The Show Must Go Off

The Show Must Go Off–part two

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For anyone to truly understand my motives, they’d have to know the truth about The Great Extortion. Back in ’38, when Yoshi got famous? The popblogs and ‘casts all claimed he’d charmed top scientists into DOING the study that accidentally revealed the link from corn syrup overconsumption in parents to their kids’ autism. Sham. Yoshi didn’t have the idea. He didn’t prompt the labcoated losers to do the study, and he didn’t prompt the bureaucrats to give grants. He didn’t even get all those former programmers jobs.
I was doing data mining, hero-worshipping Yoshi along with everyone when I DID have an idea of my own. When does a study convince people? I was still young in ’40 when there was a resurgence in the Flat Earthers [snort] so it was on my mind. And what more trackable than purchases? I did a term’s software project on market research data mining and then hacked in to get purchase profiles of three scientists on the study, three programmers and TRIED for Yoshi’s. Then a simple subroutine to look up which sweeteners in guesstimates of ‘doses’ and a longer program to compare those six to a population of 100 random citizens. I expected the programmers to slow eating corn syrup in ’37, you know, when the study contracts were made? As part of their endorsing the project. I expected the scientists to start later, [bah humbug, no REAL evidence till WE say so. . .] and was I wrong. The programmers slowed when I thought. The scientists had slowed back in [uh?!] ’21. It took me nearly a year to backtrace by location and eliminate other customers from where Yoshi shopped. He’d known since ’23. I extorted my hero. I was, after all, doing pretty much what he had done.
Somehow he’d hacked the original study and extorted his way out of being sentenced for computer crimes. Then he got amnesty and had the bureaucrats and scientists involved buy their way out by duping the study nearly EIGHTEEN years later and going public. 9.3 MILLION autistic kids were born in those eighteen years, if you count the colonies, stations, and orbiting farms. All over one dirty secret. He teletutored me in programming, data-mining, hacking, anything I wanted before ‘awarding’ his fortune to his ‘brightest and favorite pupil’ in his will. He went to his grave still a hero, using his good name to praise turning the scramble for resources into a collective of prison workers. The Belt Mine Prison System was well underway in ’46 when he died. So you see it’s fitting that when I did get sent up, I got sent here. My hero’s meal tickets got the place started after all. “Ice, Iron, and Iodine” people were saying. Water, metal, and trace minerals from the asteroid belt to grow sugar cane, soy, fruit, blue agave, and the tweaks. Little did I know my part in making my future home. The history books can stay wrong. Why be a famous target when I could be a rich healthy happy nobody?
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The Show Must Go Off–part four
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I had just gotten to an info kiosk and poked around a bit, just looking at code security, when I realized my first real problem. My quarters were right by Fight Registration And Arbitration, between Arena Row and The Shaky Camera–the biggest, roughest sports bar in the main halls. Worse, it was as far as possible, trafficwise, from Emergency Medical Services. Great. The cheapest room I couldn’t survive to walk to and from. I’d need a lookout by my front door. I started looking through the netposts, and happened on something under ‘Spotter Trading.’ I got a contact point, hacked his schedule, and realized that if I hurried I could beat him home.
“Jenko?” This guy wasn’t as short as he looked, on account of his spine was bent like one of those old-fashioned Christmas candy canes. He WAS as shriveled and brown as a Christmas pine tossed away in August, though. Maybe as prickly too.
“Who’s askin’?” He didn’t spin or dodge, just paused like, ‘oh, well. Mugger again today?’
I introduced myself and found out a spotter is actually a piece of mining equipment I didn’t know. They quit using Standard Portable Oscillating Trenchers in ’56. But this was ’51. He actually liked my idea of a lookout service. I negotiated to be a grunt for him, slow apprenticeship plus lookout. Sweetening the pot, I arranged to hang a hammock for myself over his couch and stay at his place for cutting him in for a fourth of whatever I could make on my place. His place was right by Equipment Bay Two and Enforcer Station Five. Muggings were rare there. Then I hacked the hallcams and streamed all the old footage in the servers.
I ran it, looking for empty halls and found out that doesn’t happen. A few quick apps to collect data . . .
