Chapter 8

“Running from your problems won't make them go away, Sean.”

I sighed. She just wasn’t going to let up. I comforted myself with the fact that it was only a forty-five minute flight to Mojave spaceport. I was sure I could ditch her there. I could push her down a stairwell, if it came to that. As a matter of fact, she was making that option look more and more appealing to me, every time she opened her blasted mouth.

“Leave me alone,” I groaned. “The only thing I’m running from is you.”

“That’s what I mean.” She turned in her seat so that she could face me squarely. I kept my eyes sternly ahead. “Right now, Sean Brennan, I am your paw’s most deeply penetrating thorn, the most vexing concern you will ever face in your sweet rock miner’s life. You are looking at the biggest problem in your life right now.”

I allowed my head to rolled toward her, taking her into my field of view. “Don’t flatter yourself, sister. You are profoundly irritating, and I’m relieved to hear you say it. But in the scheme of my life, you rank somewhere between taxes and a childhood cowlick.” I activated my HUD, picked out a free magazine from the shuttle lines, and flipped it open. I didn’t care what I read, I just needed a diversion.

Her eyes narrowed. “So what are you doing on a shuttle to Mojave spaceport, anyway?”

“Minding my own business. Something you should be doing.” Here was an article about chemical artists…people who used gases and particles to create innovative forms of temporary and permanent art. I wondered if any of them had made a model ship from interacting gases…that would be interesting.

“I wish I could afford that luxury,” she pressed on. “But right now my land is being strip-mined, our planet has been invaded, my people are getting sick – our children, for God’s sake, are dying from the toxins being kicked into the air and dumped in the – and do you believe it? I happen to be sitting next to the one man who can do something about it. But, he says he doesn’t give a shit.”

“Guilt won’t get you anywhere, Lana, Colette, or whoever the hell you are. You come to me under false pretenses, you worm your unwelcome way into my life, pry into my personal records, stalk me on my personal travel, try to guilt me into some cause that isn’t even mine, and you expect to get some kind of sympathy from me? What, are you crazy?”

Her gaze steadied on me. I could see the wheels turning, and I didn’t want to think about what she might come up with next. I dove back into my magazine.

She spoke lightly, changing her tack. “It was an odd thing for you to do.”

She was baiting me. I had no idea what she was talking about, which is how she wanted it. She was baiting my curiosity, trying to compel me to participate this ridiculous conversation.

“Can’t you see I’m reading?” I snarled.

“Very odd, indeed.”

The article says this guy in London manipulated freon in a unique kind of magnetic field to create a self-sustainable artistic scene.

“I mean, you’ve had it for years, and then you…you just, throw it away. I don’t get it. Surely it meant something to you.”

Then he apparently projected the art against some common graffitti targets in the city. Mixed reviews by the locals. They apparently have more to say about the artistic achievements, or lack thereof, than the scientific ones.

“But then, I guess you needed the money. I mean, you couldn’t afford a cup of coffee, so I get that. But why turn around and plunk that kind of change on a ship out of the system?”

I briefly considered pulling up the music channels and drowning her out. I pulled up a jukebox. But her words stopped me cold.

“Come on, Sean. Why did you sell Moby Dick to the museum?”

I kept my eyes ahead, my face blank. I did, for some reason, close the magazine, and wink out the HUD.

“That sort of thing is worth four hundred thousand credits, huh?” Her tone was disturbingly light.

I turned to her. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I really don’t appreciate you digging around in my personal life. I’ve been really patient up to this point, but I’ve had about enough. Can you spell ‘PO-lice’? I’m sure they’d love to ship you back home where you belong.”

“You know what really gets me? Why the repurchase option?”

Jesus, she had a lot of information. “What, you mean the Indian-giver clause?” I retorted.

Her eyes shifted remonstratively down at me. “That’s offensive.”

I laughed. The only way to get through this would be to blow lightly past it. “It is meant to prevent buyer’s remorse. The museum insisted on it. I guess they’ve had trouble with that sort of thing before. People selling them things, then regretting it later and suing to get them back.”

“You say the museum insisted on it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Don’t you mean that the museum insisted on a thirty-day limit? In fact, you wanted a one-year option and they laughed at you. What is this really about, Sean Brennan?”

It was my turn to narrow my eyes. “For someone privy to a lot of personal details, you sure don’t know much.”

“What are you after?” she pressed.

I looked away. Why did she think my personal life was any of her business? Why was I even indulging in this nonsense? I looked back at her. “What is it with you? Why do you care? Do you have any idea how preposterously out of line you are? Are all Gaian activists like this? No wonder you people get stomped on, and poisoned, and put in your place.”

The slap across my face bit sharply. I worked my jaw as the blood flushed my cheek hot. I looked at her in shock; her face was burning with fury.

She pointed a trembling finger at me, and her voice came out in a deathly whisper. “You watch your mouth.”

She sat slowly back in her seat, her face turning to stone. I rubbed my cheek, and tapped the attendant call button. I needed a drink. “You want something to drink?” I asked her. She ignored me, so I reclined my seat and took a deep breath.

