The Girl They Sold to the Moon (4 page)

“The air smells funked up,” said Dorothy, holding on tight to a handrail.

Tilly stuck her tongue out, licked her lips and grimaced. “Tastes funny too. It's all recycled. I heard someone say they scrubbed the air.” She couldn't imagine the size of the pumps that had to clean, recycle, and pressurize the massive bubbles domes.

As the foot tram continued its race toward the main hub, plants lining the walls came into view—huge pots and troughs held dwarf trees, bougainvillea, rhododendrons, jasmine, palms, and assorted ferns. The blooming plants and trees offered a sweet tang to the otherwise stale air. Bright multicolored lights enhanced the many shops, as they moved further into the interior. Besides the giant sun lamps strung from the corridor ceilings, every type of bulb, lamp, neon tube and strobe adorned the establishments--beacons that screamed advertisements and enticements to those on the walkways and above.

The tram hissed to a stop. Tilly's group of twenty girls, led by two bulls, stepped off the platform and descended to a lower walkway. She could see a vast opening under a spider web dome in the distance. The bulls led them through a corridor that ended in a small bubble dome. Here there were no roofs overhead, only wall partitions, some of them straight and others curved. Stars shone brightly through the clear Ultrium roof.

The group formed a single line behind an elevated check-in desk. After reciting their codes to the clerk, each was given a bunk number and admitted through a set of double glass doors. They entered their Block 41 dormitory.

Bunks were stacked three-high around the four rectangular walls, while the main floor consisted of five bunk rows. She estimated that the dormitory held at least 100 bunks. She saw about thirty girls milling about the dormitory. She walked by a small group that were reading books on portable roll-up viewers and passed others who wrote on touch screens. Nearly all of them looked up to see the new group. Some scowled. Others looked indifferent. A few approached the group and mingled, offering cordial welcomes.

“Welcome to forty-one,” said one of them.

“Make yourselves at home, piss ants,” said another.

Tilly found bunk 77 near the end on the right wall. A large drawstring bag sat on the bottom bunk. Bedding and hygiene. Dorothy was assigned bunk 78, the one above Tilly's.

“Look at all the autographs and doodles on the walls,” said Dorothy. “It looks like everybody puts their stamp on the place.”

“I'm surprised they're allowed to do that. It kind of makes it homey.”

Four potted palm trees sat in the corners, tiny sun lamps directed upon them. Two doors at the far end of the room displayed restroom placards. One wide-open hallway led somewhere else.

A head popped over the edge of the third upper bunk, spilling a froth of strawberry blond hair. “Welcome to Block 41, dung beetles” said a woman with a husky voice. “Unpack your gear and settle in.”

Tilly stepped back and looked at the woman occupying bunk 79. The woman appeared much older than the rest, gray-eyed, with a face creased with middle-aged wrinkles. Her nose and cheeks showed a smattering of freckles. When Tilly looked closely at the other girls in the dormitory, she could now see that many of them were much older than Tilly's incoming group.

“Thanks; I'm Tilly Breedlove and this is Dorothy Prospect,” said Tilly, upending her bag, dumping the sheets, coverlet, and air pillow onto the bunk. A plastic case tumbled out. “I only thought Sunflowers were assigned to 41.”

“I'm Fia,” said the woman. “You've got all ages working in Block 41. This is the Entertainment division and it has more blocks. You'll be working at the largest lounge in Tranquility Harbor's main rotunda. It's called the Amazon Lounge. I'm a waitress—we take chow orders, serve, and clear the tables. Slingers serve drinks. Janitors are dung beetles.”

“Oh,” said Tilly. “What do they call the entertainers?”

“Hah. That bunch. Dancers are Prancers. Singers are Tweets, sometimes called song birds.”

“Damn,” said Dorothy. “I'm in the kitchen scullery.”

“You poor thing,” said Fia, giving her a frown. “Ramp rats work on the conveyer belt, loading racks of dishes, silverware, glasses, bowls, saucers and plates.”

Dorothy sighed disgustedly and climbed up into her bunk. “It seems it's my lot in life to suffer,” she said. “I hope there's some cute guys around here.”

Fia coughed. “There's some lookers, all right. But you'll have to obey the no frat rules. You can talk and socialize, but no hookin' up and knockin' boots.”

“Now I'm
really
going to suffer,” said Dorothy.

