Hebe Conway shot out of the pass and sped into the descent towards Slag City. Running was not solely the legs’ province; the remainder of the body either hindered or helped. Hers helped gloriously. She reveled in the feeling of strong core and upper body muscles engaging as her legs swung powerfully, propelling her forward at a speed obviously unsafe for the technical terrain. She felt invincible.
Fully adapting to Mining World 29-160-13001-2 (fondly known as Slag-off 2 by its inhabitants) had taken her months. The planet was advertised as “Earth-like,” but, by the standards that must have been used, Venus was probably Earth-like, too. Slag-off 2 had a thinner atmosphere and higher gravity than Earth. She could not have said which she hated more: running on Slag-off 2’s sand or running on its rocky mountain ridges, one loose stone away from plunging into oblivion. It made her nostalgic for her last world, Shyphom’s Planet, with its lighter gravity, heavy air, beautiful shaded trails… but half the flora were carnivorous bastards that liked to eat anything with legs.
Slag-off 2 had been impacted by a humongous asteroid in the distant past, permanently throwing its orbit of Mainline Star 29-160-13001 into disarray. The result was a piebald planet, half a lush paradise, half an arid hellhole. The water was on the opposite side from the valuable metals; that was simply how the universe’s sense of humor worked.
The fact that there were jobs like Hebe’s for humans like Hebe was a composite result from the universe’s sense of humor and how that manifested in Batrachom economics. Shipping anything to a Rim planet was disastrously expensive. Flying around space was not so bad; flying in and out of atmosphere and gravity, the only option on an undeveloped world, burned up so much fuel that it made Batrachom accountants gibber.
Humans had put the Rim worlds within economic reach when they came on the galactic scene sixty-odd years ago. Hilariously, they were unquestionably the toughest intelligent species in the known galaxy, their homeworld considered a nightmare of vicious monsters and deadly climates. The more established species, such as the amphibious Batrachoms, were physically weak and required copious technology or terraforming on worlds where humans could readily adapt. These species muttered about humans being “less evolved”… and eagerly employed large numbers of them. A few humans left Earth for cushy bodyguard jobs in the Interior; most went to the Rim, gambling that strong backs would lead to better futures.
Humans provided a labor source that paid to fly themselves to the work, and they required minimal supporting technology to make a planet turn a profit. Eventually, the planets sprouted roads, transit animals and vehicles proliferated, the space route became established, and manufacturing took root on-world. Hebe guessed that future was ten years away on Slag-off 2. Until then, athletic humans who were good shots could earn a difficult but exciting living providing itinerant security services, as she had for two years. The water carriers were nearly untouchable when in motion, but they were vulnerable once they stopped to offload the precious cargo they hauled from the planet’s other side to the mines and settlements.
Hebe was running as light as possible, racing to a last-minute job in Slag City: long rifle and handgun on her back (fully charged, with spare power cells), four water pouches (three empty) in her pockets, knife expertly concealed, and a coil of rope with an auto-anchoring bolt in easy reach. The terrain on Slag-off 2 was no joke, especially not at the speeds she covered it, and a lot could happen over forty miles. It should have been her rest day between jobs, but the money offered to join this detail was too tempting.
Slag City was the nexus of Slag-off 2, located on a plateau that passed for prime real estate in the midst of mountains. It was home to many of the planet’s Batrachoms and one of two spaceports. Slag City was where all the (human) miners straggled in sore-footed caravans when they took their four weeks’ leave each year. They spent days toiling along the faint trails that Hebe covered in mere hours and had helped mark on the unforgiving surface.
Hebe passed two cemeteries on her way in, one plain and desolate, the other a riot of colors from the silk flowers decorating the graves. She was forced to slow her pace on busy Main Street. The comparison was still stark in her mind as she reached the grocer’s who had summoned her- those were the cemeteries of the poor and rich, and, if she died now, she would not go to the pretty one.
When she drew up under the grocer’s awning, she was fifteen minutes late, but all the other hired guns were lounging about. Greeting her colleagues, she immediately saw why the grocer had been so desperate to engage her: no one else had a long rifle.
“Up high for me, then?” she asked the Batrachom owner who soon hopped out of the store.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Let’s get you up in the usual spot.”
In a webbed hand, he held two coins intended to purchase her entrance. Hebe snatched them and strode off in the opposite direction. “I’m not going there.”
He leaped in front of her and croaked in confusion. “But that has the best vantage point! Why not?”
Hebe stopped, wiping at the sweat streaming off her face with the back of one hand, while her other was already unbuckling her rifle. “Think about it. Anyone does a hold-up, they’ve got the usual spots all scoped out. Moving around keeps me from being dead on their first shot. Send someone else up there.” The Batrachom made an odd noise that did not properly translate out of water, but Hebe took it for assent.
“What’s the gig?”
“Three water carriers.”
Hebe whistled. “Should be someone itching to pick that off, then.”
