Hey, happy happy. Credits in the bank means red meat on the table. I pick up some choice cuts for Gran Gran and Paw Paw, though they don’t eat much cos of them being old. They live out on Pier Seven, stickin’ out into deep space away from the sun. It’s on account of the views, they say, though I can think of better things to look at than loading docks and a power station. Luckily for me, Ma and Da moved to Kentucky Fried Side before I could go completely space-crazy, but downside is longtrek to the Gramps. So there’s me, pushing past all the busy-busies on the way to wherever, zoned out on their zombie phones not lookin’ where they’re goin’ an’ bumpin’ into everything. I hit the Hub Express at Downspoke Seven. Have to wait on account of all the extra people around these days. “Hoi Anton!” cries numnutz SkankBoy from the crowd. I ignore him on account of me owing him scrip and hustle to the shuttle. All sardines, all the way with me nostril to armpit with some tattooed leather giant with a shower aversion. Same ever since the bellyachers blew up half of Midspoke an’ made us all squeeze tight. Ironic, since the ‘achers were jus’ arguing that the Reps should jus’ expand the habitat already, instead of dragging asteroids all over the place.

Get there eventually, jus’ before I pass out from tattoo troll’s stench. I look around: dingy grim, jus’ like I remember. Worse, if that’s possible. Some of the lights are out and a few of the rest are flickering. Don’t they have maintenance bots in Pier Seven? Maybe the local Rep’s not ponied up the scrip.

“Hey Baby Boy,” says Gran Gran with a smile when I get to the apartment, even tho’ I’m seventeen and ain’t no baby no more. She don’t look too good, sitting on a recliner with her feet on a big cardboard box filled with Trump knows what. She’s wearin’ some sort of tattered robe she probably got as a wedding present back before the beginning of time, and furry slippers I bought her for Christmas when I was ten from the hand-me-down shop off Downspoke Mall. She thought they were new then, bless. Prob’ly still does, ‘cos her mind went some time ago.

“Hey Gran Gran,” I say with as much enthusiasm I can muster given the place smells of cabbage and the lighting makes everything look grey and pasty. Speaking of which, “Where’s Paw Paw?” On cue, he shuffles from the bedroom coughing into a handkerchief. Flecked with red, I notice. I don’t kid myself he cut himself shaving. “Hey Paw Paw,” I call. “Got you steaks.”

“Mushmeat?” Gran Gran asks, trying to haul herself up. I help her out, pushing cushions behind her on account of the recliner’s electrics being glitched. “Cos you know I don’t like mushmeat.”

She told me once that she knows that mushmeat is jus’ ground up dead bodies with some exotic herbs and spices thrown in to disguise the taste. Everybody knows that mush is ‘shrooms but Gran Gran likes a good conspiracy theory. Like her one about the Credits. “No, real meat, Gran Gran. From real Vatbeef. I even got the hormone free stuff, on account you’ve got a thing about that.”

“Ain’t no ‘thing’, Baby boy. Is real. Give you two heads if you eat too much of it.” She does that inverted comma thing with her fingers when she says ‘thing’, which amuses me, jus’ fer a moment, cos me and Maisie used to five bar gate her doin’ it when we were kids and she’s not around anymore so I win. Don’t feel like winnin’ though ‘cos she ain’t here no more and I’d gladly lose to have her here, bein’ the sensible big sister and stoppin’ me bein’ the stupid young brother. But she’s out in the Kuiper Belt now, pushin’ rocks around. Prob’ly never see her again.

Paw Paw grabs the meat an’ sniffs. “Where’d you steal it?” An’ hello to you too, Gramps, I think but don’t say, on account of not wantin’ a clip round the ear.

“Bought it, Gramps. Turned Seventeen last month, remember? Got my own scrip now. Can buy stuff.”

Paw Paw shuffles over to the cooker area and starts banging pans. “You might want to save some of it for when you need it.”

“Aw, rich now Paw Paw.”

He turns, faster than I would have thought he could, spatula raised an’ wagging at me, spittle foaming out of his mouth, proper cross. “That’s fer life, boy, not for now. Spend it now, how ya gonna pay your Air Bill when you’re my age? Huh?”

I look at him, panicky, then look at Gran Gran. “Don’t pay him no mind,” she says, not entirely reassuringly. “We got air. At least for a year or two yet. So long as we don’t go splashin’ out on Vatbeef.” She chuckles, long and hard, which turns into a cough, an then I have to go an’ pat her back an’ wipe her drool. Visitin’ the Gramps sure grounds me, yeah. Would grind me down, if I wasn’t such a sunny face guy.

Paw Paw’s back to cookin’, but he ain’t stopped talkin’ yet. “I voted for the policy, boy, so I know what I’m talking about.”

