6

SLEEP AT LAST, BUT not enough. I was woken by three desperate Kirrikibats scratching at the giant door where they normally accessed the ‘de-carapicing’ room. I lurched awake, noted the indicator lights, skipped breakfast and set to work, dispatching them by ten thirty. Another two arrived. Like a maniac, I did them too! Done. Shower. Food. Then I thoroughly checked the whole clinic. Everything was unbelievably crude. The disposal chute dropped the old chitin straight onto the ground; no catchment; no recycling. FFS! That stuff was full of nutrients. It was like gold in Crush Central, fertilising the hydroponic gardens that grew food for the platoons of Kirrikibat maintenance teams all over The Crush.

I wondered if I could set something up right here; capture it myself? It would need a big tank; a really big tank – and that was going to be a big ask in this town. Shelve that.

I found a medical stores room, dismally under-stocked. I proceeded with a complete stock-take but there was almost nothing to count! It was seriously short of everything!

I immediately computer-linked to the base hospital and ordered a complete re-stock, then turned to the Virtu-R, hoping to catch a lecture.  But it didn’t work. No matter what I tried I got the same message: THIS DEVICE IS INOPERATIVE. 

I swore and slapped it several times, but the device remained inoperative. In fact since I’d hit it, it was even more inoperative than before. The quasi-gloves remained inert in their little force-field holders and vague blobs of light flickered aimlessly in the matrix where all the menus should have been. And of course my implant had no effect on it at all. With a final curse I pulled its plug. What was with Doctor Panther? Didn’t she know how crappy this place was? I’ll admit I was getting just a tad angry by then, so I impulsively turned to the antiquated computer in ‘my’ office and ordered it to put me through to Panther then and there. 

Amazingly it went through first time. 

“Ah, Bagel,” said Dr Panther briskly as soon as she saw who it was, “Everything going well? Good! Send me a progress report next month.” She glanced aside in her sumptuous office as if she had someone else there and added, “Love to chat but I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. Gotta go!” And she killed the connection.

“Computer! Reconnect! Reconnect!”

“Not possible. Dr Panther is currently out of her office.”

“No she's not! Try again!”

“Dr Panther is currently out of her office.”

I sat back with an angry sigh. “Bugger this! Bugger it!”

“You have a client,” said the computer dryly. I looked up on the board. Sure enough, there was a light blinking. Then another.

“Right!” I said fiercely, looking around for my mask and gloves, “I’ll show you, you conniving bitch! A new world skinning record is about to be made!”

And I did! I did eleven Kirrikibat that day! Eleven! 

#

FEELING UTTERLY WIRED I quickly showered and changed and caught a taxi right back to The Crush Club. Call me crazy, but I was beginning to like the company of Tommie Tipper and her tough-talking mates. Rather them than that smooth-talking snake-bitch boss of mine!

I walked in the door. 

“Gidday, Doc!” called Tipper, “Air’ya gun, mate? Get your feed-bag on and join us, eh?” 

Bemused and rather touched by the welcome, I went to the bar, ordered a double steak with everything, and went to join them with a solitary can of Four-Eye. Oddly though, the moment I got to the table everything went strangely cold and quiet, except, that is, for a miniature power tool Komodo was using to polish his claws.

Oh? Was ‘The Lizard’ with them tonight?

I sensed something coming, so I did my Calm/Confident Thought-Path and waited.

“You know,” said Komodo suddenly, switching off his tool and flexing his claws like someone spreading a hand of cards, “the last flake we had here only lasted seven weeks.”

Silence. I glanced around at the others. They were not quite as friendly as they had seemed last night. Evidently Komodo was front and centre: Da Boss.

“You know why he only lasted seven weeks?” he asked me.

“Ahhh, no.”

“Because he was a useless little panty girdle, that’s what he was. He only ever did two skinnings a day. Some days only one!” He paused to plunge a claw into an empty beer can. “You know how bad that is for us working people, Doc?”

