The Last Rats, A Bastion Saturn Short Prequel Page 2

  Spruck spoke to himself instead of acknowledging the question. "As good a time as any." He reached inside his coat and stood.

  The banker shrank back against his seat in surprise. "Hey! What are you..? Is that a nerve disrupter?" Good fucking God. On the one day I happen to walk into these people's world!

  "Listen up!" Spruck raised the pistol and yelled out to the room. "This is fully charged, and yes, it's real!"

  With the exception of a few gasps, the conversation was instantly silenced — just the storm, the griddle and the exhaust fan. He pointed the weapon at the woman in the wannabe suit with the old com and the briefcase. "Slide it over here." The woman stared darts at him. He said, "Yes, I'm robbing you. Sorry. Drop the com on the floor and slide the case."

  A week prior, he'd seen her talking to a fixer for Hanson Ship Apartments. Genuine bookings were scarce to non-existent. Hustlers had bought up units to then resell at insane prices. The last of the vast spaceship/buildings bound for Saturn were leaving orbit almost daily, and Hanson industries wasn't building any more. Millions had fled, choosing exile over the steady march to blend all minds with AI. This woman was planning on being one of them. Spruck said, "I don't want to shoot you, but I will. I promise I'll be sorry about it later."

  The woman scowled and laid the com on the floor, sliding the briefcase toward Spruck. It clearly had weight to it. He had followed her every day until he saw her make the pass from the Union of Jewish Goldsmiths rep. — the real bankers on the street. God only knew what she had given up in exchange.

  To the rest of the patrons Spruck said, "Pass your Krugs, Eagles and Maple Leafs forward." He pulled a cloth bag from under his mack and held it toward the banker. "You, hold it open, and..." he pointed the weapon at the deli woman. (The device could stun a person or fry a nervous system to an agonizing halt.) "You, collect it and put it in the bag."

  The banker was astonished. Nobody screamed. Nobody dove for the floor. Even the children just watched in fascination. Everyone started pulling out their coin satchels and passing them forward.

  These people kept their money real and off grid. One gold coin could be used against a credit balance for quite a while. It meant everyone having to maintain a tab, but people made it work. One just had to show that one had the gold in hand in order to get credit. The coin would be handed over when the tab reached the prevailing value. The guy who didn't look much better off than Spruck started grumbling about having nothing to pay for his room for the week.

  Spruck glanced at the whiny guy and considered his own circumstances, his struggle to remain wholly originally human. Can I be this much of a dick? He relented. "Everybody can keep one."

  There was some brief chaos as some folks asked to have their satchels passed back so they could dig out a single gold coin.

  Spruck looked at the waitress. "Molly. It's Molly, right? Open that cash drawer and send it all this way. But keep one each for you and the cook there."

  Molly was pissed. Her brass ring day was suddenly going to hell. She had more customers than she'd had in two weeks. Who was going to pay for all this food? She wanted to strangle this jerk. She knew his type: when the going got rough, the weak, the parasites who couldn't keep their shit together, took from the hard labor of others. Even the AI driven government was at it, taking away real money and pushing everyone toward the virtual stuff, driving her kind even further underground. Still, she did as she was told. They all did. In no time the satchel was half full.

  Spruck turned to the banker. "I'm sorry but yours too."

  The banker offered an exasperated look and dug out his money.

  Spruck nodded toward the street. "Rain's just right now."

  "How's that?"

  "Wind's died down. Not so heavy I can't move, but enough that it's easy to disappear. Nobody, not even robocops give chase on a day like today...I'm guessing. Thanks for the eggs by the way. I'm feeling pretty good."

  Then, in the banker's opinion, the vagrant did a stupid thing. Though big, the banker had lightning-fast reflexes. He'd been a running-back in his prime, 20 plus years ago. He could still make a quick turn, twist away from his kids when he forced them to go outside and play football in the yard. The crazy guy was holding the gun so that it was no more than two-feet from the banker's right hand. In a flash, he simply snatched it from the bum, stood, and shoved him to the floor. "You're welcome. Saved you from certain elimination."

