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DEALER
by Robbie D. Whiting
Jeorn slammed back his fourth shot of Montressorian Brandy. It fired
his throat, but did little to melt the ice-block of pain in his stomach;
he'd taken a rifle butt in the abdomen the day before, and it still hurt
like hell.
"Another," he said, careful not to slur his words. Monty had a sixth-
sense for intoxication.
"You're on duty, Sergeant."
Jeorn tossed a crumpled fiver onto the scarred mahogany bar top. The
bartender considered the bill for a moment, his yellow cat-like eyes
blinking without rhythm. "Alright. One more," he said in pigeon English.
"Then you leave."
Jeorn leaned back against the bar. It was approximately midday on
Montressor, and most of the patrons had filed out for sacrament. A man
in a heavy woolen bombardier jacket occupied the stool next to Jeorn
-- otherwise the bar was empty. Grey light filtered down from hissing gas
lamps onto a shabby array of teflex drinking booths and hardwood tables.
The place was probably a couple hundred years old, Jeorn imagined. It was
early colonial trash. But at least it was a safe place to drink.
"Did I ever tell you about the first person I killed on this planet,
Monty?"
"Many times."
Jeorn laughed. His head was spinning. "Riot duty, it was. She was twelve
years-old. Maybe thirteen. I don't know, I didn't really get a good look at
her. Krabbat or Krobout, or some name like that. Anyway, she had a gun,
guess that's the most important part." His gut lurched every time he told
that lie. She hadn't had a gun. In fact, he'd shot her in the back. He had
sprayed the whole crowed, but she had been the only who had died. Her
screams and sobs were burned into his memory forever.
"Hot enough for you, soldier?" The man sitting on the next stool asked.
Jeorn raised his eyebrows slightly. It was over a hundred Eff's outside,
in the shade.
"I'm used to it. I lived in LA for a few years. That's on earth, you
know."
The stranger smiled, and Jeorn was surprised to see a mouthful of
polished silver. A deep purple scar ran down from the man's one yellow eye
and terminated on the tip of his hard, chiseled chin. In the place of his
other eye there was a gaping hole. The man was physically repulsive. Beyond
his scars and injuries, however, he could have been a typical Montressorian,
or thereabouts.
"You're missing sacrament," Jeorn said. "I take it you're not too fond of
the Resurrection?"
"There's no law against Atheism that I'm aware of, soldier. It's been
many a year since Dissenters were flogged. Thanks to re-colonization,
eh friend?"
Jeorn nodded. The Union had been instrumental in saving these people
from lapsing into barbarism. Yet there still existed a strong anti-Union
imperialist movement on Montressor. Clearly this man was no sympathizer
of the Resurrection. Despite his appearance, the stranger was likeable.
"I'm Jeorn. Sergeant Jeorn Burnd, UAN Navy."
"Lub-cretus," the stranger replied in standard Montressorian greeting-
language. "I've taken the name Goethe. You may call me that."
"Goethe?" Jeorn laughed. "Now that's unique. Do you know who he was?"
"Most certainly, Sergeant, though few do around here. And your name? I
fail to see any historical, cultural, or literary allusion. Is it a
recent name of significance on Earth?"
"No. It was my grandfather's name. We don't 'choose' our names like you
do. Names don't mean anything to us, really. A man defines his own
character. His name doesn't reflect his beliefs or creeds."
Goethe rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Gol clitch, Monrewerd!" he
yelled. Monty immediately appeared from the back store room and poured
two glasses of distilled brandy from the large vertical decanter. He
slopped them down in front of Goethe. The bartender gave the scarred
man a cold, hard stare. But Goethe barred his teeth, clicking them loudly.
The small bartender returned to the store room, grimacing.
"What was that all about?" Jeorn inquired.
"He doesn't like serving soldiers on duty. Brandy?"
Jeorn took the offered glass, sipping it slowly. "Maybe he just doesn't
like soldiers. I've always had a feeling about Monty . . ."
"Nonsense. He is a good man. Just cautious." Goethe drank deeply, closing
his eyes for a moment.
"You ever hear of a glass eye?" Jeorn asked, grinning. "Might improve
your chances here, if there were any women to speak of."
"Where I come from, these are beauty marks, friend."
"And where would that be?"
"The Constantius Sector." The man produced a cigarette from a fold in
his jacket. "Got a light?"
"Constantius?" Jeorn glanced over his shoulder nervously. "Do you know
who I am? I'm an MP, Union Navy. Don't tell me you're a trafficker --
you've no idea the penalties in this sector..."
"I prefer 'purveyor of pleasure', friend. My substances are only illegal
in provincial backwater spirals, like here on Montressor. A relic of the
Judeo-Christian ethic, it is. Impediments to the civilizing mission of all
mankind."
