. I do.”
“Even though the robot is going to do all the work.”
“Yes.”
“But he’s a robot.”
Pouncey’s eyes narrowed as she took in Fearless. “And who do you think programs the robot?”
Vicious cut off Fearless before he could do any more damage. “OK, listen, Pouncey. I’m gonna level with you. We don’t have fifty thousand woo. And we need it done today. To be perfectly frank, opening that case is a matter of life and death to me.”
She smiled. A big, sincere grin. “Well. Then I wish you well in the afterlife. Thanks for stopping by!”
Fearless held a finger up to Pouncey. “Just give us one second, would you?” He grabbed Vicious by the arm and led him to the opposite corner of the pawn shop, out of earshot. Fearless lowered his voice.
“Look, I know you don’t want to, but why don’t you just call him and ask for the money?”
Vicious looked at him quizzically. “Call who?”
“Your dad.”
“What? No. Is that a joke? And say what? Hi Dad, I killed a drunk in a moment of blind rage and now it turns out that the Europa Crew put a hit on my head, although we can’t be sure it was them because we don’t have any actual evidence, which is why we need to open an impenetrable briefcase to verify whether or not a lucrative hard drive is inside in order to determine the possibility that someone in our own organization was trying to kill us to obtain it.”
Fearless chewed on this for a moment. Then said, “Yeah, pretty much.”
“We don’t have that kind of relationship. Or any relationship for that matter. So the answer is no.”
From the other side of the room, Pouncey’s voice rang out. “You know, there is one favor you could do me.”
Vicious turned to her, intrigued. “What kind of favor?”
“A fifty thousand dollar favor. But… there’s a catch. It’s no questions asked. Just a yes or a no. Right now.”
Fearless and Vicious traded a glance. Pouncey was their only hope. And they didn’t have much of a choice.
Vicious turned back to her. “Fine. We’ll do it.”
Pouncey looked them up and down. Then shook her head, as something had just occurred to her. “Those clothes aren’t going to work. Neither is your car. In order to go where you’re going, you’ll need a cover. And I think I have just the thing. Meet me around back.”
As Pouncey disappeared into the back, Fearless raised an eyebrow to Vicious—just what exactly are we getting ourselves into?
* * *
Pouncey stood next to a white work van. The word RICKY’S was emblazoned across the exterior in hot electric pink writing, as if it was the cover of a 1980s workout video. Fearless and Vicious stood on the other side of the rear parking lot with their arms folded. Whatever they were about to get into, they weren’t happy about it.
Vicious motioned to the van. “What the hell is that?”
Pouncey grinned. “This is your cover.”
“Indeed it is,” Pouncey said as she gave the exterior an affectionate pat. “The other day, some kid came in and pawned this catering van he stole.”
Vicious grumbled. “What’s the job?”
“Glad you asked. Tonight, the Sapphire Gala, the most coveted ticket in all of Tharsis City, is taking place at the home of the Mo Hadid in the Waterford Estates, the rightful heir to the throne of what used to be known on Earth many years ago as the Ottoman Empire and who is currently one of the wealthiest people in the entire solar system.”
Vicious raised an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that Mo owes me a million woo.” Pouncey gritted her teeth. Her demeanor suddenly turned bitter. “Bring Mo to me and in exchange I’ll open your briefcase.”
Fearless interjected. Skeptical. “So, you want us to kidnap this guy Mo. Easy. But, uh, one quick question—how the hell do you expect us to get into the Sapphire Gala in the Waterford Estates, of all places?”
Pouncey grinned mischievously as she turned and opened the van’s back door. She reached inside and grabbed two crisp white button down shirts. Each of them had a pink bowtie dangling from the next. Its hue matched the van’s exterior perfectly.
Fearless deadpanned. “You have got to be shitting me. You want us to pretend to be caterers?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. I do. Do you want me to open the case or not?”
Fearless turned to Vicious and whispered. “Caterers? What is this? A bad heist movie?”
Vicious grumbled back. “You got a better idea?”
Fearless mulled this over for a moment. “Not really, no.”
Vicious turned back to Pouncey. “Fine. We’ll do it.”
“Terrific.” Pouncey grinned as she approached them. She held out both hands. In one hand were the keys to the van. In the other was a small tablet. She handed both to Vicious.
“This tablet has everything you need to know. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Vicious took the keys and tablet with a nod. He turned to exit the parking lot, motioning Fearless to follow. “Let’s go.”
Pouncey called after them. “Oh, and fellas—”
They slowly turned back to her. She grinned.
“Be careful. Mo’s a feisty one.”
* * *
The Waterford Estates was the most exclusive neighborhood in all of Tharsis City—and maybe the entire solar system. If the glittering skyscrapers and their marble-accented penthouses downtown was considered “new money,” then the Waterford Estates was “old money.” Very old. Located high in the Martian hills that looked down upon the glittering Tharsis skyline, it was a gated community with fortified walls and its own private security team so heavily armed that it could fight off an insurrection with ease. The thirteen homes within its walls were immaculate family compounds, full of priceless heirlooms and works of art that were passed down from generation to generation of the descendants of the kings, queens, lords, and barons who resided in them. The residents were the last vestige of Earth-born royalty in the solar system—and they were determined to keep their bloodlines moving forward. At any cost.