  Spruck was stunned. His first robbery had been going better than he could've ever hoped, and this fat bastard...the giant still had egg yoke in the corners of his mouth. "Give me back my gun, jerk! And you've got egg on your lips."

  The banker chuckled at the guy's chutzpah and the lame attempt at a distraction. He self-consciously wiped his lips. His robbery? Then he paused and considered the circumstances. In one hand he held a bag full of gold, in the other a gun. He glanced out at the rain. Maybe this crazy guy isn't so crazy. Gold's untraceable. None of these losers are going to report it. His wife's demand that they get off this wacky AI riddled planet could come true. A year before she'd given him an ultimatum; she'd told him put a deposit down on one of those tiny Hanson Ship suites or she'd leave him and take the kids anyway. He had relented and put the bulk of their hard currency down on the deposit. Now she was screaming that the ship was getting ready to leave — the thing was in pre-launch already, set to fire up in thirteen days. The trouble for the banker wasn't so much that with the loss of his job he couldn't pay the balance, it was that he so didn't want to become a freaking space pioneer. Fly to goddamn Saturn! Saturn! It'd sounded so simple in theory. Two big floating space station cities, sixty-three moons ripe for colonizing. The tech to do it had been mostly worked out on Mars. They'd be in hyper sleep for something like two years. But he didn't want to be in hyper sleep. There was a real chance of brain damage. His hopeless financial condition was going to save him having to make the decision. Now he held the key to moving forward. He felt the weight of the gold. I can do this. Right? Actually steal the old fashioned way? The only stealing he'd done was the big kind — millions in legitimate theft — sanctioned by law.

  Then the guy who had whined about his rent, goofy looking in a worn seersucker, two sizes too big and three inches of extra collar on his shirt, asked, "So, you giving us our money back or what?"

  The banker raised his eyebrows and gave the request a moment of thought, then, "No. My family needs to go to Saturn."

  "Saturn?" asked the whiner incredulously. "You got a spot?"

  "I do." He looked at the rest of the room. "I need all of it." He waved the gun. "Sorry. Pass all your coins. And your coms and interfaces, too. I know you people aren't calling the police." He hefted the sack again. "They'd just take this anyway, but as a precaution." He pointed the disrupter around the room. "Let's go!"

  There was a uniform groan from the crowd as they fished out their last coins and removed interfaces, passing them forward into the sack.

  Spruck, still laying on the floor, had to give it to this guy. He was bold. He couldn't believe this shitty twist of fate. Except...the briefcase was right next to him. He gently put a hand on it.

  The banker said, "Don't be stupid. That's mine too. Slide it here."

  Spruck did as he was told while considering this latest shift in fortune. He'd probably become one of the disappeared. The weight of excess humanity was rapidly diminishing planet-wide. As far as AI and the collective mind attached to it was concerned, the human species had brought the planet to the brink of destruction. The cancerous parts were being cut out.

  The deli lady, who'd been passing the last of the loot to the bag, spoke to the banker with a light Puerto Rican accent. "Señor, you don't want to do this. Look at you. You have nice clothes. Why you need to steal from us?"

  The sunburned out-of-towner snapped, "Cuz'a beaners like you, lady."

  Everyone turned to the new voice: The man sported a thick mustache made famous by policemen worldwide. He continued, "Bad enough I have to come t
o this shitty city and live in this hell hole corner of it, also you people keep pouring over the border. I got an idea, stay in your own shitty cities or don't. There's a reason you people are expendable."

  The woman's companion balled his fists. "You are not serious right now, are you my friend?"

  "Fuckin' A right I am. Go back to Meh-hee-ko or wherever you belong."

  The laborer started to push back his chair.