It must have taken me an hour to figure out that the least violence happens in the crowds that form when arenas empty twenty-four to eleven minutes before main shift changes. Hammock hung, I ate an MRE, programmed Jenko’s door to let me in, borrowed and double-clipped a wrench and a mallet to my worn-out comasuit and set off to turn my place into a moneymaker.
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The Show Must Go Off–part six
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Chugger was only a bartender, but he was so big he probably couldn’t put a thumb through the handle of a stein. From a distance he might’ve looked short and stocky if no one was near him. He worked bar alone because no one would fit behind the bar with him, but, if he bent straight out from the waist, he could pick up a tip a customer dropped on the floor. He had a file that interested me. Convicted of a permanent mauling back in ’48, he’d plead ‘no contest’ to skip most of the trial and be held for the next ship up here. Rumor was he hadn’t been driving at all, but had hitched a ride with a methhead and been unlucky in his getaway. Rumor also had it he’d been so desperate for a ride because he’d committed a mass murder. He’d logged a single fight in the G-Games. He’d deliberately swapped partners until he got the scariest opponent available, one Joe ‘Iron’ No Last Name. Chugger had slowly walked up to him, begun a straight right punch before the buzzer, got hit four times in the chest for four cracked ribs in a half second before his left jab to ‘Iron’s’ throat killed ‘Iron’ almost instantly. A broken neck with one punch is rare, even for someone who walks into it dodging the other hand and leaning forward for their own offense. It’s even more rare for a neck to break while it’s in a collar designed to withstand a high-caliber shell. Chugger broke one knuckle with that punch, but no one is EVER going to fight him again. He’s fast enough he buses the whole bar between rounds. And soft-hearted.
“Help you?” he said. I’d timed it perfectly, shown up as the bar emptied for a major arena fight.
“How much are crackers?” I used the GameFace app I’d written to pale my face a little more as I drooped my lids.
“One lowchit’ll get you two packs.” He had them out on the word ‘one.’
I paused for effect. I pulled out three lowchits. “I’m afraid I don’t have a tip, sir. Six packs please.”
He frowned. “Down on your luck?”
“Yes sir.” I bought the six cracker packs, opened one and nearly swallowed them whole without dropping a crumb.
“You look terrible.”
“I’ve only had water today so far.” I started the second pack.
He glanced at the empty bar. “I can give you another glass if you like.”
I apped up some misty eyes. “Please. And thank you.”
He had a full glass beside my third pack and the first empty wrapper gone before I finished ‘you.’ “You get a bad jumper?”
Not a bad guess. Short-hop ships were expensive to replace. “No. Business isn’t working out. Linen is too expensive.”
He frowned deeper. “LINEN? Hotels are doing fine here.”
“I only have the one room. But it’s here.”
He blinked. “Here?”
“Two doors down. You can hear crowds outside it. No one can hear in, but, who could sleep there? Room’s mine free and clear, and I can’t even sell it for a year because I’m newly convicted.”
He glanced down at my comasuit with it’s broken toolclip. “You don’t say.”
“I’ve been thinking I might have to offer it to local hookers who bed Enforcers, but I don’t want to.”
That riled him. “Have you?”
“No.”
He pushed a button under the bar that locked up. “Bus the tables. I’ll give you a highchit. Then I want to see the place.”
I managed to look weakly surprised. “What about a lowchit and breakfast?”
He grinned, took one pack back and said, “Done.”
Chugger worked doubles a lot at The Big Screen–small bar with good food and the biggest screen outside the arena rooms. His online grievances were that he could never walk home fast enough to see a woman and hotels were expensive. He booked my room for three hours between lunch-end and his happy hour. For a MONTH. I’d thought I’d get a week. Chugger turned out to be quite a ladies’ man. His deposit bought me six sets of linen, food for a week, and a mining worksuit. A good day.
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The Show Must Go Off–part eight
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So there I was, facing down four possible combatants outside Billy’s, armed only with a bluff they couldn’t even see and a stupid smile. Why hadn’t I bought a gun? It’s really easy to reason your way out of doing something and distract yourself with regrets in the middle of a crisis. I hadn’t bought a gun because I’m a lousy shot and they don’t sell affordable automated targeting computers. That would become dangerous for the Enforcers, because four precise hits on the same spot on their armor should pierce. My smile WAS making one him and the her nervous . . . she broke first. But sounded casual enough.
“You put bloody linen in the machine without a pre-rinse?”
