“What the hell.” I got into the spirit a little. Chuy’s enthusiasm was always infectious. “Let’s do it.” I unpacked the Zenitrov.
We greeted the diverted cargo in a low-level container rental facility south of the city. We never loaded one into a truck from the same place twice. Meanwhile its Virtual Dupe was racing north toward Greater LaLa. The destination alone indicated that the contents were valuable. Otherwise why ship through Ensenada instead of LaLa direct? I admit I was curious.
Thirty minutes later Kilbee backed the truck into the warehouse space he’d rented under a fictitious company name. Chuy had set it up, real legal and fancy. We even had stationery and holoed business cards, just for this one skrag. It was all part of the game.
We dropped the rear end of the truck and went to work on the container. A blast of cool air rushed out to envelop us when the door finally hummed aside. We went up and in. It was chilly in the container, but well above freezing.
The shipping crates were a light polypropylene mix, sealed instead of locked. We had to wait while Huong hunted up the right tools to open them. After all, we didn’t want to damage our valuable cargo, whatever the hell it was.
The lid snapped off a bright red crate the size of a desktop. Beneath was another lid, transparent. Inside, nestled in a cushioning bed of puffy insulation, was what looked like a dead parrot.
“It’s not a parrot.” Chuy ran his modified notex over the embedded lading slip. “It’s a blue and gold macaw. From Ecuador. Destination: Haute Animale Pet Emporium, Bel-Air, LaLa.”
“Well shit,” muttered Huong. “A frozen bird.” Equally put off, I remembered what I’d said to Chuy back in the yard about skragging frozen chickens.
Chuy, however, didn’t seem too disappointed. “First off, it ain’t frozen. It’s in an anabiotic state.”
“Say what?” Kilbee made a face.
“Don’t you guys never read nothing? They can ship anything alive this way and it gets to its destination unspoiled They substitute a special kind of trehalose for the glucose in the body. That lets the cell membranes shut down safely. Then they chill it to near freezing, slow down the metabolic rate so that the body uses about twenty-five times less oxygen. Swap the trehalose for normal glucose, float the body in warm water, give it an adrenaline boost and back it comes, squawking and screeching.”
“Why not just ship ‘em in cages?” Kilbee asked.
Chuy straightened. “Because a lot of ‘em die along the way, and because they take up more room, and need attention, and make noise, and all those reasons make it a lot more likely Customs will find out about them.”
“Customs?” Kilbee blinked, looked down at the brilliantly plumed quiescent bird. “You mean this parrot’s an Illegal?”
“Illegal as hell. I’d bet my right huevo this bird’s a dan-spec.” Chuy’s expression was hard. He looked around the container’s chilly interior. Suddenly I was colder, standing there. “Let’s try another crate.”
The next one proved to hold something called a capybara, which I think I heard about on a nature vit, and the one next to it half a dozen Amazonian green parrots. A special square box was full of trehalosed red piranhas, and the biggest one in the room held an eight-foot-long black caiman, snoozing peacefully in its reinforced cold bed. We didn’t know all the names, of course, but they were on the bills of lading embedded in each crate.
No wonder the polyprop crates had been heat-sealed.
The next crate we cracked contained a whole family of something called white-faced capuchins, but I think it was the margay kittens that finally got to me a little. Except for their exotic markings they looked just like street cats. The lading bill said they were worth fifteen hundred apiece, wholesale to the buyer in LaLa.
We knew we could market the bioskrag with no problem. Magimal sellers would pay plenty for the endangered species, or danspecs, eager to animorph them. Just north in San Juana you can buy and sell anything. The question was, did we want to?
“Each crate is self-contained and according to the instructions can last ten days outside the big container before the contents have to be revived,” Chuy informed us, reading an inscription via his notex. “So nothing’s gonna spoil if we ship it out by car.” He eyed each of us in turn. “Anybody feel funny about this?”
“Tot lam,” muttered Huong. “That’s swell. If we just forget it, they’ll all die.”
Kilbee nodded. “I know we can move this stuff. We sure can’t send it back to Sudamerica, and if we notify Customs, they’ll maybe trace it to us.”