  This is getting off track. Without really thinking, the banker yelled, "Hey, asshole!" He flicked the fire selector to stun, pointed the disruptor at the guy with the mustache and fired. Rather than hitting the man, he nailed the cook standing behind him. The cook jerked upright and slumped over the counter.

  The crowd let out startled cries, but no one moved.

  The banker said, "Shit." The gun shook in his now jittery hand. Then to the loud mouth, "You shut the fuck up." To the rest of the room, he said, "Let's focus, hmm? Coms and interfaces, now!" The rest of the gear moved faster. While the bag filled, he shook off what he'd done to the cook, instead, embracing the sound of his own strong voice. It was the voice of authority, a voice not to be trifled with. If he stood outside of himself and observed for a moment from the perspective of these people, he had to admit that he was an impressive figure. He was in command and in control of the situation. It was like watching himself in a movie. This was a far bigger rush than stealing for the firm — not that that wasn't fun too, but this...the gun...wow. He'd have to carefully ditch it, of course — maybe the East River.

  When he had everything in the bag, he turned for his overcoat and was surprised by the door opening behind him. A new patron: dark, tall, sporting a dense beard and wearing a smock in the style of traditional Hindu fashion, shook off an umbrella. The man saw the gun first and froze. Then he saw the bag of loot, noted the slumped man on the counter, and quickly put two and two together. He clucked his tongue, his face expressing a clear wish that he'd stayed out in the rain.

  "Get out of the way," said the banker.

  The out-of-towner at the counter chuckled with approval — another foreigner who needed to know his place.

  The Hindu took in the huge man and the stunned crowd behind him, and did an impulsive thing. He never did impulsive things. He was meticulously careful about doing things with a great deal of forethought. But there was something about the man and his tone that struck a nerve. With a light Indian accent, he said, "No. And you will not speak to me that way."

  "What?"

  "No, I say. Not today. You will show me respect." The Hindu wondered briefly, what in Ganesha's name he was doing. Then it occurred to him that the Lord of Obstacles had likely placed him here to be precisely that. He'd been pining for a purpose for months. No. Years. His place on this earth had to have greater meaning than his dwindling market for traditional clothes. What had been a bold fashion choice a few years before, had petered out as a passing fad. In a flash he knew this must be it.

  "No?" asked the banker again incredulously.

  "Apparently not. No."

  "But I have a gun."

  "Yes, I see that."

  Up until this point, the banker's confidence had only bloomed. He'd been handling everything so smoothly. Now his bright flower of boldness was wilting. Cold sweat suddenly broke out over his entire body. He felt his already damp suit absorb the liquid and he instantly felt clammy. It hadn't occurred to him that someone might call his bluff, or that he was even bluffing. Everything had happened so fast.

  "Hey, bud," said Spruck from the floor to the banker. "You gotta admit that this is priceless."

  The banker ignored the bum and decided that the full force of his magnificent voice would shake the man in front of him. "Move!"

  "I cannot."

  "I said, MOVE!"

  The Hindu glanced at the crowd and was disappointed to note that some seemed more afraid of him than the giant with the pistol. He was used to being mistaken for a Muslim and the inherent issues that came with it, but, hello? There's a man in the room with a gun! He noted that the cook, slumped over the counter, was still breathing. He looked the banker in the eyes. "Sir, it seems to me that you have no intention of committing murder and that you have a single option: Set down the gun and the bag and leave."

  The banker considered it. Things were rapidly unraveling, and besides, the guy was right; he wasn't going to shoot another person. Hitting the cook had caused bile to rise in his throat. Yes, the nerve disruptor was set to stun, but—

  From the back of the diner, both of the children who had been quietly clinging to their mother in fear and wonder started crying, then wailing — a sound that instantly grated on everyone's nerves.

  The banker used the distraction to make his move. He would just barrel past the guy. But the Hindu put up a surprising defense, and the two men found themselves wedged into the inner doorway.

  "Just get out of the way!" screamed the banker.

  "I cannot!"