“Not linen, miss; my mining suit. Was that bad?”
She smiled, “Always ask a woman about getting blood out of your laundry before you make a mistake.”
Ee-eew. But practical. She’s the brains–lie best to her–“It was just traces. He died quick.” I fairly beamed at her, like I was remembering getting my favorite Christmas present instead of worrying about who would attack first.
“How long ago?” Yikes. I smiled extra wide as a stall tactic while I found a suitable record.
“He attacked between spotter shift and jumper commute. I would guess that was about RS1030.” Using rotation standard time would give me time to lie about which asteroid rotation I was talking about, and therefore it would give me time to pick my location. But nobody asked that. Why is all my best work unappreciated?
“Pirate?” The biggest guy asked. “Why didn’t he just fry you from orbit?”
I turned on him like it was the first time I’d noticed him, cocked my head and gave him a ‘you-alright?’ look. “Magnesium ore?”
The little guy laughed. “Yeah, Gibb! How could he steal it if he’d already blown it up?” He turned to me, “You poke his suit?”
“Nah. He came for ore. I gave him a piece of it.” I paused for effect and was rewarded by four confused frowns. “A BIG piece of it? . . . Through his faceplate and up his nose?” In the virtual world, one of my false identities had, after willing his belongings to a second, had turned pirate, which explained how much ore he’d been trying to trade. Then he’d gone mysteriously missing during my shift. As always, faking the timestamps was the hardest part. An entire life had begun and ended virtually. Trying to sound casual, I continued with, “It didn’t fit up his nose very well.” And smiled big again, this time for real, but about how badly they were falling for this. The little guy made a quick mental calculation and pushed it to the next level.
“You’re not registered for any fights. Do you know you have to register?”
“Yes,” how could anyone NOT know? “But right now, I’m only fighting for arbitration.”
“What?”
“The rules of arbitration state that I can fight to settle a dispute if both parties agree. That counts as a fight once it’s over.”
Now everyone looked at ME funny. Shorty said, “why would you do that?”
I GameFaced a lofty-passionate-idealistic-and-slightly-deranged expression. “Because ending a life is an intimate act. My victims deserve privacy, and I have no intention of giving the citizens of Earth cheap thrills. They took my livelihood away and I will never see my friends again. I only fight off camera.”
The woman looked at me with admiration, which really DID scare me. Gibb said, “How?”
I pointed at an info kiosk. The four of them crowded around it. I talked them through looking up the specific rules while I monitored the kiosk in real time over an apped speedlink I’d hid in a bot shaft three meters away. She was good. She pretended to follow my instructions while she navigated almost directly to the rules in question and set up for a background check. At the right time, she asked me for my handle.
“Q.”
“Q?!”
“It looks like an old style ‘off’ symbol. You know, back when they had ‘off-and-on switches’ on electronics?” She’d already checked to see my status, since I was the only one registered that way on the whole BMPS system, but she was playing the part well.
“It says you registered your pirate’s death remotely.”
“Yeah. They probably won’t even take a statement. They don’t have a mess to clean up.”
She smiled again. “He wants to fight you.” She pointed at Shorty. “Do we make up a dispute?”
I looked him up and down. “No need; just type in that he thinks he can win a fight against me and I disagree. That’s a dispute.”
Gibb spoke up again, “How much?” His group laughed at him while I looked at him sympathetically.
“No fees for this–Gibb, is it?” He nodded, liking me better than his group just a little. Hmmm. . .
She frowned then, “who pays fines for property damage?”
“Pro cleaner fee from challenger. I pay damages if we fight in my arena. Box in blue under my name.”
“You OWN an ARENA?” Shorty blurted out, “That’s not legal!”
“I own a room and use it as I please. That’s legal.” They held a quick, quiet argument.
“You can’t fire weapons in a room. The shielding will kill us both.”
“That’s why we’ll be fighting with no weapons.” I give them my biggest GameFace psychotic look-how-gracefully-I-can-hold-a-bomb-too-long look.
“No weapons?” Shorty looked genuinely surprised.
“And no armor. I’m already dressed, and my arena is free right now. Sync I.D.?”
Shorty went slightly pale. “Umm?” He looked at their group’s brain.
