Guaranteed Confidentiality

The walls of the food court, where I waited in line for a sushi sandwich, were decorated with an illustrated history of Ritsuko City. Great prominence had been given to one of the famous photos from around the time of independence. In it, a Japanese soldier in an environmental suit stood on the lunar surface just outside Ritsuko’s containment bubble, staring in stunned disbelief at an enormous pile of shipping crates.

        Ritsuko City, humanity’s first permanent off-world colony, had been established on the moon by the Japanese government. Due to overcrowding on Earth, the Japanese planned to establish a haven to which a selected slice of their populace could move. But the man they put in charge of the project, Kaito Ayakama, believed that the new colony should be a free state without obligations to any Earth nation and open to refugees from all countries.

        When he made the now-famous broadcast declaring autonomy to the world, his superiors in Tokyo were not pleased. They immediately ceased all supply drops and sent a platoon to retake the colony. They were expecting to deal with a bunch of half-starved settlers in a flimsy huddle of inflatable habitats.

        What they didn’t know was that Kaito had secretly been corresponding with a wide range of wealthy like-minded visionaries on Earth. Between them, they had bankrolled a series of scientific rocket launches, which had been secretly dropping crates onto the dark side of Luna.

        So what those soldiers found when they landed was a plexiglass bubble the size of Manhattan, strong enough to withstand a meteorite strike, populated by a thriving, self-sufficient community. And when he saw that pile of crates, the soldier in the photograph knew exactly what they were and what message they intended to send.

        They were the complete inventory of every single supply drop Japan had sent to the moon over the previous three years—unused, unopened.

        We don’t need you anymore, Kaito was saying. Join us or get out of the way. As I stared at the expression on the soldier’s face, I felt a gloomy kinship for the poor dumbfounded fool.

        “Are you a star pilot?”

        One of the new arrivals was in line behind me. He was young and pudgy with overgrown hair and thick glasses like a car with massive headlights wrapped around a weeping willow.

        I turned away for a moment to flick my imaginary internal switch and a transformation washed over me that gave me a warm smile and interested eyes. My hands were open and welcoming without making motions that could be interpreted as grasping. Then I turned back. “Certainly am!” I said. “Fifteen years in the Black. I’ve got stories that’ll make your hairs stand on end. And you’ll be hard-pressed to find more reasonable rates—”

        “Do you know Jacques McKinley?”

        I noticed the paperback he was fidgeting with and my switch snapped back. Every time Jacques Mc-plying-Kinley had a new book out, the spaceport was full of his fans. And then the media speculation on Jacques McKinley’s true identity would flare up again and half the potential clients in the spaceport would turn out to be journalists with no intention of hiring.

        This kid was holding the newest book and the cover was a typical one. A square-jawed pilot—his flight jacket barely containing chest muscles like those of a sweaty horse—was fighting off a horde of insectoid monsters with a gun in each hand. And there was the beautiful woman in a torn kimono clinging to the hero’s leg.

        “Was it really like he says it was?” asked the kid.

        I was still too far back in line to pretend I had better things to do. “Oh, yeah. Twenty-four-seven. Non-stop excitement up there. Tell your parents and maybe they could charter my ship and learn all about—”

        “Have you ever had to fight off aliens with a gun in each hand?” he said.

        I pointed to the cover art. “Yeah, that was an average Monday morning. The only thing he forgot is that usually everything would be on fire at that point.”

        He looked furtively left and right as if we were exchanging classified information in a darkened car park, then leaned closer. “Is it true about Jacques McKinley? I mean, is it true that all the pilots secretly know who he is, but they’ve made a pact not to tell?”

        I blew out my cheeks. “Kid, if that was true, Jacques McKinley wouldn’t be writing books. Because my colleagues and I would be shoving them all up where the twin suns don’t shine with the rest of his trac. Now do me a favor: go forth and multiply.”

        He scampered off to the nearby bookstore to join a small huddle of kids in fashionably distressed flight jackets. Above them, a large poster depicted the cover art for some other, equally traccy McKinley book.

        Every star pilot had stories from the Golden Age. The Black was the new wild frontier and adventure was bound to find you. If you hadn’t saved at least one planet by the end of your first year, you weren’t considered to be taking it seriously. But only one of us had had the idea to take everyone’s stories, rewrite them to be about himself, and sell millions of copies.

        My own exploits on Cantrabargid had inspired the bulk of book twelve: Jacques McKinley and the Malmind Menace. And every time a tourist accused me of ripping it off, I envisioned another six-inch nail being shoved down Jacques McKinley’s throat. Since most star pilots had similar fantasies, keeping his true identity secret was a surprisingly smart move for a man incapable of novelty.

