Aurora Wolf

Being Green

by Erin M. Hartshorn

 There used to be a kids’ song, “It’s not easy being green.” What really ain’t easy is being a barkeep down in Green Sector–the mutie sector–when the cops come knocking on the door. I swear Johansen gets a kick out of scaring away my customers. He’s still holding a grudge because I saved his life a few years back, and he’s never going to let me forget it–can’t handle the fact that he owes a fem. His problem. If I had it to do over again, I’d probably still save him, scumball that he is. Anyway, in he comes, with his new partner, pushing over tables and glowering at everything in sight.

“Whattaya want, Johansen?” No need for pleasantries with him.

He grabs a stool and leans on the bar, looking around like he’s checking all my customers against wanted posters. “How ’bout one on the house?”

From the smell of him, he’s already been imbibing more dangerous stuff than I serve. I pull back a couple inches to get a little clean air. I’ll get him the drink, but first I got to see what his partner’s going to do. I’ve never seen one this clean-cut down here before; he looks like he oughta be hanging out in the boardrooms up where the sky’s still clean. The minute he opens his mouth, though, I know it’s all an act.

“Rum and glass. Easy on the rum.” The way he slurs the words together, I know he’s never been above Yellow in his life. Don’t know why he’s all dolled up, but that ain’t my never-mind.

Glass–pretty little drug that looks like opals–ain’t legal. Leastways, not down here. I know some of the corporates use it for their little military squads, and who’s going to stop them? But I get caught serving it, I’m lucky if all I lose is my license. I glance at Johansen, who nods, the merest fraction of movement. I ignore the permission to set myself up. It’s not like they’re going to bust me for not breaking the law. I hope.

I give Johansen his beer first–the cheapest piss-water I’ve got. It’s what he likes. Serving his partner’s trickier because I have to at least fake adding the glass to the drink. I fiddle with my hands under the counter as though I’m opening some secret compartment. What I have, really, is in a hollow underneath the fingernail of my pinky–not the most original hiding place, but it don’t matter right now.

“Okay, you got your drinks. What else you want?” I pretend not to notice my customers slipping out the side door by ones and twos. So do the cops. This must be serious.

Johansen’s peeling the label off his beer. He won’t meet my eyes. “Word is, you’re part of a ring fixing the matches.”

Shit. Like I’d ask Sabra to throw her fight? If I were that stupid, I sure wouldn’t tell Johansen. But I have to say something.

“Where’d you hear crap like that?”

“Don’t matter.” That’s his partner again. “It’s enough to take you in on. Enough to close down this hellhole you call a home.”

I keep my eyes on Johansen. “If I could do that, you think I’d still be here? There’s a place up in Blue that could use my magic touch behind the bar.”

He takes another slug of his drink. “Glass is expensive.” Like he don’t know this ain’t my only business. But I’m betting his partner knows squat about FiMech, so I say nothing.

His partner chimes in. “We could say you’re selling. Or that you put glass in our drinks.”

Am I glad I didn’t. Still, my word against theirs, except it’ll never get that far. I wouldn’t see a judge, not before they beat whatever confession they wanted out of me. Hell, they wouldn’t even have to beat me. Glass ain’t the only drug out there that no one’s supposed to have. Some of them–sure, I’d tell them my mother was my father if they wanted. But that ain’t Johansen’s style.

“So I’m asking for the third time–whattaya want, copper?”

His eyes flick, like he thinks I might be referring to that little bit of rewiring they did on him. Yeah, me, subtle. I guess he decides that ain’t my style, ’cause he finally looks up at me.

“We want a name.”

“I don’t know–” My response is just a formality, and we both know it. This is a shakedown, plain and simple. I have to object.

“We want a name. We don’t care how you get it.” He slugs back the last of his drink. “We’ll be back in twenty-four.”

They don’t bother straightening the tables as they leave. Hell, why should they? It’s not like I got any customers left in the joint. Good time to clean up. Might even have time to bleach the worst spots on the floor before the next shift rolls in.

I gather up the debris my customers left behind–someone left a nearly full packet of glass. I’ll have to run some tests to see if it’s pure. That would make up for the lost business and then some. I’m almost done picking up when the door opens. I slide the glass into my rib pocket before I turn to see who’s there.

“I hear you had a spot of trouble,” Sabra says.

She’s not pretty–not her face, anyway, the scar across it sees to that. Still most men would kill for an hour with her, and more than a few fems would as well. Ten-time gladiator champion. Nobody ever got rich betting against her, until her last fight.

I right another table. “I hear you got suspended.”

The door closes behind her, shutting out the traffic and steam and the food smells from all the weird forms of life that make their homes down here. “You know how it goes.”

“Johansen been ragging you, too?” She was there the day I saved Johansen. Only thing worse than one fem was two, in his eyes. Until we brought him in as the third partner when we started FiMech, our own little corporate. Course, none of us really touches the profits from it; that’s for retirement.