I have no idea what he’s talkin’ about but he’s Paw Paw so that’s nothing new. Besides, somethin’s wrong so my sunny disposition’s dimming a bit. More like a partial eclipse at this point, but Paw Paw’s about to make it a whole lot darker, I jus’ know.

“Sounded good at first,” he carries on, “though they lied about the benefits, and didn’t tell us about the dangers. I know, I know, we should have worked it out,” he says, waving the spatula.

“Don’t ignore the steaks, Paw Paw,” I say, worrying he’s going to overfry them. He’s forgotten the onions, too, though I don’t think he’s in the mood to be reminded.

“But it sounded too good to be true. Take all the stuff we got for free but actually costs money—air an’ water an’ healthcare an’ stuff—and put a monetary value on it. Then roll all that up into one big lump sum an’ give it to ev’ry citizen when they get old enough to make sensible decisions on how to spend it. Tho’ if you ask me seventeen is nowhere near old enough.”

I eye roll but say nothing. Oldies allus think they know best, but who can take ‘em seriously when they pee their pants so much?

“But it ain’t enough, so you need to invest it. An’ not be tempted to spend it on fancy stuff like Vatbeef.”

“Gotta eat, Paw Paw. ‘Sides, plenty of time to get more scrip. Think of it as an investment in my feelgood. Yours, too. You feelin’ good?”

Sometimes I should not ask dumb questions.

“That’s a live hard die young philosophy, boy. You know what that is? Squander your inheritance on high living then die in a gutter lyin’ in your own puke.” He looked over at Gran Gran and grinned. “You want carrots with this, Celestine?”

That’s her cue to lay her Credit theory on me again. “Sure, Patrick, ‘cos we grow our own, which is good, because we ain’t got credit for veggies no more, at least not if we want to be breathin’ anytime soon.”

“Aw, Gramps, you know I can help you out some. I’m rich now.”

“Ain’t gonna be long before that’s a distant memory, Baby Boy. Y’see, unless ya got a job which pays more’n dust and promises the only way you can make it to the end is to assume you’re poor from the off and spend as little as you can. Eke it out. You might think you’re rich now but that’s a lifetime of air and medicine you’ve got to allow for. And don’t think they ain’t gonna jack the prices, neither.”

“Aw Gran Gran, why be a downer?”

“Because I can see it in your eyes. You think the future’s gonna provide, don’t ya? Well all the future’s gonna get you is arthritis and broken dreams.”

I think I’ve got away with it, because Paw Paw comes over with the steaks, all juicy and lovely, and Gran Gran got that look in her eye. Then we talk about who’s going to win Pier Seven’s Freeball game with the Jersey Boys, which is kind of a fantasy ‘cause Seven are gonna get slaughtered. But then she pauses, mid mouthful, and says it. “They planned it that way, of course. Keep the population down.”

“What you talking about, Gran Gran?” Da had told me what the credit gift was really about, and he knows a lot more than Gran does, that’s for sure. He has his own hair and teeth, for one, and that’s good in any argument. Da says it’s all about “economic empowerment and engendering a sense of responsibility in an otherwise dependent population.” I had to look some of those words up, but what I think he means is people are smart. They can choose whether to save scrip for the boring stuff or invest it wisely so there’s even more scrip. Or spend it all so you go out in a blaze of glory.

Or maybe lay it all down on a stupid bet with SkankBoy after he plies you with Synthky so you convince yourself there’s no way you can lose.

I start to think Gran Gran might have a point.

“But the conspiracy, Baby Boy, is that the Reps know that most people will spend more than they should, because that’s human nature, and because there ain’t enough in the first place. Because the Reps want us to have dumb choices so we’ll make dumb decisions. Dumb for us, smart for them that is. Now poor folks like us have to choose whether to eat or breath. Been to five funerals since Christmas. And you know what? Every one of those poor people jus’ ran out of scrip.”

“Why would the Reps do that, Gran Gran?”

“Crowded corridors, Baby Boy. We’re running out of room. This is a good way of weeding out people like me and Paw Paw who fail to make ‘meaningful choices.’”

“But you guys go to Church every Sunday. You worked steady until you retired. And this place is, pardon me for sayin’, furnished like you got everything from the stuff the thrift store couldn’t shift.”

“Reckon we’d have been okay if we hadn’t paid your sis through college. Don’t regret it though,” said Paw Paw.

“I thought she got a scholarship.”

“She never would have taken it if we’d told her. So don’t you go tellin’ her now, boy.”

“But ...”

“Steak’s nice, son.”

