3.

 

Winston awoke in the pilot’s seat with a start by the second chime of the comm. He let out a deep sigh of relief, grateful he had not dreamed. The Sierra Madre was enveloped by a dense smog of who knew what when Mother’s call woke him up. All around them were sickly billows of dark green condensates and mini asteroids the size of boulders drifted by. Lightning flickered in the distance off his starboard keel.

Rubbing his gunky face and stubbly chin, Winston started running a position check. Auto pilot did its job. This was just some rogue cloud blowing in from out of the cold outer deeps of the Dream. Thankfully, it wasn’t methane. TrafficNet all but ignored it as nothing more than a decorative nuisance, but there was a respiratory advisory out for New Svalbard, Ertoria and Red Provo Station. The Sierra Madre was cruising along at a leisurely mach six and should be in Pseudomaha in 36 hours at this speed. Plenty of time.

“What’s the text, Mother?” Winston said opening the comm link. He’d been asleep for five hours. There was enough interference to the signal from the cloud that his words were being dubbed with subtitles and the lag was around five seconds.

“Well!” Mother exclaimed, “Looks like you got some real sleep. Good for you.”

“Thank you. So we’ve got something?” Winston said and squinted at the ‘good boy’ tone then nibbled aggressively at a thumbnail, his heel bouncing.

“It’s sort of a ‘Good, Bad and Ugly’ job,” Mother said slowly.

“All right.” Winston said reservedly, spitting a crescent of fingernail out. “I’ve never had that choice from you before.”

“I’ve seen these kinds of jobs pop up from time to time, but usually they don’t go into a posting like this. Most times it’s kept for trusted carriers, which means someone dropped the ball and this is a last minute ‘gotta-get-there-now-hurry-hurry’ sort of thing, but nobody is available. You just happen to be the best option I can find for them. Assuming you take it.”

Winston was grateful for the text captioning. Her voice quality was terrible, nor could he believe his ears.

“Let’s go in order. What’s the good?” Winston coaxed.

“The job pays well. Very well. Did I say it paid well? Well, it does.”

Winston chuckled at her humor.

“How ‘well’ is ‘well’?”

“Low seven figures,” Mother said, letting the scale of the payday sink in.

Winston’s jaw dropped with a choked gasp.

“Was that you having a stroke?” Mother looked genuinely unsure.

“I think so, Mother,” Winston stammered. His mouth flopping and closing like a fish on the shore. “You said low sevens?”

“I did. But it’s a take it now or lose it. The contracting broker is on the other comm waiting to book you.” Mother’s voice was tight, like the pressure was getting to her too.

Winston’s other foot started bouncing and he was developing cottonmouth. Seven figures! Even low seven figures was a new start. That kind of money didn’t happen unless there was something… dodgy… with it.

“Rog that,” he breathed, as if speaking would make this chance vanish. “Is that all the good?”

“Well, container rental is taken care of, you can pick them up at Consolidated when you drop the two on your back now.”

Winston was still smiling at the payday.“That does make it easy, and you know how I like easy,” he let out a sigh, steadying himself. “Okay. What’s the bad?”

“It’s off the network, so to speak,” Mother spoke quickly.

“Wait, I thought you said it was on the job boards?”

“It was,” she wheedled, “Just not the job boards I normally use. You’re not my only driver you know.”

“Just your favorite.” Winston said in a mushy voice.

In the silence that followed he could picture her glaring at him.

“Now is not the time to rub that in, Winston Alexander Harper.” she threatened. He could practically feel her finger poking him sharply through the speaker.

“Yes Mother,” he chuckled. “So this is probably illegal on some point. Who is it not legal with? National, corporate, tribal or Imperial governments?”

“All,” came her crackling answer in sync with a sheet of lightning.

Winston blanched and his humor drained out like spilled milk. The single word told him everything he needed to know. Mother had deep connections and friends. He’d always suspected she knew her way around a crooked path better than she ought, but this proved it. Not that she ever brought him near it until now, but he’d never been in such dire straits before. Twelve hours ago, he’d never have been tempted. The last job bought him only a few weeks distance from financial ruin. This was setting him up for a decade. Maybe even for life if he played his cards right.

“What’s the ugly, Mother?”

The comm bleeped again as the contract came up. He flipped it open. The shipper and consignee’s names were blank and the delivery point was some hot-house moon high in the Dream’s upper bands. He was going to sweat his ding-ding off. The list of the ten pre-selected containers were all high armor and hazmat.

“The client won’t say, but I have a guess it’s not care packages of toys for the good little boys and girls of the Salamandia Contested Zone,” Mother said.

Winston had heard of that place. A few princes of Xiao Courts were fighting over who really had control over those skylands and moons. It was a no-go zone for most shippers by corporate decree, not imperial law. No hauler wanted their assets shot up or hijacked. Emperor Xiao seemed more entertained by the fighting than interested in solving the dispute.

“I’m not Santa Claus and this ain’t Christmas.” Winston said through his fingers. He took his hand from his mouth, trying to let go of the worry that had climbed up on his back. He struggled with all sorts of horrible speculations on what kind of death awaited him if he took it. “A delivery in a war zone. Just perfect.”

“If you say no, I understand. Normally I wouldn’t send anything there either.” There was a pause as she threw him on hold for a moment. “That was the broker. In or out. You have 30 seconds then he’s going to take another call and book it with them.” Mother said.

“Is there other work?” Winston said.

“I’ll book something for you.”

Winston knew that meant ‘no’.

“Whatever you find is going to be garbage tier, low-pay nonsense that will be barely able to keep up the maintenance on this tug, right?” Winston moaned.

Mother didn’t answer.

“Right?” He pushed.

“Ten seconds.” Mother deflected.

Winston saw it clearly now. He was blackballed. The instant that idiot flew through his grav fan, no other factor or insurer would touch him. Mother would try to get him work, but even she had her hands tied. The next payment on the Sierra Madre was due in a couple weeks, and then he’d have to shut her down in some vacant lot somewhere because he couldn’t dock anywhere. Two months later she’d be repossessed for non-payment on her liens, if she wasn’t stripped or stolen by scavengers.

“Seven. He’s not playing, Winston. I’m on a clock here. Three,” Mother urged.

“Nahq it all! Take it!” Winston burst out. There was no other choice.

Winston hated hearing the words coming out of his mouth the instant he uttered them. “I’ll take the behnging job!”

“Done,” Mother snapped and was gone, leaving him in silence, with only the dim sound of his engine and the thrum of far off thunder.