        As I sat in a booth intended for nine, I found it difficult to enjoy my unagi sandwich. When quantum tunnels first came about, a lot of people predicted they would kill the adventurous soul of space travel. That sympathetic mindset would have been gratifying, but very few of those people continued paying for arduous passage through untamed star systems. I bitterly picked off bits of bread and rice, wondering if it had been the same for cowboys after the death of the Old West.

        “Excuse me. Are you a star pilot?”

        I slammed my hands onto the tabletop, flipping my sandwich messily. I was prepared to yell another thing about Jacques McKinley before I took in the person addressing me. The words died in my throat.

        At first, I thought she was a business traveler, going by her dark gray pantsuit and severely straightened hair. But then I noticed the understated gold cufflinks and leather-bound, top-of-the-line datapad inserted under one arm, befitting first-class travel. Quantum tunneling being what it is, star pilots aren’t allowed on the first-class concourse.

        Both of us were staring for a while, so I felt moved to respond. “Yes, I am.” I adjusted my flight jacket to give a better view of the words “Star Pilot” emblazoned across my T-shirt.

        Her eyes shifted around and she hugged her datapad. “Are you . . . available for hire?” she said, her mouth curling slightly in distaste of her own words.

        My mind’s hand was hovering over the little switch, but something felt off. I momentarily went against my instincts and nodded toward the concourse behind her, still rumbling with sales pitches. “That’s the usual hiring place over there,” I said, prodding my distressed sandwich. “This is the lunch place.”

        She looked around again. Bits of her vibrated nervously. Her cuff­links tapped a light drum-beat on her datapad. “I need to make an arrangement as discreetly as possible.”

        “Oh,” I said, nodding slowly. I felt like a school counselor attempting to extract information from a crying child. “Would you like to go somewhere private?”

        “Yes,” she said quickly. “That would probably be for the best.”

        “Right,” I said, standing up. “We can go and talk in my ship.”

        “Er, no,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think I would be comfortable actually going onto your . . . thing. Is there somewhere private that’s not as private?”

        I decided that this was one of the many tests life presents us with to separate the fast of thought from the roadkill. My gaze fell upon the bright pink photo booth beside the pharmacy. “All right then,” I said, gesturing with an open palm. “Step into my office.”

        Our shoulders rubbed up against the ceiling of the booth and the tops of our heads pressed together. Once the two of us had squeezed around the stool, the little door could finally be persuaded to close.

        “Okay,” I whispered after ensuring secrecy by hanging my jacket over the camera. “You were saying?”

        She looked at me uncertainly over her brow. “I need absolute assurance that you are a star pilot and that you are available for immediate hire before this goes any further. I cannot risk any spread of sensitive information.”

        I attempted to nod, but our scalps scraped together unpleasantly. I drew her attention to my flight jacket so I could show her the parking permit clipped to the inside pocket. “I guarantee absolute confidentiality for all clients. I completely understand your situation. Can I start by asking what, exactly, you did and which organizations are hunting you for it?”

        “You . . . what?”

        I displayed my palms. “It’s fine if you don’t want to say, but I do have to charge extra for the no-questions-asked package. It’s just a risk assessment th—”

        “I am not a fugitive!” She stopped just short of straightening up with offended dignity so as to not knock herself unconscious. “I just require someone who can pilot a ship.”

        “Oh, right. Good.” I bit my lip. “That’s good. Because if you were a fugitive, I would of course have immediately notified . . . Actually, could you just forget this entire conversation up to now?”

        “I’m sorry, this was a bad idea,” she muttered, groping for the door handle behind her.

        “No, no, no, it’s fine,” I was about to grab her arm but thought better of it in such close quarters. “You’ve obviously got a problem and I want to help you, really. I’m as trustworthy as any other pilot and you’ll find my hygiene is better than average. Just tell me what you need.”

        She exhaled at length through gritted teeth. “My employer believes that I have hired a pilot for a private vessel. That pilot has not appeared. I am supposed to introduce this pilot at a dinner this evening.”

        I hit my internal switch so hard that it also illuminated strings of Christmas lights in my head. “You need a last-minute replacement? Look no further. I can fly anything with at least one wing.”

        “The other matter,” she continued, “is that my employer may have already signed a check for the previous pilot’s advance. I believe I may have been the victim of a scam.”

        “How exactly did you meet this pilot?”

        “I used an online search engine...”

        “Oof.” I winced.

        She scowled. “The point is, I cannot allow my employer to know that both of us have been dishonored in this way. That could be very damaging in every sense of the word.”