*     *     *
Enlightenment strikes when I’m strap handling on the way back to Kentucky Fried. I thought I go to see Gran Gran and Paw Paw out of love, or obligation, or something. But really I go to the oldies for a reality check. And this time I went because I know sumthin’ ain’t right and I wanted them to confirm I’m not jus’ feeling bad ‘cause I’m a wuss. I’m feeling bad ‘cause I’ve screwed up, but Paw Paw succeeded in convincing me that seventeen is absolutely the worst age to let someone loose with a suitcase full of scrip, so maybe it isn’t my fault. Maybe Gran Gran’s right. Maybe the Reps want me to lose.

At least I won’t have to spend a lifetime of misery jus’ so I’ve got enough air to breath when I’m the gramps’ age. Because I know SkankBoy will be waiting for me with that toothless grin on his face and a credit transfer reader in his sticky, outstretched palm.

I’m only breathing now ‘cause SkankBoy fronted the bet, on account of me being not quite seventeen at the time. That was a week ago, and I’m surprised it’s taken him so long. I sit on a bench on the platform, head in hands, trying to think.

I don’t really register there’s anyone sitting next to me until three trains have gone by. Then she coughs and I realise she’s been there almost as long as I have.

I look up. “Know you?”

“Mostly I ignore the sad, miserable ones. So no, you don’t.”

She’s ‘bout my age. Skinny, black straight hair covering most of the left side of her face. Nose stud. No tats, at least none I can see. Passably pretty, I guess, not that I care. She’s lookin’ at me too. From the bad-smell look on her face don’t think she likes what she sees much. “Then why you sittin’ here?”

She looks around, waves her hand. “See any other benches that ain’t been peed on or destroyed?”

She has a point. “But you missed your train.”

She laughs, a raspy gargle that suggests the air ain’t too good. “You too. And that’s a mystery. And nothin’ I like more’n a mystery. So I figured you’ve got a story and there’ll allus be another train. I’m Amy, ‘case you’re wond’rin’.”

I’m not, but all of a sudden I get this stupid idea that if I tell someone what’s going on then it’ll stop being my problem and start becoming theirs. So I tell her. Everything. About the Synthky. About the bet. About SkankBoy and his smilin’ face.

For some reason she’s not smilin’. She shifts back on the bench, as far as she can get without fallin’ off, before she gives it me. “I can’t believe you’ve been so stupid.”

“Told you it was a story worth listening to. Unless it’s your own story, of course. Then it’s a story you wish you’d never heard.”

“Yet you’re still sittin’ here, with all your credit intact.”

“Where there’s life there’s hope, yeh?”

“So we need a plan.”

“We?”

She leans forward. There’s a gleam in her eye. “This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Don’t spoil it.”

“Fun? The gramps jus’ made it crystal clear that without scrip I’m breathing vacuum. And once SkankBoy catches up with me there’ll be extra holes in my body to breath it through.”

“C’mon. You haven’t lived until you’ve nearly died.” And then she grabs my hand and pulls me up jus’ as another train slides into the station.

*     *     *
We don’t stop at Kentucky Fried on account of my ongoing paranoia, despite Amy wantin’ a square-up with SkankBoy, jus’ fer “fun.” Instead, we talk and talk—or more precisely, I talk and talk and she listens and listens, though I’m sure most of what I’m sayin’ is dull dull dull.

We ride an’ ride so far round the Rim that I start getting’ dizzy, an’ I lose any idea of where I am. Then she stands up, abruptly, an’ I’m left to choose to follow her out of the train or stay travellin’ round the Rim until I eventually starve to death. I choose Amy, though she’s without a doubt certifiably insane and I’m not even sure she wants me to follow her.

“Where are we?” I ask, because it looks a lot like Kentucky Fried.

She turns and smiles. I’ve been blindsided. We’ve gone all the way round an’ back again an’ now I’m gonna haveta make my peace with SkankBoy after all. I think she can see it in my eyes, that raw jus’ before death terror. “Was gonna come sometime,” she says, not exactly reassuringly, “might as well be now.”

Might as well be never, I think, though my eyes are scannin’ and I figure it’s not too late to get on the next train. But there he is, large as ugly life standin’ about ten metres away, an he’s got his main men, Paulo and Griezemann, with him.

“Anton!” he says, all smiles. “Where ya bin?”

I try not to sound paranoid. “Had ter see me Gramps, is all.”

He cocks his head to one side. I hear Paulo crack his knuckles. “Not thinkin’ of runnin’ out on me, are you boy?”

“I ain’t no boy!” I cry, then realise my mistake.

“No, that’s right. You’re not. Which means you have somethin’ that now belongs to me.”

Paulo and Griezemann walk over, slow like. I’ve got my back to the edge of the platform, so no way back there an’ no place to run ‘cause there’s people all over an’ they’d slow me down.

