The Great and Good Hal Bester

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. This is probably a good thing as Hal Bester has been wailing in his ‘Weekender’ spaceship for the past two hours.

Bester, the ‘Space Playboy’, is heartbroken. Space Playboys aren’t meant to be heartbroken. If anyone found out, his reputation would be in tatters.

Hal is the son of Alfred Bester, the eccentric inventor of, amongst other things, the microwave toaster, the levitating cat, and the human teleporter. It was only this last invention that made any money and it made a lot of it. A ludicrous fortune, in fact, more money than almost anyone else has in the entire solar system. Hal was born into an infeasible fortune and he’s capitalised on it.

“You’re just a rich kid” was the message floating in the air in front of Hal’s teary eyes, projected from the holographic messenger on board his ship. It was from Libby, a girl he had been pursuing for some time. In between his wails of rejection, he stands up, swipes his fists at the words hovering in the air, and then collapses back onto the metal floor in a defeated heap.

Three years ago (Earth years that is, the only proper way to measure time), Hal was branded ‘The most eligible bachelor in the solar system’ by Solar Social magazine. He has the front cover of that issue framed in the entrance hallway of every one of his holiday homes, ten feet high.

And Solar Social are right. Hal is a catch. He moves around in high society, planet and moon hopping with his Space Playboy buddies wearing tuxedos and cowboy hats, descending upon planetary and lunar resorts without warning, commandeering them as impromptu party venues, whether they liked it or not. Their debauchery was legendary, cemented by one incident where Hal and the other playboys landed their Weekenders on Phobos, the largest moon of Mars and home to the solar parliamentary building, teleported inside parliament during a live session and held a two-week party. The stunt drew a great deal of negative attention towards solar high society in general and made Bester (both Hal and Alfred) a lot of enemies, especially considering Hal used insider knowledge of the teleporters to hack the security and ‘port directly into the debating chamber with his drink and drug buddies.

The incident also made him a legend. In a solar system already irreparably divided by class and money, Hal is hated by billions and yet loved by even more. He is the poster boy for fast-living excess, and if you asked most young men of the solar planets and moons what they want to be when they grow up, the answer is normally “a space playboy” or even more specifically, “Hal Bester.”

Bester’s closest friend and partner in chaos is Quaid Verhoeven-Clarke, or QVC as they call him. He’s another “rich kid” whose father, Arthur Verhoeven-Clarke, patented the rights to the holographic messenger that became standard installation on every spaceship in the solar system, making the Verhoeven-Clarke’s almost as wealthy as the Besters.

Hal’s own holographic messenger on his Weekender burbled. “Incoming call. QVC. Incoming call”.

“Voice only!” he shouted at the disembodied voice. A calm ping rang out and then…

“Hal?”

“Quaid.”

“I just heard. I told you Libby’s a cunt.”

“Don’t call her that, we’re going to get back together and I’m going to hate you for it.” Bester snapped.

“Bro, she humiliated you. Straight up. Who says no to a marriage proposal so publicly, let alone from Hal fucking Bester?”

“Exactly!” Bester shouted. “Exactly! I’m Hal fucking Bester!” he screamed, slamming his fist into the floor, “I’m Hal Bester!”, his pinky ring made the tiniest of dents in the metal panelling.

“Where are you, bro? I’ll ‘port to meet you. Give me your co-ords.”

“You can’t port to me, I’m in the system. I’m not on land.”

“You’re still up there? You need to dock! You’ll get stranded. Remember the kid who got his Weekender stuck in interplanetary space and died of starvation? That will be you. You’ll be an idiot in a tux floating around in a metal pod when they find you.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. Then she’ll know what she’s done to me.”

“Maybe you need to stop being a dick and come back home to Tranquility Vally.”

“Fuck the moon and fuck everything,” Hal said, reaching over to the dashboard and terminating the call.

---

Hal was in New London. It was 3 months since his public humiliation and 2 months and 3 weeks since Solar Social ran a front-page article on the event. Hal didn’t have any copies of that in his hallways.