Sabra’s heels click on the concrete floor. All this tech, and that’s still the cheapest stuff around. She reaches under the bar, pulls out an orange bottle, and drinks straight from it. I wince. One of these years, I’ll break her of that.

“Aw, hell. He on this one?” Her accent’s pure Green, but that doesn’t fool me. I’ve heard her talk to people all the way from Grey to Violet, and wasn’t a one of them who thought she didn’t belong with them. “Bad enough being set up to take a fall without him getting involved.” She spins on the bar stool to face me. “You got to help me. I don’t roll over for no one.”

“So who asked you to?”

Sabra’s fingers drum on the bar. “No one. My muscles locked. Someone drugged me, but the tests came back clean.”

She ain’t no damsel in distress. If she doesn’t think she can take this on by herself, she’s after my connections. I grab the bar stool next to her. “Who you need to talk to?”

“Mikkel. The bookie.”

Sure. Who else is going to fix a match? The bookie gets a cut of everything. Probably extra if he gives the right person a little knowledge beforehand.

Still, “Drugs don’t seem his style,” I say.

“Don’t be dense. He’s going to tell me whose style it is.”

I glance around my place. No customers yet. “Let’s go. But you owe me.”

She slides her arm around my shoulders. “I always do, Charly. I always do.”

“You know you can’t get near him with a weapon.”

She raises her eyebrows at me. Well, as much as she can with that scar cutting across the one. Point made. She doesn’t need to take a weapon.

Green Sector’s always crowded. I don’t pay it much attention any more, except for that first humid stench when I step outside. I’d get nose plugs, but it helps to know when one of my suppliers is trying to stiff me. So my senses get bombarded. So what?

We walk outside, into the mess of humanity, mutie, and just downright other. The only ones who give us a second glance are the ones who couldn’t make it in the arena. I don’t know if they envy Sabra or hate her, but they look away again–fast.

Mikkel’s not in Green proper. Easiest way I know of to get to him is, though–head to the lifts, duck behind the maintenance shafts, convince the bouncers that Mikkel wants to see me, and I’m in. The bouncers have their own idea of what Mikkel and I get up to, but they hesitate when they see Sabra. No question they know who she is.

The bigger of the two puts his arm across the stairs. “He ain’t in.”

“Like he’d leave you without supervision.” Sabra’s not helping.

I step up and flatten my hand on his chest. “You know he’s always in for me.”

“You, maybe.” He nods at Sabra. “Only place he wants to see her is in the ring.”

“Told you that, did he?” Sabra again.

I don’t look at her. She wants my connections, we’re going to do this my way. “Fine, she’ll stay here. I’m sure you two can keep her busy.”

He swallows. Contrary to popular belief, Mikkel does choose his bouncers for their intelligence. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

He turns away, and I can see his Adam’s apple move as he subvocalizes. He shoots a glance at Sabra. Checking for weapons? Maybe.

His partner glowers at me. If he doesn’t like the rough stuff, he shouldn’t be in this line of work. And believe me, the rough stuff almost never has anything to do with physical violence. Well–rarely, anyway.

“He won’t budge. Says she’s not welcome.”

I nod at Sabra and step past the bouncers. The door at the top is ajar, waiting for me. I know a minute ago, it was closed up tight enough to keep out a platoon of corporate mercs. I walk up the stairs, hitting each tread heavy enough that Mikkel knows I’m coming. I’m pushing the door all the way open when I hear the bouncers fall. Sabra has impeccable timing.

He could still close the door automatically, shut us both out. I’d probably lose an arm in the process. He doesn’t bother. If he was trying to gauge how serious Sabra was, he could’ve saved himself the effort. She never does anything without committing to it.

I move out of the way, let her have a straight shot up the stairs and across the room to his desk. She stops just the other side of it.

“Shut the door.” Mikkel looks at me rather than Sabra.

It’s amazing he can say anything. Sabra has a grip on his throat. I could cross the room, try to get her to let go. But I brought her here for answers, and answers we are going to get.

I do as he says. I don’t think the bouncers are going to be in a hurry to tangle with Sabra again, but I could be wrong. It’s happened before.

The door clicks, and a hum fills the room.

“It’s safe to talk now,” he says.

“Good. Tell her what she wants to know,” I say.

“I intend to.”

Sabra says, “That’s why you told the help to keep me out?”

“I must keep up appearances. The drug they gave you is too new to be illegal. These are not people I want to cross.”

Sabra lets him slide down the wall and takes a step back. She leans her hips against his desk. “So talk.”

“They can’t know that I told you.”

The scar gives Sabra’s smile an eerie look; I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that look. “Don’t worry. I’ll go rough up some other low lifes. I’m getting flabby, what with being out of the arena.” Her smile widens, and he swallows. “Any requests?”

He licks his lips. “N-no.”

Mikkel’s trying to be smart. He doesn’t want to owe Sabra any favors. Like her leaving him alive and unbroken ain’t already a favor.

