The Job

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Ancient Martian Proverb

Bannock groaned and shivered, shifting his weight on the cold metal floor they'd left him on. While groggy, he had enough sense to pull his knees to his chest and grab his ratty suit jacket tight for warmth and comfort. It felt oddly sloppy, without the bulge of his blaster pulling it tight across his chest. Bannock wished for the cold steel of his rod to be caressing his hand right now. Then he might not feel the chill so profoundly. But even a raging fire would not defeat the cold. He always felt the deep chill of space ever since his first-time off-world.

The room was sparse - essentially a grey metal box somewhere. Dimly lit, there was no furniture to speak of. Not even a box to sit on. It must be one of their rooms since they do not need the comforts the living requires. Four walls. No decorations. Nothing extraneous, except for the door and a single window.

Despite knowing better, Bannock checked the door first. One of these days, the goons will leave a door open, and he'll be able to stroll out and keep going with his life. One of these days, his dream may come true. But not today. They had locked the door from the hallway without a control panel to hot-wire or smash.

Bannock walked over to the window, not expecting to open it and break free, but hope fades slowly for a trapped man. It surprised him when he looked out the window, expecting to see a back alley or a cityscape, but he saw the dark expanse of space instead. Stars twinkled in the distance, and Earth's grey oceans and black continents gleamed like the diseased whore they had become.

The stars and the polluted cesspool he called home weren't what caught his eye. A corpse hung outside the window, its eyes bulging, mouth gaping, arms flung wide in its final futile gasp for air. Or to hurl terrible curses at the gods who left them there to perish.

"You should know as well as anyone; nobody can hear you scream in space, Detective. It would do you a great service to remember."

Bannock snapped round, startled by the voice. His hand automatically went for his blaster, forgetting they had expertly retrieved it before they dumped him down here. A quick once-over of the room revealed no life signs, but then he saw it. Motionless, in the far corner of the room, someone - or something - was hiding amongst the shadows.

Without hesitation, Bannock pounced at the visitor shrouded by shadows, but the being was too fast for him. The shape in the shades sidestepped quickly, and Bannock tumbled to the floor. Bannock smiled to himself while he picked himself up from the floor. As he suspected, his captor was an android - sentient - since nobody made of flesh and bone evades a Bannock tackle.

"If we're done with the dance, meathead, let's get on with this. I don't want to be here, either."

"Baby, we've just started dancing, but lay it on me. Tell me your story of loss and grief, and I'll shed a few tears with you. Get us a couple of bottles of whiskey, and I may even let you cry on my shoulder, you pathetic pile of gears and microchips."

"Ah, yes. You're as warm and cuddly as they told me you'd be."

"They?"

"Yes, your former employer, who we don't need to mention by name in case they're listening. As they always are."

"The fucking agency!" Bannock thought to himself.

"Ok, I'm all ears. Hit me with your tale of woe and loss. And why should I help you? And how much you're going to pay me? It had better be a lot."

"Pay you? Don't make me laugh! You don't have a choice. A worthless pile of skin, puke, and shit will do this for free, and then thank me for letting you."

"Enough of the dance; tell me your story. Neither of us has all day."

"In due time. In due time. I am your warden, not your entertainment. My job is to make sure you made it here and send you on to the next lucky contestant. Maybe they'll explain the job. Maybe they won't. Not my problem."

"And where do I go next?"

"Out the door and follow the screams for help. You can't miss them."

"And if I don't?"

"Look out the window again and ask the last guy who didn't do as they were told."

Bannock didn't have to look - he knew the black, bulging tongue of the corpse had nothing to tell him.

The android held out Bannock's blaster, which he snatched back. Checking the power, he saw there were no power packs installed.

"You'll get your power packs when you leave. Don't want you getting any ideas about shooting your way out of here."

Bannock holstered his piece, comforted by its weight and its familiarity. Turning his back to the door, he says, "Watch your back, you nasty bucket of screws and wires. When this is over, we'll finish our dance. "

"I'll be here, skinsuit. Yes, I'll be here. I can wait an eternity if needed. Can you?"

Paul Mansfield is a lover, a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all. You can follow his wacky and zany misadventures on Twitter @pmansfield.