Independent Living by E. M. Foner

Author:E. M. Foner [Foner, E. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Foner Books
Published: 2019-04-12T22:00:00+00:00

Twelve

“Wakey, wakey. Sheezle bugs and gravy.”

“What?” Bill asked groggily. He’d been dreaming about picking an alien analog to cherry tomatoes on an ag world covered with endless vines of the fruit when somebody had turned on a radio that started playing a commercial jingle about bugs in an endless loop. “Radio. Turn off.”

“I’m not a radio, though I am available to perform the wake-up call of your choice for a small recurring fee,” Flower informed him. “The security chief is on his way to see you and you don’t want to be in bed when he gets here.”

“Alright, already. I’m—where are my clothes?”

“I had a maintenance bot undress you and send your clothes to recycling. Don’t worry,” the AI spoke over Bill’s protests, “I had the bot go through your pockets first. I left you thirty creds for spending money and opened a ship’s account for you with the programmable cred, which had one-hundred and two creds on it.”

“I had a programmable cred?”

“You didn’t know? That seems odd, even for a human.”

Bill hesitated, and then realized he was about to repeat the story of his theft for the security chief anyway. “I took it from a gang member who was teaching me to work a stunner so I could mug miners.”

“Good for you,” Flower congratulated him. “Normally, programmable creds are keyed to the individual and won’t transfer balances without voice confirmation, but as an authorized register dealer for the Stryx, I can override the lock-out for sums below ten thousand creds.”

“I’m worth a hundred and thirty-two creds? I’ve never had that much cash in my life.”

“Actually, you’re worth a hundred and twenty-seven creds. I had a shop deliver a new set of clothes and charged it to your account. The proprietor discouraged me from ordering new shoes based on measurements, and your old boots were actually salvageable, though they’ll be uncomfortably warm here.”

Bill spotted the new clothes, underwear and all, neatly folded on the cabin’s built-in desk, and he rolled out of bed to get dressed. He ended up on the floor.

“Do you require assistance?” Flower inquired.

“Muscle spasms.” He tried rubbing his lower back and his abdomen at the same time, then grunted and forced himself to his feet. He didn’t even bother trying to stand on one leg to get into the underwear, instead sitting on the chair and dressing himself with deliberation.

“I didn’t know whether to get you boxers or briefs so I chose the boxer-briefs.”

“I wondered what they were,” Bill said, and winced as he bent to pull on the socks.

“Your guest is here,” the Dollnick AI announced. The door to the cabin slid open, admitting a large man wearing the black fatigues favored by human mercenaries. “I’ll let you two chat, but I expect him out in the corridor doing calisthenics in five minutes, Tyrell.”

“Your wish is my command, Flower,” the security chief responded. “Here,” he added, offering a small box to Bill. “It’s a basic ear-cuff translator, compliments of the captain. When you earn some money you can rent or buy a better one.

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