Many citizens of the solar system had rubbed their hands in glee at Hal’s misfortune, others rallied to his side, but he didn’t want support, he just wanted to get away. New London seemed the best option to escape, the walled city with its strict admission policy and tight security was perfect. There would be no roaming cameras or holo-drones following him around there.

As he flew his Weekender in, he passed low over the boondocks, the shanty towns that hugged New London’s metallic walls, and there he saw not one but two effigies of himself, a giant one hanging from a pylon, and another, an unkind portrait of his face painted on the side of a building with the words “Fuck the Besters, eat the rich” spray-painted next to it. The slummers had drawn a target on his forehead and he could see people had been throwing rocks, or perhaps even shooting, the painted wall.

“They hate us because we have,” said QVC, pausing dramatically, “and they have not”.

“They seem to hate me the most.”

“That’s because, HB, you’re the richest. That, and you broke into the Solar parliament.”

“So did you.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t the one who hacked security because Daddy forgot to encrypt his workings.”

Hal looked down and stuck another scallop in his downturned mouth.

“More wine? Or do you want a sniff of something harder?”

They are dining in Xenon Tower, a giant needle-shaped building that sits in the centre of Mayfair. Xenon was the company that both built and distributed Bester’s patented teleporters.

“I need to prove to Libby and to all those idiot slummers outside the walls I’m not just a rich kid.”

“This again? Bro, forget it. They eat their own, that lot” QVC waved his hand towards the horizon. “Look, the Solar system is full of the underclass and High Society holds this whole thing together. We’re the glue. We’re doing our civic duty by being who we are. Space Playboys are a sacred band of brothers with hundreds of years of tradition. We’re the crème de la fucking crème. We set the standard. These people need to look up to us. Look what your dad did. Look what mine did. Are they happy? No. We make their lives better and they hate us for it .”

“Libby isn’t a slummer so why does she hate me?”

“Because she’s a snitch” QVC replied, pushing his holo-phone into the centre of the table as it projected a 3D image of a newspaper in front of Hal’s eyes.

‘Hal Bester’s Runaway Bride Arrested for Corporate Espionage.’ read the headline.

The half-eaten scallop fell out of Hal’s mouth.

---

Hal and Quaid sat on the top floor of the needle in a wood-panelled room decorated with framed photos of London sights, old London sights, before the Calamity, before London fell, before it was sold to Xenon who pulled it out of the gutter and turned it the solar system’s greatest hub of commerce and wealth.

“Bester and Verhoeven-Clarke, Juniors” announced Oswald Cosely, shuffling into his office and plopping his ancient body down on a comically huge leather chair. “Wrecked any parliaments recently?”

“We… Hello Sir.”

“Don’t worry about me my boys, I don’t care for democracy. I’m a technocrat. Look at New London. Not a drop of government in sight. It's why it works. You work for Xenon, you live here, and everyone is happy. And why wouldn’t they be?”

“Why is Libby in jail?” Hal asked.

“Who? Oh her. Your fancy woman. Yes, I heard about that whole debacle. Stopping an planetary Opera to propose mid-song? Very audacious my boy. But you might be finding out the great and good Hal Bester can’t pull off everything. Women can’t be bought.”

“Yes, but why are Xenon holding her?”

Cosely’s face dropped and his voice turned grave.

“The New London stewards found her in our Covent Garden lab with a gaggle of slummers. Terrorists, Bester. These people are known to the New London Consortium.”

“Woah! They didn’t print that in the holo-paper.” QVC blurted with some joy.

“Terrorists?!” Hal exclaimed, leaning forward so much, that he was about to fall out of his chair.

“Yes. There’s a chap out there called David Fox who leads this group. They’ve roped in a few of our lot. They’re a virus, spreading misinformation, trying to destroy Xenon property, ideologists. Do you know what an ideology is, Hal?”

Hal shook his head.