        At this point my potential client’s uneasy use of the word ‘dishonored’ made me realize that she had been attempting to conceal a Terran accent. “Right,” I said.

        “So I need you to pretend that you are this pilot. I’ll introduce you under his name and you must keep up the identity for the entire length of your association with us. It is vitally important that my employer not realize that a mistake has been made.”

        “By you,” I said, nodding.

        She made a brief, irritated sigh. “Broadly speaking.”

        “Well, I don’t see any problem at all. I mean, star pilots, right? We’re all pretty interchangeable—smell weird, talk about the old days. Where is this dinner?”

        Her datapad was now open and taking up most of the space between us. A spot was indicated on a map of the city, just off Ritsuko’s Heart at the corner of Ritsuko’s Leg. “It’s a place called La Vache in the city center. You’ll need to be there at eight. I can’t offer you the same advance that my employer already paid, but I can offer half the sum from my personal finances.” She switched to some kind of database app and indicated a box containing a figure. “Would this be sufficient?”

        Being very careful to keep a straight face, I brushed at the number to make sure there weren’t any stains on the surface that I was mistaking for zeros. “I think that will be satisfactory,” I said, swallowing hard.

        I let her scan the ID chip in the back of my hand and with a few quick swipes, the balance on my credit account was replaced with a much more encouraging one.

        She swiftly exited the photo booth and was already speed-walking away by the time I’d squeezed myself out and rubbed the ache out of my spine.

        “Hey,” I called after her. She stopped but didn’t turn. “You can relax now. Problem solved, right?”

        “I will make that particular status update once this day is over,” she said over her shoulder. “In the meantime, do not mention this to anyone.”

        “Absolutely.”

Ritsuko City Spaceport, in an effort to mitigate image problems caused by being infested with unemployed star pilots, had taken the step of banning all swearing. This led to pilots taking up the practice of using mathematical terms as swear words on the vague notion that quantum tunneling technology was in some way related to applied mathematics.

        In “Pilot Math”, the word multiply (shortened to ply) replaces the most popular swear word with subtraction (or trac) filling in as an all-purpose noun with scatological leanings. Bracket became a common insult as did decimal point (or doint) and division (div), which also came to mean male and female genitalia respectively.

        The origin of Pilot Math lay in a televised interview between Dr. Terence Dawkins, inventor of quantum tunneling, and David Blanche, noted star pilot and interplanetary war veteran. Dr. Dawkins expressed wonderment that such a massive technological leap had been achieved with “just a little addition and subtraction.”

        A surly Blanche replied, “I’ll give you subtraction in a minute.”

“Yeah, so she’s paying me half a continent to fly some rich doint’s cruising yacht or something,” I said, standing at the laundry counter in my T-shirt and underwear.

        “Right,” said Frobisher, who did not look up from ironing a crease out of my jeans. “So now we’re just waiting for the part when this all blows up in your face, aren’t we?”

        Flat-Earth Frobisher had been a fellow star pilot and occasional friend back in the day. After quantum tunneling, he’d seen the writing on the wall earlier than most and had sold his ship to start a laundry business. A pettier man might have resented this, but I appreciated having someone to talk to who wasn’t competition. “Not everything blows up in my face.”

        He smiled patronizingly. “No, fair enough. But you were talking exactly like this when you got that nuclear waste dumping contract.”

        “We do not talk about the nuclear waste dumping contract,” I said. “Are you done with those trousers?”

        He slid them over and moved on to my flight jacket, reaching for the deodorant. “I like your idea of formal dress, by the way—usual clothes but freshly laundered. Do you even know what level of swank La Vache is?”

        “I wasn’t aware that swank operates on a tiered system,” I said, pulling my luxuriously warm jeans back on. “They want a star pilot, so I’m giving them what they expect. If you were hiring a mime artist, you wouldn’t expect them to show up in business casual, would you?”

        He laughed patronizingly in conjunction with his smile. “I hope you haven’t been going around crowing about this. ’Cause if you’ll do as a last-minute replacement, then pretty much any other pilot would, you realize?” The bell on the entrance door chimed.

        I turned to see a man standing in the doorway. He was well over six feet and packed head-to-toe with rippling, tanned musculature. This was obvious since he was covering his physique with nothing more than a chain mail loincloth and a pair of leather bandoliers crisscrossing his chest.

        “Ho, fellows,” he boomed, tossing his black mane.

        “Hi, Angelo,” said Frobisher and I.

        Back in the good old days, when a star pilot saved a planet, there was sometimes the temptation to stay. For a while, it had even been something of a fashion trend among extrasolar queens and princesses to be seen with a space-hero paramour on one’s arm. The trend, however, was fleeting, and many spurned lovers had drifted back to Ritsuko.