My eye keeps shifting between SkankBoy’s grinnin’ face and the half metre wooden pole that’s suddenly appeared from somewhere an’ now’s in Griezemann’s left hand. There’s somethin’ embedded in the end—nails? Razor blades? In fact I’m so engrossed that I don’t notice Amy casually movin’ towards them. I figure SkankBoy’s not clocked she’s with me. Jus’ as well, ‘cause if he knew this would never work.

She’s almost by Griezemann. Lookin’ like jus’ another person on the platform. He hardly sees her ‘cause he’s lookin’ at me. Then she trips, falls and then does something’ all twisty, rolly an ‘ acrobatic, bangin’ into his legs an’ knockin’ him right on his backside. Then the pole’s in her hands and she’s swingin’ at Paulo. Halfway through she turns to me an’ yells at me to run. That affects her swing an’ I can see Paulo’s gonna sidestep it, but she can (clearly) look after herself an’ I (very clearly) can’t so I don’t wait for her to yell at me again. I run, wrong way up an escalator, scatterin’ oldies an’ children every way, an ‘out into the street. When I turn she’s right behind me, laughin’.

“See? That was fun!”

I don’t see, I wanna yell at her, I don’t see at all. But at least I know where I stand with SkankBoy. Dead man walkin’.

We run an’ run. There’s noise behind but I don’t turn around and we zigzag through a couple’a alleyways an’ then all’s quiet. I stop, pantin’, an’ lean over, hands on hips.

“That was your plan?” I say between deep, racking gulps of fetid, chemical stinkin’ air. Runnin’ in Fried ain’t good for the health. “Confront SkankBoy an’ see what happens?”

“No, Anton,” she says, not even soundin’ out of breath. “That was me validating your story. Which checks out, by the way.”

I puzzle on that, but I wouldn’t believe my story either.

“Yeah, well, can we get a better plan?”

She grins. “Still workin’ on it. Best we lay low somewhere though, yeh?”

*     *     *
Somewhere turns out to be somewhere else entirely.

“I’ve never been to 42 before,” I say, open mouthed, as the train we’ve snuck onto pulls onto a gold and marble platform. Looks like the magical land of DisneyOz, but I don’t say it on account of bein’ a man now an’ not wantin’ ter sound foolish. Gettin’ here took quite a lot of the credits SkankBoy wants ter take off me, but what the hell, Amy says, if he’s gonna get ‘em we might as well spend ‘em first. I’m not convinced this new plan of hers is any more sensible than the last one, but at least I’m still standin’ and at ticket prices deliberately set high to dissuade folks like me an’ SkankBoy takin’ to the rails he ain’t likely ter be following.

Folks here all wear suits an’ that jus’ makes me aware of the rags me an’ Amy are in. I ain’t bathed in Trump knows how long neither. Nor has Amy, by the look of her, all sexy-dishevelled, but she’s sure as hell smellin’ sweeter than me.

“Good place to lay low,” she says, leadin’ me into a hotel I know I can’t afford. ’Cept I can, ‘cause I’m seventeen-year-old rich. For now.

There’s a pool in the atrium big enough to swim in with a real fountain an’—I’ll swear to Trump—some sorta pink wading birds walkin’ around pecking at something, lookin’ so lifelike I’m pretty sure they ain’t robots at all.

We get to the desk and at first I think they’re gonna call the cops on account of the rags an’ the stink an’ all. But Credit talks, right? So a cute receptionist with way too much makeup looks us up an’ down, checks my balance an’ smiles like she means it. At least we don’t go for the presidential suite. Amy lets me settle for one upgrade from Standard. Free toiletries but no extra towels an’ SurroundTV extra, which I reluctantly mumble a yes to. The room’s huge, bigger ‘n Ma and Da’s whole apartment. Hell, the bathroom’s bigger ‘n my bedroom at home. We shower, she smiles, lets her towel drop, an’ then it all gets super-intense.

Next morning we take full advantage of the complimentary breakfast. We’re late down, on account of getting’ mighty distracted all over again, so we’re alone save for the harassed serving staff who don’t even try to hide the look that says go away so we can have our break.

“I really like you,” I say, with bit of croissant in my mouth. I ain’t never had croissant before, an’ it tastes jus’ like something outta DisneyOz should.

“I really like you too,” she says back, an’ that’s when I know I’m in love. We talk a bit about my situation, tryin’ to come up with something.

“Of course, they can only take the scrip off you if you have it,” she says. She’s wise, my Amy. “So if someone else had it ...”

