Infinity Smashed: Thanksgiving Shift
Dec. 8th, 2020 12:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThanksgiving Shift
Series: Infinity Smashed
Summary: Grey, Larkin, and Bob have a rough Thanksgiving shift.
Word Count: 3800
Notes: Freebie. Would you believe I first started trying to write this mother in 2006?
Even though Grey knows it’s a bad idea, she and Bob spend Diwali trading candy back and forth. Despite everything, he warms up to her. She eats a lot of those cashew fudge things (they’re delicious) and even overcomes her fear of cooking enough to make a (slightly burnt) batch of peppermint bark. It’s an embarrassment compared to Bob’s offerings but she has to try. He’s lonely and sad, this holiday is important to him, and Management is being needlessly harsh forcing him to work through it. There was no kind reason for them to forbid the time off. It’s not as though Diwali runs on a skeleton crew.
Thanksgiving, however, does. Grey’s there by choice (she works all holidays), but Larkin’s only there grudgingly.
“At least I’ll be home in time for dinner,” she sighs as they eat lunch in Grey’s car.
“Pritchard?” Grey asks, sipping her water.
“Yeah, at church. You can come, if you want.”
Grey shakes her head. She’s not Christian; it’d be weird. Besides, Larkin should spend that time with her people.
“Your choice. I can’t complain too much; at least we’re not in Comm right now.”
They exchange head-shakes of sympathy. Darlene usually works through this holiday too, but she’s come down with the flu. Between that and all the people out on holiday, Management had to call in Williamson, who’s ostensibly the captain of third shift, but only since October. He’s one of the 9/11 restructure hires, not happy about being dragged out for a double on a holiday with no notice.
“He’s running on caffeine and stress, praying nothing important happens,” Bob says when he calls in that afternoon, “so, of course, we’ve got a kidnapping. Child custody dispute gone bad, apparently.”
Grey sighs and Larkin grimaces. Domestic disputes rarely end well.
“They’re all from Fluji Alpha, if that means anything to you,” Bob continues. “Two moms; the one named Apur is the one who reported it. The other is non-custodial, apparently a drug addict; while high out of her mind, she grabbed the kid, stole Apur’s ripper car, and skipped town. Looks to be planning a crash and dash.”
“A ripper car?” Larkin says. “Apur must be loaded. What’s the driver and kid’s names?”
“Uh, let’s see.” Rustling papers. “Fluji Alpha people have just the one name, right?”
“Sometimes.” Grey’s seen anywhere from zero to six.
“Well, these do. Driver is Savo; kid is Gachi.”
Larkin rolls her eyes—not at Bob, who’s still learning and couldn’t have known, but at Apur and probably Williamson. “Those aren’t proper names, Bob, those are cutesy nicknames—like Sweetie Pie, or Baby.”
“Well, shit. No wonder I couldn’t find anything.” Pause. “Out of curiosity, what do they mean?”
“Big Three and Little Five,” Grey says. “Birth order.”
“Yeah, it’s a big thing over there, but there’s no way I’m de-escalating a tweaker calling her Big Threesy,” Larkin said. “Try and get me a real name, will you, Bob? And tell me if she has any previous charges while you’re at it.”
“Sure, I have to do it over anyway. Let me check the League databases. Meanwhile, Lila’s on hot spotting; she can give you the land zone.”
Larkin signs off to go see what Lila has for them. Grey waits, but all she hears is keyboard clatter. For a moment, she thinks Bob has forgotten she’s on the line, but then she hears a huff of annoyance.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Damned databases must be slow on the updates again. Hold on.”
More clattering. Grey waits.
Bob sighs with disgust. “Well, Gachi’s missing persons report is missing, and the thief data on the missing vehicle report is garbled.”
“Williamson’s job,” Grey says. Shift captains aren’t supposed to pass down jobs without noticing things like that.
“He didn’t do it right the first time; I’d rather do it myself, save us all some time. I’m going to have to call this woman; let me call you back.”
He hangs up, and Larkin comes over to tell Grey what zone to cover.
At least Lila has some good news: the location window is narrow. Something to do with the energy in the tank and tracking data from the ripper car—Grey has never been good with that stuff. All she needs to know is that the ship will either land in a specific part of the Vago Desert or it won’t hit the country at all. As for when it’ll land, Lila can’t give them anything more specific than, “no earlier than half an hour, probably sooner rather than later—depends if they pause for anything.” Since it’s out of the way, Grey and Larkin pause at a gas station to refill the tank and their water bottles, plus use the facilities. (Both of them can go without, but prefer not to.)
Bob doesn’t call in until Larkin’s in the bathroom.
“I have spent this whole time on the line with Apur,” he says in a worn voice, “and I have gotten nowhere with her. She insists that their names are Savo and Gachi, end stop. You’re certain that those are pet names you can’t call them in public?”
Before she thinks better of it, Grey says, “Yes, Snookums.”
Pause, enough for her to worry she’s offended him… or worse, given him the wrong (correct) idea. But then Bob says, “Was that a sense of humor I heard?”
Grey says nothing, trying to be dead weight, but it’s too late.
“Ha! I knew it. I knew you couldn’t be that boring.” After a moment of thought, Bob seems to decide that maybe if Grey has a sense of humor, she’s someone he can tell: “look, something weird is going on. I don’t know what it is, and Williamson is telling me to keep my nose out of it, but…”
He goes silent, and at first Grey thinks it’s a thinking silence, but then she realizes that he wants her to say something.
