Marco was, to his partial amazement, still alive.
Looking at Gram’s advice, he decided against it. Working in the mines would not be for him. Arrive early, bending down, walking with your back scrapping against the ceiling, working in the dark. He’d be so dirty when he came home that Ira probably wouldn’t even want to touch him. It paid well, but Marco didn’t exactly need the extra coin. Instead, he answered an advert for a farm, which did strike him a bit odd given how fucking cold Upper Winslet was, but hey, everyone’s gotta eat something, right?
It was a “Boutique farm,” but really, it wasn’t much of a farm at all. It was a deep underground bunker with one of those creepy thinking machines, giving orders to the workers on a big flashing board. The light was always red, the air constantly thick and moist. Being underground with that red light for hours, it was hard to keep your wits about you. Rows upon rows of plants sitting their roots dangling in water from floor to ceiling. The place was underground so that it could still take advantage of thinking tech. He had to learn way more shit about plants than he ever wanted to. Humidity, light, light wavelength, temperature, and nutrient mixture were all calculated and controlled by the machine to provide leafy greens and herbs to mass-market middle-class yuppies for the lowest possible cost. But there were offshoots of private rooms with big glass terrariums that could run historical simulations for the proper rich toffs. Seemed like bullshit to Marco. How could they know what some old stiff’s rosemary was like? If Gram was there, he’d probably explain some science shit about computers and climate. It didn’t matter. All that was important to the customers was that each plant came with a little certificate of authenticity and a mechanical readout signed by the ‘master botanist’ himself. The botanist didn’t seem to know too much, but he surely drank enough gin to at least smell flowery.
Marco was mostly put there to supervise the dolphins. They gave him the creeps. Looked like folk but wrong, glassy eyes, wordless mouths, hairless heads covered in scars. They acted like they didn’t have any brains at all. It took a while to teach one how to do even the simplest shit, but once you did, they would stay on task, no sleep, no breaks, nonstop. At Crius, they had dolphins, but it wasn’t like Marco had to see them up close. But here, his job was mostly to make sure they stayed on task. If they started messing up, he’d report them, and they’d be back two days later. The other part of his job was doing some of the more complicated instructions for custom jobs that the dolphins couldn’t handle. Down there, nights could bleed into days. He lost all sense of time in the nonstop red glow. Marco blamed this for his worsened temper.
In the mail with his termination notice was a verbatim transcript of Marco’s last few minutes at the farm.
SUPERVISOR JOHNSON: We need to have a talk. You have been quite off in ensuring the custom stocks. This basil here was off by over an hour.
EMPLOYEE ALEX BROWN: Not like anyone will ken the bloody difference.
SUPERVISOR JOHNSON: Of course not, but that is why we have this whole underground facility. It will provide them with a full indisputable readout of the history of their plant.
EMPLOYEE ALEX BROWN: I was busy with the other stuff, there was a malfunction with the reds fer the main and it was confusing the dolphins, and anyway who wants to read a bloomin book bout their bloody basil.
SUPERVISOR JOHNSON: Our betters apparently.*sigh* Don’t worry so much about the other plants. Their purchasers have *pause* less refined tastes. Consequentially they provide much smaller profit margins. Really the plants grown in the main are mostly just here to fill up remaining space leftover from the custom jobs. The customs are the real reason you have a job and don’t you forget it. We have a reputation to uphold here at Winslet Purity Natural Organic Farms. Can I expect you to keep this in mind going forward, Alex? Or are we going to have a problem?
EMPLOYEE ALEX BROWN: Go fuck yourself. I don’t need this feckin job anyway. *crashing sound*
[Transcribed automatically at 2:25 AM by surveillance bot 1012]
He had found that the level of bullshit he would tolerate was a lot less now he wasn’t shit broke. It was only his life on the line, not the rent. Besides, the irregular work hours had been hard on Ira. She had always told him to quit, always said he should just throw the note away. But he kept it, and he would look for another job. Soon.
What time was it? Past noon? Impossible to tell, given he kept forgetting to wind the clocks. He could smell bacon and eggs. Real bacon was something he could get used to.
“Ira? Ira darlin’?”
No response, time to get up. As far as hangovers go, he would give this one a four out of ten no big deal.
Walking into the kitchen, he saw a plate with a single cold slice of bacon and some little bits of uneaten egg white as well as a note. Biting down on the half crunchy, half chewy, entirely cold bacon, he picked up the note.
Marco Bear,
Gone out for the day,
don’t wait up for me!