“... they couldn’t touch it.” Because we’re all under 24-hour surveillance an’ if anyone does anythin’ illegal like coercin’ anyone to do somethin’ they’ve not already agreed to without coercion, like handin’ over all your scrip after a bet that goes wrong, then the cops slam yer in jail. SkankBoy can hassle me ‘cause I signed up willingly. But Amy?

“Got a plan,” I say, understanding but not really caring that it’s actually her plan, coming out of my mouth. “You take the scrip, keep it safe for me. Give it back when the danger’s passed.”

“But Anton, are you sure?”

It sounds obvious, so I press on all enthusiastic, ‘cause I love her which must mean she loves me back.

“Yeah, you can give me scrip for food an’ air whenever I need it, an Shankboy can’t touch you, ‘cause his beef is with me, not you.”

“Well, if you’re sure ...”

Because I’ve got a loved-up brain that ain’t workin’ properly I don’t think that maybe she agrees a little quick, ‘cause she’s got her palm out an’ I can see by the blue subcutaneous glow that she’s got her Reader on. I clasp, concentrate, an’ the transfer’s done. I keep a few scrips back on account of needin’ to breath but otherwise, job done. SkankBoy ain’t got anythin’ on me now.

We go back upstairs and seal the deal again. When we’re done, Amy heads into the shower an’ I doze. When I wake, she’s gone.

There’s a note. “Anton,” it reads, “best we split for a while, until SkankBoy gets the hint and stops chasing you. I’ll find you. xx”

Makes sense but makes no sense. We didn’t talk about that bein’ part of the deal. Panicked, I comms her but there ain’t no reply. ‘Course, she’s prob’ly in a tube somewhere headin’ to hidin’. Or maybe she thinks SkankBoy’ll be tappin’ my comms so she ain’t gonna risk a reply. Has to be that. I leave a message, all love an’ stuff an’ missing ya, and think through my next move.

I check my scrip, curse, an’ check out of the hotel I can’t afford no more. I think about taking the train out of town, but the whole point of being in 42 was that SkankBoy wouldn’t follow and besides, a ticket would cost most of my remaining scrip. So I wander around ‘til it gets dark, then I bed down on a park bench, hoping the cops have too much to do to scoop me up for the drunk tank, and wait for Amy’s call.

I mooch around for three days getting steadily poorer and developing a mighty crick in my neck before it occurs to me that Amy ain’t gonna call. Besides, I don’t have any choice no more. I have jus’ enough scrip to get me back to Fried.

So I take the train. Funny how that marble station don’t look so impressive no more.

*     *     *
Da ain’t impressed. In fact, I reckon he’d a’ walloped me if he hadn’t been such a pacifist. Instead, he factssplains me, and the facts ain’t pretty. We’re sittin’ at the corner café, on account of me bein’ too ashamed to go home an’ him bein’ too damn angry to let me. I’m sippin’ water on account it’s almost free so long as you buy a latte or somethin’ like the one now goin’ cold in front of Da’s incendiary temper.

“Yer goin’ red, Da. That can’t be good.”

He looks for somethin’ to throw, but there ain’t no salt pot on account of the latest health drive so he settles for givin’ me a hard stare. “You’ve been conned, son.”

Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. Then he does.

“Did you think your friend Boyd would really take all your credit?” Boyd is SkankBoy’s real name, only no-one calls him that ‘cause no-one wants to get a knife in the kidneys. “No son, he’d go to jail if he did.”

“Why? It was a fair bet. He’s entitled.”

“No, you were drunk.” I hadn’t told him about the drugs. “And, more importantly, you were sixteen. Too young to enter into a wager like that. And he knows it.”

I want to ask him how would anyone know, but I know the answer of course. 24/7 observation. A transfer like that would be picked up. Questions would be asked. Surveillance footage and comms taps would confirm.

I sit, broody broody, an’ Da finally drinks his latte. When he finishes, he glances at his watch. “Hold your hand out, son.”

I do and he transfers some credit. Not much, jus’ enough for now. Then he stands up. “That’s the last. And you’re not coming home. Go chase the girl, if you can find her, which I doubt. Then work your way out of this mess.” Then he walks out, leavin’ me open mouthed.

“Tough love,” he pings through my comms a couple of seconds later. My reply ain’t so polite.