A half-dozen cars waited in line at the estate’s main entrance, which featured a twenty-foot tall stainless steel gate that when closed formed a solid gold “W.” At the front of the line, a team of security guards were in the midst of performing a bomb sweep of a flower delivery truck. The driver had his hands on the truck and his legs spread while he received a full, more-than-intrusive pat down.
Halfway through the line of cars, Fearless and Vicious idled in the white catering van. They had since traded in their ruffled suits and were now wearing the crisp white dress shirts with matching pink bowties. Fearless tugged at the neck of his shirt as he took in his new wardrobe in the rearview mirror.
“I look ridiculous.”
Vicious rolled his eyes. “Will you get over it? It’s just a bowtie.”
“To you. To me it’s a prison sentence.”
Feeling anxious, Fearless craned his neck to see around the other cars. He cringed as he took in the flower truck driver, who had the scarred look of a man who had just been through a twenty-four-hour police interrogation for a crime he didn’t commit. He turned back to Vicious.
“Going a little hard on the flower boy, don’t you think?”
Vicious took in the sight of the security guard and the assault rifles they clutched in their hands with trepidation. “Security’s clearly not taking any chances tonight. That’s for sure.”
Fearless motioned to the tablet in Vicious’s hand. The one that Pouncey had given them.
“You got a picture of this Fat Mo? I wanna know what we’re dealing with here.”
Vicious handed Fearless the tablet. He tapped it on and clocked the photo on screen. Fat Mo was anything but fat. She was a petite woman of Middle Eastern descent who wore her hair in one long elaborate braid. She didn’t wear makeup, and, from what Fearless could tell, she didn’t wear any jewelry either. Her nickname was an odd choice, given that she likely weighed maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet.
Fearless turned to Vicious with an incredulous glare. “This is Fat Mo?”
“That’s what the file says. What were you expecting?”
“Well, I don’t know—someone fat?”
Vicious shrugged. “Just because her nickname is Fat Mo doesn’t mean she has to be fat. Take Skinny Vinny for instance. We call him skinny but he’s actually fat. It’s the opposite.”
Fearless let out an exasperated exhale. “We call Skinny Vinny ‘Skinny’ because he’s fat. Which makes it funny. It doesn’t work the other way around.”
Vicious rolled his eyes. “OK, fine. What about Nico Nine Fingers? We call him Nine Fingers because he can’t shoot worth shit. Not because he actually has nine fingers.”
“What does that have to do with calling an obviously skinny person like Mo, fat?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just giving you an example.”
“Well it’s a shitty example.”
Boom boom boom!
Two armed security guards appeared on either side of the van. They motioned with their assault rifles for the two to exit the vehicle. Fearless turned to Vicious with a glint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Well, if the Europa Crew or the Red Dragon doesn’t kill us, these assholes definitely will.”
Fearless and Vicious climbed out of the van. The security guards directed them to place their hands along the hot pink lettering of the van’s exterior. One of the security guards approached them and procured a small handheld tablet. “Vendor name?”
Vicious motioned to the bright pink lettering beneath his hands. “Isn’t obvious?”
The security guard wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. “You want to work the gala or not, asshole?”
Vicious sighed. “Ricky’s Catering.”
The security guard slowly scanned the tablet, “You’re in luck. On the list.”
Fearless breathed a sigh of relief. And softly whispered to Vicious. “You know, I kind of thought Pouncey was full of shit, but—”
“Where’s the rest of your team?” the security guard snapped.
Vicious was caught off guard. “What do you mean, team?”
The security guard motioned to the tablet. “Says here there’s supposed to be twelve caterers. Where are they?”
Fearless grumbled. “I take it back. Fuckin’ Pouncey…”
Vicious stammered as he tried to drum up an excuse. “Oh, well, about that, the thing is, the other guys—”
Fearless could see he was drowning. So he did what he did best. Lied.
“Are on their way. In a separate van. My partner… Julius and I here,” Fearless motioned to Vicious, then turned back to the security guard, “are the advanced strike team. We go into the event first, establish a perimeter, optimize hors d’oeuvre passing routes, plant our flag, so to speak. Then we radio back and relay that information to the rest of the team so they hit the ground running when they arrive. You look to be some sort of highly paid, highly decorated private mercenary, I’m sure you of all people would understand this kind of clandestine operation.”
The security guard’s eyes narrowed—and then he put the tablet in his back pocket. He tapped his earpiece and spoke softly, “Got two coming in,” then turned back to Fearless. “Go ahead before I change my mind.”
Fearless turned to Vicious. And winked.
* * *
The catering van rumbled down the long driveway to the Hadid Estate, which in itself was excessive. Lined with imported California palm trees and a built-in waterway that ran down the center, the driveway featured a coordinated water fountain show that rivaled the Bellagio Casino in Las Vegas. And to think, that was before you even arrived at the home itself.