“Right. So we go ahead. This is gonna be faz. Don’t you guys see it?” Chuy indicated the container’s contents. “All this stuff’s illegal business. So the people we’ve riffed it from, they can’t go to the federales about it. This won’t even make the vit news. We’re clean.” Chuy rose, looked around. “Let’s see what else we got before we close everything back up.”
We found all kinds of things in that container, man. The ‘mals some people will keep for pets. The big constrictor snakes gave me the twitch just to look at them, and Huong and Kilbee laughed at the look on my face. We found more kittens, and a year-old el tigre, and a lot more birds.
Chuy found something, too. I saw him standing over the carton he’d just opened, staring down and saying nothing. “Hey, Chuy, what you got there that’s so kinky?”
Huong looked over from where he was helping Kilbee. “Hey, maybe it’s a movie star.”
Kilbee made a vulgar noise. “Better, how about a putasicle?”
Surprisingly, Chuy didn’t say nothing. It was like he didn’t hear us. He just beckoned, kinda. So we eyed each other wonderingly and walked over, and looked through the by now familiar transparent inner lid.
It was a baby.
I didn’t say nothing. Neither did Huong or Kilbee. I mean, man, what could you say? It was a little girl, buff naked, smooth and shiny an’ clean as if she’d been polished. She lay in that white cushiony stuff all the crates were packed with and somehow that made it even more gross, you know? Like she wasn’t no different from the parrots and lizards and monkeys. She lay on her back, with her head turned to her right and her little thumb plugging her mouth, just like she’d dropped off for a nap. There was some fuzz on her head, but not a whole lot.
I guessed she was maybe six months old. Huong thought as much as a year. Not that it mattered.
“Bastards,” Chuy growled. I was surprised at his vehemence. I mean, it wasn’t like it was his kid, or that of somebody he knew.
“I heard how this stuff goes down,” Huong mumbled. “Poor women in Sudamerica have more kids than they know what to do with. So they sell ‘em. Middlemen breed buy them up and smuggle them north and sell them in Veracruz and New York and LaLa and Nawlins.”
“Let’s check some other crates,” I heard myself saying. Nobody spoke as we went to work.
There were twelve babies in all. Seven boys, five girls. The oldest was maybe a year and a half. The youngest… nobody wanted to educe the age of the youngest.
We sat down on crates we were sure held only animals and caucused.
“We got to vacate this,” Chuy was saying. “We got to let the federales know and just vacate.”
Kilbee looked reluctant. “Shit, Chuy, we could move the animals first. I mean…”
“No!” Chuy wasn’t fooling around. I mean, you could see it in his eyes, man. I didn’t know why he was so mad. Nobody was like festive, but he was more than that. Or less. “We turn it all over to the federales, let them follow up on it. I don’t want any part of this, or the tribe behind it. We don’t want to sift with them. You need money, Kilbee? I’ll give you money.”
Kilbee, big Kilbee, backed down fast. “No, Chuy, it ain’t that.”
“Then fuck it. Let’s close this… let’s close it all back up. We’ll waft the container back to the yard.” He looked at me. “You can do that, ‘Stebo?” Not knowin’ what else to do, I nodded. “Okay then. After, I’ll tip the federales. None
of you have to be involved.” He hopped off his crate.
“Ice, infants!”
We all turned together. I gaped, but I couldn’t get angry at myself. Nobody else had thought of it, either. Why should I be any different?
The homber sitting up in the open crate was ugly. It wasn’t just the cold gel that dripped from his face and clothes. He was just plain ugly. He was about my size, skinny, but the automatic Ruzi he held made him look a lot bigger. We stood watching like four dumb kids trapped by the school bully as he climbed carefully out of the open crate and stood, a little shakily, his expression seeping mood. I knew just from looking at him that he’d as soon as kill us as talk to us. In fact, it was clear that he wanted to kill us. But he was confused.
“What the fuck is this?” He peered past us, toward the dark recesses of the quiet warehouse. “You’re not Misko. None of you is Misko.”
“He couldn’t come,” Kilbee said hesitantly.
The man flicked the muzzle of his gun in Kilbee’s direction and the big anglo flinched. A dark stain appeared on the front of his tropical silks, got bigger as I stared. “Don’t dick me, asshole. Where is this?”
