1.

WELL, SHIT.

HUGH STUMBLED AROUND THE room, wincing in pain after stubbing a toe on his desk. His pacing had grown erratic and restless in anticipation of his guest. A shaking hand rested on his polished mahogany desk as he tried to get himself together. After a deep breath, he stood upright again and stole a glance at himself in the mirror to check the part in his grey hair and straighten out his tie. There was never a good reason to let one’s personal appearance suffer, after all.

Normally space-journey attire was more casual, but he was one of the few who insisted on always being seen in a suit. Call him old-fashioned, but he felt it was a helpful trait to have in his line of work. Everybody else may have felt perfectly at home in those lifeless grey full-body tracksuits, but to him it felt like parading around in public wearing a onesie. One couldn’t expect to be taken seriously if they could not even take themselves seriously. If he was to be treated as an ambassador then he ought to act as one, not a college girl nursing a hangover through a morning class.

A rumble came from somewhere beyond the blast doors to his office; it was closer this time. It snapped him out of his thoughts and sent him pacing around the room once more, making final preparations. Hasty hands straightened stacks of paper and aligned his space pens. All that movement got his ruddy tie crooked again. He softly snuffed his nose and fixed it, though likely only temporarily. All this waiting was certainly the worst part of all this. Listening to each new rumble, glancing up with each new flicker of the lights, constantly revisiting the question of whether or not he had enough time to use the bathroom first. He almost wished the guy would just show up already.

The most recent crash served as a harsh reminder that he hadn’t even taken the courtesy to set out a drink for the person on whom he waited. Shoving his papers into disarray again and knocking his pens back out of line, he yanked open a drawer and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of scotch. An empty bottle of scotch. An empty bottle of scotch that he tossed right back in the drawer before rummaging around for the next best thing. He still had some bourbon left; it would have to do. Barely keeping the shaking spout over the glass, he poured the dark liquid until the first glass had the perfect toasting amount in it. But there was none left for the second glass.

The bottle smashed to pieces as he dropped it on the floor and tried to distribute the bourbon between two glasses. It sloshed between the trembling cups, not growing in quantity, no matter how many times he aerated it back and forth. It was no use; he’d need something else. Maybe some rye? Surely he had some rye. No, he had no rye. He lingered briefly on the bottle of Fireball before shuddering and slamming the drawer shut.

The rumbling was close enough to be discernible now, with a cadenced peppering of laser shots and armoured individuals falling to the floor. Hugh sighed and put the drinks out of his mind. He used the rare and expensive leather shoes on his feet to sweep the broken bottle under his desk before taking a seat behind it. Using his remaining seconds, he searched the Internet for pictures of cute kids to brandish and claim relationship to. He had quite the brood put together by the time the metallic clangs of a battering ram rang out from behind the room’s only entrance.

“It’s open!” He choked, trying to sound cheerful.

Something heavy clanged to the floor and then the doors popped open, revealing a hardened old man with a bald head, cold grey eyes, and a smoking laser rifle. Big but bent, he moved slowly yet powerfully, like a lion without a care in the world. Or universe, since they were in space and all.

It was difficult to tell if the frown he wore pertained to the situation, or if it was just his resting facial expression. Hugh hoped for the latter; it would give him better odds of not having to face the same fate as his now-lifeless guards.

“You.” The man grumbled in a gravelly voice.

“Me!” Hugh strained to grin. “You must be Mister Banks.”

“Glad we cleared that up.” Banks said in his slow, deadpan tone. “Now get on your feet, hands where I can see ’em, and we’ll do the motions.”

Hugh didn’t move. Couldn’t afford to show fear; not in his position.

“Mister Banks, let us conduct ourselves like civilized space beings. Please have a seat.”

Banks rolled his eyes as he casually adjusted the angle of his hip-held weapon to be a smidge more threatening.

“I don’t know how new to this espionage thing you are, but this piece of hardware is called a gun. Guy with the gun gets to make the decisions. Now stand your ass up.”

With his hands raised to his shoulders, Hugh obliged. He was proud of how well he’d maintained his stoicism up until now, especially in the face of such a master of the craft; this Mister Banks was so stoic he almost appeared to be more bored than anything else. His dead eyes studied the diplomat with contempt and his wrinkled face betrayed no masked intent.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Hugh asked.

“Probably.” Banks replied with a shrug. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you. We’ll see how I feel after I get it back.”

“It doesn’t belong to you either.” Hugh retorted, making sure to stay on the offensive side of the argument. “It doesn’t belong to anyone. You can’t cite ownership as a reason to take it back.”

