Stephen Burns - Bug Trap

I took a sip of the hot liquid. My taste buds began singing a hallelujah chorus. “Jeez,” I said hoarsely. “They might just get there.”

“I’m sure rooting for them. You saw Rice City. They’re into rice like Upper Jolta is into coffee; for them, rice is like a religion. There are two communities turning into wine drinkers’ paradises. One place is building a giant library. There’s a town that wants to become the porn capitol of Venus, and another where the main industry is constructing crossword puzzles. These places trade back and forth—once you’ve been here a while you can get mystery doors to take you certain places, and wells can tell you where to go on the Hoop to find certain things. Centralized and scattered, almost everything people did back on Earth is being done here, with some using the advantages this place offers to take it to the max.”

I put down my cup. There seemed to be a hole in her explanation. “That’s real nice, but there’s something I don’t get. Back home the—” I caught myself before I called them Bug Traps. “—transport booths supposedly reject some people. Ones who are too militant, too violent, too criminal, too crazy. So how did people like Poppa Poppy and that preacher, and Sarah and Cyrus make it through?”

“They weren’t that bad when they came here.” She spread her arms to take in the unformed terrain around us. “This place offers a fresh start. A place to rebuild your life from scratch, leaving behind a lot of the baggage and limitations that had kept you down. Some folks take that and run with it, but not everybody runs in a straight line.”

That made sense. Some people ruined their lives after winning the lottery, or went bad after gaining some position of power.

“So why do, uh, our hosts allow Cyrus and Poppa Poppy to get away with such nasty shit?”

“Are you suggesting that the B’hlug should play Big Brother?” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “I thought you posto types were against that sort of thing.”

That made me think, and think hard. A slug of the excellent coffee helped. While I worked that out, Trub helped herself to the food. She ate with gusto. She seemed to do everything with gusto. It occurred to me that she was happy with what she was doing. It was hacker happy; she’d growl and groan, bitch and moan, but she would fling herself into a problem totally, and it was the solving of that problem—no matter how hard—that brought her pleasure. Only she was hacking the Hoop.

“So,” she said after a couple minutes. “Light starting to dawn, kid?”

“Maybe a little. There are regulations, but they’re as simple and minimalist as possible. The, ah, B’hlug want to see how we act and behave with as few rules and controls as possible.”

“You got it. Take Poppa Poppy. He wants to grow drugs, stay loboto, trade them for what he needs and wants? That’s not a good thing, but it’s allowed. But trading drugs for kids? Not here. Same for Pastor Pureway—whose real name, by the way, is Dickie Mangle. He wants to create a mean little cult based on lies? He can go for it. People want to join? Hey, it’s a free planet, and stupid hasn’t been outlawed. They smarten up and want to bail? There’s a doorway to someplace else just waiting. There are some fairly nasty places here on the Hoop—affinity runs both ways—but on the whole people are using their new lives here to do some very cool things. It’s a decent place.”

“Because you help keep it decent. So come on, what are you, really? You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes I’m a cop, sure. Sometimes a go-between and mediator. A troubleshooter and peacekeeper. Sometimes judge and jury.” She chuckled. “But what I mostly am is busy.”

“I see that. How many places are you keeping track of?”

“Hundreds. Sometimes it’s individuals, sometimes communities, sometimes whole segments.”

“Sounds like a big job. You can’t be the only one doing it.”

“There are a couple others. We’re spread pretty thin.”

“I bet.” Considering the sheer size of the Hoop that was something of an understatement, like one cop per borough or one security guard per mall.

Trub drained her coffee, stuffed a couple of the leftovers in her satchel, then stood up. “Ready to get moving?”

“I guess.” I finished off my own coffee and climbed to my feet. “Where are we going next?”

“You’ll see.”

I peered at her. “Is this whole never giving a straight answer part of your job or just a bad habit?”

She laughed and winked her good eye.

“I’ll never tell.”

I figured our next stop would be another trouble spot.

I had to wonder why I was getting this crazy tour, from this particular tour guide. Maybe because they had me pegged as a potential troublemaker, and this was their subtle way of warning me what I’d be facing if I got out of line.

I sure didn’t want Trub as an adversary.

In fact, I was starting to think of her as a friend.

We arrived someplace where it was really dark. Dark, and much smellier than the inside of Poppa Poppy’s crib.

“Lights,” Trub said.

The floor under us began to glow, softly at first, then more brightly. It was more white hoopstuff. The stink reminded me of something, and then there was this low background sound, like—

“We’re back on Earth,” I said in surprise. “Right?”

“You’re pretty sharp, kid. We’re back in the bad old Big Apple.”

“So why are we here?” I tried to think of a reason crazy enough to make sense to Trub and the B’hlug. “To get bagels?”

“A nice bagel would be good, but that’s not it. Any other ideas?”

I tried to read her scarred face, failed. “I’ve, um, been rejected for Venus?”

She shook her head. Not that. A relief… I guess.

“You… you also troubleshoot here?”

That made her laugh. “Hell no! I’ve got more than enough to keep me occupied back in the Hoop.”

“Wait, I’ve got it! You’re trying to confuse me!”

Her smile was kindly, maybe even fond. “Not on purpose. We’re here to meet someone.” She raised her voice. “Roberta, you here?”

“All along,” said a low husky voice from one of the dark corners.

I watched a vague gray shape materialize from the gloom, take human form, then with a shimmer of nanocamo turn into a New York City cop. A particular cop, the black woman with the spiked yellow hair who had so dogged me in the hours before I ended up in the Bug Trap.

Trub grinned. “How you doing, sistra?”

The cop shrugged. “You know how it is. Win some, lose some. Keep moving and don’t look back.”

“I hear that. Well, I’ve got to tell you, you sure know how to pick them.”

The cop—Roberta—turned to peer at me like a misparked car. “I admit that he’s a pretty ragass specimen, but the pickings are pretty slim.”

“Well, I’ve brought him back to you.”

Roberta didn’t look overjoyed. “I think I would have preferred some of Lee’s rice beer.”

“Maybe next time. Besides, there’s nothing keeping you from going out and getting your own.”

A shrug. “I’m pretty busy, Trub.”

I broke into this strange girltalk. I had a lot of questions, but what I’d just heard sorted one in particular to the top of the pile. “You’ve been out there?”

Roberta nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you came back here?”

“Man, can’t slip nothing past you, can we?”

Trub laid a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, we shouldn’t bust your chops like this. Think of it as an occupational hazard.”

“Yeah,” Roberta agreed glumly. “Like getting shot at and shat on.” She shook her head. “If it weren’t for the glamour I might just start getting dissatisfied.”