“Uh, maybe it’s best you explain.” (I always got an ‘A’ in Professional Diplomacy.)

He leaned forward, slowly destroying the beer can in a very meaningful way in front of my face, “Well let me tell you, Doc: it’s very bad. If the Bugs don’t get serviced they get cranky, and once they’re cranky their workmanship turns to crap, then everything turns to crap, then our fuckin’ buildings start falling down!” The crushed and punctured can dropped meaningfully from his claw and bounced pathetically on the table. “You get my drift?” 

He sat back and spoke to his fellows, “Remember the hover rink, fellas? What happened to it? It. Fell. Down. And what about the bowling alley? It fell down too.” He fixed me with his single reptilian eye, “It used to be a nice place here, Doc. A really ... nice ... place.”

I nodded sympathetically, but I couldn’t quite imagine the place ever having been ‘nice’. It was time for one of those skillful leading questions I’d been taught.

“So...?”

He leaned even further across the table, “So, Doctor Babyface, we’re expecting you to make a difference. Big things. Doc.” He flicked away the mutilated beer can for a final touch of drama. It rattled to a stop against the far wall. Everyone ignored it. All eyes were on me.

“Okay,” I said as lightly as I could, “Big things. You’ll get ‘em.” 

I resumed eating. Didn’t even look up. There was a strange silence around me. I glanced up. Tommie Tipper was grinning from ear to ear, but the others still looked serious.

I looked around at them, puzzled. “What?” I said innocently. “I did eleven today. That not enough for you?”

Tipper burst out laughing, slapping the table with her big meaty hands. “I told you he was a beaut! I told you!” The big silent one; Stevedore, began to grin too, then Tyge lit up. Seemed like if Tipper laughed, then everything was cool. Komodo sat back with a growl as the truckies began confirming to each other what they already knew, that there were a lot of ‘bugs’ running around at the moment with fresh new shells. It was almost like some sort of joke on Komodo.

Finally he relaxed.

I decided to do something daring. Getting up suddenly I went to the bar and returned with a whole tray of beer cans still locked into their transport yoke. A ‘slab’ in the local parlance.  “Here,” I said dramatically, laying it down, “my shout.”

“Beaudy, mate!”

It was gone in ten minutes. Before much longer I was so drunk I had to go and brag about my new world record.

“Eleven?” repeated Komodo doubtfully.

“Yep.”

“Impossible.” He growled.

“What do you know about it?” challenged Tyge.

Komodo sneered, “Because no other flake has ever come near it. The best one I remember,” he looked around the table again, “you know, the one that died when the road collapsed? He only ever did five a day, tops.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the reference to the death of one of my predecessors, “Yeah well that’s a good average,” I said, “That’s what they push for in training.”

“Why only five then?  How come you reckon you’re so hot?”

I shrugged, “It’s a skill. And it’s an attitude. Some of the other students barely got through two in a day. Me? Well, it’s just like eating your dinner: You eat your broccoli as quick as you can just to get it out of the way.”

“You mean you eat that crap off them?” asked Tyge.

Tipper roared with laughter.

I sighed and let it go. But it had turned my mind to another matter. After a while, when they had moved on to talking about technical stuff, I edged back into the conversation. “Hey, is there any chance of getting my hands on some sort of big tank around here?”

“What sort of tank?” asked Notch.

“Er well, pretty big, with some sort of self-sealing lid. Sorry, I don’t know the proper word for them. Some sort of collecting-tank.”

Stevedore, who never said much, suddenly sat forward, struggling to get out just a few tortured words. In fact I think it was the first thing I’d ever heard him utter. “You mean... like... a shit tank?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“What the hell you want a shit tank for?” asked Tipper suspiciously.

I was silent for a moment, thinking how I was going to explain my whole idea to these plodders. I had to get it into its very simplest terms. Then I had it in a word! 

“Profit.” 