“I know. That’s why I brought a gun instead of a lawyer.”

Hugh swallowed as he tried to come up with a response. He wasn’t sure what he had expected of this exchange, but he figured the individual would at least be sophisticated enough to parlay with. But this guy wasn’t even wearing a suit. The way he rummaged through the office, muttering to himself as he turned the place inside out like a drunken gorilla, made Hugh begin to wonder if he even was an individual of any deserved notoriety.

“Soooo . . . how long have you been doing this henchman thing for?”

Banks didn’t respond. Now completely ignoring Hugh, he produced a small, glowing, sonic screwdriver-sort of device and proceeded to wave it up and down the walls and shelves like a metal detector. No painting, no light fixture, no potted plastic plant was spared. He pulled the fold-down bed from the wall, ripped the sheets and pillowcases off and tossed them to the floor, and waved his whirring doohickey around some more. There was no anger, no bitterness, no frustration; just method. In fact, if he weren’t carrying that gun, he’d just look like some old geezer who lost his glasses.

“So what sort of compensation do you get for piecework like this?” Hugh continued to badger. “Do they pay you retainer fees? Flat salary perhaps? Or do they merely bequeath you funds by the job? If so, do targets of measurable renown boost your stipend?”

A deep breath and heavy exhale was all the response he received for his efforts. Banks had moved from the bed to the personal kitchen area, making no attempt to spare the dishes and tea bags, which he knocked to the floor while rummaging through the cupboards.

“Ah, strong silent type. I see. Makes your job a bit dull, though, I would assume.”

“Look, slick,” Banks finally retorted. “If I wanted excitement I would be beating the location of the specimen out of you right now. But I had to skip coffee and breakfast to come deal with your oiled-up ass, so I’m doing this the casual way. Now, is that good with you, or would you rather I come over there and jam one of my fists in that big mouth of yours?”

The man’s pale expression of death lingered on Hugh for a few moments, just to make sure he drove the point home. He then opened the refrigeration cupboard and began rifling through the contents, all the while muttering something about bureaucrats. Again, the diplomat found himself hard up for a response. He’d achieved audible confirmation of the man’s identity and intent to cause harm. He just needed one final piece.

Banks appeared to have abandoned his search in favour of making himself a sandwich.

“That’s theft too, you know,” Hugh sneered.

Banks turned to face him, expression placid, and shoved his pilfered breakfast into his mouth.

“Sure is,” he mumbled through the bite. He took his time chewing and swallowing before adding: “Shame you don’t have a gun.”

“Is that how everything is typically handled on Mars? Here I thought humanity had evolved beyond that since we took to colonizing the solar system.”

“Well, I guess I’m just a fan of the classics, then.”

He left the counter and gave Hugh a shove out of the way so he could get at the desk. He paused for a moment to admire it; he likely hadn’t seen very many pieces of real woodwork, even in his old age. He opened the drawers with slightly more care than previous compartments, but ransacked the contents with the same amount of concern.

“It’s mahogany.” Hugh ran a hand across the lacquered surface. “One of the toughest woods. Don’t suppose your Martian handlers have afforded you any luxuries like that for your office?”

Banks grunted. It was too ambiguous to be one of agreement. He could just as easily have been providing commentary on the plethora of children’s photos. Either that, or at the broken whiskey bottle hidden under the desk.

“Or do they even give you an office? Surely if you’re an asset that they’d use to threaten me, then they would give you somewhere to hang your hat when you’re not off playing tough guy on peaceful vessels.”

Banks stood up. His face was every bit as devoid of expression as ever; and yet something in his weary droopy eyes conveyed a change in temperament. He looked Hugh up and down, as if seeing him for the very first time.

“Alright, chatterbox, you’ve got me interested. You’re asking all kinds of questions about who I am and what I do. I don’t think it’s ’cause you think I’m cute. So how about you just directly ask whatever it is you really wanna know instead of trying to dazzle me into slipping up.”

Hugh blinked in surprise.

“Mister Banks, I am simply making conversation while we are confined to the same room. I thought, since work was why you were here, perhaps you would be more apt to find it a topic worthy of discussion. How is the pay? Do you feel respected by your peers? Do you get dental?”

“My career as an off-the-books enforcer working on behalf of the Martian government suits my needs just fine. There; any other burning questions?”