From where she’s standing, the job looks like just another sad custody case gone wrong, with tech problems, language barriers, and people, who are the worst of all. But Bob got hired because he smelled a rat, and he was right. If he smells another, Grey wants him to chase it, especially if it means this case works out better than the usual domestic dispute. She has the seniority to clear the way for him.
“Look into it,” she says, waving as Larkin comes out of the gas station bathroom. “My order. Williamson complains, send him to me.” She has a thought. “Ask Apur for Social ID numbers. Common question on Fluji Alpha. Should be fine.”
Bob sounds pleased. “On it. Thanks, boss.”
Larkin and Grey are back in the car, making good time on a bumpy cattle road to the stake-out spot when Williamson calls. Since Grey’s driving, Larkin picks up and puts him on speakerphone.
“Did you tell Doshi to go badger a crime victim?”
From the navigator’s seat, Larkin raises her eyebrows.
“Yes,” Grey says. She hates talking at the best of times, and she’s sick of watching higher-ups cut Bob off at the knees. “Let him do it.”
“Specialist Grey, Apur Aimeh is a very important—”
Grey’s wheel goes off the road and she has to brake. Larkin’s eyes are wide and once they’re still, she mouths, “Apur Aimeh?” then puts a fist to her mouth as though to bite it.
The rest of what Williamson says is noise, but eventually Grey realizes he’s waiting for a response.
“I will handle Apur Aimeh,” she says. “I take full responsibility.”
She has seniority, a lot of it. Williamson’s only worked this job for a month. But he still says, “I really have to protest—”
Larkin is tapping her watch with a pressing look, so even though Grey hates pulling this card, she says, “Calling Andersen.”
“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary!” Williamson’s tone is suddenly ingratiating. “Let’s not bother him with trivialities, okay? If you claim it, then it’s yours.”
Grey gets Williamson off the line as quickly as possible, but it still takes long enough to put them behind schedule. Still, she speed-dials Bob as she gets the car back on the road. When he picks up, she says, “Apur’s not the mother. Apur is family name; Aimeh is Fluji class title: Owner.”
Bob’s voice goes up a pitch. “Apur owns this kid?”
“Probably owns the both of them,” Larkin says, relieving Grey of talking and driving at the same time. “On Fluji Alpha, constructs don’t get legal names… or reported as missing people. I’ll bet that’s why you couldn’t find them. We don’t do slave-catching, and Apur surely knows that, which is why she’s been giving you the runaround. This isn’t your fault; Williamson never should’ve passed this down to you…”
But Bob’s mind isn’t on that. “So is this a kidnapping, or an escape?”
“I don’t know,” Larkin says, “but we have to plan for the worst, so until we know otherwise, I’m treating this as a hostage negotiation with an intoxicated, possibly violent kidnapper… who I’m going to have to call ‘ma’am,’ because I sure as hell ain’t calling her Big Threesy now.”
“Speaking of intoxication, more bad news,” Bob says. “Apur has been talking my ear off this whole time, because it’s that or pass her up to Williamson like she’s demanding. She’s been rattling the saber, saying that Savo is going to be in heavy-duty withdrawal when she lands, out of her mind, comatose, maybe even dead, and that if she destroys everything, we’re liable.” Pause. “I should’ve realized something was up when she kept saying ‘destroy everything,’ rather than ‘kill my kid.’ Anyway, who knows how much of that is true, but if it’s any comfort, none of the symptoms sound dangerous to us, just Savo and maybe the kid.”
Larkin blows a breath out through her cheeks. “We better hope she isn’t violent; if she freaks out and takes a swing at me, good luck getting her asylum then… I don’t suppose Apur’s been kind enough to tell you what it is exactly she’s withdrawing from?”
“No,” Bob says, “and I don’t know why. But she thinks I’m a pants-wearing barbarian and I still have her on hold, so I might be able to talk it out of her.”
“Do it,” Grey says.
“Agatha her,” Larkin adds.
“Nothing would please me more,” Bob says. “Keep Williamson—”
He’s interrupted by a crackle, building to a deafening tearing noise. The sky opens up.
Larkin hangs up on Bob. “Shit! Shit! I am going to roast Williamson—I’m point; you’re backup!”
Grey nods and nearly hits a cattle fence pulling over. As the ripper car hits the ground like a sack of potatoes, she dives into the backseat of the car for her bag of gear.
“If I kick it, you can have my Barbarian Barbara tapes,” Larkin says. Then she takes a deep breath, puts a calm mask over her face, and gets out of the car with a measured stride, as though everything is going to go the way she wants it to. She looks serene, professional but warm, like she will make everything fine.
Grey finds her rifle, scrambles to load it, and gets it in place against the window.
The ripper car lies in a cow pasture, an unblemished white ellipsoid despite the dust and sod its kicked up. Grey doesn’t see enough ripper cars to know whether it’s one of the armed types; if it is, she doesn’t recognize any of its weaponry. It doesn’t open, but a speaker comes to life.
“Go away,” it says in StanG. The voice is artificial, genderless and emotionless.
Larkin stops at the cattle fence, holds up her empty hands, and sits cross-legged—not a fighting position, not a defensive position. In her clear, soothing river voice, she says in StanG, “Ma’am, my name is Ebony Larkin and I’m with Peripheral Immigration and Naturalization. I’m here to help you.”
Silence. The ship shows no sign of movement. Grey flips her safety off.
The speaker says, “There’s someone over there. Tell them to stop it and come here.”
Tone unchanged, Larkin says, “Grey, come sit with me. Leave your things.”
Unarmed, she means. Grey hesitates, then puts the safety back on, lays the rifle down, undoes her holster and leaves it too, then gets out of the car, hands empty and in clear view. She’s sweating; there’s a reason Larkin does the people work.