“Holy shit.” Fearless whispered with a childlike wonderment as he glanced out the passenger window. The Hadid Estate was not a home. It was a palace. Neoclassical in style, the exterior was constructed entirely of marble and was surrounded by grand, Corinthian pillars that wrapped around the estate. Spotlights illuminated the exterior, so brightly that it could be seen from miles away. It was a home fit for a Greek god.
Vicious steered the van into the motor court, where a security guard directed them to the side of the home. There, dozens of vendors and their trucks were lined up, unloading their goods for the evening: Exquisite flower arrangements. Dozens of lobsters and tins of caviar packed on ice. Top shelf alcohol stacked by the case. Pastries and cakes that were so elegantly decorated that they looked like works of art. It was as if a royal wedding would be taking place that evening, not simply a charity gala.
Fearless and Vicious stepped out of the van and took in the churning hospitality machine around them. Standing at the side-door that led into the house was a high-strung event coordinator with a ponytail pulled tight. She clutched a clipboard tight, furiously checking off vendors and directing them where to go inside the house.
Fearless nudged Vicious. And motioned to the door. “Looks like we got another potential roadblock.”
“Just follow my lead,” Vicious replied, as he opened the van’s back door to reveal a large, rectangular-shaped cooler. He grabbed one side of the cooler by the handle. He motioned for Fearless to grab the other. Together, they carried the cooler towards the side-door, with Vicious leading the way. But as they got closer to the door, Vicious began to shuffle his feet and emitted a deep grunt with every step.
Fearless stared back at him. Eyes wide. He whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”
Vicious gritted his teeth. “What did I just say about following my lead?”
Fearless’ eyed the cooler. “It’s empty.”
“No shit!” Vicious angrily replied, as he angrily motioned his head towards the side-door where the event coordinator stood guard.
Fearless’s eyes ticked up to her. And then it clicked. Oh. Right. And so, like Vicious, he began to grunt and shuffle his feet. They made their way towards the side-door, the two of them bellowing and howling as if they were a pair of competitive weightlifters in the middle of a dead lift.
“Excuse me, where do you think you two are going?” the event coordinator asked with a stern tone, blocking the entrance.
Vicious motioned to the cooler. “I’ve got ten dozen premium cuts of Wagyu beef steak right here and we need to get it inside and into proper refrigeration, immediately. We’ve got no time to waste.”
“Well, lucky for me, I do.” The event coordinator chirped as she scanned her clipboard. “I don’t see any Wagyu on my list.”
Fearless raised a subtle eyebrow to Vicious, who quickly covered. “That’s because this was a special order. From Ms. Hadid. Called me herself.”
Her eyes narrowed. Extremely skeptical and less than enthused. “Ms. Hadid, a lifelong vegetarian and prominent animal rights activist, called you—”
Vicious smiled with an especially confident shit-eating grin. “Julius. The butcher.”
As she continued her interrogation. “Julius, the butcher, in a pink bowtie, and ordered one hundred and twenty Wagyu steaks for this evening personally, even though the menu has been set for months now and consists of vegetarian and seafood options. Do I have that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Vicious scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t believe you.” The Event Coordinator motioned to the cooler. “Open it.”
Vicious shook his head. And chuckled. “Let me get this straight, you want me to open this cooler of rare Wagyu beef, from cows that were imported from Earth, where they now live on the planet’s floating islands on a diet of specially grown Japanese grass, before they were cut, wrapped, and placed in this cooler, packed with eighty pounds of dry ice to ensure it was kept at a perfect twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit to preserve flavor, and now, you want me to open said cooler, out here, exposing the meat to the Martian air and potentially degrading the quality of the meat by a full letter grade before the Sapphire Gala just to prove a point?”
Vicious’s words of warning landed on the event coordinator. She mulled this over for a moment. Then motioned inside.
“The walk-in refrigerator is located in the southeast corner of the kitchen.”
Vicious smiled. “Thank you. Myself, and the succulent cuts of Wagyu, appreciate it.”
They hoisted the cooler back up, and continued their shuffling and groaning act as they walked inside the estate and into the industrial kitchen bustling with vendors and chefs alike. Vicious directed traffic as they maneuvered the empty cooler through the throng and into the walk-in refrigerator in the far corner of the kitchen. “Out of the way! Out of the way!”
They stepped inside the walk-in refrigerator and locked the door behind them. Fearless turned to Vicious, positively giddy. “That was incredible. How do you know so much about Wagyu beef?”
Vicious shrugged. “When I was a kid, my father got into a screaming match with a chef at a five-star restaurant about the way he stored his Wagyu. I guess sometimes it pays to be a rich asshole.”
Fearless chuckled as he loosened his pink bowtie. He closed his eyes as he rubbed his neck. “Goddamn, that feels good.”
“Shit,” Vicious quipped.
Fearless opened one eye. “Shit, what?”
“We blew our cover. We’re not caterers. We told that woman with the clipboard that we’re butchers. And they’re sure as hell not going to let two butchers walk around the Sapphire Gala in cheap shirts and pink bowties.”
“So what do we do?”
Vicious took a deep breath. And exhaled. His breath turning into a white cloud of moisture in the walk-in refrigerator.
“We’re going to need some more formal attire.”