Deep in the Shit
If Westerley was the shithole of the Quad, then Sunrise Station was the hole's rim.
Holding a glass of water in one hand, and resting his other on the bench as handcuffs kept him chained, Jonathan Clemens looked out the window of the station's lounge – a fancy name for the ten or so wooden tables that were covered in grime, and only served to make the rest of the station's interior look more appealing. To one side was the rest of the station – small, circular, and little more than a hub of inter-ship craft. To the other was a wall of plexiglas that allowed visitors a view of the Quad, and more prominently, Westerley itself. A barren moon with a tortured sky, and Weyland-Yutani's dirty little secret (well, one of them anyway). The Company's current slogan was "building better worlds." They just wanted the galaxy to forget that they were quite good at fucking them up as well.
Clemens turned his gaze away from the view and returned to his water. He didn't know where his enforcer was. He'd been handcuffed to the bar, given some water, and been told to wait as she arranged passaged to the Arcona – a prison transport that would take him and dozens of other inmates to a planet called Fiorina "Fury" 161 – a planet he'd never heard of, and given that it was the site of a giant correctional facility, it was a lack of information that he wasn't surprised at. Most of the ship's prisoners were apparently from Westerley itself, but he…he smiled bitterly. He was from Earth. The goody two-shoes. The one who'd be most likely to die when the inmates reverted to their baser natures.
He took another sip of water. Part of him was even looking forward to the experience. But most of him was dreading the trip, and more so, the destination. So he looked around the lounge. At space, as he saw a glimpse of verdant Leith. At Westerley, taunting him, reminding him that even worse places existed in the galaxy. And at the woman who took a seat at the bar next to him, her gaze not lingering on anything other than the wine rack.
"Gin," she said. "One glass. Ice."
The bartender obliged, and Clemens kept looking at her. She was reasonably well dressed – far more than anyone on this station at least. Reasonably attractive too, with her slim physique, her sleek, clean hair, and her face. A face that he could see was in the midst of being sullied by tears.
"Thanks," she said, taking the glass, handing over some joy as she did so.
Clemens took another sip of his water – yes, she had been crying, he reflected. Still was, actually. And that was interesting. People intoxicated themselves for all sorts of reasons. He'd treated the drunk and disorderly, and being drunk and disorderly himself had gotten him in this mess to begin with. But it was very rare to see someone drink in his experience because they actually were upset. Usually, in his experience, alcohol was nothing more than a means of escape.
"How is it?" he asked.
She looked at him, tears still in her eyes. She chinked the ice against the interior of the glass.
"Your beverage," he said. He rose his glass of water in mock toast. "My escort has not allowed me to sample the delights of the Quad, so before I depart to realms unknown, it behoves me to ask whether-"
"You're a prisoner?"
She was looking at his handcuffs. And Clemens rattled them.
"Quite so," he said. Formal language – he missed using it.
"Oh." She took another sip. "It's just…"
"Just…what?"
"Well…y'know…" She took a sip of the gin, in what looked like an effort to calm her nerves. "Prisoners are…well…prisoners. Not the type of people I usually talk to."
"And who do you usually talk to?"
"I…" She put her glass on the table and rested her face in her hands. "I don't…"
Clemens took another sip of water – his last, and given the bitter taste in it, he wouldn't be asking for another anytime soon. But even as the woman fought back tears, he decided to keep it up. If he was lucky, maybe he could get her to buy him something that didn't taste of cat's piss. Not the most gentlemanly thing to do, but where he was going, gentlemen wouldn't survive.
"So," Clemens said. "May I have the benefit of your name?"
"No."
"And may I ask what brings you to Sunrise?"
"No." She got up, glass in her hands. "Goodbye."
She turned to leave. And what was left of Clemens's morality urged him to drop it.
"You're running, aren't you?"
But morality was an endangered species out here. Morality was endemic to places like Earth.
She looked at him. "What?"
"Running," he said. "You're crying. You don't want conversation, and you won't give me your name."
"That-"
"And as you have no luggage on you, I'm assuming that everything you own is currently with you right now." He smiled. "So, what was it?"
She just stood there. And stood there. And kept standing until she walked over and poured the gin over Clemens's head.
He smiled, licking the liquor as it fell down to his lips. "Very nice."
"I'm not running," she said.
"Oh really?" he asked. He kept smiling. "Then prove it."
"Alright," she said, taking a seat. "After all, you're a prisoner. Me?" She let out a laugh. "I'm still alive."
"For now."
"For now," she repeated. She laughed softly. And laughed again. "For now…Jesus Christ."
Clemens looked for his escort – he wasn't in a hurry. But if he was going to be interrupted, he wanted some forewarning.
"So what brings you to-"
"I killed someone."
Clemens blinked.
"That's right, I killed someone," she said. She drew up her seat closer. "I was a doctor on Qresh, and I killed someone." She let out a third laugh, more bitter than any that had come before it. "Jakk. Jakked up, as the term goes. Operating table, drugs…well, you can imagine. It wasn't pretty."
Clemens could imagine. He could imagine quite a lot.
"So here I am," she said. "Illenore Seyah Sims of Land Sims, of the Nine, born on Qresh."
"The Nine?" he asked.
"The Nine," she whispered. She smiled, even as the tears poured down. "Influential enough to not lose my medical license and be thrown in a dark hole. Not so influential that I could stay in touch. Or stay at all. Or…or…" He jaw wobbled, and she buried her face in her hands, and her hands on the bench. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what I'm going to do now."
It briefly occurred to Clemens that he could inform his escort that he was in the company of another criminal. That he could try and score some credit and even get his own cell on Fury. But looking at her now…
"I know what it's like."
"Go to hell."
But now, he'd be a gentlemen.
"I killed people too," he said. "Eleven, actually."
She looked up at him, her eyes red, her cheeks watery. Staring at him as if he were a monster.
Maybe I am.
"But not intentionally," he said. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. "Emergency room, London, Earth."
"Earth?" she whispered. "You lived on Earth?"
"Yes, I did," he said, smiling. "I lived there, and I practiced medicine. Unfortunately, after a thirty-six hour shift, I ended up intoxicating myself. And even more unfortunately, a boiler exploded at a fuel plant, and I was called back into service."
"But surely-"
"I let it happen," he said. "I was so drunk I didn't even know I was drunk. And…" He sighed, closing his eyes. "Eleven people died. I was arrested for manslaughter, lost my medical license, and now…" He rattled his chains again. "Now I'm being transferred to a planet I've never even heard of."
"Clemens."
He looked over his shoulder. His escort was there.
"Time to go."
He looked over at Illenore. "You," he whispered, "have a chance. So if you want my advice, take it. Change your name. Stop crying, make a stand, and remember – you killed on person." His cuffs were removed. "One death is a tragedy. A million is a statistic. But thirteen…" He sighed. "Well, that's getting close to monster."
She nodded. And watched him leave. And he turned his gaze to the port that would take him to the Arcona. To Fury.
And fire.