CW 38

To no one in particular,

Of spies, con-(wo)men, and marks.

Sometimes we're properly duped. Oftentimes we're complicit in being duped. Someone originally from here but who was promoted by Corp. to Earth explained that everyone around me probably has an angle. The planet is so dysfunctional that people have to look out for themselves and they don't think twice about who they hurt in the process. I'd say that's true of any place. But it is true that resource scarcity and overpopulation magnify the scale and scope of the dysfunction here. And Corp. actually surfs on that to stay ahead of any trouble from workers. It's easy to forget that everywhere you go you're a mark. And I forgot, and that nearly cost me a lot.

The barracks aren't the coziest places to live. We've got everything we need. Space, beds, hydration systems, water backup, emergency power cells, unlimited connection credits. The mess attendant is also very kind and delivers our rations. Corp.'s master-chief made sure we were well-cared for in the staff colony. I'm going to miss staying here, but E's been on my case about moving out. I get it. It's not home-y. And with the little ones, we need a place for them to sleep, play, and create. This isn't it. There is a feeling of impermanence to the place.

A colleague transferring off-planet to a Corp. subcontractor suggested I might be interested in taking over her place in another, fairly nice colony. Corp.'s on-planet vice-president with whom we share the transit shuttle with every so often lives there and likes the place, though he told E. there were better places to live. My colleague's quarters are nice and she's designed some very nice furniture which she then had made by local craftsmen.

Initially, when my colleague offered up the place, we'd agreed that this was a 1-year arrangement. But when I came to visit to see if I like the place, the story had changed. My colleague was being permanently transferred. My colleague then explained that this would have to be a more permanent situation, which I understood. She would leave her things and she would take care of shipping them or selling them to other people in the colony at a later date, or if we were interested we could buy them. There were a few items that we would need to buy. The price was a bit steep but I thought that maybe we'd be able to eventually bring the price down.

Mark. Switch the terms ever so slightly and quickly elicit an emotional response by sharing your success to your sympathetic interlocutor.

A week later, after another conversation, hauling even a few of the bigger items was going to be a bit difficult. There were fewer cargo cruisers than usual in orbit headed for Earth and transport prices were outrageous. Would it be a bother to leave a few more items for shipping at a later date? She would arrange to have them shipped or someone would come to buy them. 

Mark. Switch another small thing.

A couple of weeks later, another conversation, this time with the owner of the habitat who insisted that at the end of the contract I should return the habitat naked. No furniture. No fixtures. No nothing. OK. And another conversation with my colleague who proceeded to tell me that I shouldn't eat my rations on the furniture and that some more stuff would have to stay. Oh, and I should prepare to budget to clean her stuff.

Mark. Switch the conditions ever so slightly.

Another week after that a quick phone call to let me know she was leaving more stuff. Small things, like books, and pictures. Oh and can I pay her now for the things that she's leaving and has no plans on taking. 

Mark. Season to taste and eat hot.

I had no doubt after that during the next conversation I would be the one in charge of packing her things, or having to be flexible with my move out date because shipping was expensive, or having to deal with the damage to the structure from the hooks on which she hung her posters. 

She'd found a good patsy. 

Now, once upon a time, even if I'd known what she was up to, I would have taken it upon myself to go ahead with the deal. We'd had an agreement. I knew that my backing out was going to put her on the spot. But I was of a different mind. If I know that this is going to be a mistake, should I still make the mistake? If one party isn't a fair player, should I continue to play the game? Once upon a time I would have said "yes." This time, I said "no."

And I'm glad I did. I'm glad I did right by me. 

Small-time crooks are a dime a dozen. And because suckers are a dime a dozen, too, there's always someone looking to pull a cheap hustle.

My job, though, also has me running in circles where I also get to meet the kind of people who run black sites off-planet on a moon somewhere in a lost system. It just so happens that I've become friendly with one of them. 

The thing about spies when you know that they're spies is that you will start to see them through that lens. The best spies aren't the ones who hide in the shadows. They best ones are congenial and highly extroverted. B'tul, my new friend, is beguiling, too. Handsome, he speaks like he's from Earth, though you can tell he's originally from somewhere else. He's not too tight-lipped about where he's seen combat, though he doesn't brag about it either. He's quick with a smile and pat on the arm or a hand on the shoulder. Nothing weird though. The best spies are comfortable with their bodies and others'. It's why he used to be a torturer. The war's over, but it's still going on. There was no appetite for it on the planets and the Senate and Corp. decided it was best to say that war was over and continue to wage war. It's been easier for most to look away and pretend like the war is really over. 

Anyway.

B'tul and I have been chatting over the wire for a few days now. He's giving a talk with another of his spy pals who is coming in from off-planet. They're talking about the potential of this planet and its inevitable importance in the concert of planets in this galaxy. Give the public what they want. Corp.'s management of the planet is shit and the people on this planet are a reflection of management. He knows that just as much as I do. But he's got to make money somehow. Since he's retired--no one really retires--he's established his own consulting group and is contracted by Corp.'s subcontractors for business and political intelligence.

B'tul is useful to me as much as I am useful to him. We flatter one another and pat each other on the back. He needs me for what I know. I need him for who he knows. We're useful to one another. He's potentially another source of income. Corp. can dispose of me at will. A wrong thought. A weird look. That's all it would take for me to lose everything. I want out of this system. Maybe he can help me. 

Ultimately, the biggest con is the one where you work your entire life to toil in poverty a few years before you die. It doesn't matter who you are or what you do, Corp. and the Senate have you pegged for a mark. They've been promising better days, but you'll have to settle for rations past their use-by date and a bit of stale water. It was like this for my mother. It was like this for hers. It's been like this. It's easier to go along with the lie. There's comfort. The lie was written eons ago. And then we lie to ourselves: perhaps this time the end will be different. But I have stopped lying to myself. About this at least.

There's a little house waiting for me. I won't tell you where. It's on an old road in the mountains. There's clean water not too far away from it and even cleaner air for the little ones to breathe.