        Angelo had proved himself to a warrior race, not dissimilar to the Zuvirons, and had lived as the queen’s consort for long enough to go native. That was until some other brick house had caught Her Majesty’s fickle eye and he’d been out on his ear. 

        His bulging laundry sack clattered metallically when he dropped it on the counter.

        “Why yes, I’d be happy to polish your armor, Angelo. Thank you for asking so politely as always,” said Frobisher, quietly busying himself with the sack’s contents.

        Angelo glanced at me over his square jaw. “Am I correct in hearing that congratulations be in order?”

        I met Frobisher’s urgent look for a split second. “Er, what?” I said innocently.

        “I hath heard that Den and Mark and thee are pledged to be married.”

        I’d started a sigh of relief but translated it into one of weary good humor. “Oh, yeah. Nice one. A well-landed blow, sir.”

        “’Tis well,” said Angelo, instantly bored. “Hast thou heard the news of Jacques McKinley?”

        I paused momentarily in the act of shaking my sleeves into my ironed flight jacket. “That he’s got another lousy book out? Yeah, I think someone mentioned it. Frobisher, I gotta go. See you later.”

        “Nay,” said Angelo, turning to Frobisher. “There hath been a rumor that he intends to break cover. There is talk of a public appearance.”

        I paused at the door, slinging one ear over my shoulder.

        “Where did you hear that?” asked Frobisher. “’Cause if it was Fat Matt, he was the one who said that Deirdre’s was giving away free banana splits, and now Deirdre’s has been closed down, hasn’t it?”

        “’Tis but a rumor, but I pray to Mighty Bolor that it be true,” said Angelo. He reached behind his back and drew a massive lumpy sword as long as my leg, which he held aloft and stared at as he spoke as if reading off the blade. “My sword Slaybracket thirsts for the blood of the traitor. When he scuttles from his hole, I shall gather our brothers in betrayal and together we shall tear him to morsels fit for the gullets of Ulunian swamp maggots.”

        “Yeah, well, save me a nibble,” I said, leaving to look for a Quantunnel booth.

        I’d been so chuffed by this new gig that I’d forgotten about my scheduled court appearance in a few days. But that was only an issue if the gig went on that long. And even then, maybe I could take a morning off. If not, I wasn’t going to be myself for a while anyway.

        There was a vacant Quantunnel booth near the spaceport that miraculously hadn’t been vandalized. Many of my colleagues flatly refused to use the things out of principle, but I had a pragmatic attitude, and more importantly, an advance.

        I thumbed the topmost option on the touchscreen and passed my chip under the scanner. The machine deducted an amount that would have been much more significant a day ago.

        One rattle of shutters later, the white plastic doorway opened up into the middle of Ritsuko’s Heart two miles away in defiance of old-fashioned physics.

        It was that lively time of the evening in the main square when the businessmen were on their way home and the nightlife crowd was out looking for somewhere to be seen. The two were trying to plow through in opposite directions like a pair of combs jammed together. I did a little hop, took a deep breath, then broke into a sprint toward the junction of Ritsuko’s Leg, hoping sheer momentum would carry me through the mass.

        History tells us that Kaito Ayakama was serious when he suggested naming the central plaza Ritsuko’s Heart after his girlfriend at the time, who was very dear to him. His wife, Naomi, wasn’t too happy about it, but she was stuck back on Earth. History is pretty sure he was joking when he suggested naming the main street Ritsuko’s Leg though. It stuck because no one could think of anything better and Kaito was busy spending a lot of time on the phone with his divorce lawyer.

        For a short while, my world was a confusing maelstrom of expensive suits and clubbing wear before I burst out into the open and was nearly hit by a cyclist crossing the top of the Leg.

        I could see the building now. I’d passed this area many times before, but I’d never noticed it for the same reason I never noticed places that sold insurance. They weren’t part of my world.

        There was no lit-up signage or any sort of flashy architecture on the exterior—just a set of enormous glass windows adorned with straight beige curtains. The name of the place was embossed in barely visible letters on a brass plaque above the door: La Vache.

        I was contemplating the best swagger to put on as I entered when I picked up a familiar scent and noticed my mysterious client, who was wearing a pastel dress that begrudgingly acknowledged the wearer’s physical characteristics.

        She was standing at the entrance to the alley that ran behind the restaurant. Her back was to me as I approached. “Boo,” I said levelly, but it was enough to make her jump.

        “Ah,” she said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear. “You may wait inside for us at the table. Give my name to the doorman.”