“Just one,” Hugh said with a smirk, relishing in his acquisition of the upper hand. “Are you familiar with the interplanetary laws as established in the ratification of the Vienna Treaty on Diplomatic Relations?”

“I don’t have to be. I have a gun.”

Hugh stood up straighter now. The malicious gaze of his would-be assassin no longer frightened him.

“Well you, sir, will require much more than a sidearm to escape extradition and prosecution should any harm come to me. My diplomatic immunity is firmly established within that treaty, and you have not only verbally identified yourself but also the organization for which you work to any who watch the video feed of this conversation. Your trespass on this ship and subsequent murder of my guards are serious crimes in and of themselves. However, to attack me would constitute an act of war between our planetary nations. Depending on your branch of the Martian military, they may be willing to harbour you despite your current transgressions. But do not think for a moment that they would so much as hesitate to surrender you in order to avoid—ACK!”

The sanctimonious lecture made an abrupt switch from articulate admonition to a series of choking sounds right around the same moment Banks rolled his eyes and punched Hugh in the throat.

“I think ‘immunity’ is a bit strong of a word,” said Banks without even pausing to watch the man fall. “Maybe call it: ‘diplomatic discouragement.’”

From his new spot facing the floor, Hugh’s garbled response was unintelligible.

Banks picked up the glass of bourbon on the desk, gave it a quick sniff, then downed it in one swig. He then removed the rifle sling from his shoulder and set the whole thing down on the table. Hugh’s face was beet red and he could hardly draw breath without coughs and wheezes. His chest convulsed and his limbs twitched, neither of which were helped when a large foot dug into his stomach and rolled him onto his back. The visage of his interrogator hovered over him, bored as ever. It was an unpleasant-enough sight, even without the errant crumbs trickling down from the man’s open-mouthed chewing.

“Sorry I had to ruin that for ya,” the hitman mused through masticated whole grains. “You’ve obviously been rehearsing that speech since the moment I got here. Did whoever put you up to this write it?”

“The Queen . . .” Hugh struggled through coughs. “Sh— she’ll want your head!”

“Yeahhh, well, she’s been alive since 1926. If she hasn’t learned to live with disappointment yet, then she probably should.”

“You’re signing your own death warrant, you crazy man! Whoever accesses the databanks of this ship is going to see the holo-rendering of your every move from every angle.”

“Aw, no. Getting sent to lockup would be such a hassle; I might miss my soaps.”

Hugh pulled himself to a sitting position and looked up at the arrogant, pale goblin looming over him. The fellow seemed to be an astute individual, if a bit supercilious; surely he could grasp the concept of incriminating himself. And yet despite his best attempts to explain, he still found his Adam’s apple firmly lodged somewhere behind his left ear. But shying away was still not an option. Tough fronts could win battles more hopeless than this one.

“Scoff if you must, but until you’ve experienced a—”

“Shu-hey, you, shut up.” Banks shook his head in exasperation. “Listen to me. You’re not a secret agent; you’re a patsy. You have no leverage to make threats, and your plan is stupid. Even if I gave a damn what your old lady thought, it’d be pretty tough for her to form an opinion of me with nothing to go on but a destroyed space boat.”

Any last remaining grasp Hugh had on a stoic exterior melted away.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” Banks continued. “Did you really think I was going to grab the stuff, then just skip on back to my ship and leave this one adrift? I’m offended.”

“So . . .” Hugh spoke softly, eyes unblinking. “So . . . What are you going to do?”

“Good god. Do I have to spell it out for you?” Banks put his hands together, then pantomimed an explosion, complete with sound effects. The diplomat looked on in horror.

“You—you can’t do that! There’s . . . There’s nearly a hundred people aboard this vessel!”

“Nah, it’s just you now. I shut down life support everywhere else. Unless you have some freedivers on board for some reason, I’m pretty sure everyone else is back to the mud by now.”

Hugh blinked.

“We . . . actually did have some freedivers on board. There was a competition.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both of them glancing at the wall clock and trying to figure out how long it had been.

“Well then. Guess I got time for another sandwich.”

He strode over to the counter, leaving Hugh alone on the floor, trying to digest how easily this man had seen through his lies. He knew his personal guards had been pacified, but had this Mister Banks really searched the entire ship well enough to know there was no one else on board? He couldn’t possibly have had time. Either way, there was no sense in trying to come up with a new cover story now. He was best off just sticking to it, for better or for worse. And it was certainly leaning towards the worse. It was in these moments that he was coming to realize how truly alone he was in the inky murk of space, not another soul for millions of miles in any given direction. Just him, Banks, and a ship full of dead bodies.