“Who are you?” the speaker asks.
“Grey’s my coworker and doesn’t talk much,” Larkin says, trying to cover for her.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Speak SGSL?” Grey signs.
Pause. “Some.”
“My name is Specialist Grey,” she signs, sitting next to Larkin. “I’m with the PIN too.”
“Why don’t you talk? Can’t you talk?”
Grey doesn’t know how to answer that.
“Let’s focus on you for the time being,” Larkin says, bailing her out. “I know it’s been a rough journey. You’re probably tired and stressed. But you’re safe here. You’re people here.”
No answer.
From her position, Grey can see a trickle of sweat on the back of Larkin’s neck, but it doesn’t show in her voice or body language. “We have a long tradition of giving refuge to constructs fleeing for freedom. Maybe that’s why you’re here. We can give you food, shelter, medical care. Do you need help with any of those things?”
Silence. Grey can count Larkin’s breaths.
The ship comes open with a hiss. But it’s not a grown-up who comes out, but a small child with gray hair and a white belted robe. There are stains on her clothes and tears on her face.
“Please,” she cries in StanG, “help Gene-Mother Sa! She’s sick!”
Larkin gets up and hops the fence, smooth and calm and well-telegraphed. She looks into the car, then tells Grey, in English, “call the docs.”
There’s not much they can do for Sa. She’s convulsing, vomiting, unresponsive, and while Grey reports as best she can via radio, even she knows that those symptoms could come from all sorts of things. Doc Cortez is trying to get more specifics when Bob gets on.
“I bet I know what she has: planned obsolescence.”
As promised, Bob has been keeping Apur tied up on the phone, despite her increasing indignation. Apparently the angrier she gets at Bob, the more she rants… and Bob is good at putting pieces together.
“Apur was spot-on about these symptoms, and her family is apparently big in the pharmaceutical business. Is doping your slaves a thing on Fluji Alpha?”
“Sometimes,” Larkin says. She’s still wearing a calm mask so Gachi doesn’t get more upset, but Grey can tell she’s angry. “Any word what kind of pharmaceuticals?”
“No. She keeps playing ring-around-the-point, I can’t get in.”
Bob sounds stressed and anxious, even more than he normally would be, and Grey realizes he’s probably having to fend off Williamson at the same time, despite her orders. Because Bob is new, and Bob is vulnerable, and Williamson apparently thinks he can get away with it.
Grey is no use to the runaways, and suddenly, she’s fed up. This whole case is only as messy as it is because of other people’s duplicity, apathy, or negligence, and she doesn’t want to waste even more time getting a hold of Andersen (if he’s even available on this holiday) just because Apur insists on being coy. Bob can’t get away with being rude or impolite to a “very important person,” but Grey can. “Dial me in.”
“Okay.”
Her cell phone rings, and when she answers, there’s a beep. Then Bob’s voice says, “Hi, Ms. Apur?”
Apur must have gotten her hands on an English translation module, a good (expensive) one; she speaks on her own, fluently and furiously. “Yes, hello, you tedious incompetent. Have you my girl back? I wish to speak to—”
“Sa is in withdrawal,” Grey says. “What from?”
Pause. “Pardon me, sir, but who are you?”
Grey hasn’t gotten sirred in a while. She still hates it. “What from?”
Another pause, but Apur apparently decides that Grey might be high-ranked enough to be worth being polite to. “Sir, I am deeply concerned regarding the state of my girl, who is truly and most dearly—”
“Your property. What is she withdrawing from?”
Apur is all sweetness now. “You seem to have misunderstood me terribly, and I fear that my intellectual property lawyers are very firm about such things, so—”
“Hold please!” Bob chirps, and cuts her off in the middle of an outraged noise. To Grey he says, “If it’s something she’s patented, that’s public record, and I can find it and cross-reference with Med.”
“Go,” Grey says. They don’t have to respect Fluji Alpha intellectual property law.
When the docs arrive, Cortez grabs Sa and bundles her into the ambulance—and takes Gachi for good measure, which means Larkin has to come along too, since none of the docs speak StanG. Grey keeps her radio tuned to their channel, following along as best she can with the medical jargon; the only part she understands is that Sa’s convulsions are getting worse.
Grey herself can do nothing but guard the ripper car, shoo away curious cows, and pace to keep her knees from stiffening up while waiting for Transit’s tow. There’s nothing left to be done with the vehicle; whenever she touches it, it flashes up a warning sign and the words “GENE-LOCKED.” Nobody but the slave-clones (and presumably Apur herself) can even open the door, never mind drive it.
Finally Bob radios in. “We’ve got the patent! Sent on to H&M.”
Grey doesn’t have time to sigh in relief; Bob then calls her.
“Look, Apur is tearing me a new asshole demanding to talk to my superior. I don’t think I can keep stalling her. Should I give her to Williamson?”
“No. Give her to me again.”
Bob does, and Grey gets ready for a drag-out fight.
Apur has given up the honey and turned back to vinegar. “Your boy is stupid and incompetent,” she says, meaning Bob, who wisely stays silent. “Now where is my girl and my car? I wish to recoup them.”
Grey looks at the ripper car, which a cow is investigating. “Car is here, gene-locked. Can store it for you a week; then it’s ours.”
Pause. Apur knows as well as Grey does what a gene-lock means… and that any slave she sends is free the moment they set foot on the sand. “And I suppose you have no way to tow it into communal airspace for me.”
Bob makes a stifled noise—a snort, maybe. Grey says, “No.”
“And my child?”