They sat forward, interested. I expanded upon my theme, “Profit for every one of you, if you want to help.” They began to glance questioning looks at each other. I went on, suddenly regretting my boldness. “See: I have the raw material, plenty of it, but I just need to collect it for a while, then get it in for processing.” 

They began nodding wisely as if they understood my problem exactly. 

Tipper lowered her voice and said, “Well you have come to the right people, Doc. You can get anything you want around here if you just know who to ask.”

“Who should I ask then?”

She reached across the table and pushed another beer firmly into my hand. “Me,” she said, “But it’ll cost you.” That was a set-back. I didn’t exactly get paid very well to do what I did so well, and as you know my finances were already in ruins.

But I tried to remain calm and business-like, “How much?” 

She seemed to think a moment as well, almost as if she hadn’t actually figured it out before opening her big mouth. Finally she said, “You just get the Bugs working again, Doc, and we’ll see how it balances out.”

“Okay,” I said as confidently as I could.  I downed my beer in one long gulp and wobbled quickly to my feet before it made me any worse than I was, “I’ll get with it, then!”

#

TIPPER OFFERED TO DRIVE me home again. As we went out the back this time, undistracted by earthquakes, I noticed a large recognisable shape strapped to the wall near the toilets. I stopped and flipped up a corner of the old tattered covering tarp. 

“Bloody hell! It’s a piano!”

“Oh,” she said, like she’d never heard the word before, “So you know what it is?”

“Sure.”

She shoved at it, causing the straps to creak ominously, “Komodo wanted to chuck it out years ago but Notch stopped him. Reckoned it was valuable.” She turned to me, “Is that right then? Is this ‘peeno’ thing some sort of old relic or something?”

“Oh, it’s more than a relic. It’s incredibly valuable in the right hands.”

“What do you mean?”

Now I have to admit I was recalling my pleasant evening with the lovely Ms Sharp two nights prior, and I also have to admit that my thoughts were not exactly rational. “It just needs the right operator. Like your strider: it would be bloody useless with, say, me driving it.”

She got a bit prickly about that, “Don’t you even dream of it, buckwheat!”

“Oh, I won’t,” I assured her, “I aren’t.” I flipped the cover back over the piano and resumed my stagger towards the parking bay, “Tell you what,” I said before I’d really thought it through, “I’ll arrange a little demo of what I mean.”

“Okay mate!” said Tipper, slapping me on the back and chuckling mightily, “You do that.  You’ve got me intrigued.”

Minutes later I was home in Sewage Tank Number Three, still breathless from another rough-neck ride under town, and as I hung myself miserably over the toilet and ejected my evening’s drinking I wondered how on Crush I was ever going to persuade the lovely Ms Sharp to come out to this god-forsaken hole I now called home.

#

I CLEANED MYSELF UP next morning, then cleaned up four clients in short order. I'd discovered the secret of success – no breakfast.  Just a couple of tall glasses of water to head off the dry horrors then straight into the peel. Holy crap, four in a row. I was on fire. The waiting room was finally empty and so was I. Really needed some lunch but still couldn’t stomach the thought of ‘Instant Cheesy Stuff’. I went to the computer.

“Can you tube me in some more food? Say, ah, some spicy meatballs with noodles, or maybe some sort of euro-bread and soup combo?”

“Sorry, there’s no tube service in this town.”

“Damn it! So what can you do?”

“I can order some instant meals via the hospital supply line,” answered my computer, “Two days delivery. Deducted from your pay.”

I slapped the desk loudly, “Crap!”

Agitated, I put on my rain cape and breather and headed outside figuring there had to at least be a vending machine somewhere. But there was nothing. And no one. The warehouse district was totally deserted. A lone taxi buzzed through from the airport carrying a large box, and for ten minutes that was all the life I saw. Wasn’t there any industry in this town? 

Why was it even here? What did they all do?