Tilly looked at their bunk mate with an air of wonderment. “You sure know a lot about the system. How long have you been here?”

Fia screwed up her face in thought. “Hmm…three years, five months, two days. Most of it right here at Block 41. I'm thirty-five years old, Carnation class. Next year I'll be Rose and that's gonna make me feel real old. Ain't so bad though. With time served, I got rank privilege. I'm shop steward for 41, so if you have a complaint, you come to me. If I can't help you, you go to the company counselor, who is employed by the United Western Mining Corporation. UWMC owns the whole shebang. You're on loan-out to UWMC; you obey their orders and regulations.”

Tilly stretched the sheets over her bunk. “What the hell happened, Fia? You sound like a lifer.”

Fia cleared her throat. “I was never picked up after a two-year stint. Default. I missed being chosen for the Labor Auction last time out—the years just rolled over on me. They've got me until I earn back the advance. And at my wages, that's going to take a while.”

Tilly paused, gripped her air pillow, white-knuckled. After listening to Fia's words she thought she might spaz out but the sound of her bursting pillow snapped her out it. The implications were staggering. If her father defaulted on the load, it meant she became property of FTALC until the debt was paid, and that meant going through an auction process, where, she presumed, she was loaned out to a third party, or she saved enough through her own efforts to bail herself out.

Fia Bluestone didn't waste any time helping Tilly and Dorothy with their work assignments. She had all of their shifts coincide so they would be on duty together—swing shift, four to twelve, Earth Eastern Standard Time. Fia explained that she did her best to welcome and setup the new recruits, but she had taken a special liking to her “bunk mates.”

Most of the recreational reading material came in wafer form, used on portable roll up viewers, but Fia had access to a stash of real paperback books that came with original covers rendered in real artwork. Tilly suspected the woman had saved them as favors from the miners, but she didn't say anything. Fia promised to upgrade their tip royalty rates if both girls kept clean records and stayed under their sick day quotas—two days per month. A five percent tip allowance was normal. Fia could push it to seven percent, which was a good haul, considering that the miners were rich and recklessly generous with their cash or Imperials. Royalty tips, which could be banked, served as backup assurance to pay off the debt in case of default. Fia encouraged both girls to start a savings account.

Tilly went through three days of orientation before she had to report to her work supervisor inside the main rotunda. The orientation covered all the ground rules and regulations that the wards had to abide by during their stay at Tranquility Harbor. Penalties were levied against wards who broke the rules, and they covered violations involving trespass, socializing, theft, misrepresentation, insubordination, and a slew of other infractions and crimes.

Walking down the outside avenue, Tilly stared at the immense geodome canopy overhead. Cables and wires strung with high intensity lights hung from the ceiling girders, offering daylight conditions around the clock. The floor space amounted to a maze of shops and service centers bisected by small paved aisles that had street names and were navigable by small electric carts and scooters.

Tilly counted station numbers and stepped inside a large cubicle marked ENTERTAINMENT DIVISION. The place was empty except for three clerks. Tilly picked out the softest face amongst the women and stepped up to the chest-high counter. She recited her code number and name to the large brunette, who wore an identification tag named, Mrs. Leona Billings.

“Pleased to meet you—you're
late
,” huffed Leona, typing on a touchpad while referring to a monitor. “I'll be your entertainment coordinator from here on. I am also your personal time clock. You'll report to me every day at this exact spot at or before 3:00 PM. I'll log in your arrival time. I'll log you out right here when you finish your shift. Arrive late, and it will earn you demerits. Skipping work will be dealt with immediately. Your only excuse for not working must be sanctioned by one of our medical staff. Your implant lets us know wherever you are in the complex, and it's monitored around the clock. Stay out of restricted areas and obey all rules prescribed by United Western Mining. Since you are an entertainer, I suggest you think up a good stage name. Unless you'd like to use your own. Any questions?”

Tilly remained stoic, having just learned that entire spiel in orientation. “Okay, where do I go from here?”

Leona fingered a button. A door swished open from the wall, revealing a circular elevator pad. “Basement level. Just step inside. Once out, follow the corridor to the end. You'll find the makeup and props room there. Get yourself a coach to assist you in putting a routine together.”