She smiled. “After I check the room and okay it.” They led the way, making me safer than I’d ever been in these hallways. She watched me shove the mattress into the shower and lock the door, looking with interest at my bedframe mounted over my wallscreen. Then I pointed out the toolclip in the door alcove.
“Check all weapons here.” Nods all around. She looked in the head, ran her hands around the walls a little, checking for burrs or protruding needles, I guess. Then she told Shorty she approved. I made a show of patting myself down and walked in, booted up my wallscreen with the remote. “Registration.” Shorty almost balked.
“No witnesses?”
“I don’t know you guys, so I’d have to say no to the possibility of extra opponents.” She gave Shorty a significant look and walked to a kiosk. Shorty came inside and registered and put his pro cleaner fee in a ‘bearer’ account with a voucher printable from my wallscreen only. Something was up! I powered down the wallscreen as my hidden hardware began reporting. He had a standard AdrenalBoost implant in his skull. His prosthetic fingers were hard but only counted as blunts. His top rib was a fake, looked like a repository for drug smuggling. He had a steel sheath over the netjack below his left ear. He had a metal cable mesh in his left elbow. Heavy hitter. But the big thing was he was cheating. Shorty had a knife hidden in his suit at his left hip. My StayNeur implant was practically roaring at me. The woman was doing a fair amateur job of hacking into my profile to fake my declaration that knives were okay for this one fight. I realized I stood no chance against Shorty. He would knife me and that would be IT. The only way I could get their brain caught for hacking was to show my secrets, and I’d still die before the Enforcers could get here. The fix was in, and I was doomed. I saw the only way out. I timed it close and gambled my life. I sent out a command to the far server as Shorty stepped blandly under my bedframe. I simultaneously powered down everything I could, trying for a poker face as I shut the door and locked it. He had time to see my scared face, draw his knife, smile in triumph, and frown with the realization that I looked scared BEFORE he drew his knife. Then the command I’d sent out traveled around the multiple servers, routers, and extra kms of cable and returned, connecting up the battery I’d hidden behind the wallscreen control panel with my steel bedframe.
I had planned to use the electromagnet for disarming cheaters. What I hadn’t planned on was killing them with it. It ripped his implants straight up out of his head and body, spraying half the room with blood. I was alive. And terrible danger waited for me right outside the door. If I survived the danger in my own head . . .

The Show Must Go Off–part ten
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Preparation hadn’t been enough. Reading the Bible passages and researching what clergy did for cops had helped, but that wasn’t enough either. Quick thinking and cagey promises got me through that ten seconds without my implant confessing for me all over the local net or putting me to sleep and paging the Enforcers. The Old Testament had plenty of examples of people killing each other righteously, but I always wondered how they were sure. Those crazies that kill abortion specialists, divorcees, infidels, what have you–they all think they’re doing it righteously too. And there wouldn’t be any people LEFT. “For all have fallen short,” right? It wasn’t but two hundred years ago that that cult started building the doomsday weapon on Earth’s moon and had to be put down. They were only going to kill the sinners, too!
Cops, soldiers, Enforcers, all of them get special blessings, forgiveness, grace, or whatever their own religion does when they have to kill, maim, do what they do. The problem there was, no one was paying me to do something that incidentally might have included killing. Or were they? The woman of their group had hacked in to Arbitration and declared that I had okayed knives for this one fight. It was a lie, but did she get a cut of the winnings? She obviously WAS in an arrangement with Shorty–and he had paid me for use of the room via a pro cleaner fee . . . That only worked if I appointed myself the cleaner and asked for no help. And verified she had an arrangement with Shorty . . . And forgave her that lie. Oh! And told Chugger the room wouldn’t be ready. I resolved not to avenge the lie. To make up the difference of forgiveness as I could. I pinged Chugger. I quick-referenced her sign-on and got their identities. Circumstantial evidence existed in chat form. My StayNeur equalized.
The knife and implants had fallen on the body. I ran twenty-seven scenarios as I walked the six small steps to it. I picked up the knife, gave myself three small nicks on my left forearm, impersonating defensive wounds, and started arranging the implants. I unlocked the bathroom, got out some spray cleaner with strong ammonia, sprayed the room. I knifed his wounds a bit more, making them less precise. I cleaned the knife. I GameFaced ethereal psychotic calm, laid the clean knife on the floor, and opened the door–ready, I hoped, for anything. Three minutes the door had been shut max.

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