“It’s a mesh of baseless ideas that always says "I know better so I can claim power". Ideology brought London to its knees. Commerce and technocrats stood it back up. So the girl is in a cell awaiting her judgment. She’ll be tried in Trafalgar Square with the others.”

“Can I speak to her, see her?” asked Hal.

Cosely sat for the longest time, his old crooked fingers to his lips staring out the window. QVC and Hal looked at each other, looked at the floor, looked at Cosely, then once more at the floor.

“Fine. Fine. The great Hal Bester gets his way again. You’re lucky your father isn’t alive. He’d have said no. I, well, I’m softer. Old and soft. You can see her, but separately, not the slummers she came in with. And she’s still sitting trial. I’m not changing that. But what’s the harm in you seeing her? She’ll only break your heart again, my boy.”

---

The rendezvous room was impossibly long, longer than the Xenon needle is wide, Hal thought. It was more of a characterless corridor than a room, with grey walls and a long strip-light running down the centre of the ceiling. Hal was sitting at a small table by a side door when Libby was brought in and pushed into her seat by a steward, a wiry man, deceptively so perhaps as Hal guessed he was part robotic and possessing superhuman strength in those sinewy arms.

Libby’s eyes widened when she saw Hal across the table. “Hal!” She exclaimed before the steward shushed her.

“No talking.”

A second equally scrawny steward entered clutching two helmets, one in each hand. Libby almost didn’t notice him roughly shove the iron dome onto her head as she was still gawping at Hal. The steward stuck out his arm and gestured for Hal to put his helmet on.

“No talking. Think.” said the steward.

Hal put on the helmet.

“Libby you look beautiful” the words bounced around the corridor, not just audible, but loud.

Hal jumped back. “I didn’t say that!” he spoke out loud.

“It’s a mind reader Hal,” Libby said, without moving her lips.

“It’s to stop any coded messages, and so they can measure our thoughts and reactions.”

“Who invented this thing? How much did they sell it for?” His thought echoed down the corridor.

Libby smiled. “Still the rich kid.”

“It’s called commerce, Libby. At least I’m not stuck in a cell because I’m friends with terrorists.”

“Dave Fox isn’t a terrorist, he’s fighting for the truth.”

“And what would you know about the truth? You led me on and you humiliated me in front of hundreds of people. You lied.”

“You thought you could buy me. I’m not for sale. This place, high society, the New London Consortium, it's all corr...”

She winced.

“No libel or slander,” one of the stewards said.

“What’s happening?” said Hal, getting up and reaching over to Libby.

“No touching either” snapped the steward, pushing Hal’s hand away.

“I can’t talk or think with this thing on, Hal. Not properly.”

“The helmet’s stopping you from saying anything bad about Xenon?”

“No libel or slander” the steward repeated.

“But is it stopping you from saying sorry for what you did to me?”

“Jesus Hal! That’s your concern? I’ve got bigger issues right now. Don’t you see what’s happening?”

“I came here to help you. You should be thanking me!”

“Thanking or saying sorry? So many demands.”

“You’re a bitch Libby, I hope you rot in here!” Hal pounded the table and stood up, removing his helmet.

“You should be thanking me!” Libby’s thought rang out.

“You’re a terrorist. And a prick tease.”

“And you’re an entitled prick, but it’s not your fault. You’re clueless. Too distracted by high society.”

“You’re jealous!”

Libby stood up and ripped off her helmet and threw it at one of the stewards who lunges to catch it. She backed away from the table and began moving down the corridor “The teleporters Hal, they’re fake. They don’t work.”

The second steward moved to grab her arm but Libby ran, shouting as she disappeared down the corridor. “They clone people Hal, they kill them. Your father knew. Hal!”

A melee of stewards poured into the corridor and bundled on top of Libby at the same time two of them dragged Hal out of the room.

“Libby! Libby!” Hal shouted as he was pushed into a windowless cell. “No talking,” said a steward as he slammed Hal's cell door shut.