I throw him a rope. “I got some guys. Tried to interest me in a protection racket–haven’t been back, but it might be fun to turn the tables on them.”

She darts me a glance. “You didn’t tell me that.”

And you don’t hold out on your partners. I’ll give her the scoop later. “Like I said, they haven’t been back.”

I hear a low thumping under the hum of the bug-me-not. The bouncers are back for round two. Or maybe they’ve got reinforcements. Either way, we need to move quick.

I go stand next to Mikkel and put my hand on his shoulder. “Name. Now.”

He looks back and forth from me to Sabra. “It’s a new corporate. FiMech.”

She and I trade a look, but we don’t say anything. He keeps talking. “They’re testing drugs in the arena–and making a tidy bit of profit on the matches. They drug you. You’re the favorite, they bet against you, and you lose. But I don’t know who’s behind them.”

Sabra drops him on the floor. “I know where to ask. Just point us another way out. And remember, if you’re lying, I will be back. Without the nursemaid.”

Huh. I like that. Anyway, we duck out in a hurry. Probably not safe to talk at the bar, so we hop a bus. Maybe someone will overhear us, but they’ll never tell Johansen.

“Think he’s telling the truth?” I ask.

“Our partner wanted research control. I can beat the truth out of him.”

I shake my head. “I have a better plan. Go hurt some low lifes. It’ll relax you.”

I give her some names. There’s a long talk coming later, but we got to clean this mess up first. Sabra’s off at the next stop. The crowd parts to give her room. Me, I stay on the bus until we hit the next set of lifts. I got to get to city records, up in Blue. I was the business planner in our threesome; Johansen was going to regret giving me a free hand.

Records ain’t somewhere Sabra’s charm works. Iris scan lets me in–I’m a legitimate business owner, even if the bar is down in Green. Tony–not really his name–is behind the counter. He’s masked, like all civil servants. He may not even be a he. I call him Tony anyway.

His predecessor was a Toni. Met her when she came into my bar looking for comfort. I gave her a place to crash for a bit and a shoulder to cry on. She gave me lessons in record manipulation. When she sobered up, she moved on. I hear she got picked up by a corporate talent scout–sure hope it’s true. Toni was good for me, in a lot of ways.

“Problem with the bar?” Tony’s looking at my records on a screen in front of him. They came up the moment I stuck my eye on the scanner.

“Cops came in, messed some stuff up.” That might be in the record; I never know. “One of my customers took a short-cut through my office. I need some duplicate files.”

“You could have just signaled.” One of the computer stations off to the side is coming on-line.

“From Green?” I give him my best disbelieving look. “Would you trust the ’secure’ lines down there?”

I sit down at the station and activate the privacy screen. Then I open my third eye–yeah, I’m a mutie, that’s the other reason I’m down in Green–and plaster it up against the scanner here. This iris brings up records for one Lottie G. Mueller, including those of FiMech.

You’re not supposed to predate a sale and change all the records retroactively. You’re not supposed to have two legal identities, either. I have to wait while the changes propagate through the active system, but in a matter of minutes, Lottie’s records show that Johansen bought out her and her partner, Cactus Blade, of all interest in FiMech a week after incorporation. He grossly over-paid, with payments to holding accounts continuing for six months after the purchase. I burn the record to a chit.

Just about right for current market value.

Wish I could retroactively invest the money, but then I’d have to mess with some corporate’s private system. I’m just a bartender who knows a few tricks; I ain’t looking for that much trouble.

One of those tricks is setting a worm to overwrite system backups with the new info, back to the date of the transaction. I mentally blow a kiss to Toni as I slip it into the system.

Now for the other Tony. I close my third eye, switch back to my prime i.d., and duplicate the bar records. The comp spits out a second chit, with that info. I wave it at Tony in thanks as I leave.

Everything’s set. All that’s left is to double-cross the lying cop. I grin as I walk back onto the lift, and a pair of young love-birds back away from me. This is going to be fun.

#

Johansen’s partner hangs at a Yellow dive. They cut their glass with other stuff there; I wonder if he knows, or if he would even care. He doesn’t look up when I sit beside him.

“I got that name.”

He grunts.

“Want it?”

“Johansen told you we’d be back.”

“Yeah, he did. But word is that Johansen’s backing the corporate responsible.” I still have to come up with an investment for Sabra and my profits from said corporate. No rush. Maybe we’ll even get an informant’s fee for this, and I can add that to the pool.

He looks up, his first sign of interest. His eyes are blue around the edges from the glass. “You got proof?”

“I didn’t think you’d just take my word.” He’s going to be useless in another year if he keeps on the glass. I don’t care; I just want this done with. I pass him the information. Odds are Johansen’ll be picked up before the night’s out.

Maybe I shouldn’ta saved him after all. Guess my sense of compassion is what makes me feel at home with the other muties, the ones who can’t pass.

I stand up and walk away without looking back.

-END-