It’s been six months since our departure from Thebe, the inner Jovian moon. Life aboard the Kitty was almost back to normal, punctuated by the usual heated debates between Ali and I. But as we had already covered an infinite variety of topics, one of them kept resurging to the great displeasure of the weary control computer we’d programmed to track the score.
I was convinced the most beautiful city on Earth used to be Tokyo, the Pacific conurbation and biggest consumerist stronghold against the Communist Eurasia. The brand-new skyscrapers of the Japanese capital once rose above the millennial temples; the cherry trees of Yanaka stole Akihabara’s neon nights stardom; the izakayas combined atmosphere, cheap alcohol and spicy dishes, all lulled by the sweet cigarette smoke and the muffled radio’s sportscasters reporting the last updates from the incoming honbasho. But Tokyo also appeared to be the megalopolis of giant mekas as tech-zaibatsus spent almost two decades building monumental crew-controlled steel samurais to protect the archipelago against the growing threat from the mainland. Alas, the Reds were the first to deploy their war machines and give birth to the megalomaniac-AI that tipped Earth’s fate.
Ali had a different theory she was committed to defend, body and soul. A thesis soaked in PBR alongside a lethal dose of corndogs. “No way, Lee!” she declared, fumbling loudly in her large fanny pack while sitting next to me on the edge of an air conditioner’s outdoor unit. We had begun our fifth hour of boredom watching the back exit of a star-scraper in downtown Canyon Creek, the barely legal racing station in Callisto’s orbit. “There was only one radical place down on Earth and it used to be New York—fucking—City!” She emptied what was left of her sour Nerds bag before wiping the pink foam already appearing on the corners of her lips. “The Big Apple…” Ali resumed as her long hair floated in the wind, nostalgic from a period of time she only knew from I Love Lucy. “Nothing was more wicked!”
“Are you for real? The only interesting landmark—excluding the pointless park—was the pathetic Pan Am Building. But, speaking of architecture, don’t y—” My sapiens interrupted me by putting her index on my nose. Though, this didn’t prevent me from carrying on after biting her finger: “Don’t you know, dear, that the pyramids of Ancient Egypt had been built for, and by cats? That was bigger! And something else worth a shot on this planet, before you, impotent bipeds, blew it up!”
Sucking her bloody fingertip, Ali grumbled before glancing at the alley beneath us. She finished her candies and casually threw the packaging through a shattered window on the abandoned 9th floor before patting on my left shoulder. “Look!” she whispered. Exhilarated, she struggled to grab one of her jetpack’s straps. “The back door opened and someone’s coming!”
That ‘someone’ was Bernie Boesky, the target of a juicy bounty. This heavily indebted gambler with a flat cysts-covered forehead, a premature baldness and Browline glasses was hiding here, on Jupiter XIV, where he had begun another life along a new business under a ridiculous pseudonym.
“Despite his lack of taste—I mean, look at his blue velvet suit—this Boesky is a brilliant mind,” I explained. “He crippled the data-core of its corporation with his own multipartite viruses—the one with maze generation algorithms—then sold his former CTO the appropriate ICE barriers at C$300’000 the diskette! That’s some expensive megabits!”
“Nobody cares, nerd…” Ali sighed, raising her eyebrows with disdain. Every time this Australopithecus did that, my chronic headaches grew in intensity.
“Folks could still work in these buildings,” I angrily pointed out. “Forget the jetpack. We must be as discreet as shadows.”
“I know…. I just came out with the perfect plan. Don’t you worry…” A gleam in the eye, mu human drew the little tantō she had stolen a few days earlier after a quick contract on Lysithea. Mischievous as always, she explained her subtle master strategy, bringing back the reckless Ali I knew: “Imma jump.”
“Wha—what? That’s at least thirty meters!” I stuttered. A fresh cigarette at the corner of my lips, I kept an eye on Boesky tightening his tacky gold-plated Rolex. “No way!”
“Yes way!” she beamed before leaping into the void. “Yippee-ka-yay, motherfucker!”
“Oh dear…” Quoting movies didn’t make her immortal, but I could only blame myself. For years, I have been stimulating Ali’s imagination in terms of violence.
Boesky didn’t see death coming from the skies. My sapiens stabbed him straight in his chest before hitting him head-on. Our target was immediately folded in half, pinned to the ground. His head struck the steel edge of a green recycling container, breaking his temporal microchips and depriving him of his senses. The former computer engineer and his expensive Borderline suit were quickly sliced into pieces. Boesky’s last pleas for mercy were only too-long stifled gurgling, and he finally gave up the ghost between two crimson bubbles.
The job was done, but it wasn’t the end of the story. As my wild human briefly lifted her eyes, her face covered with blood, she noticed as well the woman with a Jheri curl and an impeccable beige pantsuit standing in the door frame. The young Katie Goldberg of FFN-79 was followed by two technicians and a flying Polaroid drone-camera. We had just massacred the subject of her live broadcast.
“Another place throwing us out!” Ali cried. The leather-bound menu still in her shaky hands, she stroked the stir-fried noodles and pork bibimbaps’ holo-pictures as they were her new Rob Lowe’s calendar. “Lee! I’m hungry!” she kept whining before biting the menu’s expensive cover. “Can’t we go somewhere else? Like Himaliapolis—or Elara!”