Agitated I strolled east along the taxi-way until I could look back at my own building, wanting to check the size of that waste-heap underneath. Yep, I could see it all right. There must have been a dozen years of Kirrikibatic shells down there, most of it scattered away down the slope beyond the building. It appeared as if the cellular surface of The Crush had been subducting it in a couple of places. What a disgrace! What a waste! And every day I was chucking more and more good rotten chitin down there. I hated waste!

Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw a minor procession of strider-spiders coming over the nearest rise. There was a little high-speed model; Tipper’s, and two truck-sized ones. On the back of the bigger truck was a huge tank.

“Bloody hell!”

I sprinted back to the clinic. Tommie Tipper had plugged herself into my parking bay by then and was striding about my private quarters calling for me loudly. I hurried in, saying the first dumb-arse thing that came into my head, “All ready to get tanked up, then?”

She hooted with laughter and slapped me painfully on the back for good measure. “Strewth you’re a hard case! But cripes; how’d you know about the tank?”

“I’ve got my little ways. But, um, what sort of tank is it? I mean you don’t know what it’s actually for. It might not even fit.”

She got a bit prickly on me again, “Hey I’m not just a pretty face, buckwheat! Come on.  Jump in the wagon. The guys are working on it now.” That was an order. This bruiser only seemed to give orders. So I jumped in with her and we dropped down and I took a look. The ‘truck’ was parked right under the chitin chute. Stevedore was suited up in some sort of space suit and was dangling off a strap hooked to the underside of the clinic. He was talking but of course I couldn’t hear. Then Tipper hit a switch and the sound came on: Stevedore and Tyge talking back and forth. “...on the T-bar there.” “Yep, go it.” “Fuse-clamp I reckon.” “Size three?” “Yep, beaudy!...” Stevedore seemed to be in his element, fitting things on in little showers of sparks as Tyge handed things up to him using a robot arm. 

For one awful moment I panicked, thinking that maybe I should have asked Panther for permission, then I pushed the thought out of my head. Sod Panther!

Tyge’s strider suddenly slithered on the mess of rotting chitin and there was a burst of cursing. I won’t print it here. Stevedore hung on by one hand while she got herself positioned under him again, then they resumed. Soon they had a kind of bracket built, and after a few unexpected modifications to some pipe-connection-thing they swung the tank up and clipped it on. To my amazement it hung there, solid as. There was a round of applause through the speakers. I quickly joined in. Notch, driving the biggest ‘truck’, Tyge, with Stevedore riding on the outside of her vehicle, gave me a wave and drove off. 

“Thanks guys!” I called, hoping my voice would get picked up. 

With a final wave they were gone, scuttling away across the chaotic landscape that already looked different from how it was yesterday.

Now that I was under my building in daylight, I noticed that my other disposal chute had no tank under it either. The landscape was littered with the remains of hundreds of pairs of surgical gloves, used towels and food wrappers. Disgusting. 

Tipper plugged us up into my parking bay again and I clambered out. “Excellent work, er, dude!” I said, “But how did you know where I needed it?”

She shrugged and grunted, “I got eyes. Now, tell us if your tank gauge isn’t working at the top. It should be though. Stevo’s pretty good with them things.”

“Sure. I’ll let you know.”

“And let me know when it’s nearly full.”

“Sure.”

“Then we’ll sort out the delivery phase, Okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

“See you tonight?”

“Yeah. Great. And thanks again, Ms Tipper.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, not so fast, buckwheat! You call me ‘mate’ like everyone else does, okay?!”

“Sure. Okay ... mate.”

Her face split into a mighty grin as she jerked down her cabin lid. I could hear the first hoots of laughter through the plazglaze as she released the docking ring and dropped away. I leapt back as the sphincter shuddered and jerked itself closed.

Note to self: get that fixed!

I looked up, waving off the stench of Crush air, and checked my waiting room indicators.  One blinking light. No lunch for me again.