* * *
Maybe Slag-off 2 was already settling down, Hebe thought as she strode down Center Avenue, tucking her handgun under her jacket, rifle casually slung over her shoulder. She had been paid well, but there had not been even a whisper of a hold-up. Once civilization reached Slag-off 2, she would have to move on. “I want a drink,” she muttered, and ducked into the first establishment that looked able to provide it- she did not have to go far.
Hebe grudgingly left her rifle at the gun check in front, spotted an empty seat at the bar, and gratefully slouched into it. She wanted a glass of water, sure, but what she really wanted was bourbon on the rocks and a bucket of wings. This joint would have food capable of refueling her for the inevitable run out to wherever her next job lay, and a reasonable approximation of cheap whiskey, but meat of any kind was a fantasy.
Before she could order, a shadow loomed over her shoulder. “Hey. You’re in my seat.”
Sighing, Hebe was already on her feet and assessing the man before he uttered two words. He was probably a miner, though a bit better dressed than the usual, with six inches and seventy-five pounds on her. A booth in the back had just opened up; she held her hands up placatingly. “All right, mister, didn’t know that. I’ll move.”
Apparently she did not move fast enough. He grabbed her arm to drag her along, and thereupon the situation became a professional concern. She seized the crown of his head and his arm right above the elbow, and dropped a step back while she pulled him down over her hip.
The result was better than she expected: he went sprawling to the floor, catching up against a table. Offworlder, she realized, unused to the gravity. Nearby patrons moved away, protecting their drinks and placing bets. She held up her hands again. “Look, I don’t wanna fight. You can have your stupid chair. I’m gonna go siddown somewhere else and let’s call it a day, huh?”
The offworlder sprang up into a fighting stance. “Damn it all, I’m tired.”
The confrontation began in earnest, though neither of them did any damage for almost a minute, until Hebe landed a punishing combo: a diversionary jab to the air, a cross low to the body, an uppercut as she came up, and a knee that should have ended things, but failed because he popped his hips back. She slipped his attempt to get into a clinch; he turned and grabbed a chair.
“No you don’t!” she warned, whipping out her handgun from under her jacket. Blinking, he skidded to a halt as it leveled with his nose.
“That’ll do.” A short, slight, gaudily dressed woman nimbly stepped between them, dropping a fistful of coins onto the bar and smiling broadly. “Sorry about that. Thank you, Geoff,” she addressed the offworlder, who put down the chair, carefully tucked it into place, and transformed into a good-natured man gingerly rubbing his jaw. “Hebe Conway, isn’t it? Let’s sit down.”
Slightly bewildered, Hebe made to follow her, but the gun check attendant had pushed through the crowd. “You have to give me that,” she said, indicating Hebe’s handgun, hand resting on the butt of her own in its holster.
“Seriously?” Hebe exclaimed.
“Check it or leave. The rules are the rules.”
Hebe grumbled, but she still had her concealed knife; she exchanged the handgun for another numbered token. Geoff and his employer had taken seats at a table, and, as she walked over, Hebe thought they looked familiar from the crowd that afternoon, watching at the grocer’s. “What’s this all about, then?” she demanded, swinging a chair backwards and straddling it.
The woman snapped a glossy, eye-catching business card onto the table. “I’m Callirrhoe Tapping- a headhunter, and I’d like to offer you a job. In the Interior.”
Hebe eyed Callirrhoe and Geoff mistrustfully. “You one of those bag and tag outfits? I didn’t realize slavers had come this far out.”
Callirrhoe laughed musically and shook her head. “Not at all. Perfectly legitimate- no bag, no tag. I’m registered with the city business bureau. They’ll verify my credentials for you. The offer starts with passage on any midline ship you choose, then you have until two days after you arrive and look over the situation to decide about signing the contract.”
Hebe was somewhat reassured by that arrangement. “And you’re just offering me a job? No interview?”
“You passed the interview,” she nodded at Geoff, “with flying colors. My agency likes restraint and smarts. You live up to your reputation out here, Hebe. This is my last night scouting talent- I’m glad I didn’t miss you. If you’re interested, the other hires are meeting me at the Regency tomorrow morning at eleven. I’ll answer questions and we’ll work out transportation for those going.” Callirrhoe stood, wished Hebe a good night, and rapidly left, as if she did not care much for doing business in saloons.
Geoff drained his drink and rose more slowly. “Congrats.”
Hebe got up and self-consciously adjusted her jacket. “Thanks. No hard feelings?”
He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “It’s just the dang job. Pays me good to walk into a place and pick a fight with the guy most likely to kick my ass.”
They shared a laugh, and, as he left, Hebe let the reality of her good fortune begin to sink in. Just as work was about to dry up on Slag-off 2, a new opportunity in the big time Interior had tracked her down. Neither of the two cemeteries in Slag City were going to be her ultimate destination. She went to the bar, sat down undisturbed, and ordered a double.