Tilly stepped inside.
Go here, go there, do this and find that
. The door closed, revealing no controls or panel lights inside. Within three seconds she hit the basement level. She walked out and hurried down the long corridor. She passed several people heading in the opposite direction, including a few guys who were wearing the company one-piece suits. As she walked down the corridor, she had the feeling that it was an underground tunnel bored out of solid rock, even though it was finished off with plasticine walls and decorated with pictures. It was like trying to take the hard edge off a dungeon by adding a vase of flowers to it.

At the end of the corridor, Tilly pushed through a metal swing door and entered a mad house. Women of all ages scurried from rack to rack, pulling clothes from hangers, trying on hats, shoes, costumes, capes, wigs and other accessories. Acrobats and dancers practiced their moves at one end of the gymnasiumsized room, while musicians tuned, played and cleaned their instruments on the other side.

Tilly remembered her studies of medieval history in high school. And this place qualified as a king's court of jesters, fools, manic troubadours and idiots. It was the most disorganized display she had seen while enduring the whole process.
Well, why not? Entertainers and actors are all self-absorbed jackasses
, she thought.
They just have a bigger collection of them here and they're all under one roof.

A petite Asian woman in her mid-forties and wearing shorts and tank top stepped up to Tilly and planted her hands on her hips. The woman perspired heavily from the temples. “Dear gawd,” said the woman. “What are we going to do with that hair?” The woman made a slow stroll around Tilly. “And you're as tall as a fuckin' highscraper.”

Tilly didn't believe this woman was a coach, until she looked at the name tag. SUE LIN WONG-INSTRUCTOR. As far as the hair remark, Tilly wondered why this woman had a single braid of hair over five feet long wrapped around her neck like a choker collar. Tilly could think of a dozen nasty nicknames to peg this little bandy-legged female.

“I guess I found a coach,” said Tilly, trying to hide a grimace and speak above the calamitous noises around her.

Sue Lin frowned. “That depends. My specialty is martial arts, acrobatics and dance. You one of those?”

“Dancer, er,
prancer
.”

Deeper frown. “As tall as you are? What, ballet?”

“Ballet, jazz, point, classical, modern, two-step, hip-hop, swing, jive, and—

“You don't have to sell me.”

Sue Lin pulled her behind some wardrobe racks, getting away from the noise level. “The first thing you must know is that the crowd is very rough topside. You have the looks, but you will have to hold their attention. Most of the miners are very stupid, with the attention spans of gnats. So you must come out with a big flair, big talent and
command
attention. They won't' give you respect—you must take it!” She made a grasping and wringing motion with her hands. “Take the bastards by the nads, twist them into submission and never let go. Show them you are in charge.”

“Sure, be dynamic.” How dynamic would she have to be? Was this as reckless and free-for-all as it sounded? “How long is each show?”

“Two thirty-minute shows, with allowances for overrun. Two 15-minute segments, with a five-minute change-out in between. Pick out your longest songs. If you run short, loop them. Four shows per shift, unless you want to run two long ones but I'll have to okay that ahead of time. Have you given any thought to routines, skits, costumes, songs, and music accompaniment?”

“I'm into the old retro hip-hop-pop. I like the style of Michael Jackson, if you've heard of him. I don't know if it will go over well here or not.”

“Hah! I used to bust a move to his tunes twenty years ago. A fine choice in the beginning. There are a lot of younger miners and tourists in this Harbor—some of the older employees are fond of nostalgia. As far as gear, we have the Wagner air pump speaker system, good for 20,000 watts peak volume. It's enough to tear their faces off. What songs?”

Tilly's mind raced. “Thriller. I know every move, beat and break. From there I'll go down his list.”

“That'll do.” Sue Lin's brows furrowed. She snapped her fingers. “The zombie look—that's what we're after.” She took Tilly by the hand and pulled her through the racks until they arrived at three rows of period clothes circa 1940. Sue Lin yanked pants, vest, shirt, shoes, and a snap-brim hat from a rack and moved down the aisle with fast, choppy steps. Tilly followed her to a mirrored wall, complete with makeup counter and chairs. Sue Lin told Tilly to don the clothes as fast as she could. Elapsed time, fully dressed, Tilly clocked in at just under three minutes, and that was really pushing it. She wondered what kind of maddening schedule required such fast costume changes, unless the Entertainment division was trying to cram every entertainer they could into the program. Sure, why not? The all-mighty dollar was behind everything that motivated FTALC and United Western Mining.