Instant Message by Terry Light

Terry with a Beer

Just in case I get famous someday and my stuff gets published, it fits about forty years  after Invasion of the Cephalopod Dudes, shortly after Boogity and The Disappearance of Caylid Cholg, but before Beauty Wears a Gun, and a few years before the novel, First to Fight.  Of course (like I said), none of those have been published yet (actually, a few have appeared in e-zines now) TL.

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Instant Message

I typed, “Disregard last message,” and sent it to Ruper.

There was no last message.

Small enough to fit in your pocket, a Genie could be a wonderful thing.  Depending on its power, memory, and size, a person could use a genie as a phone, computer, or more.  With a memory module large enough, an Artificial Intelligence (AI) could fit inside.  It could be a pad, clipboard, or as small as a phone.  Mine mostly kept me in touch.  My Genie was also smart enough to include software allowing it to disguise the source of the message.

My name is Oscar.  Or Roscoe, Irwin, Felix, Zeke, Max, Lewis, Bertie, and others.  I like my anonymity and have used a lot of aliases.

Sitting in a beige armchair on the orbital platform public concourse, I read the news fax as I spied on Ruper Penfield Grosbardier guzzling his morning orange juice in the restaurant just across the way.  He stopped when his own genie alarmed, looked down at it, and saw my text message.

It was a signal.

I made the money drop.  On the Genie, I pretended to be the guy who was supposed to make the drop.

Ruper always wore a pinstriped suit with a vest.  The suit always had a watch pocket and that always held a pocket watch, even though his Genie had the time on constant display.  In fact, he had just looked at his genie but he paid no attention to the hour.  Instead, he took out the pocket watch on its chain and checked it.

Five-fifteen in the morning.

Ruper had a strangeness about him.  He did not mind mixing with the rough-and-tumble crowd aboard the station, but absolutely refused to touch money in public or in front of others.  That was why he played this game.   Ruper would receive a “secret” signal on his Genie then, today, he would slowly amble down to the space station records center.  Most of the station’s medical data was electronic, but some doctors liked to see material on paper instead of a board.  Besides, this manner of paper storage was convenient just in case the data got wiped by a magnet or something else.

Closed at this early hour, Ruper had a key.  Once inside, he would send an “all clear” signal and receive a response with a code.  That code referred Ruper to an area in the files.   There he would find a shut nylon bag.  In that bag would be money.

Today, there was a lot of cash.  Ruper knew it, too.

Collected from new ships as they docked, funds were also gathered from space station shops, businesses, and other criminals as weekly “protection.”  Carriers who paid didn’t have damaged cargo nor would their passengers be hurt, injured, or killed.  When it came to murder, most of the time the perpetrator made it obvious.

“Ruper ordered this.”

Ruper was mean-spirited.

He enjoyed sending “messages,” especially when they involved people.  It could have been someone who transported passengers, a person from his criminal enterprise, or someone not associated with him at all.  Cargo might make more money, but Ruper did not enjoy that nearly so much as he liked to intimidate people.

His mother meant to name him “Rupert,” of course.  She accidentally left the “t” off the birth certificate.  Afterwards, since “Ruper” rhymed with “Super,” she left it alone.  “Super” Ruper was in his mid-thirties and had developed a receding hairline, but combed straight back he felt it made him look “distinguished.”   That was probably why he drank tea instead of coffee.  He felt more British and that was certainly “dignified.”  He had a hooked nose, thin lips, gaunt-looking cheekbones and was a full two meters tall, easy to follow in a crowd.  He was also very vicious and detached, almost business-like in how he handled annoyances.

He killed them.

Like I said, Ruper was not a fun guy.

At the restaurant, Ruper paid his check, got up, strode down the concourse past me, eventually turned into a small passageway on the right, and headed towards the station’s medical records storage area.  It was dark, files arranged in rows, aisles between each row.  I didn’t even know why such a place was necessary in this day and age.  Just have multiple places to keep information, for goodness’ sake!

I received a message on my Genie.  When decrypted, it said only, “Go.”

Everything was “all clear.”

I sent a message to Ruper.  It said, “Page Two.  XXXX273236.”  The “page two” portion of the instant message was my own invention.  I could imagine Ruper, the mob leader, looking at the message and wondering, ”What the hell was on page one?”  I laughed.  That appealed to my sense of humor.  The number told Ruper what aisle to look in the records room, the location of the stash, and so on.  He picked up the nylon bag, stuffed it inside his jacket, headed toward the door and exited.  The door closed and locked by itself, he entered the corridor, could turn left or right but chose right, rounded one corner, and…

…was confronted by a squad of police.

Silently following behind was another squad of police.  They were from the surface so Ruper had no chance to pay them off.  “Super Ruper” was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  Perhaps he would hire a good lawyer.  Maybe they would only get him for protection and he would only spend a couple of years in prison.  I didn’t think so because his buddy had rolled over and talked to me, then he had talked to the police.  With his testimony, the authorities should nail Ruper for racketeering, murder, and most everything the district attorney could think up.

I still liked aliases and anonymity, even if I was the good guy.

Today, call me Oscar.

Ruper shouldn’t have killed Holly.  She was just an attractive con woman who helped an old guy escape, liked me, and wouldn’t let Ruper push her around.  She was my friend.  I didn’t mind that he was caught at all.

I sent him a last message.

“Page one,” it began, appealing to my sense of humor.

“Watch out for cops.”

Copyright © 2009 by Terry Light