#

I TREATED ANOTHER KIRRIKIBAT worker, even chatting cheerfully with him about the weather (which was awful as usual). He went away happy and I seemed to be done for the day. After a clean-up I took a couple of deep breaths and sat down in front of the computer with that beer coaster I had carefully saved from my last morning in Crush Central. After a few inquiries and an educated guess I managed to get the correct code-number for Sharp’s hotel room, but there was no reply. I let it ring on, wondering if I might have guessed wrong. Some spotty alien lump might have been oozing it’s way to the phone at that very moment, wondering who in Gal was phoning. I recalled that Hoo-Buoy and her tentacle-related proposal. I briefly thought about Harriet. The call kept ringing. Was she out or was she in bed with some lucky guy. (Or girl.) Had she moved on? Shit! – What if Sharp was with the Hoo-Buoy?!

Suddenly, as I was drifting into a much-needed doze, the call was answered.

“What is it? Who’s there?” No picture, just her voice, and a very snappy voice it was too, but a least it was her!

I woke up fast. “Hi. Remember me? Filmore Bagel? We met the other night? At the bar? Elvis?” I realised this was potentially a disastrous approach – especially if she’d already decided to write me off. I quickly changed my tack, “You know: Doctor Bagel.”

“Oh, oh yeah,” she answered sleepily, “Hang on.”

I hung on. There were a few sound effects like she was hastily doing something, a kind of odd ‘pop’, then her picture went on. My heart jumped forward in time, not missing any of the intermediary beats. If that was what she was wearing now, what had she been wearing just before she said ‘hang on’? But despite my intellectually disabling fascination with her underwear I tried to maintain a professional manner and looked steadfastly at her perfect whitened face.

“I was just thinking, Ms Sharp, whether you would care to come and examine a piano I have chanced upon here at a local, uh, night club.  I don’t really know much about them and I’m hoping this one is still in a playable condition.”

“A piano?” she said, her eyes brightening slightly, “A real piano?”

“As best I can tell, yes.”

Her lovely bloodshot brown eyes flicked about in her beautiful cosmetic-white face for a moment, and I was sure I could detect actual real excitement there. 

“What town did you say you’re in?” she asked.

“Edgetown. It’s out west.”

She bent suddenly to rummage in a handbag, giving me a particularly interesting line of sight. From the bag she extracted what appeared to be a highly decorated playing card or something very similar and stared at it for a long time. I couldn’t see her side of it, of course, this being a standard single-point 3-D connection, but I imagined it contained her life-reading or some other sort of spiritual guidance tripe. I didn’t ask what it was, of course, just waited silently, feasting my eyes upon her cleavage and hoping it said something like, ‘A Stranger may Call’ or ‘You are Favoured in the West’ or something. (Okay if the truth be known I was hoping it said ‘Go Immediately to The Stranger Who Calls and Give Him Your All.’)

I saw her lips purse subtly as if she were seriously considering one of those big life-decision moments. Then she sighed subtly and nodded once. I saw her lips move, silently uttering what looked like a three-syllable word.

Her face lifted to mine. “So, will this be a paid position?”

I’d been anticipating it. “I’m sure the local community will make it worth your while.” I said smoothly, “A lot of classic music fans live here.”

“A piano,” she repeated, as if still weighing up her weighty dilemma, “do you happen to know what make it is?”

I didn’t, but I remembered the name on the one my parents once had at home. “I think it might be a Kellogg.” I told her vaguely.

She was obviously thinking. I could see a light in her eye that I’d only ever seen when she had been talked about plumbing. She spoke, “Thank you, Doctor. Yes, I am interested. So how exactly do I get to your clinic?”

“There’s a regular air service. Departs one o’clock each day.”

She slumped. Things didn’t look good. I was in trouble. 

“Hang on.” I waved my hand across the computer’s sensor to put her on hold. Sharp’s image shrank into the lower right hand corner. “Do I have an expense account here?” I asked.  The picture matrix flickered for a moment or two, then the computer’s quaint old ‘personality face’ reappeared.

