The Wink

By E. M. Eastick

His voice is gruff and quick. “They want the stuff, see. They want to live like us Earthlings with our sonic transporters and high-cap’ image enhancers. They want adaptability programs for their rock huts and wellness simulators for their sick children. We can give it to them, see. But first we need infrastructure. Infrastructure, Tommy. That’s where you come in.”

The bald guy from Earth Technologies sucks in more air. “So we build, see. The anti-gravitational highways, the nebulae bridges, even a suspended tunneldrive. I know what you’re thinking. It’s pricey, yeah? But what an investment! Listen: we invest the initial capital, just enough to get the stuff over there. It’ll last just long enough for them to realise they can’t live without the stuff. They want it, see, the sonic transporters; the high-cap’ image enhancers. When the infrastructure fails, they’ll be banging on our doors with fists full of money from the sale of their precious rocks and crappy jewellery, begging us to rebuild. Just so they can get the stuff, see. You with me?”

I have four kids to raise, to educate, to keep entertained. What do I care about developmental philosophy? I outline the logistics of the project, and the Earth Technologies guy pumps my hand. 

His grin is wide and sly. “You’re about to become a very rich man, Tommy. A very rich man.”

***

Earth Technologies pays me to build the infrastructure — to certain standards. The pay is good, the standards are not.

Baldy smirks. “You and your family can live like royalty forever, on this job alone. When they get hooked on the stuff, the work will never end, see.”

I do see, but I’m wondering if a largely-unknown alien race, one that on the surface appears content to live in rock huts and mind their sick children, really will adopt the ethos of Earthling excessiveness. Still, my oldest son has a new sonic transporter — the latest model — and my wife is thrilled with the new adaptability program in the sleeping pod.

“The stuff’s been shipped in as we speak — high cap’ image enhancers straight from the manufacturer. The nebulae bridge is a pilot’s dream. Easy delivery. Soon they won’t be able to live without the stuff, see.”

***

His eyes gleam. “You see that thing on the news? Already anti-grav’ highway 12 is shaking loose.” 

I had seen the news. It kicked a hole in my pride and left its shoe in my guts. It was my name on that construction plan, not his. I guess money can’t buy integrity. Then again, he never promised any.

“Go out there for a sit’ rep’. Work on a quote. Make it fair. We don’t want to take advantage of them, yeah?”

Through a mask of feigned sincerity, he actually winks at me.

***

The meeting circle is not really a circle, because only the colony leader and I sit there on the dusty yellow rocks. The man is old with brown, scaly skin and a thick chain of black metal around his neck. He chews on something gooey and green and drags a shard of stone through the dust as he pretends to listen to me explain the logistics of repairing the damaged anti-gravitational highway. 

We can act quickly to ensure access to vital goods isn’t disrupted for too long, I assure him. As soon as we have the funds …

When the leader touches my forehead with his — a gesture of farewell, it would seem — I have no idea whether or not a deal has been made.

Without a functional anti-grav’ highway, launching is treacherous. Upon lift, the transporter jolts from a collision. What the hell —? The image enhancer displays a chunk of metal I know intimately. It’s part of the anchor plates for the highway — fragmented and adrift? The undersized pivotal magnetic bolts were meant to give way prematurely, but not all at once. It’s like the defect has been deliberately accelerated. 

***

Baldy's smile looks painful. “They’re taking their time, but they can’t live without the stuff, see. It won’t be long. They’ll pay us double what we paid you, and then we’ll all be back in business.” He gnaws at a fingernail. “They can’t hold out for too much longer. They need the stuff, see.”

I don’t tell him about my meeting with the leader. The old guy hadn’t said a word, after all. The black metal chain around his neck speaks to me now, though, along with the planet’s lack of sonic transporters, high cap’ image enhancers, and adaptability programs. I suspect reports of space junk are on the rise.

What if they don’t want all that stuff? I want to ask the Earth Technologies guy, but I don’t ask, because I know the answer — I saw it strung around the colony leader’s neck. The shoddy infrastructure I built to transport goods they never wanted in the first place has been utilised elsewhere. My teenage daughter would love that new style of jewellery. I’d go back to buy some for her next birthday if it weren’t for the disintegrating anti-grav’ highway.

“You’ll let me know if they contact you directly, yeah? I’ve invested a lot in this venture. It’d be a shame to let a comm's glitch throw us off the rails.” A string of sweaty beads dot his forehead. “They need the stuff, see. They'll cough up the dough to repair the infrastructure. Of course they will. We could sort out finances with them easy enough. Low interest as a favour.” I notice dark rings under his eyes — new. “You’ll let me know if they call you directly, yeah?”

“Sure,” I say, my mind on a new deluxe wellness simulator — for relaxation. I’m thinking of my next vacation as I throw him a departing smile. This time, it’s me who winks.

About the Author

E. M. Eastick is a Darwinian, amongst other things.

After living in Britain, Ireland, the U.A.E, and the U.S., she is now back in the Antipodes.

Her creative efforts have appeared in many online and print publications, including The Martian Wave, Space Squid and Leading Edge Magazine.