I look for her, though it’s half-hearted. I sleep on mate’s floors, until they all get sick of me, then I check into the hotel that rents rooms by the hour down on Fifth intending to stay in bed until my scrip runs out and fate takes over. But fate kicks in early ‘cause the guy that owns the hotel sees somethin’ in me that ain’t there, an’ as I’m not averse to leadin’ someone on if it’ll get me what I need (I learned that one from Amy) I take his job offer and get free accommodation and basic scrip for eight hours a day of boredom behind the reception desk’s steel bars. Gino, the owner, is too busy to bother me much (and besides, I kinda think he likes the flirt rather than the follow through, which is another thing I picked up from Amy), and I get to know some of the girls who invariably arrive with fat guys in crumpled suits and leave on their own, lipstick smeared, tower heels slung over their shoulders. They’re fun, when they stop to talk. They can see I ain’t no threat—they probl’y draw all the wrong conclusions ‘bout me an’ Gino—an’ talk about their lives chasin’ scrip and tryin’ to avoid a batterin’. They’re all wannabe somethin’ elses. Actresses, mainly. A lawyer or two. One of them, Becka, used to be a cop but she let her reckless nature take over an’ now she works for herself. No regrets, she says, ‘cause she’s takin’ back control. An’ besides, as an ex-cop she can handle herself. Under her black straight wig there’s cute brown curls. I think about askin’ her out an’ then remember Amy, who could, jus’ could, be waitin’ to call. Besides, Becka would prob’ly kick me in the balls jus’ fer askin’.

The first day off I get I go lookin’ for SkankBoy. I know I’m invitin’ trouble but I have to know. I have to know if Da’s right.

I track him down in his den, an abandoned apartment on the third level, high enough to have a good view of the main thoroughfare. Skank has his feet up, arms wide and his usual beaming smile. This time it looks genuine, though I can never really tell, and he welcomes me warmly.

“Anton! What a nice surprise!” He gestures over to Paulo, who brings me a beer. “Take a seat.”

It’s not a suggestion so I sit, flanked by Paulo and Griezemann standin’ arms folded behind me. I don’t need to be able to see ‘em to tell they ain’t too pleased, but Skank, now, he’s somethin’ else. Happy? No, that’s not quite it. Smug. Superior. Someone who’s rollin’ the punchline of a private joke around in his head knowin’ that we little people will never get it, an’ the joke’s on us.

“You don’t seem too unhappy that I ain’t got no credit to give ya,” I say, nothin’ left to lose.

He waves me off. “I’m sure you’ve worked out by now that I couldn’t have taken your scrip even if I’d wanted to.”

“So what was goin’ on back at the station?”

“Partly I was jes’ torturing you.” He smiles, showin’ shark-teeth, “An’ partly I wanted you to do somethin’, and I figured if you thought you owed me, you’d be much more likely to do it. Offer’s still open, if you want to hear it. A job.”

“Don’t need no job.”

“Word is you do. Breathe in, breathe out. I’m sure you want that to continue.”

I stand. “I’ll take my chances.”

He leans back and laughs. “Whatever. Come see me when you change your mind.”

I don’t waste any time wondering what Skank’s job offer might be, other than to remind myself that it would almost certainly involve illegality, and lots of it. Word is that Skank’s got some high-up on payroll—must have, or he’d never get away with the stuff he does—which makes him dangerous to be around. Besides, I don’t fancy my chances with Paulo or Griezemann soon as his back’s turned.

So I go back to the hotel and spend my days taking scrip from fat guys and makin’ new friends with the girls. After a while they start droppin’ off “tips” for me when they leave. I ask Becka about it an’ she says it’s ‘cause they know I’d look out for them, ‘case of trouble. ‘Cause I’m the kind of friend who don’t want nothin’ in return for smilin’. Apparently I don’t judge, though maybe my life would be a whole lot easier if I did, once in a while.

Anyhows. Life’s startin’ to go good, or as good as it can without Amy, an’ I’m thinkin’ of askin’ Becka out again ‘cause I’m pretty confident she’d say yes when fate kicks me where it hurts again. It’s midnight, or thereabouts, an’ I’m jus’ relaxin’ with a book, feet up, when the door opens and two guys walk in. I look around, but there ain’t no girls with ‘em. I catch a small glimpse of silver as they sidle over, jus’ enough, an’ I ping Becka with the one word that’s gonna get me fired, or worse. “Cops.”

Then there’s movement upstairs and the cops are lookin’ up, before turnin’ back to me to give me a curdled milk glance. Then they’re off, one up the stairs one into the elevator and the bangin’ upstairs gets louder ‘n louder. I can hear someone shimmyin’ down the fire escape an’ then I hear the unmistakeable sound of knee in groin an’ Becka runs past, draggin’ a wasted looking girl with acne and purple hair behind her. “Thanks, Anton. Next life, yeah,” she calls as she hurtles past. And that’s the last I see of her.

The cops hold me for three days then they have to let me go, on account of it not being a crime to send a one word comm message to your friend, even if it does screw up a well-planned (if poorly executed) police raid. There’s some talk of charging me for “aiding and abetting” but I guess they figure small fry like me ain’t worth the paperwork so they throw me back onto the streets. When I get back to the hotel, though, the place is police taped and Gino’s hangin’ around lookin’ so disconsolate I let him buy me a drink.