“Only the clinic account. What purpose will the expenditure support?”

“Ah, urgent supplies, delivered by courier.”

“Approved,” said the computer instantly, “That’ll be a Code 12. Your order number 17-77-1862. Placing order to...?”

“Uh,” I grabbed for my travel chit from a few days earlier, “Interplanetary Air. The courier will be a Ms Sharp.”

The computer flickered a few times and I thought it was dying on me, then its personality face came back, “There is a extra flight leaving today at five,” it told me, “your urgent supplies could be here by six. Confirm?”

“Yes!” 

What a miracle! She would be here in a matter of hours!

Grinning happily I flicked Sharp’s image back up to full screen, then suddenly realised I hadn’t put my end on mute. She would have heard the whole thing!

“Can you make it onto a flight tonight?” I asked her, trying to control myself. She hesitated and my heart leapt backwards into the past, skipping all the intervening beats. (I was now short by about fifty heart beats – the speed it was going!)

I hung there, as if suspended in zero-gravity, until she spoke again.

“I’ll be on it!”

I nodded my head in what I hoped looked like a wise and noble sort of bow and gushed, “Thank you very much!”

#

AFTER THAT I WAS TOO excited to get the sleep I so desperately needed. I showered twice and put on my best clothes, the same best clothes I’d been wearing all week, then went back to the office with an interesting idea to pursue.

“Computer, did you record that last video-call?”

“Yes. It’s one on my standard settings.” 

That was a worry. “Alright; replay it at double speed.” (No, I was not leering at her underwear again, I was looking for a particular moment.) “There! Go back. Now advance, slow, there! Can you analysis her lip movements?”

“Insufficient data. Do you have previous conversations preserved?”

My implant! Everything I ever did was automatically archived for two years. Not in the implant of course; but in a secure server somewhere. The last few days should have still been in my head in that poziotronic thingy I’d never paid much attention to. Nudging it on with a practiced code-thought I attempted to connect to my archive menus, then remembered the ‘technical difficulties’ of Edgetown. Without Network, I couldn’t even scan my own memories!

“I’m going to authorise you to access my archives,” I said to the computer. “Download the evening of the 14^th, 7:45 until 1 a.m.”

“It’ll take an estimated three minutes via the currently functioning com-sys after I have secured a confirmation from your Upload Service Provider. Your cost: 98 credits. Confirm?”

Ouch! A hundred creds. This place was insane! And three minutes to connect? What were they operating on, ASCII?

I continued to hesitate. One hundred creds to learn one word! I’d have to be crazy! 

“Confirm.”

It took three minutes to connect, then another five for the computer to download the relevant file (my dinner with Sharp.)  The analysis itself took 22 milliseconds. 

The computer flickered, then said, “The most likely answer is – ‘Destiny’.”

#

‘DESTINY’? WHY that? Was she a practitioner of Destiny Enhancement too? Didn’t seem like it that night. She seemed rather anti- if anything. I mulled it over as I took a taxi to the airport, aching with hunger. Huzzah: the airport cafe was still open. I bought something titled ‘Fromage Delight’ and an overpriced Zipsi. A very late lunch. The ‘Fromage Delight’ turned out to be some sort of cheesy thing that wasn’t half bad, because actually it was three-quarters bad, but I was too hungry to care. After that epic meal I  found a half-way comfortable seat and sat to wait and wonder why Ms Sharp had said that one word. 

‘Destiny’.

‘Destiny’...

But I soon found my tired mind wandering onto other things: like how I was going to ship that huge tank of composting chitin back to the hydroponics unit in Crush Central without Panther knowing about it. It was going to cost me a bucket of credit if a regular air-fare was anything to go by. Maybe the economics of my venture were just not workable. Maybe that was why no one had done it before. Maybe I was just insane. Maybe I should just pull my head in for another 181 days and do the job I was sent to do and then just get the hell out of this hell-hole. 

