Zeroes and commas. Lots of them. More than I'd ever seen on a credit transfer voucher. And all those zeroes and commas were made out to my account.
The voucher flimsy fluttered before my eyes like a moth in freefall caught in the effeminate fingertips of Mr. Joshua Alexander Horn, one of the most powerful men on Berenson Corporation Station Number One--The One, as we called the orbital city. A BereCorp vice president, Horn could toss money around like that, I knew. But a voucher to me?
There it was, my name, on the "recipient" line: Tige Aronsen, and my account number. TransSystem InterNews newsworkers like me never see those numbers outside of dreams.
The validation line was blank.
So, Horn wanted to bribe me. He wanted me to write a story, either favorably about him or unfavorably about some enemy. Maybe he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and wanted me to not write a story. In a moment, he'd say something like "do what I ask and I'll validate." What did he want?
I thought about what all those zeroes and commas could buy. I could retire, quit the rat race for good, and get back to Mars. I could get away from the One's noise and pollution, it's stifling sameness, and the nightmarish view of a desolate, charred Earthome constantly overhead.
And there was Tira. A woman like her needs money. I got lucky that one time when she was slumming, but it would take many zeroes and commas to make her a steady habit.
I could pay a few debts.
Everybody can be bought. Everybody has a price. Horn had found mine.
My throat went dry and my palms grew sweaty.
"A drink, Mr. Aronsen?" His famous baritone sounded greasy.
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