Jus’ a drink, mind. I’m still thinkin’ of Becka. Wait—Becka? Amy’s face pops into my mind but now it’s blurry round the edges and I can’t remember what she sounds like anymore. And that’s when I know for sure that even if she did call, no way was it gonna be roses and chocolate.

I don’t have a job anymore, on account of the hotel bein’ closed for “condoning illicit unlicenced activity,” which makes it a tax issue rather than a moral one an’ tells me all I wish I didn’t know already about the way it is in this Trumpforsaken habitat. So I go lookin’ for Amy, not loved up no more but righteous. I take the train to Rhode Island, which is where I first met her. I keep away from the gangs roamin’ the streets but I keep an eye on them, expectin’ her to be amongst them, laughin’ and manipulatin’. But she’s got scrip now, so she don’t have to hang around that decayin’ hole.

An’ then it hits me. She prob’ly never left 42. Why would she? It’s DisneyOz, closest thing to heaven on the whole of Station X. I race to the tube, check my credit. Not enough for the trip but I’ve seen people sneak on an’ I know how to do it. I can settle up when I get my scrip back.

I lean in my seat, doze and relax. But I don’t get to 42. I don’t get further than the next stop before the doors open and the cops come in, lookin’ straight at me. I swear they’re the same ones as the hotel, mainly because they have the same menacing balding buzzcuts they all seem to. Maybe they’re robots, I think as they drag me away, though that would be all sorts of illegal (and stupid, since intelligent robots = AI = Terminator = out the airlock).

They stick me in a room an’ tell me how it is. I took a ride without payin’. Boo hoo, ‘cept it’s a ride to 42 an’ I’ve finally exhausted my scrip. Which means (an’ they don’t have to look so pleased about it) recycling. For the good of the community. Tomorrow.

I panic and reach out to Da, even tho’ las’ time all he offered was advice, an’ look where that got me. But he’s “number unobtainable,” which panics me even more an’ the cops won’t let me call the Gramps ‘cause I’ve wasted my one call on Da. Least it saves me from Paw Paw’s smug told-ya-so face.

I ask for a last meal but the grizzled cop tryin’ not to look at me tells me it’d be a waste of resources. I’m in a cell lyin’ on a plastic-covered mattress tryin’ to go to sleep, ‘cept my heart’s beatin’ too fast to let me. So this is where fate takes me. Or is it me? Am I to blame for my own fate? I’d thought so once, because I’d entered into my wager with SkankBoy knowin’ full well what would happen if I’d lost. So even though Skank didn’t get the scrip maybe this is payback. But I’m nearly eighteen now an’ things are clearer. I’d been lied to, manipulated and exploited. My Da abandoned me and I lost my job because Gino hadn’t greased enough high-up palms to stay in business. Not my fault, none of it.

Doesn’t make it any easier when the door swings open the next morning. The grizzled cop throws a bucket of water over me and laughs. “That water’s free. Any more you have to pay for. Oh, forgot. You can’t.” Then he laughs again and I wonder if I can hit him, now I’m going to be recycled into Mushburgers anyway.

He doesn’t give me the chance, on account of me being in chains and him standin’ six foot seven an’ me only five eight. So I brood an’ fantasise about what I’d do to him if I get the chance, which takes my mind off what’s going to happen to me.

I swear the habitat’s temperature regulators are on the blink, on account of the distinct chilliness in the air as I walk the last few metres. There’s a small crowd either side of the walkway, invited guests, probably, come to see the feckless and the impoverished get what they deserve. I imagine SkankBoy’s in the crowd, smiling, next to Da wagging a finger an’ sayin’ “shoulda listened to me!” I entertain a fantasy that Amy’ll be there, right at the end, pleading with the cops to let me go an’ holdin’ out her palm ready to transfer my credit back.

But she’s not, and as I look round and take my last look at the fetid, decaying pile of rusty metal that’s all that stands between humanity and vacuum I curse the fates that laid me low, and Amy who nudged them in the wrong direction.

A steel door clangs behind me. Inside other prisoners, also in chains, mutter an’ shuffle. Everyone’s starin’ at the floor, trying to avoid eye contact with the guards, and with each other. I don’t care. I’m dead anyway so I might as well look around. There ain’t no proper lights, only emergencies, making the whole place look greyed out. It’s a small room, by the hull, and the seven of us plus two guards make it breathin’-down-your-neck full. At the end there’s another door and two people in white coats walk through it, a man with a close-cut grey beard and a woman, short and dumpy with glasses. Doctor Death an’ his chubby sidekick. She don’t look up neither but he does, looking each of us in the eye. Everyone else tries to look away but I jus’ stare at him. Satisfied, he moves back to the door. “This one,” he says to the guard, indicating me.