I eventually fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. The flight came in. Next thing someone was kicking my shoe. “Doctor Bagel? Where’s this piano?”

I landed with a bump upon the hard sands of reality. She stood over me, her hair once again its perfect crisp black and her face precisely made in white, this time with slight hints of pink. Today her top lip was purple and the lower lip bronze. And her eyes were purple again.  Ah! She was packing a pair of butterflies!

(Sorry, for the eight of you giving me a blank look right now, let me be more specific: ‘Butterfly effect’ was a type of nano-surgery that rearranged the microscopic structure of the eyes, specifically the irises. By tightly controlling the process, the cells in her irises had been altered into a programmable reflective structure exactly just like that of a butterfly wing. She could give herself any kind of eye, even fantasy effects. Phenomenally expensive!) 

I sprang up and offered my hand, “Ms Sharp. Welcome to Edgetown! Carry your bag?”

“No,” she said, “It’s got its own legs. And please, stop calling me Ms Sharp. It’s just “Sharp’! Okay?”

“Sure.”

We set off for the taxi rank. I felt the floor quiver from a distant earthquake.

“I hope this is not just an elaborate ruse to get me out here,” she said as we got into a taxi, “Because if it is you’d better be a good with a needle and thread!”

“I assure you, Ms... uh, I mean Sharp, that my intentions are pure!” (Yeah, sure.) “There really is a piano, and I cannot wait to hear you play this evening.”

She relaxed a little and gazed out at the strange landscape. I was a nervous wreck by then; this was the exact place I’d nearly died on my first taxi-ride to Edgetown.

“What the hell is this town doing here?” she suddenly asked, “What a ghastly place!”

I was stumped for an answer. “I’m sure some of my local friends can answer that tonight.” I said smoothly, then changed the subject. “Isn’t it true that you have to actually tune a piano?”

“Yes.”

“How is it done?”

“With a bugbot. You just open the lid and drop it in.”

“Have you got one?”

“Sure.” She leaned forward, opened her suitcase, and took out a case about the size of an instant dinner. She flipped it open. “This is ‘Octave’. Kawaii desu, ne?”

I agreed, marveling at the little insect-bot nestled in the padding. And instantly, as my flickering-genius mind always did, I wondered why no-one had ever bothered designing bugbots for flaking Kirrikibat chitin. 

She closed the case suddenly and put it away. Her mood seemed to be rather volatile, to say the least. Her eyes slid sideways once more to that appalling landscape. 

“This place gives me the creeps. Soon as I’m done here, I’m blowing this joint.”

“Give it time,” I said quickly, “It’s a wonderful place; full of character. You’ll love it!”

#

WE ROLLED INTO TOWN, rocking on the taxiway in a way that suggested another minor quake.  Luckily Sharp didn’t seem to notice. I paid the taxi and directed her into The Crush Club. It was early evening. The place was nearly empty, just a few surly locals at the bar. My new bunch of ‘friends’ were not to be seen. Komodo was at the cash-register (a sort of mechanical contraption for holding coins and recording transactions on paper), so I decided I’d better do the polite thing.

“Komodo, this is Sharp,” I said with forced friendliness, “She’s here to try out the piano.  You know, that thing you’ve got in your back passage.”

Komodo squinted his one eye at me suspiciously.

I mimed piano playing. “Y’know, music? Entertainment? It’ll be good for business.”

Komodo just grunted and leered at Sharp as if she were something on a plate. I kept everything moving, ushering her through the rear door to where the piano stood. 

I pulled off the covers. She was instantly in raptures. 

“A Kellogg! A real Kellogg!”

Lucky guess. Knowing nothing about pianos I had to ask, “Are they good then?”

“They’re good, yes, they’re very good.”

