passport,
several other papers, and walked across gleaming tiles, his boots clicking,
until he stepped out into the fresh air of Bacillus Port - although the air
wasn’t very fresh. It stank like a rancid corpse.
“Hmm,” said Horace, and moved to
a nearby taxi rank. All the taxis were hover models, as if by refraining from
the use of wheels they might somehow halt the spread of contagion across the
planet. Doubtful, when they welcomed it in by the billion-tonne tanker-full.
As he relaxed back in the hover
taxi, the driver growled, “Where to, Mister?”
“Bacillus Hilton, good sir.”
The taxi moved from the rank and
the rain started again, hammering down, gushing black through crap-filled
gutters. A thick snake of commuters hurried down pavements, their silver
shining umbrellas up-spraying black tox water at one another. There came many curses,
and several fist fights on the pavement as people pushed and shoved, jostled
and hassled. It made for grim watching.
Lights flickered across Horace’s
pale white face, as they sped through the narrow streets of Amaranth’s capital.
~ * ~
HORACE
WALKED THROUGH the night, his suit drenched through with toxic rain, his gloved
hands carrying a slick wet briefcase. Horace liked the rain. In the rain, the
majority of people became invisible, heads down, scurrying, thinking only of
getting out of the rain; of keeping dry and getting home for that hot
mug of cocoa or dram of whiskey juice. Horace gave a brief smile; a flicker
across his lips. Yes. The rain was good. It distracted people. Made his job
easier to carry out. Much, much easier.
His boots waded through mud as he
walked up the edge of the road. He was on the outskirts of Bacillus Port now,
and the dark night sky, lit only by a few green stars, contained a corrugated
horizon, a serrated skyline of a thousand factories, towers, cooling humps and
reprocessing plants. Many were privately owned, companies having jumped on the “recycling”
bandwagon trailblazed by Greenstar, and indeed, fed down crap by Greenstar in
their capacity of appointing sub-contractors. But Greenstar were the Masters.
This was their planet of crap, and they would never let go their stranglehold
and monopoly.
The Fat Man had misled Horace a
tad. Horace found this annoying, but he internalised the situation and dealt
with it. The Fat Man had said a director of Greenstar was feeding information
and pass codes to the ECO terrorists; he’d never said which one, but they were “on
it.” Well, no new intel had come through. And the problem with that was
that there were a lot of directors. Greenstar had turned the entire planet
of Amaranth into a waste zone, a dead zone, a planet of rubble and tox and
broken glass. There were whole cities that were factories dedicated to
reprocessing; nearly the entire population worked the factories. This was an
industry based on waste. A hive of shit, the leftovers from a hundred thousand
planets all brought here to be reformed into something positive. Or so
the advertising spiel went.
Lirridium.
A New Fuel for a New Space Age!
Created Entirely From Your Waste!
Yeah. Right.
Greenstar had no less than nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine
directors. So Horace’s task was a little more difficult than first envisioned.
The directors were organised into a tier which shuffled up and down due to
performance - presumably, financial performance. Greenstar was one of the most
financially buoyant companies in the entire Four Galaxies.
There were five tiers. Horace
would start in the middle. Horace liked the middle. The bottom tier or two
would contain the slackers and the useless. The top two tiers, admittedly,
would contain the best; but also the complacent, the wealthiest, the most
heavily protected. But the middle tier! Ahh, the middle tier would have the
fighters, the scrappers, those with the most knowledge and data; for knowledge
and data were key in screwing and
several other papers, and walked across gleaming tiles, his boots clicking,
until he stepped out into the fresh air of Bacillus Port - although the air
wasn’t very fresh. It stank like a rancid corpse.
“Hmm,” said Horace, and moved to
a nearby taxi rank. All the taxis were hover models, as if by refraining from
the use of wheels they might somehow halt the spread of contagion across the
planet. Doubtful, when they welcomed it in by the billion-tonne tanker-full.
As he relaxed back in the hover
taxi, the driver growled, “Where to, Mister?”
“Bacillus Hilton, good sir.”
The taxi moved from the rank and
the rain started again, hammering down, gushing black through crap-filled
gutters. A thick snake of commuters hurried down pavements, their silver
shining umbrellas up-spraying black tox water at one another. There came many curses,
and several fist fights on the pavement as people pushed and shoved, jostled
and hassled. It made for grim watching.
Lights flickered across Horace’s
pale white face, as they sped through the narrow streets of Amaranth’s capital.
~ * ~
HORACE
WALKED THROUGH the night, his suit drenched through with toxic rain, his gloved
hands carrying a slick wet briefcase. Horace liked the rain. In the rain, the
majority of people became invisible, heads down, scurrying, thinking only of
getting out of the rain; of keeping dry and getting home for that hot
mug of cocoa or dram of whiskey juice. Horace gave a brief smile; a flicker
across his lips. Yes. The rain was good. It distracted people. Made his job
easier to carry out. Much, much easier.
His boots waded through mud as he
walked up the edge of the road. He was on the outskirts of Bacillus Port now,
and the dark night sky, lit only by a few green stars, contained a corrugated
horizon, a serrated skyline of a thousand factories, towers, cooling humps and
reprocessing plants. Many were privately owned, companies having jumped on the “recycling”
bandwagon trailblazed by Greenstar, and indeed, fed down crap by Greenstar in
their capacity of appointing sub-contractors. But Greenstar were the Masters.
This was their planet of crap, and they would never let go their stranglehold
and monopoly.
The Fat Man had misled Horace a
tad. Horace found this annoying, but he internalised the situation and dealt
with it. The Fat Man had said a director of Greenstar was feeding information
and pass codes to the ECO terrorists; he’d never said which one, but they were “on
it.” Well, no new intel had come through. And the problem with that was
that there were a lot of directors. Greenstar had turned the entire planet
of Amaranth into a waste zone, a dead zone, a planet of rubble and tox and
broken glass. There were whole cities that were factories dedicated to
reprocessing; nearly the entire population worked the factories. This was an
industry based on waste. A hive of shit, the leftovers from a hundred thousand
planets all brought here to be reformed into something positive. Or so
the advertising spiel went.
Lirridium.
A New Fuel for a New Space Age!
Created Entirely From Your Waste!
Yeah. Right.
Greenstar had no less than nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine
directors. So Horace’s task was a little more difficult than first envisioned.
The directors were organised into a tier which shuffled up and down due to
performance - presumably, financial performance. Greenstar was one of the most
financially buoyant companies in the entire Four Galaxies.
There were five tiers. Horace
would start in the middle. Horace liked the middle. The bottom tier or two
would contain the slackers and the useless. The top two tiers, admittedly,
would contain the best; but also the complacent, the wealthiest, the most
heavily protected. But the middle tier! Ahh, the middle tier would have the
fighters, the scrappers, those with the most knowledge and data; for knowledge
and data were key in screwing and
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