Chuy spoke quietly. “Ensenada.”
The man frowned, in control but obviously bemused. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not. You’re in Ensenada.”
“Something’s wrong. I’m supposed to revive in Long Beach yard. Alarm must’ve gone off.” He smiled: suddenly, unexpectedly, and unpleasantly. “Well, that’s what I took the sleep for. Time to earn my kosh. First time for everything.” He raised the gun. Next to me Kilbee made a whining noise.
“A meatrunner. A goddamn anabiosed meatrunner,” Chuy snarled. He glared at us while I desperately tried to intuit what he was working. “First person cracks the container, built-in alarm program revives him. He checks to make sure the deal’s done straight, flies back home. Anything looks menial-venal….
“You’re a swift little fucker, ain’t you?” The meatrunner waved the gun, moving away from his crate and backing us toward the wall. If we’d sensed him when he’d first started to revive, maybe we could’ve slammed the lid back down on him in time. Maybe.
“You sell babies!” Chuy’s eyes were bugged and I could see he was losing it. I didn’t know why, but that wasn’t my preeminent concern of the moment.
“Shit, I don’t sell nothing,” the man retorted. “I just do what I’m told. I convoy, I pick up the payment and take it home. That’s my job. That, and to make sure everything goes down straight. Ensenada, huh? That’s a problem, but we got people here. I can weld things.” Somehow I didn’t think he was gonna be subtle about repairing our presence.
“What about their mothers?” Chuy persisted. I eyed him uncertainly. Why was he going on about it? We were all dead anyway. The guy was clinching a Ruzi, two thousand rounds a minute, full magazine. We were cheese.
“That’s not my business. Buy ‘em, steal, ‘em; I don’t give a crap. I do my job.” He gestured with the Ruzi. “It’s all meat to me. Like you.”
“What if one of them was your kid?” Chuy continued, taking a step forward. I winced, but the gun didn’t go off. “Stuffed full of synthesized sugar and chilled down like a microwave dinner?”
“Don’t got any kids. Don’t got a daily woman. Don’t want neither.” He wiped liquefying insulating gel from his face. “Think I’d take a run like this if I did?” Gel dripped off his forehead into one eye and he rubbed at it.
Before anybody could say anything, Chuy charged.
The Ruzi went off. In the confines of the induction container it sounded like Chinese new year in Frisco. I saw that on a docuvit once. Kilbee screamed and bolted. Christo, we all did. Just because Chuy chose to freak didn’t mean the rest of us had lost it. Slugs ricocheted all around us as we spilled out the open back of the container.
Kilbee got one in the ass. He bawled like a kid. Huong had one part his short black hair, leaving a nice red trail behind it. That’s how the federales caught them; by tracking the essence. We all went different ways, running like wild men from the warehouse. Since I wasn’t hit and didn’t leave no trail, I was the one who made it to the car and ripped out of there. I was sorry for Huong and Kilbee, but hell, I didn’t know how bad they’d been shot or how long it would’ve taken ‘em to make it to the parking lot.
I didn’t go to my codo. Lita was sleeping at her place but I woke her prontissimo, told her what had happened. At that time I didn’t know that Huong and Kilbee had been picked up, and I didn’t care. At a time like that you don’ hang around waiting for the door to buzz. It might not be your amigos.
We had a pre-arranged place to rendez, down in the Isthmus. I left my madre and brother and sister a terse note, told them I’d be in touch soon as I got a chance.
Then I went after Lita.
She hesitated, but she came with me. See, I’d seen a lot that night and all of a sudden having a family and a real esposa and some kids and settling down somewhere peaceable and quiet far, far away from meatrunners and Ruzis sounded like a pretty sensible idea. After she got through kissing me (ee-ha: salsa!) it didn’t take her long to pack. She didn’t have no job to quit no more. I’d been taking care of her since our first big success. As we were taking a robocab to the airport I looked up from where I was all squeezed down on the floorboards an’ asked her to marry me. She didn’t have time to think about it, which is maybe why she said yes. I don’ care why, just that she did.