"Then why don't you go peddle your drugs on another planet?"
"Too much money to be made here. The Resurrection has made this place a
gold mine for me. Prohibition drives the prices up, as you are undoubtedly
aware. I'd be a pauper anywhere else." The man leaned close. "So do you
have a light or what?"
"Alright," Jeorn sighed. He looked over his shoulder one more time. "Why
are you telling me this? I've enough on you to bring you before the
magistrate this very minute . . ."
"Monty said you can be trusted."
"I see," Jeorn said softly. He took another drink and licked his lips.
"So what do you have?"
"Many things. And right now I'd trade it all for a simple match or
perhaps a gas lighter."
"Forget it, I don't smoke. I want to know what you have."
Goethe shook his head and tucked the cigarette safely back into his
jacket breast pocket. "I can offer material goods as well as . . . services."
"Such as?"
"Women, men," he flashed a gleaming grin. "Or anything else that may be
to your taste."
"I'd be interested in some methamphetamines," Jeorn said.
"I'm sorry, I don't deal in poisons. Pure Constantine elixirs, trace-
inducers and feelgoods only." Goethe paused. "But you don't need any of
those do you? No, I think I may have something more . . . more suited to
your needs."
"Go on."
"I couldn't help but over-hear your comments to Monty earlier. About
a certain killing of a certain young female? Riot duty?"
Jeorn frowned. "What about it?"
"Please, hear me out, friend. I have a most rare powder -- which can
be ingested or inhaled -- whose numbing capacities include, but are not
limited to, relieving certain varieties of post-traumatic guilt. A rare
powder altogether."
Jeorn shook his head. "I never said anything about guilt."
"So you didn't. Forgive me. I'm alpha-recpetive, you know. I must have
misread you."
"Must have."
"But it is nothing to be ashamed of, guilt. We have all walked those
dark halls. Some shall walk them for the rest of their lives. The effects
are like excess baggage. Needless weight. A life-draining burden."
Jeorn felt a chill hatch at the base of his spine. It slithered up his
back like a hungry snake. "What nonsense," he said, shaking his head.
"You're either a cynic or a romantic. Life has a tendency to come and go.
That's it. There's no guilt involved."
Goethe laughed loudly. "And you call me a cynic? Listen to yourself!
You're rare, Sergeant Jeorn. So do you want the drug or not?"
Jeorn sighed. "I suppose this 'rare powder' is expensive?"
"Grown in the shade of a velvet moon and watered with the milk of
angels! Is that what you want to hear? Of course it's expensive. It
was developed by a Ghrotian herbalist, and neurologically tested,
I assure you."
"Don't give me your medicine show bullshit. I know how you work.
You'll be on the next shuttle to Birnool while I'm left with a placebo
of dehydrated milk and sink cleanser. I ought to arrest you right here."
The man jumped off his bar stool. "You insult me. I must be going
now." He dropped a thirty-note on the bar.
Idiot, Jeorn thought, there's no such drug. But a bloodied image of a
small girl floated across his mind's eye. She was lying face down,
twitching uncontrollably, in a pool of dark liquid.
He didn't know what made him do it, but he yelled, "Goethe!" Wait!
I'll . . . I'd be interested if I could be sure . . . ."
Goethe stopped with one hand on the door. He turned and nodded
seriously. "Of course. I would be willing to give you a small trial
amount. But not here. Let's go out back."
The two men emerged into the afternoon heat; It was a humid three-sun
day. They trotted around to the north side of the building, behind the
alley waste bins.
Goethe put his hand on Jeorn's shoulder. "I must warn you, however,
if you decide on this fine product, it will be expensive."
"I've got plenty of money, don't worry."
"Good, I like to hear that."
The next few moments were a blur of motion and pain. Jeorn stumbled
back a few paces and stared in disbelief at the knife protruding from
his chest.
"Don't make a sound, friend, it will only prolong your suffering."
The man removed Jeorn's watch and wallet in an instant.
Blood covered his entire torso and Jeorn gave in to gravity. He tugged
at the blade, but it was lodged in his sternum and wouldn't budge.
"I warned you it would be expensive, friend. Goodbye."
Jeorn lay his head down on the ground and sobbed.
Goodbye, he thought.
# # #
Copyright 1994 Robbie D. Whiting
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Robbie is a senior at the University of California, Riverside. His current
field of study is history, with an emphasis on modern European progression.
However, Robbie admits, if he could make a living as a writer, he'd be
willing to sell his soul. Cheap! He continues to hold down a variety of
jobs to finance his expensive, albeit outdated, computer. He sincerely hopes
his writing will eventually free him from a life of indentured servitude. You
can expect more gothic sf and dark fantasy from him in the near future.
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