Grey’s far better at SGSL than StanG, but she’s still able to say, “Gachi is not your child,” in it, with construct and person suffixes to make the meaning clear.
Cold silence. Then Apur says, in English, “your accent shames you. Who’s your superior? I wish to speak with them.” When in doubt, go up the chain.
Grey checks her watch. Second shift is just starting. “Bob,” she says in English, “second shift Comm captain?”
“Bernadette Vega.”
Good. Vega is fresh, rested, and an old horse who’s fluent in StanG. “Transfer.”
“She’s on another call,” Bob chirps. “Hold please!”
Apur says something, which is mercifully cut off midway through.
“There, that should hold her for a second,” Bob says. “Considering what a pain in the ass she’s being, I thought you might want to talk to Bernadette first.”
“Thank you,” Grey says sincerely. “I’ll hold.”
“No need; I lied. Transferring.”
And before Grey can think of a response, she hears, “Vega here,” and has to stitch more words together.
Apur fights kicking and screaming every step of the way, but once the word is out, there’s nothing she can do. The car is still hers, but she’ll have to come get it herself, with all the paperwork that entails (done Agatha-style—everyone is sick of Apur). Sa and Gachi are out, safe, and medically cared for. Grey spends the rest of the shift helping Larkin, Bob, and Lila sort out the paperwork.
All of that is satisfying, even if tedious. Far more frustrating and time-consuming is dealing with Williamson, who seems dead set on blaming Bob for his own failings. Fortunately, Grey, Larkin, and Vega are able to back him up, but it’s still maddening, especially since more people take Williamson seriously than Grey expects.
What with all the activity (all the talking), she’s almost forgotten the holiday… until the shift ends. Then it all crashes down on her at once.
She thinks about her empty apartment, the can of soup, bag of salad, and TV awaiting her. She thinks about being alone.
She decides to work out instead.
The PIN gym is deserted at 5PM on Thanksgiving, but she can at least see and hear her second-shift coworkers going about their business outside. When she changes into her gym clothes, she even allows herself the treat of her Barbarian Barbara T-shirt, which Larkin gave her last year. Normally she wouldn’t dare, since it’s a women’s show and she doesn’t want anyone to wonder, but just for this evening, with nobody around to see her, she needs this little bit of herself.
Exercise makes her feel good usually, but nothing can stop the burgeoning awareness of what the rest of the day will hold. Eventually, she has to leave. Eventually, she has to go home.
Then her stomach gurgles and she realizes that she’s starving. Glad for the excuse to stay longer, she decides to visit the break room; she usually keeps something in the fridge there. For a moment, she considers changing, but the building is half-deserted and it’s too early for the second shift dinner rush, so finally she decides to go as she is.
She’s rooting around in the overstuffed freezer, someone’s ice cream in her hand, when she hears, “that’s not yours, lady.”
Grey nearly jumps out of her skin. She spins and there’s Bob, looking as drained and exhausted as she feels… and now deeply chagrined.
“Shit, sorry, I—” but he just putters out.
Grey stays frozen. What’s given her away? Her shirt? Her body language? She wasn’t paying attention; did she slip? (And at the same time, she doesn’t want Bob to be sorry, doesn’t want him to correct himself, doesn’t want to hear anything about what he thinks she really is.)
But Bob doesn’t say any of that. He just shakes his head like he’s throwing off a bad dream and continues, “I don’t care if you are specialist with honors; Darlene will have your ass for stealing her ice cream.”
Grey isn’t stealing it, but her throat is locked, so she just stands there with it. (Now that she’s looking, she sees the masking tape label: DARLENE’S! CURSED! DO NOT EAT!) What is Bob even still doing here at this hour? Doesn’t he have people to be with?
Whatever the reason, Bob is looking at her now like he’s never seen her before.
“That’s a good act you have,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
Grey’s heart starts pounding.
“You’re not stupid at all; you just want everyone to think you are. What I don’t get is why.”
Grey relaxes. Oh. That. That’s fine, though it’s still closer than she should let Bob get.
But it’s been a bad day, so she replies, “I like getting to you.”
Bob blinks. Then his eyes spark. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms. “A sense of humor and you’re a master troll.”
Grey doesn’t know what that means, but she likes the way Bob says it, and she likes the way he’s smiling at her.
Oh no. This was why she was trying to drive him off. He thinks she’s a man, this is a Don’t Ask Don’t Tell workplace, fizzies work in the next building over, and nothing good will come of this. She tries to shutter her expression, pull back, but Bob just chuckles, approaches until he’s only a couple feet away, pinning her between him and the open fridge. He’s a foot shorter than her, not powerfully built, but Grey’s neck prickles anyway.
“I like that. Makes you interesting.” He reaches forward, plucks the ice cream out of her hand with a flourish, and purrs in a velvet voice, “I like getting to you too, Snookums.”
Grey’s mouth goes dry. She says nothing.
Bob pulls away, out of Grey’s personal space, and seemingly turns his attention to the ice cream label. “So,” he asks in his normal voice, “is it working?”
It’s late. Grey’s hungry, tired, and not looking forward to spending Thanksgiving on the couch with the television. So she says, “yes.”
Apparently Bob doesn’t expect that; he looks up, startled for a moment, then laughs. He has a good laugh. “Good!” he says.
He leans past Grey to put the ice cream back into the freezer, but doesn’t touch her. “Don’t eat this crap,” he says. “It’s low-fat… and Darlene’s. Take me home and I’ll feed you a proper Thanksgiving dinner.”
She should say no. This is a bad idea.
She says yes.
