M. Darusha Wehm

Science fiction and mainstream books by award-winning author M. Darusha Wehm

crime

The Interview

Originally published in Podioracket Presents – Glimpses

“I was working at this stim joint, a place called Ultra-Sissons. It’s not where I’m working now — I wasn’t a bartender then, just a busser. Cleaning up the used cartridges, tidying chairs, occasionally tossing out the odd rowdy. Anyway, I wasn’t important or anything, it was just an entry level job. Nothing special.

“This doesn’t even have to do with me, though. It was one of the regulars. Guy who called himself Johnny Burling. I don’t know if that was his real name or what, but that didn’t matter much. We never cared about that kind of thing too much at Ultra. Johnny was a regular — in most every night. He wasn’t one of the troublemakers; you know the kind I mean: those folks who shoot cartridges all night until they can’t even piss straight, and you have to slip them a sobriety™ round at closing time just to get them out the door. Every stim place I’ve seen has those kind of regulars. I guess they pay the bills.

“But that’s not Johnny. He was strictly a Red Zinger man — it was always the same for him. Two Red Zingers over the course of a few hours, and by the time he was starting his second he was off in his own little world. He told me once that he was creating a cooperative narrative, if you can believe it. He’d come in, take his hits of focus™ and creativity™ and zone out. He’d spend the next three hours busy working away in his onboard system – eyes all unfocussed but zipping back and forth, like he’s dreaming or something, you know? I guess he got a lot of work done that way.

“He was plenty friendly, though, before the stims really got into him. Liked to talk to the other chatty cathies in the joint, and talked to me plenty, too. Bussing was a pretty boring job, and to tell the truth most of the other regulars were no fun, so talking to Johnny was often as good as it got. He was a funny guy.

“Anyway, the point is that I liked him. He was nice — harmless, you know? Never did anything mean to anyone. He just didn’t deserve what happened.”

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Image: “Boardroom” by Eric Dan

Fire. Escape. – Sample

This is a novelette that explores a different aspect of the world of the Andersson Dexter novels. You can get the complete ebook for free when you sign up to my mailing list.

It all started with the explosion.

It wasn’t the first time Grey had heard the tell-tale bang… whoosh of a pot of chemicals self-igniting, but they weren’t running such a half-assed operation that it happened often. He dropped the stim cart he’d been filling, the small vial bouncing off the table, its window breaking on impact and the half measure of bright green liquid spilling out. He didn’t even stop to see what happened to the bulb he’d been using to fill the cart — who cared about a few euros worth of stims when there was a fireball in the next room.

Grey fought the entirely natural impulse to just get the hell out of there. It was a crummy little squat they’d moved into a couple of weeks previously, and there was a way out on to the back alley from the hallway off the room he was in. But Ev was in the kitchen on the other side of the doorway. The doorway, which was now glowing with a sickly orange light.

He ran to the door and yelled, “Ev! Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, like she was choking on fumes, which made sense because the stuff she was cooking in there was notorious for giving off noxious gasses when it burned. “Fire’s almost out.”

“Get out of there,” he hollered, then took a deep breath of the relatively fresh air. Holding his breath, he pulled the neck of his shirt up over his nose and barged into the kitchen.

Ev was standing over the stove, holding a heavy blanket over the pot. It was hot as hell in the little kitchen, but it was just as warm out in the other room. There was no ventilation in this squat and the weather had been muggy for days. Grey looked around quickly and took stock of the situation.

There were trails of flame on the floor, and Grey’s eyes could feel something nasty in the air, but there was no inferno and Ev seemed to be in one piece. He stamped out the few bits of burning liquid on the ground and peeked under the blanket to make sure the fire in the pot was out. It all seemed okay, so he grabbed Ev’s hand. “Come on,” Grey grunted and pulled her out of the room. It was probably only about ten seconds since he’d heard the bang before they were out in the alley, sucking in the warm, thick air and coughing up their lungs.

“What happened?” Grey asked, once he felt like he could almost breathe properly again.

Ev just shook her head and Grey could see her struggling for breath. He cleared some of the junk from beside the wall and made a place for her to sit. He took her hand, which any other day would have made his heart race and his face turn the colour of their newest mix, Heartfire. Today, though, all he could think was that it should have been him in there.

He helped her sit down and she put her head between her knees. Grey sunk down next to her, and mimicked her posture. It wasn’t because he felt faint, but because he knew that if he’d been the one cooking the stuff it wouldn’t have happened. Ultimately, he knew, this was his fault.

The wet, painful sounds of Ev puking distracted him from his self-pity and he put a hand on her back. He could see that she’d singed her eyebrows and there was a streak of neon green on her face, but being sick was a good sign. She’d be okay. This time.

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Chekhov’s Phaser

I never planned to end up here. I’ve never planned anything, really. All my life has been like that: I see an opportunity and I take it. Sometimes that works out better than other times. So why should this be any different?

I’d just been by docking station three, slipping a few hundred wadded euros off the shifty captain from that rust bucket Lunacy. What a stupid name for a cargo ship. Why do ships’ captains feel compelled to name their barges with some clever pun, anyway? Lunacy, indeed.

About a month before, I’d caught them dumping their trash out their airlock after their last trip off the base. They thought they were far enough off the rock that no one would see, but I just happened to be ogling a brand new BMW private shuttle through the scope when I saw them do it. If I’d followed procedure and called it into the ILSOC, the International Lunar Station Oversight Committee would have slapped that scow with a fine that made the wad I’d stuffed in my own pocket look like milk money. And the dark circles under the captain’s eyes I’d seen the last few times they dropped their cargo off made me guess that he didn’t have the kind of dough to cover a fine like that. The cash in my pants told me I’d guessed right.

He’d been paying me off every time they came through here to keep my trap shut so they could just open theirs and avoid the dumping fees back Earthside. It was typical for that kind of operation – an old junker repurposed for cargo transport to try and get in on the lunar cash cow. I’d been inside Lunacy a couple of times when I was making nice with a sweet young thing who’d been working on board for a while. It was amazing their shipments didn’t grow legs, the security on board that boat was so bad. No one ever noticed me, though. It seemed like anyone could come and go as they pleased, and for a few nights, I was very well pleased, indeed.

I was off to my quarters to add these recently acquired bills to the little stash I had going, when my beeper went off. I jumped at the noise, and pulled the little phone from my other pocket. I could see on its display that it was a call from my boss, Laura. I was technically off duty, but I answered the call.

“Natalie?” A voice that was definitely not Laura’s boomed through the tiny speaker. I thumbed the volume down a bit.

“Yes,” I said, warily. “Who is this?”

“This is Jerry Cornwell speaking,” the voice said. Oh, shit, I thought. Jerry Cornwell was Laura’s boss. I’d never even seen the guy. “Could you pop by Ms. Baine’s office please?” His voice made it clear that it was not a question.

I gulped nervously to myself. “Sure,” I said aloud, turning away from the habitat section of the converted old mining station and toward the management offices for the resort. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

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Image: “Phaser, TOS” by Roxanne Ready