I sneered. “I’m not sure the Mennonites will be very pleased…”
My partner’s stomach growled loudly, earning us a few concerned looks from passers-by who immediately took shelter into the closest electronic store after recognizing us. Canyon Creek was far too upscale for greasy spoons that would accept two misfits like us. The super-wealthy Martians who still frequented the place weren’t fast-food aficionados as evidenced by the lack of instant nutri-meal vending machines and the regular seedy Hook’n’Tacos.
“Bounty hunters aren’t popular beyond the belt, dear,” I said, jumping from the bench of the bus stop facing the restaurant. “And I think our little TV show didn’t buff our reputation up.”
“I believed violence was in the mix,” Ali complained. “People watch COPS all day long!”
I headed towards the CTR screens covering the window of the RadioShack across the empty street. The Kitty’s crew, former King Xiao’s bane, was making the headlines again. When my sapiens caught up with me, the shock of the electrons on the monitor broadcast Boesky’s gruesome demise in grainy slow motion.
“Why do the anchors keep saying we’re ‘non-affiliated mercs’?” Ali roared. “This cock-sucking Goldberg is making us look like we’re some lawless murderers!”
“Language, girl!” But indeed, there was no mention of us being Alliance’s bounty hunters. Our own firm had sent us an electronic mail a couple of hours ago, saying they were cutting ties and freezing our bank account for a while to preserve what was left of their reputation. In other words, they have fed us to the sharks-media to avoid bad PR. “They’re calling you the ‘Blood Fury of Canyon Creek’ this time,” I read on the chyron beneath the blood-covered face of my partner’s mug shot.
“Is—is that me? I look…” Ali stuttered, her right hand brushing her cheek and chin. “… fucking fat.”
Her sorrow vanished when her stomach rumbled again. She rolled on the floor, and only stopped when someone cast a shadow over us.
“Sincere greetings, Madame,” the newcomer said. “Would you be, I believe, Ali the ‘Blood Fury of Canyon Creek’?” A man, or rather a robot, with beautifully sculpted and animated humanoid metal features had approached us. He wore a blond wig and a long-buttoned brocade jacket with a cream jabot like a true aristocrat of ancient times. We stood in awe of such a disguised android. “Well?” Barry Lyndon insisted in a polite tone, but with a hint of authority relayed by his glowing ice blue irises.
“Yes—I—I guess it’s me,” my copilot stuttered, with her arms spread-eagled on the dusty floor.
Presenting his forearm, the stranger helped her get up before pursuing: “Outstanding!” He then bowed his head to greet her, like a true gentleman. “I saw you on television and I longed to meet you. My name, if I may—”
“You may,” my partner insisted before listening closely.
The android strutted like a peacock, smiled and concluded: “My name is Rodrigue. Rodrigue Bonisseur-Marie Lapérouse, Marquis de Bellescharettes.” He then kissed Ali’s hand; nobody ever kissed Ali’s hand without being instantly slapped to the ground and eviscerated.
That Rodriguo was a strange bird. It was common to cross androids of any function and intelligence in the Inner and Middle System. They were, however, scarcer beyond the belt. The most basic androids, as on board the Danaë, or in most of the space stations, were only slaves with enough spirit to take simple initiatives—just like unpaid Techno-interns. But some, such as diplomatic attachés or research assistants, showed a more pronounced character. Many emancipated themselves over time and traveled on their own. However, most of them were segregated and even hunted during the last decades. This was the case with orgatronic androids—or orgadroids; the first real generation of ultra-intelligent machines using an artificial brain partially composed of organic matter. Judging by his behavior, Rodrigus belonged to this group.
“As for my intentions, my lady, they are crystal clear,” the Marquis continued between dulcet lyricisms aimed to flatter my human. “Should I only dream of inviting you to my family’s annual ball?”
I wasn’t interested in this aristorobot’s smooth talking about his probable Royal Knockout but I perceived stars sparkling in Ali’s eyes. “A ball? With a dress and … a banquet?” she squealed.
This time, my attention was caught by the mention of a feast. The android, who agreed, had convinced me—I meant us.
When my sapiens explained she didn’t have a wardrobe presentable in high society, this “knight in shiny armor” chaperoned her at the best Canyon Creek’s couturier who used to welcome Martian supermodels. The dress, secretly chosen by my partner, as had a lot of jewelry, makeup and perfume, had been entirely at Rodrigue’s expense considering our financial situation.
“I would have never imagined you with the princess kink, Ali,” I said, after waiting for hours in the sewing studio as Rodrigue already left for his ship.
“That ain’t about the clothes,” she answered after paying with a check. “It’s about feeling special and loved, furry ball.” Dropping her large white bag on the floor, she hailed a luxurious taxicab coming our way.
“Don’t I love you enough?” I meowed, pupils dilated, the ears back and flat against my head.
“You’re being silly! Plus, this ball could be fun! It’s like a Disney movie! And you enjoyed Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella the other night!”
“Don’t you dare!” I blew up, making her laugh heartily before she opened the car’s rear door. “People can hear you, woman!”
“Pretty woman…” my partner corrected me in a sassy manner, brushing the top of her wide Borderline shopping bags before the driver stuffed them in the front trunk.