Series: Infinity Smashed
Summary: Grey, Larkin, and Bob have a rough Thanksgiving shift.
Word Count: 3800
Notes: Freebie. Would you believe I first started trying to write this mother in 2006?
Even though Grey knows it’s a bad idea, she and Bob spend Diwali trading candy back and forth. Despite everything, he warms up to her. She eats a lot of those cashew fudge things (they’re delicious) and even overcomes her fear of cooking enough to make a (slightly burnt) batch of peppermint bark. It’s an embarrassment compared to Bob’s offerings but she has to try. He’s lonely and sad, this holiday is important to him, and Management is being needlessly harsh forcing him to work through it. There was no kind reason for them to forbid the time off. It’s not as though Diwali runs on a skeleton crew.
Thanksgiving, however, does. Grey’s there by choice (she works all holidays), but Larkin’s only there grudgingly.
“At least I’ll be home in time for dinner,” she sighs as they eat lunch in Grey’s car.
“Pritchard?” Grey asks, sipping her water.
“Yeah, at church. You can come, if you want.”
Grey shakes her head. She’s not Christian; it’d be weird. Besides, Larkin should spend that time with her people.
“Your choice. I can’t complain too much; at least we’re not in Comm right now.”
They exchange head-shakes of sympathy. Darlene usually works through this holiday too, but she’s come down with the flu. Between that and all the people out on holiday, Management had to call in Williamson, who’s ostensibly the captain of third shift, but only since October. He’s one of the 9/11 restructure hires, not happy about being dragged out for a double on a holiday with no notice.
“He’s running on caffeine and stress, praying nothing important happens,” Bob says when he calls in that afternoon, “so, of course, we’ve got a kidnapping. Child custody dispute gone bad, apparently.”
Grey sighs and Larkin grimaces. Domestic disputes rarely end well.
“They’re all from Fluji Alpha, if that means anything to you,” Bob continues. “Two moms; the one named Apur is the one who reported it. The other is non-custodial, apparently a drug addict; while high out of her mind, she grabbed the kid, stole Apur’s ripper car, and skipped town. Looks to be planning a crash and dash.”
“A ripper car?” Larkin says. “Apur must be loaded. What’s the driver and kid’s names?”
“Uh, let’s see.” Rustling papers. “Fluji Alpha people have just the one name, right?”
“Sometimes.” Grey’s seen anywhere from zero to six.
“Well, these do. Driver is Savo; kid is Gachi.”
Larkin rolls her eyes—not at Bob, who’s still learning and couldn’t have known, but at Apur and probably Williamson. “Those aren’t proper names, Bob, those are cutesy nicknames—like Sweetie Pie, or Baby.”
“Well, shit. No wonder I couldn’t find anything.” Pause. “Out of curiosity, what do they mean?”
“Big Three and Little Five,” Grey says. “Birth order.”
“Yeah, it’s a big thing over there, but there’s no way I’m de-escalating a tweaker calling her Big Threesy,” Larkin said. “Try and get me a real name, will you, Bob? And tell me if she has any previous charges while you’re at it.”
“Sure, I have to do it over anyway. Let me check the League databases. Meanwhile, Lila’s on hot spotting; she can give you the land zone.”
Larkin signs off to go see what Lila has for them. Grey waits, but all she hears is keyboard clatter. For a moment, she thinks Bob has forgotten she’s on the line, but then she hears a huff of annoyance.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Damned databases must be slow on the updates again. Hold on.”
More clattering. Grey waits.
Bob sighs with disgust. “Well, Gachi’s missing persons report is missing, and the thief data on the missing vehicle report is garbled.”
“Williamson’s job,” Grey says. Shift captains aren’t supposed to pass down jobs without noticing things like that.
“He didn’t do it right the first time; I’d rather do it myself, save us all some time. I’m going to have to call this woman; let me call you back.”
He hangs up, and Larkin comes over to tell Grey what zone to cover.
At least Lila has some good news: the location window is narrow. Something to do with the energy in the tank and tracking data from the ripper car—Grey has never been good with that stuff. All she needs to know is that the ship will either land in a specific part of the Vago Desert or it won’t hit the country at all. As for when it’ll land, Lila can’t give them anything more specific than, “no earlier than half an hour, probably sooner rather than later—depends if they pause for anything.” Since it’s out of the way, Grey and Larkin pause at a gas station to refill the tank and their water bottles, plus use the facilities. (Both of them can go without, but prefer not to.)
Bob doesn’t call in until Larkin’s in the bathroom.
“I have spent this whole time on the line with Apur,” he says in a worn voice, “and I have gotten nowhere with her. She insists that their names are Savo and Gachi, end stop. You’re certain that those are pet names you can’t call them in public?”
Before she thinks better of it, Grey says, “Yes, Snookums.”
Pause, enough for her to worry she’s offended him… or worse, given him the wrong (correct) idea. But then Bob says, “Was that a sense of humor I heard?”
Grey says nothing, trying to be dead weight, but it’s too late.
“Ha! I knew it. I knew you couldn’t be that boring.” After a moment of thought, Bob seems to decide that maybe if Grey has a sense of humor, she’s someone he can tell: “look, something weird is going on. I don’t know what it is, and Williamson is telling me to keep my nose out of it, but…”
He goes silent, and at first Grey thinks it’s a thinking silence, but then she realizes that he wants her to say something.
From where she’s standing, the job looks like just another sad custody case gone wrong, with tech problems, language barriers, and people, who are the worst of all. But Bob got hired because he smelled a rat, and he was right. If he smells another, Grey wants him to chase it, especially if it means this case works out better than the usual domestic dispute. She has the seniority to clear the way for him.
