The dock main exit released a stale smell of old rubber gaskets and the faint whiff of urine as it opened onto a wide passage that took a right turn. The walls were streaked where condensation had dripped from vents, and a faded sign high on the interior wall pointed down the hallway with a big blue arrow and friendly lettering that read, “Welcome to Cpt John Wayne Koganusan Station (#35)! This way to our Famous Galleria!”
Under the sign stood a scrubby kid, probably in her twenties if the Miner could still judge, gawking down the passageway.
“Hope you like assholes!” someone was yelling, chased by a taller bald kid in leathers.
The kid under the sign stooped to pick up what looked like metal knuckles, made a punching gesture at the fleeing one, and seemed to notice the Miner. “Hey lady!” Her grin showed a broken front tooth.
“Ow! Fuck! Ow!” came from away down the corridor.
“Nice place you got here,” said the Miner. The kid looked at her like she was stupid.
“It’s a shit pile,” said the kid. “But listen, right, we’ve got everything you could want, right. I know all the best places to get booze and drugs, or get laid. I know where to have fun, right?”
The Miner glanced at her, and believed she knew all the places to get drugs. “Pass.”
The kid’s eyes went wide, showing intricate tattoos on the sclera. She’d had money at some point, to get those done, but looked to have pissed it away. “Whoa, whoa. Not so hasty, right? I bet you’re here for a fight, ri–”
“Wrong.”
“Come on, where’d you get those scars, then? Don’t go work for Feeney, he’s a tool. Come on and work for Angelica! Punch bozos, it’s fun!”
“I’m not here to fight, kid. I don’t punch anyone I’m not willing to kill.”
The kid looked skeptical but pressed on. “So you’re what, a trucker? A miner? Mining sucks! I can get you rich, lady, all you need’s a little luck and you’ll make bank at Lady Angelica’s casino. You want to be rich, don’t you? I’m good luck, I am.”
“Not a gambler.”
“Looking for company, then? I bet it gets lonely out there…”
The Miner gave her a level look and bit back a remark. “Pass.”
Taking a step in the direction of the “famous” galleria, the Miner felt a tightness in her joints as old augmentation implants reacted to the first whiff of adrenaline, before she consciously registered the characteristic snik! of an old-fashioned switchblade.
“Don’t be like that,” the kid was saying, quieter now. “I’ve been helpful, right? At the very least you ought to give me a tip, lady.”
The Miner turned slowly and saw the kid standing in what she probably considered a fighter’s stance, holding the switchblade like a screwdriver. The Miner took the knife away from her. “Pass.”
The girl’s expression flashed from shocked to angry, and she showed her teeth.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” the Miner said mildly.
“Give that back,” the kid growled.
The Miner grasped the blade with both hands, poised to snap it, but the kid threw up her palms in surrender.
“Hang on, hang on! That was my grandma’s knife; she used that to shiv Rudy Houston, right?”
The Miner stared, her brain refusing to engage with that sentence. “I’m going to go that way,” she said. “If nobody follows me, I’ll leave it on the deck at the next hatch. Right?”
The kid nodded mutely, and amazingly didn’t follow.