The attendant came and I asked for a whiskey straight up. He asked her if she wanted anything too. All he got was a single, stiff shake of her head. We sat in silence until the attendant finally returned. I took a couple gulps, the ice clinking around, and I closed my eyes. What a day.

We sat like that for quite a while, her in cold silence and me steadily draining my whiskey. The attendant came to take the glass, and I asked for another. When he was gone, I looked tentatively at her. “Why are you doing this, Colette?”

She sat unmoving for several seconds, then her eyes slid over at me. “You really want to know?”

“Yeah. I do.”

She looked away from me, and I gazed at her, waiting for her explanation. An icon flashed in the corner of my eye. I acknowledged it, and the photo of a pretty, young girl appeared on my desktop. I looked at Colette.

She looked back at me. “That’s my daugher. Naya. She’s nine years old.”

“She’s beautiful,” I conceded.

“She’s dying,” Colette shot back.

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m…sorry.”

“Atlas is routinely dumping toxins that are poisoning our water. Some of it includes trace elements of rimonium which, as you know, is highly toxic, causing a rare form of brain disease and a long, painful death. Three thousand children like her are dying in our hospitals, in their homes. Atlas refuses to take responsibility, and the only thing anyone’s done about it is send troops to protect them. My government is helpless. They are afraid of provoking Earth Military. We can’t defend ourselves if they decide we’re too much of a nuisance.”

“Well,” I said spiritedly, “it’s a good thing they’ve got you on their side. A bulldog like you in Gaian Intelligence is probably just what your people need.”

She didn’t say anything, and the attendant brought me my second whiskey of the day. “I’m really sorry about that mess,” I said, taking a pull on my drink.

She looked over at me, her fury subsiding. “Well, I spilled my guts. Come on. What’s your sob story, Mr. Can’t-Be-Bothered?”

I sighed and looked down at the floor. Waves of shame rose up, flushing my chest and shortening my breath. I felt an urgent need to run away, but there was no where to go. If there was a single moment in my life when I felt the most foolish, it was now. I had been taken by a two-bit hustler, an alien at that. One who’d conned me in my own field of expertise. And cleaned me out, leaving me unable to support myself except for government handouts. It was all just so pathetic.

“I got ripped off,” I murmured.

I expected her to laugh at me, or criticize me, or make some snide remark. But her eyes were soft. Soft and sad. It seemed she was just patiently waiting for me to say more. I took comfort in that. Maybe in speaking the unspeakable, I would be able to get past it. Or at least get past my own feelings of horror well enough to do some real positive good for myself.

I studied her face one more time for a sign of betrayal, a sign that just wasn’t there, then I leapt in. I told her how I had met Geelan, how he had lured me in with the promise of riches in rimonium, persuaded me to transfer virtually my entire net worth to him, and how he had vanished into thin air with them. I said earlier that there are few stigmas as great as having no money. I wasn’t making a joke.

“I sold my museum piece to raise enough money for this trip,” I said in conclusion. “I’m going to Sirius IV. I want to see if there is a lawyer there named Marff Rindilosk, and if he knows where this Geelan is and how to find him. If I can find the lawyer, I might be able to find Geelan.”

“And you have thirty days to do it, or you lose the book.”

“Twenty-eight now.”

She thought for a bit, then said, “I tell you what. I’m not in a position to offer bounties – you’d have to take that up with my government – but I can promise you this. If you come to Gaia with me, and are able to make Atlas go away in twenty-eight days or less, we will recover your book for you.”

“Oh, yeah? And what if it takes me thirty?”

She shrugged. “Then I can’t help you. Heartbreak or not, I need something to keep you honest.”

I shook my head with a smirk. “You’re something, you know that? No, I don’t think so. I’ll take care of it, thanks. Besides, we’re not just talking about recovering the book, we’re talking about recovering my entire net worth here.”

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to find Geelan in the next twenty-eight days, especially if you spend the next fourteen of them flying to Sirius IV? What if you get there and find out he’s on Earth? Spend another fourteen days flying back, and you just ran out of time.”

She did have a point. But going to Gaia wasn’t going to help me, and it still begged the question of the rest of my money.

“Look, Gaia is desperate to get rid of Atlas,” she exclaimed. “That’s why they’ve given me and…my colleagues such a mandate. I can’t promise you money, but I am certain that if you are able to help us solve the Atlas problem, you will be rewarded…handsomely. You will have all the resources you need to pursue this Sirian con-artist, without any of the time pressure.”

“You don’t understand, Colette. The time pressure isn’t even the book. It’s Geelan himself. He’s got a week’s jump on me already. Who knows where he is, or how fast he’s spending my money. The trail gets colder every minute, and I can’t afford any kind of diversion.”

I could see her eyes were steeling with resolve. “Well,” she said, standing up. “I have to go to the ladies’ room. If you’ll excuse me?”

I made as much room as I could as she squeezed past me, then she disappeared from sight.

With a wave of gratitude to accompany it, I felt the shuttle begin its descent to Mojave spaceport. I really felt bad for Colette and her daughter. I promised myself that once I resolved this Geelan situation, I would head to Gaia and see what I could do.

For now, though, it felt good to know that the current unpleasantness would soon end, and I could really get to work.

Time was marching on.