Love,
Your Ira
A feeling welled in the pit of his stomach.
Familiar thoughts flooded his mind.
She is just spending my money, that’s fine.
Everything is okay.
She needs to get out of the house sometimes.
She didn’t sell me to an information broker yet, and won’t today.
She loves me.
Overthinking shit was Gram’s game. It leads to nothing but trouble. Everything was fine. It was too late to start looking for a new job. He might as well relax. Maybe he should clean out the pan and make some bacon and eggs. No, he always burned them when he tried himself. Besides, cooking wasn’t man’s work. Drinking was. Grabbing the crystal glass Ira had bought him, he poured in a few glugs of tigal. He hit play on whatever record Ira had been listening to last, some Rondeq singer or another, and looked at a stain on the ceiling trying to determine whether or not it was growing, a task that became harder the fuzzier his vision became.
A knock at the door, he guessed Ira had forgotten her keys. There used to be a secret knock Gram told him which went *knock*knock*knockknock*knock* *knock* *knock*, but it didn’t take long for Ira to get tired of it.
He answered the door and realized, looking at the man in front of him in his fancy white coat, that it was, in fact, not Ira.
“Alex Brown?” The obvious goldy at the door said.
Marco was relieved, something about work probably. He suddenly became sharply aware of his yellowed shirt filled with holes, his torn stained trousers, his unshaven muzzle, and his lips dyed tigal purple. Marco straightened his back, correcting his posture.
“What’s this about then? ‘ere to complain about the bloody basil or sumthin’ ?”
The man smirked. “Do you happen to know a Marco Jones?”
Fuck.
Marco slammed the door and ran for the bedroom.
The man obliterated the door like it was tissue paper.
Marco grabbed the revolver out of the nightstand and pointed it at the door. Marco only had to wait a second for the man to step into the open door frame. Marco fired and kept firing until the revolver only went click click click. His heart was racing. Now that’s excitement! He was glad Ira had convinced him to go against the note and get the gun, and the poor bastard wouldn’t suspect a thing from a no-fight contract.
Calmly making a trail through the gun smoke, the man stood unscathed, smirking his fucking smirk. He raised his gun to Marco. Marco instinctively threw the empty gun to the ground and closed his eyes. He pressed his hands against them, waiting for it to all be over.
“Tssk tssk, Marco, you are not supposed to being playing with toys.”
Marco removed his hands and opened his eyes to that self-satisfied smirk. Marco felt like an over-boiled egg.
“You were a hard man to find there, ‘Alex.’ ”
That fucking smirk.
“Ya well ‘ere I am in the flesh, jus’ get over with it.”
“Are those your last words?”
Wait. The drawer. Something else.
Remember ya jackass!
Marco lifted his hands above his head. “Wait!”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got somethin’, wait!”
He rummaged through the drawer, matchbook, other matchbook, other other matchbook. Christ! How many different bars is Ira going to? He glanced over. The man was staring at his pocket watch.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. It’s here. It has to be.
Wait, coat pocket, maybe it is in my coat pocket.
“Lordship, would you mind, lettin’ me grab m’ coat, promise won’t try nuthin’.”
“Raise a hand at me again, and I will atomize that great big melon of yours without hesitation. Do you comprehend me, Marco?”
“Yes, sir.” Marco nodded. If he could only punch that fucking smirk off his face, that would show him just how much Marco ‘comprehended.’ Searching around his coat, he finally found it, the sealed paper. “Perhaps sir would like to read this?”
The man took the note and opened it. His grin vanished, his brow furrowed, and he placed the note into his pocket.
“I see,” The man said, lowering his gun, looking defeated, “Clever, very clever. But you do know this means you need to keep your mouth shut, right, Alex?”
“ ’course I know that, but also means I never see you ‘round this place again,” Marco said, spitting on his own floor.
“Yes, yes, crystal clear. I have already had the tour, not exactly worth the return visit. Feel free to leave this place, Marco. But do not return to Elysia.”
“O, an’ are you going to give me the money to fix my door?”
“You really should not press your luck, dear fellow. Consider yourself fortunate as it stands.”
“Yeah, well, jus’ don’t let the shreds o’ door hit ya’ on the way out.”
His heart pounded. How was he still alive? That was much easier than he thought it would be.
What the hell was that note? Blackmail?
Hands shaking, he lit a cigarette.
He needed to tell Gram.
The man left through the shattered doorway. Good riddance ya prick.
Marco really had beaten the hunter.
Homo Economicish 