“Hey, looks like your mayo synthesizer is out.”

“WHAT IS IN THE BOTTLE?! What is so important it warrants the cold-blooded murder of nearly a hundred innocent people?”

The old man sighed as he put down the synth-butter-mayo-spritzer and rubbed his forehead.

“You mean to tell me . . . that you don’t even know what you stole?! What, were you just at the military base to do some window shopping? Thought it looked pretty and just decided to swipe it like . . . like . . . what are those flying animals you got on Earth that like the shiny things?”

“I’m not a bloody magpie! Just because I don’t know the specifics of its function doesn’t mean I haven’t been informed of the danger its existence poses to my home world.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Banks mused, smacking his lips. “You were also informed of the danger my existence poses to your home body. Which one are you fonder of?”

“M-my . . . Me?”

Banks grunted. His thin wrinkled lips twisted into a slight smirk.

“But I don’t have it anymore!” He pleaded. “I . . . I sent it home in a cargo capsule! Because I knew you would come and I wanted to take precau—”

Banks silenced him with a kick to the stomach. Hugh whimpered as he curled into the foetal position. A steady finger, pale as a corpse, pointed downward at him.

“I mighta believed that if you opened with it. But you’re too late, and now I’m getting impatient. You feeding me bullshit only wastes my time and sours my neighbourly demeanour. Now, you either tell me where you hid it, or I’ll put a hole in your face and go back to my original plan of finding it.”

“Please! I have children!”

“Oh, please; a third of these kids are Indian.”

“My wife is Indian.”

“Oh really? And what about these ones? You got a Chinese mistress?”

“N-no, we’re just . . . Mormon?”

Banks snatched his rifle off the desk.

“Shit.” Hugh hissed. “I should have grabbed that while you were pilfering my condiments.”

“Don’t worry. It’s got fingerprint recognition, so it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

He dug the muzzle into Hugh’s eye socket. The would-be spy clenched his teeth.

Click.

Hugh opened his non-obstructed eye just in time to see Banks flipping a switch near the sights.

“Heh, forgot to turn it back on.” He chuckled. “Let’s try that again.”

“WAIT.”

“Hrm? Suddenly remember something?”

Hugh was panting now. His eyes were bloodshot and sweat poured down his artificially tanned face. His formerly parted hair and well-tended suit were the farthest they had ever been from presentable, but such petty inclinations were the least of his worries now. In fact, given the juncture this interaction had reached, the more pathetic and helpless he looked, the better.

“I . . . I have money.” He offered.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Banks scoffed, looking around the room. “In my fifty years of doing the dirty work, you think nobody has ever pitched me that crap before?”

“But I have rather a lot!”

“That’s good. Hopefully it’s enough to put thirty-three little Mormon kids through college.”

“Oh god! Stop! Stop! It’s in the drawer! It’s in the bloody drawer!”

Banks retracted his laser rifle and looked at the desk.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Bottom drawer.” Hugh gasped, trying to push his heart from his throat back into his chest. “Right side.”

Banks nudged the drawer open with his foot. Liquor bottles clinked as they shuddered back and forth. At first, he raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth, but rather than making comments or accusations, he decided to take a knee and reach inside.

One by one he picked up the bottles. After inspecting the labels, he gave them each a gentle shake. Most of them responded with the sloshing of fluid, or occasionally with no sound at all. Either way, he would discard each one onto the floor next to the shattered scotch. As the booze stock began to dwindle to the final containers, the gnarled poker face of the interrogator began to show foreboding tells like flared nostrils. That is, until the second-to-last bottle produced neither slosh nor silence, but instead a cadenced clinking, like Gordon Ramsay’s swear jar. Banks turned the bottle over in his hand.

“Fireball . . .” He mumbled, reading the label. “You come straight here from spring break?”

“I didn’t procure it for my consumption, you cretin.” Hugh grumbled. “I suspected my pursuer would have too much class to even touch the bottle and would instead pick one of the others if he made it this far.”

“You got a strangely high opinion of hired killers.”

Hugh frowned.

“I wasn’t expecting a hired killer. I was expecting someone like myself. A consummate professional who refrains from brutish tactics, only performing them when necessary. Someone who relies on wit as their primary weapon.”

“Riiiiiiight.” Banks said with a nod. “Well, we used to use guys like that. But they always ended up getting shot by hired killers.”

A burst of blaster fire echoed through the room, followed by a soft thud and slow footsteps toward the door.