  Then the Hindu found himself prying the gun out of the banker's hand. The banker pushed past, and he was almost free when the closing outer door pinched the bag of loot out of his fist, dropping it onto the breezeway floor. He looked through the door at the prize and then at the Hindu man now holding the gun. He felt the rain on his head, and it occurred to him that out on the moon Titan or wherever, that he'd never feel such a thing again. He said, "Fuck it." He pulled his overcoat on and huffed off down the street.

  "Mohamed's got the gun!" yelled the out-of-towner, and suddenly several men stood and charged the Hindu, knocking him flat to the floor.

  Amazing, thought Spruck. Other than the few misguided idiots who were pounding on the would-be-hero, the bulk of the people in the room just watched. He wondered if it would be any different out on the colonies. He looked at the bag of loot laying in the breezeway. As he stood, he reached for the briefcase, only to discover that its owner now held it again, clutching it tight to her breast. She had a look of triumph on her face as she said, "I need offa this world as badly as you, baby."

  He shrugged. "Fair enough." With a tip of an imaginary hat, he turned and stepped past the struggle, through the door, and picked up the bag. The rain was still coming down in earnest. The display bot across the street spotted him and offered a departing seductive wave. He found that he couldn't help but wave back. Jogging on the empty street, he hefted the loot. His deposit on the Hanson Ship had a cash call deadline of midnight. He yanked the interfaces out and dropped them on the sidewalk, then hefted the bag again, estimating the weight. Maybe enough.

  The woman caught up with him and matched his pace. "I didn't get to ask if you're going my way. You're Saturn bound, right?"

  "Huh? I might be. What's it to you? And I just tried to rob you. Why are you even talking to me?" He nodded at her briefcase, the shoulder strap of which was stressed by the weight. "What if I just make you hand that over?"

  "Without your gun? Baby, I'd kick your skinny ass all over this empty street."

  Spruck noted her muscled tone. "Fair enough."

  "Look. Let's call it starting on the wrong foot. Name's, Natalie. Natalie Beal"

  "Spruck... Jones."

  "Real quick, Spruck Jones." She held up her com. "I got a problem."

  "We all got problems."

  She smiled indulgently. "OK, just shut up now and listen. Right before you made your big scene back there, I found out that my credits have been confiscated. I can't even buy a ride down to the shuttle base." She tapped her briefcase. "But I got this. Only it's a single brick. Nobody's making change for a brick." She pointed at his satchel. "Lot of folks losing their spaceship deposits tonight, and the line behind us is long with alternates. It's pretty obvious you're no thief, you just don't want to lose your chance." She grabbed his arm and slowed him down until they stopped. Breathing a little hard with rain running down her pretty face, she said, "I got a deal for you, Spruck Jones. If you let me hitch a ride with you to the shuttle base, I will guarantee what you might be short for the
long flight."

  Spruck looked her over. The woman appeared to be sincere. "Uh, I don't know." He began to jog again. "Beside's the lack of credits, why would you do that?"

  She matched his pace. "Intuition, baby. You're a crappy thief, but you got heart, and guts. I hear it's the wild west out there. I don't know anybody on that Hanson ship. I could use a friend with heart and guts."

  Spruck cocked his head and smiled. He'd never considered himself a man with heart and guts. "Friend? But I tried to take your stake."

  "We're all desperate." She tapped the briefcase again. "You don't want to know what I did to get this. Point is, unlike that rich jerk, you let all those folks back there keep a coin. That was heart."

  He nodded with a certain amount of agreement. They turned a corner and stopped again, both of them ignoring the fact that they were soaked through. She smiled and held up the old com. "It can order us a ride completely off grid, just need your bio scan for the credit."

  He considered if it might be some kind of trap, but something in her eyes told him he was safe. Deciding yes, he asked, "You have a personal bag or something to get? I'm pretty much set. I'll miss my rod, but I was going to have to sell her anyway."