The other prisoners look panicked, but surely they can’t be as panicked as I’m feeling. The guards lead me through the door the Doc’s jus’ gone back through, leaving the others to their fate.

This room’s brighter and bigger, but I can’t pretend I feel any relief. Maybe I’ve escaped recycling, but there’s the unmistakable bulk of an airlock door in the corner and that can only mean one thing. Spaceboy. Close up. No suit.

But then the Doc looks me up and down an’ nods, as if he’s tryin’ to persuade himself he’s made the right decision about me. “Got a choice for you, boy.”

I ain’t no boy, I wanna yell, but he’s the guy with the guards and the ‘bility to send me back for recycling, so I keep my mouth shut an’ listen.

“You can go back in there,” he says, jerkin’ a thumb over his shoulder, “or take a chance on something new.”

“What?”

“Can’t say.”

Which means that the ‘chance’ has to be worse than the metal room.

“All I will say is that one choice will most probably lead to a premature and undoubtedly painful death, and the other ...”

Well, if he’s gonna put it that way. “I’ll take it,” I say, survival instinct kicking in. It’s a gamble, but I lost the last bet so the odds are way better that this one will turn out good.

The room gets all blurry Kandinsky even before the Doc reaches over to me, syringe in hand. And then I black out.

*     *     *
I don’t really expect to wake up, but that’s what happens. My Da brought me up not to believe in the foolishness of an afterlife so something else is going on. My mouth’s dry and I’ve got a pounding head.

There’s a thrum. I’m on a ship.

I look around. Hospital room, no other occupants. I’m hooked up to a saline drip, which I carefully remove. I’m wearing a hospital smock and, presumably, a bemused smile. I wander the corridor looking for people, but there ain’t no one there, at leas’ not at first.

And then I bump into Amy.

She’s wearing something military looking, but when I look closer I see it’s a Mining Corps jacket. Which means ...

“... we’re going to the Kuiper Belt. Welcome aboard.”

I wanna kill her, I really do, but my legs start to collapse and she leans forward to catch me.

“What?” I croak as she leads me back to the hospital room.

“They needed volunteers. We volunteered.”

“I didn’t ...”

“Yeah you did, the day your credit ran out. You figured better take a chance rather than end up Mushburger. But you know, bet you didn’t figure on endin’ up here. They gave you the ‘once choice leads to death’ option, didn’t they?”

“Sure as hell wasn’t goin’ ta choose that one.”

She laughs. “But you did. They tell you you’d be recycled otherwise?”

“That’s what Da said. An’ ev’rybody knows.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a rehabilitation and education programme. Plus workgangs on the hub repairs. You’d’ve had the chance to be star pupil.”

“So this is ...”

“The death option, yeah. Open only to people like us who fit the profile.”

I groan an’ palmslap my forehead. Looks like I lost yet another bet. Maybe I should give up gamblin’. “But I ain’t no miner.”

“Are any of us? One way trip, mos’ prob’ly die out there. All we have to be is disposable, young an’ fit so it takes longer fer the radiation to kill us, an’ able to press some buttons. Pretty sure that’s in your skillset.”

“Why you?” I can hardly breath now, and my headache is intensifying.

“Credit ran out too. Doesn’t last long in 42. Not with my tastes.” She smiles, and I momentarily forget why I want to kill her.

“You. Didn’t. Call.”

“Now obviously that would have been foolish.”

“But ...”

She sighs. “I’m sure you’ve worked it out by now. No hard feelings?”

I consider my options: I’m in no position to kill her right now. So I lie.

When I recover the First Officer shows me round the ship. It’s large, but then it needs to be because it’ll take us years to get to the Belt and in all probability we’ll never get back, so it has to keep us alive for a very long time. There’s a crew of sixteen, mainly volunteers like me and Amy and a few real volunteers, who actually want to go as far from the sun as is possible without actually leaving the solar system.

I check out the airlocks very early on, waiting for a chance when I can lure Amy towards one. There’s no 24/7 surveillance on the ship, and I don’t even know if there’d be comeback even if I did space her, particularly when I tell everyone what she did. But as time goes by I start to forget what she stole from me and begin to remember what I liked about her in the first place, so I decide to wait a while. After all, the airlock’s not going anywhere, I tell myself. And eventually I can’t imagine why I would ever think of spacing Amy. Doesn’t mean I trust her though—after all, I ain’t seventeen anymore.

The best thing of all is that there’s no credit on the ship, jus’ food and air and Amy. And nobody’s going to cheat me out of any of it.