I didn’t relax until we landed in Gatun City and took the boat out to the island. I waited there, calypsoing the dish all over the Clarke belt, monitoring the news vits. It was all there two days later. Not big stuff. I saw that they’d picked up Huong and Kilbee and the blood placed them at the warehouse. Mi compadres, sweet little loco senwhores that they are, didn’t implicate me, though. They said it was all Chuy’s idea, Chuy’s plan, Chuy’s work. That left me virgin and in the clear.
‘Cause Chuy was dead.
Six slugs. None through vital organs, he just bled to death before the parameds arrived. When the old warehouse night watchman heard the Ruzi go off he naturally called the federales first. The meatrunner was dead, too, Chuy’s malachite-shafted little vibroblade stuck clean through his throat. I always thought that was a fem’s weapon. Guess I was wrong. Sorry, homber. There was blood everywhere, which the news vit only hinted at.
Still, I wasn’t going back. Too chancy. I had plenty of money. So did Kilbee and Huong, though it didn’t look like they’d be able to get at it for eight years. That’s what the legals hit ‘em with. They blamed everything on Chuy, and the legals couldn’t prove otherwise, but they could sure stick ‘em for skraggin’ the container. Maybe Kilbee’s rich folks could’ve got him out sooner, but they washed their hands of him. Figures.
Only thing that didn’t figure was Chuy rushing that guy. It was a lunatico, stupid move, which is probably the only reason he was able to get in close with his vibrato before he was cut down. I told Lita about it and she couldn’t figure out why he did it neither.
I found out a year later, when I went roundabout to tell his madre how sorry I was. Took a long circuitous route to get an answer back to me, too, which is how I intended it.
Chuy’d had a little sister. All black hair an’ bright eyes. He doted on her, lived for her. One day when he was seven and she was four she wafted. Just vanished off the damn street, in the mid of the day. Nobody saw nothin’. They never found her. No body, nothing. She just evaporated. Maybe she was abused and dumped, maybe she just wandered away and fell off a dock into the bay and the current carried her south, or the sharks got her. Maybe she was skragged, doped, shipped north, and sold. Nobody ever found out.
It stuck Chuy real deep, even deeper than it did the mother. Abyssal visceral, like. Things like that, they never go way, never disappear. They’re like mental malaria: just when you think you got it cured, you end up puke sick an’ flat on your back all over again.
You think about that, and th
e twelve trehalosed babies, and you’ll understand. Chuy didn’t see a dozen babies in that skragged container: he saw twelve wailing mamacitas somewhere in Sudamerica. Maybe the deals were all sad but clean, maybe they all did it voluntarily and were glad of the money. But maybe one or two weren’t bought. Maybe they were just acquired, like. Abducted, snatched off the streets, out of a carriage or papoose pack. Nobody ever know that, either.
Mierde, I felt sorry for the babies and the kittens.
They couldn’t trace nothing to me ‘cause the Zenitrov had been left in Chuy’s car, and when I wafted I took it with me to Panama. Gave me something to do, play around with. No more yard rifling, though. No more shamming with VR-VW simulations. But I practiced plenty. I’m an artist, you know?
It’s be nice to share memories and stories and company with Huong and Krying Kilbee. That’s what I call him these days, and I know he wouldn’t mind it ‘cause we’re both BTS, now an’ perpetual. Of course I can’t do that ‘cause they’re up in federal penitentiary in Chihuahua, paying their debt to society. They can’t get out of that stone-cold place because they’re tracked and watched an’ looked after by the most sophisticated automatic antisoc monitoring instrumentation the Namerican penal system can devise.
They couldn’t possibly be down here with me and Lita, swimming and diving off our little private island, bibulatin’ beer and siestaing in the sun and troubling the local senoritas. They have to serve their time and homber, that’s just what they’re doing.
Virtually all of it.
From the Notebooks of Angel Cardenas:
People have no idea the kind and variety of bizarre goods that end up in federale storage. They think it’s all stolen vehicles and personal electronics. That last acquisition we made, headquarters had a helluva time disposing of. You’d think we could trace most of the contraband back to the original parents. Except that there were no original parents, so to speak. Test-tubers, the lot. In vivo veritas. Police departments don’t have the loose change to run DNA checks on unclaimed bio-property.