The Space Opera MEGAPACK ®. Jay Lake

That’s some harvest! How long have you been out?”

      “Six weeks.” Durgan was curt. “I want to check it in. Weigh it, seal it, and give me a receipt. We can finish the deal later.”

      “Why not now?”

      “Just do as I say.”

      Durgan leaned against the counter as the factor busied himself with scales and seals. The overhead light illuminated the strong lines of Durgan’s face, the tall length of his body. It was a hard face and a muscular body both blurred a little now by fatigue, the eyes creped with tiny lines, the shoulders a trifle bowed. Six weeks in the Freelands was a long time for any one man to harvest.

      “You want some spending money?” The factor came to the counter, papers in his hands. “A couple of hundred, say?”

      Durgan nodded.

      “I thought so. Just sign here and put your thumb here.” The factor watched as Durgan followed instructions. “You know the old saying? Work hard and play hard? If you want some fun, Madam Kei’s got some new talent just arrived.”

      “No thanks,” said Durgan.

      “Each to his own poison,” said the factor. He reached out and touched a spot on Durgan’s tunic, frowning as he examined the carmine stain on his finger. “You have any trouble?”

      “Should I have had?”

      “You know better than me, mister. I just buy the stuff. Here’s your cash. Drop in tomorrow and we can finish the deal.” He looked at Durgan’s extended hand. “Something else?”

      “The receipt.”

      “Oh! Sure! I forgot.” The factor handed it over, looking at the name. “Hey! There’s something else slipped my mind. A dame’s been asking for you. Said she’d wait in the Purple Puppy. You know it?”

      “I know it. What did she want?”

      The factor shrugged. “That she didn’t say.”

      * * * *

      Durgan saw the woman the moment he stepped into the tavern. She sat alone at a table close to the stage, long legged, dressed in clean leatheroid, high boots, pants, blouse, and tunic. A holstered gun lay flat against her stomach. Blond hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail which rested on her left shoulder. Her face was round, full-lipped, with a determined jaw and eyes. She was a woman, but there was nothing soft about her, as there was nothing soft about Ganymede. She was, he guessed, about twenty-five, which made her five years younger than himself.

      To the bartender, he said, “Give me a bottle of zulack and a couple of glasses.” Paying he added, “The woman facing the stage. Who is she?”

      The man shrugged. “A drifter. Came in here about three weeks ago. Some of the boys tried their hand, but she soon made the position clear. One of them wouldn’t learn, so she burnt a hole in his stomach. No one’s bothered her since then.”

      Durgan nodded, picked up his bottle and glasses and headed towards where she sat, halting at the empty table at her side. As he sat, the floor show commenced, and he opened the bottle, threw away the top inch of liquor, and filled one of the glasses. Sipping, he watched the performance.

      Someone had imported a troupe of dancers, sleek, olive-skinned women with long, black hair and flounced skirts, who stamped and pirouetted to the blood-stirring rattle of castanets. Behind them a man lifted his voice in the undulating wail of a flamenco as his fingers danced over the strings of a guitar.

      It was an odd troupe to be found in such a place, for little of the Inner Worlds touched the Outer Planets, and Ganymede was used to cruder entertainment. Wejack birds, clipped and fitted with iron spurs, set to fight against each other to the death; broken singers on the last lap of their careers; jugglers, acrobats, mutants who swallowed fire, men who fought with spiked gloves to the screamed encouragement of their backers. These dancers brought a touch of Earth, of sun and sea and shining beaches, of grapes and scented air, of rainbows and gentle breezes.

      One day, perhaps, he would see it again. One day.

      He drank the zulack and refilled his glass. A hand caught his own as he made to set down the bottle.

      “You have two glasses,” said the woman. “Would one be for me?”

      “It might.”

      “Meaning that you are uncharitable?”

      “Meaning that I would rather not drink with strangers.” He met the coolness of the blue eyes. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.”

      “You are Brad Durgan,” she said. “I am Sheila Moray. Now may I join you?”

      He nodded, pouring the second glass full as she took a chair, handing it to her, suddenly acutely aware of her femininity, the sensuous throb of the music.

      “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “But, of course, you know that. The factor would have told you.”

      “He told me that a woman wanted to see me. He didn’t say who and he didn’t say why.” Durgan drank more of the zulack. It was a hundred proof spirit, flavored with kalsh-pods, a limpid green devil containing smoldering fires.

      Those fires burned away some of his fatigue and a few of his memories. The scent of charred flesh, of newly shed blood, of straining weeks of constant anxiety, of fear and failure, of a future which held no hope and little promise.

      “You drink too much,” she said as he refilled his glass. “Or shouldn’t I say that?”

      “You shouldn’t.”

      “Then let’s talk of something else. Of the dancers, perhaps. You like them?”

      “They’re different.”

      “They were heading for Callisto, on contract to the Ku Fung franchise, but their ship developed a split tube lining and they docked here for repairs.”

      “So?”

      “Callisto. Twice as far from Jupiter as we are now. A satellite almost the twin of Ganymede. You know about Callisto?”

      “I know.”

      “And Amalthea?”

      “A small moon, a hundred miles in diameter, a hundred and thirteen thousand miles from the center of Jupiter.” His hand tightened around his glass. “I know Amalthea.”

      “Yes,” she said quietly. “You would. It’s the bucket boat depot. Right?”

      He swallowed the zulack in a single gulp, refilling the glass as the dancers came to the end of their performance.

      Men rose, shouting, flinging a shower of coins onto the stage.

      One, bolder than the rest, sprang on the platform, his hands grabbing at a woman. He caught the shoulder-strap of her flounced gown, olive-skin glowing in the light as he ripped at the material. From the wings ran two men, hard-faced, armed. They clubbed down the intruder and stood, hands on guns, as the dancers left the stage.

      They were replaced by a weary comedian who thickened the air with the blueness of his painful jokes.

      “They clubbed the wrong man,” said Sheila dispassionately. “That creep should be put in a sack and left as bait for gizzards.”

      “He’s doing his best,” said Durgan. “We all do our best.”

      “And where does it get you? Home? Earth? Back to comfort and safety? How long does a man have to harvest before he hits the jackpot?” She reached forward and rested her hand on his own. It was slender, the skin smooth and uncalloused, the nails reflecting the light with a pearly sheen. “There’s blood on your tunic. This time you won; the next, who knows? Is that how you want to end? Meat for the scavengers?”

      He met her eyes.

      “You’re saying something, but what?