“Look into it,” she says, waving as Larkin comes out of the gas station bathroom. “My order. Williamson complains, send him to me.” She has a thought. “Ask Apur for Social ID numbers. Common question on Fluji Alpha. Should be fine.”
Bob sounds pleased. “On it. Thanks, boss.”
Larkin and Grey are back in the car, making good time on a bumpy cattle road to the stake-out spot when Williamson calls. Since Grey’s driving, Larkin picks up and puts him on speakerphone.
“Did you tell Doshi to go badger a crime victim?”
From the navigator’s seat, Larkin raises her eyebrows.
“Yes,” Grey says. She hates talking at the best of times, and she’s sick of watching higher-ups cut Bob off at the knees. “Let him do it.”
“Specialist Grey, Apur Aimeh is a very important—”
Grey’s wheel goes off the road and she has to brake. Larkin’s eyes are wide and once they’re still, she mouths, “Apur Aimeh?” then puts a fist to her mouth as though to bite it.
The rest of what Williamson says is noise, but eventually Grey realizes he’s waiting for a response.
“I will handle Apur Aimeh,” she says. “I take full responsibility.”
She has seniority, a lot of it. Williamson’s only worked this job for a month. But he still says, “I really have to protest—”
Larkin is tapping her watch with a pressing look, so even though Grey hates pulling this card, she says, “Calling Andersen.”
“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary!” Williamson’s tone is suddenly ingratiating. “Let’s not bother him with trivialities, okay? If you claim it, then it’s yours.”
Grey gets Williamson off the line as quickly as possible, but it still takes long enough to put them behind schedule. Still, she speed-dials Bob as she gets the car back on the road. When he picks up, she says, “Apur’s not the mother. Apur is family name; Aimeh is Fluji class title: Owner.”
Bob’s voice goes up a pitch. “Apur owns this kid?”
“Probably owns the both of them,” Larkin says, relieving Grey of talking and driving at the same time. “On Fluji Alpha, constructs don’t get legal names… or reported as missing people. I’ll bet that’s why you couldn’t find them. We don’t do slave-catching, and Apur surely knows that, which is why she’s been giving you the runaround. This isn’t your fault; Williamson never should’ve passed this down to you…”
But Bob’s mind isn’t on that. “So is this a kidnapping, or an escape?”
“I don’t know,” Larkin says, “but we have to plan for the worst, so until we know otherwise, I’m treating this as a hostage negotiation with an intoxicated, possibly violent kidnapper… who I’m going to have to call ‘ma’am,’ because I sure as hell ain’t calling her Big Threesy now.”
“Speaking of intoxication, more bad news,” Bob says. “Apur has been talking my ear off this whole time, because it’s that or pass her up to Williamson like she’s demanding. She’s been rattling the saber, saying that Savo is going to be in heavy-duty withdrawal when she lands, out of her mind, comatose, maybe even dead, and that if she destroys everything, we’re liable.” Pause. “I should’ve realized something was up when she kept saying ‘destroy everything,’ rather than ‘kill my kid.’ Anyway, who knows how much of that is true, but if it’s any comfort, none of the symptoms sound dangerous to us, just Savo and maybe the kid.”
Larkin blows a breath out through her cheeks. “We better hope she isn’t violent; if she freaks out and takes a swing at me, good luck getting her asylum then… I don’t suppose Apur’s been kind enough to tell you what it is exactly she’s withdrawing from?”
“No,” Bob says, “and I don’t know why. But she thinks I’m a pants-wearing barbarian and I still have her on hold, so I might be able to talk it out of her.”
“Do it,” Grey says.
“Agatha her,” Larkin adds.
“Nothing would please me more,” Bob says. “Keep Williamson—”
He’s interrupted by a crackle, building to a deafening tearing noise. The sky opens up.
Larkin hangs up on Bob. “Shit! Shit! I am going to roast Williamson—I’m point; you’re backup!”
Grey nods and nearly hits a cattle fence pulling over. As the ripper car hits the ground like a sack of potatoes, she dives into the backseat of the car for her bag of gear.
“If I kick it, you can have my Barbarian Barbara tapes,” Larkin says. Then she takes a deep breath, puts a calm mask over her face, and gets out of the car with a measured stride, as though everything is going to go the way she wants it to. She looks serene, professional but warm, like she will make everything fine.
Grey finds her rifle, scrambles to load it, and gets it in place against the window.
The ripper car lies in a cow pasture, an unblemished white ellipsoid despite the dust and sod its kicked up. Grey doesn’t see enough ripper cars to know whether it’s one of the armed types; if it is, she doesn’t recognize any of its weaponry. It doesn’t open, but a speaker comes to life.
“Go away,” it says in StanG. The voice is artificial, genderless and emotionless.
Larkin stops at the cattle fence, holds up her empty hands, and sits cross-legged—not a fighting position, not a defensive position. In her clear, soothing river voice, she says in StanG, “Ma’am, my name is Ebony Larkin and I’m with Peripheral Immigration and Naturalization. I’m here to help you.”
Silence. The ship shows no sign of movement. Grey flips her safety off.
The speaker says, “There’s someone over there. Tell them to stop it and come here.”
Tone unchanged, Larkin says, “Grey, come sit with me. Leave your things.”
Unarmed, she means. Grey hesitates, then puts the safety back on, lays the rifle down, undoes her holster and leaves it too, then gets out of the car, hands empty and in clear view. She’s sweating; there’s a reason Larkin does the people work.
“Who are you?” the speaker asks.