        “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

        She was subtly inching to the side to get firmly between me and the alley. “You can call me Ms. Warden,” she said. From behind her came a sound like a deck chair being attacked with a flank steak. She loudly feigned a cough.

        “Riiight,” I said, attempting to peer around her.

        “And you are?” She pretended to lean comfortably on the nearby wall, slightly misjudged the distance, and stumbled in her heels.

        “That’s another thing you’re supposed to tell me,” I said.

        “Now then,” came a male voice from the alley. “What was that you were saying about dress code?” The voice possessed the same Terran accent Ms. Warden had attempted to suppress. “Black tie, or . . .”

        Somebody spat and there was the plink of teeth settling on wet concrete.

        “The options, I believe, were black tie or something else?”

        The second voice sounded more local and considerably more pained. “Black tie or reindeer sweaters?”

        “Yes! You’re a bright one, aren’t you? Let him go, Carlos.”

        Something clattered to the ground and a second later, a man in the garb of a maitre d’ limped around the corner. His pencil-thin mustache was caked in blood from a nose in severe disarray. He looked like he was going to try to maintain his dignity until he saw me. His gaze tracked up and down my outfit, then he burst into tears and slunk dejectedly into the restaurant.

        From the alley came jaunty whistling, followed closely by its originator. He was a middle-aged man with thick black hair graying at the temples and he had a tanning bed complexion that was close to that of a tangerine. Perhaps as an attempt to offset this, he was wearing a vibrantly colored reindeer sweater over a collar and tie.

        Behind him was what looked at first glance to be an enormous red capital ‘M’ in a tuxedo. It was, broadly speaking, humanoid, but the tops of its massive shoulders were about ten inches higher than the top of its head. Its tree-trunk arms reached to the floor, making its sensibly proportioned legs almost redundant. What I could see of its flesh was hairless but for a black thatch on the front of its face, artfully combed into the shape of a handlebar mustache. I didn’t recognize the species, but I could say for certain that its home planet’s ecosystem must have valued grip strength more highly than aesthetics.

        “Oh, hi there,” said the man in the reindeer sweater. “You must be the pilot.”

        “If I might introduce my employer, Mr. Henderson—” began Ms. Warden, not meeting my gaze.

        She was interrupted by Mr. Henderson clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “You know what, let’s save introductions for when we’re all comfy inside. The air in these bubble cities makes me want to have a great spew sometimes.”

        I attempted to follow directly behind him, but a hand like a leather armchair wrapped itself around my shoulder and held me in place until the hulking mass named Carlos could get between me and Mr. Henderson.

        My entire view consisted of a featureless plain of black silk until we were inside the restaurant. What I assumed was Mr. Henderson’s table was surrounded by wait staff making big earnest smiles and the occasional worried glance toward the maitre d’. He was holding a tissue to his face and bowing in the regular rhythm of a drinking bird. The other guests were either already leaving or wolfing down their meals.

        Sitting at the table was a skinny boy of about fifteen, wearing a T-shirt in designer disarray and had a red streak in his unruly black hair. He folded his arms and scowled as Mr. Henderson took a seat opposite him at the head of the table. “Have you gotten your way, then?” asked the boy spitefully.

        “Oh yes.” Henderson chuckled. “We all love coming to places where the Henderson name hasn’t gotten around yet, don’t we?”

        “No, I don’t,” said the boy. “You always use violence to get your way and no one’s impressed. You’re just a big thug.” 

        Henderson laughed again. “Danny’s got big ideas for the organization. Just can’t wait to step into his old man’s shoes, can you?”

        “Don’t call me Danny!” snapped Danny with a prepubescent squeak. “I’m not taking over your company! I’m going to be a star pilot!”

        “Of course you are. And what was it last year? VR game designer? Poetry the year before that.”

        “Urgh,” grunted Danny. His hands dropped onto the table and the plates rattled. “I hate you.”

Henderson winked at me. “Kids. They’re great at this age, aren’t they? Danny’s going to do great things with the family business one day, you just watch.”

        Warden had already taken a seat beside Danny, so I flicked my internal switch and pulled out the chair next to hers with a confident flourish. “And what is your line of business, Mr. Henderson?” I asked conversationally.

        Henderson’s smile froze and his glare pinned me in place half out of the seat. Then he laughed warmly, although his eyes didn’t change. “You’re a nosy one, aren’t you?” he said in an inscrutable tone. “How about those introductions?”

        I glanced desperately at Ms. Warden, who was sitting to my right. She appeared to be staring into space, but she snapped into alertness when Henderson addressed her. “Yes,” she said smartly. “Mr. Henderson, Daniel, may I introduce Mr. Jacques McKinley.”