She lifted the keyboard cover. In case you don’t know, they have a keyboard made of real actual matter, a sort of long row of finger-operated push-bars, each triggering a musical note by some means I didn’t understand. Most of them were white and some were black for some reason.  She hit one of the white ones. The piano made a noise, a musical note. It sounded right to me but she cringed and hit several more of the keys. Without a word she opened her bugbot case. 'Octave' sat up and made a little beeping noise. Very cute. 

Sharp lifted a long narrow lid on the very top of the piano and put the ‘bot on the edge. It beeped again as if happy, and dived inside. There was a loud ping and a clunk, then the piano seemed to start playing itself from inside, the same note over and over, each time getting sweeter to my untrained ear. Octave then corrected another note, and another. While this went on, Komodo and a few others drifted in, curious to know what was going down. Intrigued, they stood silently listening, each holding a can of beer, each glancing at the other.

Octave worked on. The piano gradually worked its way through its full range, each tone somehow evoking an emotional response in me (and maybe even in those yobbo locals for all I knew). It was sort of magical; it sent a warm feeling spreading through my belly and a smile across my face. I glanced at Sharp. I could see she was feeling it too. We gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment, deeply, honestly. 

I was absolutely sure by then that we were in love.

Octave bleeped. She reached in and took it out. “Family heirloom,” she told me quietly, folding it away in its case, “Used to belong to my great-grandmother. She once played on the very last Steinway, you know.”

“Oh. Was that some sort of road?”

“They were pianos, you idiot!” 

She was scary when she was angry. Her dark purple eyes glared into mine, impatient and disdainful. My soul shriveled. I edged back, feeling rather useless, as Sharp turned back to the instrument. Tenderly she began stroking the keys. Slowly, as if she were coaxing it back from a long hibernation, she began to pull music from that box; tunes I knew and tunes that were new. She could make it whisper and laugh and shout. She made it rumble like a thunderstorm, she made it flutter like a moth on your face. She made me think of space-stations turning majestically in the sun; of dead kittens, of being in the backyard of my childhood, of sunsets over Crush central. Her music broke my heart, then repaired it, then broke it once again, magically done by her beautiful dancing hands. 

I felt confused. How could someone with so much soul be so . . .  well: sharp?

When she finished there was a thunderous applause from all around. I hadn’t noticed but the narrow space had gradually filled up with people, all the truckies coming in from the parking bay, plus Komodo’s usual riff-raff from the street side. Total strangers to me, mostly, yet we were joined for that moment by a common bond. I looked around. Tipper, for once, was looking soft and feminine. Tyge was grinning all over. Even Komodo had a far-away look in his eye. 

As the applause died off I seized the moment and called aloud, “My friends! This is the lovely Sharp, here to play for us tonight! Eat, drink and be merry, for tonight we have music! Oh, and she’s open to receiving your donations.”

Sharp stood up slowly and turned to her admirers, rather shyly I thought, and took a humble bow. Then, as she came up, she seemed to freeze. Probably her first sight of Tyge’s face. It tended to do that to people. Anyway to my great relief a lot of people were already digging out money. They showered coins into Sharp’s open hands, and when they became full the coins were piled on the keyboard. She demurely thanked each and every one of them. 

There was a lot of talk: compliments; invitations to dine; to drink; to date; to marry. She smiled and murmured and bowed, and declined them all.

Finally Komodo clapped his claws together and shouted, “The music will resume at eight-thirty. Tell everyone in town! Eight-thirty! Happy hour at nine!”

Everyone started heading to the bar. Komodo promptly hired Tipper to serve drinks and some shuffling sleaze-ball to work in the kitchens, then he basically ordered Notch and Stevedore to move the piano through to the main room. Finally he turned to Sharp and bluntly said, “I take twenty percent. Piano hire.”

She just shrugged, nodded, but her eyes seemed far away, troubled. 

#

THE PARTY WENT LATE. I ate and drank for free. Sharp played for two straight hours and everyone got insanely drunk. They sang songs. Tipper even danced with me! Everyone seemed happy. Everyone! It was like a miracle had happened. A real tootin’ miracle!