“Grey’s my coworker and doesn’t talk much,” Larkin says, trying to cover for her.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Speak SGSL?” Grey signs.
Pause. “Some.”
“My name is Specialist Grey,” she signs, sitting next to Larkin. “I’m with the PIN too.”
“Why don’t you talk? Can’t you talk?”
Grey doesn’t know how to answer that.
“Let’s focus on you for the time being,” Larkin says, bailing her out. “I know it’s been a rough journey. You’re probably tired and stressed. But you’re safe here. You’re people here.”
No answer.
From her position, Grey can see a trickle of sweat on the back of Larkin’s neck, but it doesn’t show in her voice or body language. “We have a long tradition of giving refuge to constructs fleeing for freedom. Maybe that’s why you’re here. We can give you food, shelter, medical care. Do you need help with any of those things?”
Silence. Grey can count Larkin’s breaths.
The ship comes open with a hiss. But it’s not a grown-up who comes out, but a small child with gray hair and a white belted robe. There are stains on her clothes and tears on her face.
“Please,” she cries in StanG, “help Gene-Mother Sa! She’s sick!”
Larkin gets up and hops the fence, smooth and calm and well-telegraphed. She looks into the car, then tells Grey, in English, “call the docs.”
There’s not much they can do for Sa. She’s convulsing, vomiting, unresponsive, and while Grey reports as best she can via radio, even she knows that those symptoms could come from all sorts of things. Doc Cortez is trying to get more specifics when Bob gets on.
“I bet I know what she has: planned obsolescence.”
As promised, Bob has been keeping Apur tied up on the phone, despite her increasing indignation. Apparently the angrier she gets at Bob, the more she rants… and Bob is good at putting pieces together.
“Apur was spot-on about these symptoms, and her family is apparently big in the pharmaceutical business. Is doping your slaves a thing on Fluji Alpha?”
“Sometimes,” Larkin says. She’s still wearing a calm mask so Gachi doesn’t get more upset, but Grey can tell she’s angry. “Any word what kind of pharmaceuticals?”
“No. She keeps playing ring-around-the-point, I can’t get in.”
Bob sounds stressed and anxious, even more than he normally would be, and Grey realizes he’s probably having to fend off Williamson at the same time, despite her orders. Because Bob is new, and Bob is vulnerable, and Williamson apparently thinks he can get away with it.
Grey is no use to the runaways, and suddenly, she’s fed up. This whole case is only as messy as it is because of other people’s duplicity, apathy, or negligence, and she doesn’t want to waste even more time getting a hold of Andersen (if he’s even available on this holiday) just because Apur insists on being coy. Bob can’t get away with being rude or impolite to a “very important person,” but Grey can. “Dial me in.”
“Okay.”
Her cell phone rings, and when she answers, there’s a beep. Then Bob’s voice says, “Hi, Ms. Apur?”
Apur must have gotten her hands on an English translation module, a good (expensive) one; she speaks on her own, fluently and furiously. “Yes, hello, you tedious incompetent. Have you my girl back? I wish to speak to—”
“Sa is in withdrawal,” Grey says. “What from?”
Pause. “Pardon me, sir, but who are you?”
Grey hasn’t gotten sirred in a while. She still hates it. “What from?”
Another pause, but Apur apparently decides that Grey might be high-ranked enough to be worth being polite to. “Sir, I am deeply concerned regarding the state of my girl, who is truly and most dearly—”
“Your property. What is she withdrawing from?”
Apur is all sweetness now. “You seem to have misunderstood me terribly, and I fear that my intellectual property lawyers are very firm about such things, so—”
“Hold please!” Bob chirps, and cuts her off in the middle of an outraged noise. To Grey he says, “If it’s something she’s patented, that’s public record, and I can find it and cross-reference with Med.”
“Go,” Grey says. They don’t have to respect Fluji Alpha intellectual property law.
When the docs arrive, Cortez grabs Sa and bundles her into the ambulance—and takes Gachi for good measure, which means Larkin has to come along too, since none of the docs speak StanG. Grey keeps her radio tuned to their channel, following along as best she can with the medical jargon; the only part she understands is that Sa’s convulsions are getting worse.
Grey herself can do nothing but guard the ripper car, shoo away curious cows, and pace to keep her knees from stiffening up while waiting for Transit’s tow. There’s nothing left to be done with the vehicle; whenever she touches it, it flashes up a warning sign and the words “GENE-LOCKED.” Nobody but the slave-clones (and presumably Apur herself) can even open the door, never mind drive it.
Finally Bob radios in. “We’ve got the patent! Sent on to H&M.”
Grey doesn’t have time to sigh in relief; Bob then calls her.
“Look, Apur is tearing me a new asshole demanding to talk to my superior. I don’t think I can keep stalling her. Should I give her to Williamson?”
“No. Give her to me again.”
Bob does, and Grey gets ready for a drag-out fight.
Apur has given up the honey and turned back to vinegar. “Your boy is stupid and incompetent,” she says, meaning Bob, who wisely stays silent. “Now where is my girl and my car? I wish to recoup them.”
Grey looks at the ripper car, which a cow is investigating. “Car is here, gene-locked. Can store it for you a week; then it’s ours.”
Pause. Apur knows as well as Grey does what a gene-lock means… and that any slave she sends is free the moment they set foot on the sand. “And I suppose you have no way to tow it into communal airspace for me.”
Bob makes a stifled noise—a snort, maybe. Grey says, “No.”
“And my child?”
Grey’s far better at SGSL than StanG, but she’s still able to say, “Gachi is not your child,” in it, with construct and person suffixes to make the meaning clear.
