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Bad News From Orbit
by Ken Rand

Copyright (C)2004 by Ken Rand


The Ear of Mt. Horiuchi

I knew the instant I walked into the Wafaerer's Siding that I'd more likely leave as an organ donor than
as a Kirov Prize for Journalism candidate.

An outer ring runway informant had tipped me that I'd find CMC Sgt. George Horiuchi in the pub. I
wanted to be the first newsworker on Berenson Corp. Station Number One—or “the One,” as
everybody called the orbital city—to interview Horiuchi after what Colonial Marine Corp execs had
called his “selfless bravery in the face of enormous odds, blah, blah,” and “single-handedly securing an
amicable resolution of the Spiratz Mining Division Altercation, etc. blah, blah.” CMC media releases
were pure static, so I wanted to talk to Horiuchi himself, away from his handlers, to get the real story, to
find out how he really won the war.

Many newsworkers covered the “Altercation,” as the government called the rebellion on Spiratz, but
maybe my runway sources were better than others were or maybe I just got lucky, I don't know.
Anyway, Slinky Tomasi, one of my contacts, earned his extra twenty-mark chip for being the first to find
Horiuchi. I flipped Slinky what he called his “eyeball coin” and got to the Wafaerer's quick. Who knows
which of my rivals Slinky would deliver the same message to next or how long I had before the pub
looked like an Intersystem Newsworkers’ Assn. convention.

Who knew if Horiuchi would talk to me at all? Still, I had to try.

Wafaerer's Siding is a notorious hangout for shipcrew, dockhands, stimpeddlers, thieves, smugglers, and
various n'er-do-wells. It was on the city rim, heavier spin grav so cheaper rent. I'd heard that it once had
a realtime view of Earthome, that smoking, toxic black cinder where people used to live, if you want to
call it that. But those old transparent plates against the outer wall had probably been covered with
posters and vids long ago. Who wanted to see that toxic wasteland, a sore spot in the spinning
starscape?

The Wafaerer's Siding had become legendary as the place where Adrian “Doc” Kennedy lased his
former shipmate, the outlaw Percy Diego, two years past. CMC execs had posted the place off limits to
grunts on R&R, but that didn't impress Horiuchi.

Stamper Clyme, the Wafaerer's owner-operator, became wary of the media after the Kennedy-Diego
shoot-out. On the one hand, the publicity helped business. On the other, it drew too much attention from
authorities. Company gendarmes descended on the pub and had a field day clearing out their “most
wanted” files. Tourists, slumming, looking for local color, stole ashtrays and towels until Clyme started a
gift shop next door as a sideline.
He wasn't excited to see my ident on the entry keypad.

“Peter Amundsen,” he muttered as he scanned my card readout, “TransSystem InfoNet. Newsworker.”
He spat as if he'd just bitten into a rotten pitflower seed, and made no move to key entry. By Intersystem
Convention Code, he couldn't deny entry to anyone not proscribed by a federal Interdiction Tag, but
ICC regs didn't prevent him from making it clear with his unwelcoming gaze that he was the boss and he