Aboriginal Science Fiction, Issues 57–58 — page 60: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Vil he brandy alone ; *. AVE, yielded ten : : cans of ; “silage soup, a large bag of fe dried apricots, two coffee bricks, and two mh loaves of bread. She easily could have held out for more, but the food cartel man had been nervous to avoid a confrontation with the alcohol people, and she’d been forced to decide quickly. Still, with a stock like that to start the month, Newell decided to hold the cigarettes in reserve. Better hide them, though, she decided. She peeled open the carton and dumped the contents on her bed, expecting one or two of the packs to be missing. But all ten packs were lying there, unopened — along with a folded sheet of paper. “What the hell?” she asked nobody. “Senta!” a voice interrupted. Danoff. “Just a second!” she called, hastily shoveling the cigarettes under the bed. She stepped over to the door, undid the locks, and opened it. Danoff stood there with a smarmy grin, hold- ing a cardboard box filled with provisions in his arms. “A week’s worth,” he said. “Usual exchange rate?” “Sorry, Tom,” she said firmly. “I don’t need it just yet, thanks.” Danoffs smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of irked disappointment. “Oh — you scored?” “Found some abandoned brandy,” she explained, letting him in nonetheless. “The alco- hol cartel was a little careless, I guess.” “Probably dipping into the stock,” Danoff joked with a forced heh-heh. As he often did when she put him off, he tried to smooth over his past lever- age by acting like a genuine friend. “A drink any- way? I brought some Scotch.” “Sure.” She sat on a wooden box, staring at the bed, where Danoff had flopped unceremoniously. “Make it in time?” “Barely,” he said, opening the Scotch. “I got docked some smokes for it. Still, enough trade- ables for the month. Just have to adjust my habit.” He took a swig, then shifted to pass her the bottle. His foot scraped against the folded sheet of paper. She took the bottle wordlessly. | “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up and unfolding it. “T don’t know,” she said, feigning ignorance. “Maybe it came with the ...” Danoff interrupted, meeting her gaze. “Senta — it’s a map.” % ty, Ne Vill TE he a ndy Harwell, si known to his EY 5 7... NG olleagues as “Three,” ducked into a deli for a cup of coffee *324.0.\ during the final leg of we 4 the Ridge Edge sweep. The microre- i ee ceiver in his ear was .« dead; apparently no more news i Je : on the escapee. Nonetheless, he _ could somehow picture Deming griping behind the closed channel. “Sugar,” he told the counter guy, glancing out the front windows. A six-foot brown-hair passed the doorway. Hey, there’s the escapee, Harwell thought dryly, then looked again. The man looked completely out of place, almost comically so, staring straight up at the towering buildings overhead. Dressed in a long, brown overcoat, he had a grizzled, uncivi- lized countenance. Harwell took a long pull on the coffee and stumbled out the door in pursuit. “I think I got something,” he broadcast. “592nd and Lambourn, heading south.” Deming’s voice crackled anxiously. “Oh, cripes — stop him before some reporter gets the jump!” “What’s the method?” Harwell asked. “Friendly approach,” Deming suggested. “If he bolts, he’s our man. Use a trangq.” Harwell acknowledged by flicking the off switch in his molar with his tongue. The man had slowed to a halt at the corner, watching with unmuted amazement as cars shot through the intersection. Harwell slowed next to him. “Excuse me,” Harwell said. “Don’t I know you ...?” The man’s face contorted in confusion. He wheeled around and darted down the street. The trang punctured the man’s ass. He tum- bled to the pavement a block away. IX t took them a few days to work up the |) Ex to follow the map. In the interim, they avoided human contact to the extent that they could. Danoff did have one shift mind- ing the store for the cartel, but with that excep- tion they stayed holed up in Newell’s cabin. One night, as they smoked the fugitive ciga- rettes, Newell looked over at Danoff. The idea of getting out is making him less of an asshole, she mused. We’re almost motiveless confidants now. It was a revealing thought. She had come to believe that conditioning had robbed her of the capability for pure friendship. Then again, she realized, it had. The outside, or at least the idea of it, had brought about this state of affairs. If I hadn't 60 Aboriginal Science Fiction — Summer 1998 ©O 1) @s8L4Gos O11