Cold silence. Then Apur says, in English, “your accent shames you. Who’s your superior? I wish to speak with them.” When in doubt, go up the chain.
Grey checks her watch. Second shift is just starting. “Bob,” she says in English, “second shift Comm captain?”
“Bernadette Vega.”
Good. Vega is fresh, rested, and an old horse who’s fluent in StanG. “Transfer.”
“She’s on another call,” Bob chirps. “Hold please!”
Apur says something, which is mercifully cut off midway through.
“There, that should hold her for a second,” Bob says. “Considering what a pain in the ass she’s being, I thought you might want to talk to Bernadette first.”
“Thank you,” Grey says sincerely. “I’ll hold.”
“No need; I lied. Transferring.”
And before Grey can think of a response, she hears, “Vega here,” and has to stitch more words together.
Apur fights kicking and screaming every step of the way, but once the word is out, there’s nothing she can do. The car is still hers, but she’ll have to come get it herself, with all the paperwork that entails (done Agatha-style—everyone is sick of Apur). Sa and Gachi are out, safe, and medically cared for. Grey spends the rest of the shift helping Larkin, Bob, and Lila sort out the paperwork.
All of that is satisfying, even if tedious. Far more frustrating and time-consuming is dealing with Williamson, who seems dead set on blaming Bob for his own failings. Fortunately, Grey, Larkin, and Vega are able to back him up, but it’s still maddening, especially since more people take Williamson seriously than Grey expects.
What with all the activity (all the talking), she’s almost forgotten the holiday… until the shift ends. Then it all crashes down on her at once.
She thinks about her empty apartment, the can of soup, bag of salad, and TV awaiting her. She thinks about being alone.
She decides to work out instead.
The PIN gym is deserted at 5PM on Thanksgiving, but she can at least see and hear her second-shift coworkers going about their business outside. When she changes into her gym clothes, she even allows herself the treat of her Barbarian Barbara T-shirt, which Larkin gave her last year. Normally she wouldn’t dare, since it’s a women’s show and she doesn’t want anyone to wonder, but just for this evening, with nobody around to see her, she needs this little bit of herself.
Exercise makes her feel good usually, but nothing can stop the burgeoning awareness of what the rest of the day will hold. Eventually, she has to leave. Eventually, she has to go home.
Then her stomach gurgles and she realizes that she’s starving. Glad for the excuse to stay longer, she decides to visit the break room; she usually keeps something in the fridge there. For a moment, she considers changing, but the building is half-deserted and it’s too early for the second shift dinner rush, so finally she decides to go as she is.
She’s rooting around in the overstuffed freezer, someone’s ice cream in her hand, when she hears, “that’s not yours, lady.”
Grey nearly jumps out of her skin. She spins and there’s Bob, looking as drained and exhausted as she feels… and now deeply chagrined.
“Shit, sorry, I—” but he just putters out.
Grey stays frozen. What’s given her away? Her shirt? Her body language? She wasn’t paying attention; did she slip? (And at the same time, she doesn’t want Bob to be sorry, doesn’t want him to correct himself, doesn’t want to hear anything about what he thinks she really is.)
But Bob doesn’t say any of that. He just shakes his head like he’s throwing off a bad dream and continues, “I don’t care if you are specialist with honors; Darlene will have your ass for stealing her ice cream.”
Grey isn’t stealing it, but her throat is locked, so she just stands there with it. (Now that she’s looking, she sees the masking tape label: DARLENE’S! CURSED! DO NOT EAT!) What is Bob even still doing here at this hour? Doesn’t he have people to be with?
Whatever the reason, Bob is looking at her now like he’s never seen her before.
“That’s a good act you have,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
Grey’s heart starts pounding.
“You’re not stupid at all; you just want everyone to think you are. What I don’t get is why.”
Grey relaxes. Oh. That. That’s fine, though it’s still closer than she should let Bob get.
But it’s been a bad day, so she replies, “I like getting to you.”
Bob blinks. Then his eyes spark. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms. “A sense of humor and you’re a master troll.”
Grey doesn’t know what that means, but she likes the way Bob says it, and she likes the way he’s smiling at her.
Oh no. This was why she was trying to drive him off. He thinks she’s a man, this is a Don’t Ask Don’t Tell workplace, fizzies work in the next building over, and nothing good will come of this. She tries to shutter her expression, pull back, but Bob just chuckles, approaches until he’s only a couple feet away, pinning her between him and the open fridge. He’s a foot shorter than her, not powerfully built, but Grey’s neck prickles anyway.
“I like that. Makes you interesting.” He reaches forward, plucks the ice cream out of her hand with a flourish, and purrs in a velvet voice, “I like getting to you too, Snookums.”
Grey’s mouth goes dry. She says nothing.
Bob pulls away, out of Grey’s personal space, and seemingly turns his attention to the ice cream label. “So,” he asks in his normal voice, “is it working?”
It’s late. Grey’s hungry, tired, and not looking forward to spending Thanksgiving on the couch with the television. So she says, “yes.”
Apparently Bob doesn’t expect that; he looks up, startled for a moment, then laughs. He has a good laugh. “Good!” he says.
He leans past Grey to put the ice cream back into the freezer, but doesn’t touch her. “Don’t eat this crap,” he says. “It’s low-fat… and Darlene’s. Take me home and I’ll feed you a proper Thanksgiving dinner.”
She should say no. This is a bad idea.
She says yes.
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Date: 2020-12-08 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-09 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-09 08:24 pm (UTC)In other words, dang, excellent story is excellent! :)
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Date: 2020-12-12 10:20 pm (UTC)