It felt like millennia since he had sailed the Nanhe - or was it perhaps that he had sailed it so often that even the slightest change in environment was enough to mark itself as a significant and lasting memory in his mind? The snake confessed ignorance, though he most certainly felt something other than nostalgia. An orb of pain pumped in his heart, pulsing intermittently with a rift of regret in his mind. They were at the very headwater of Nanhe, gazing the short distance up to the divinely bottomless Bath. His holy ears heard the bicker of mortals from the trade town of Biashara, settled on the foot of Urhu’s ancient crater. Some would see him, no doubt, but for once, he hoped none would approach.
He hadn’t the heart to talk to mortals.
Footsteps approached from the entrance to his veranda, and he turned to see the four shattered expressions of Zhu Rongyuan, Qiang Quan, Yong Cai and Fu Lai’an, all of them kneeling despite their grief.
“These servants have returned, as His Lordship commanded,” Zhu Rongyuan offered somberly. The snake nodded.
“Good. Descend into the belly of the ship and wait there for further instructions. Before long, we will sail into Fengshui Fuyou, where we will remain until the end of time and space.”
The four servants drew quivering breaths, before Fu Lai’an spoke the single word, “Why?!” The snake raised a brow.
“Why, Lord, must we go? We were faithfully serving King Anu without issue! We had just defeated the greatest threat to Talemon and now is the time for the kingdom to truly prosper! Why leave now?!” She stood panting after her yelling, and the three others were huddling to her to keep her kowtowing.
“Forgive her, Lord! She is-- she is quite upset and not herself!” Zhu Rongyuan pleaded. The snake lifted a hand.
“No, no, you deserve to know.” His expression darkened. “In the days since we left the Temple, I have been thinking: This world, a divine world, has become a plane of mortality. It is no longer the slate of gods that it used to be. This world is now for the mortals to rule.”
Zhu Rongyuan blinked skeptically. “B-but… Mortality is still loyal and dependent on the gods! What made His Lordship think this way? What has mortality done to cause such dismay?”
“It is not the work of mortality that has brought these thoughts to mind,” the snake clarified. “It is the culmination of thought and philosophy that I have pondered in the time since Tendlepog retreated into Moksha.”
“B-but what about prosperity?! The dream of the Flow?!” Zhu Rongyuan pleaded. The snake sighed.
“Asteria, Talemon, the Synod - all have shown such varieties of prosperity and values. This diversity in goals - does it not cloud my own ideas of the true goal of life? Are a full belly and wealth truly the keys to a life of fortune? In my view, yes - and certainly in the Asterian view. However, the Talemonese also include prowess in war as an aspect of prosperity, and the Synod speaks of piety.”
“Y-yes, variations exist,” Fu Lai’an tried to reason, “but do these truly shatter His Lordship’s goals?”
The snake closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “Perhaps not, but my morale, after millennia of divine disputes, godly wars and mortal squabbles, certainly has been.”
Qiang Quan growled angrily. “So… This is about you?” The three others gasped and looked at him like he was a ghost. The snake’s eyes opened again and shifted to the warrior, reptilian slits replacing rounded pupils. “We were prepared to die for King Anu,” the warrior continued, “yet we were drawn back to join you on your final journey - all because we are, deep down, your subjects?!”
The snake hissed. “Where did you learn to talk that way? To your Lord of all creatures?”
The warrior stood stalwartly despite his colleagues’ attempts to drag him down to his knees. “This servant-- No… -This one- has done its duties flawlessly to its King - its only King. This one thought you were drawing us back for a reason, but this… This is no reason - least of all one to abandon our TRUE King!”
The snake unclenched a fist and Qiang Quan was lifted off the floorboards. The warrior suddenly reached for his throat, choking for the first time in his entire life. The three others crawled over to the snake and tugged at his tail.
“Lord! Lord, please! Let him go!” the three of them pleaded, but the snake glared fire at them.
“Insubordination will not be tolerated. Anu may have been your king, but he is MY son, meaning whatever is his is also mine. Especially that which I have given to him.”
Qiang Quan, despite his breathing issues, cast a defiant look at the snake and whispered, “Talemon.” The snake hissed and closed his fist again. The next second, nothing remained of Qiang Quan but sand, clothes and water. Fu Lai’an and Yong Cai both screamed and crawled over to the pile. Zhu Rongyuan shifted between the snake and the sand, unwilling to believe what he was seeing.
“H-His… His Lordship murdered him…”
“Since when would you, Zhu Rongyuan, see punishment of the insubordinate as murder?” the snake hissed accusingly. The scholar drew a breath before putting on the same expression as his passed colleague.
“... Qiang Quan was never insubordinate. The man was more loyal to his master until the very end.”
The snake closed his eyes. He placed his hand on the scholar’s shoulder and Zhu Rongyuan become sand and water, as well. Fu Lai’an and Yong Cai looked over, their horrified expressions sizing up their creator. The snake offered both of them a hand.
“Are there any of you who still see me as the true master?” A moment passed before Yong Cai stood up. She wiped the tears from her water eyes and went over to take the snake’s hand. The snake smiled, but Yong Cai was glaring back.
“Talemon,” she whispered, and the snake returned the glare. After Yong Cai collapsed, the reptilian eyes shifted to Fu Lai’an, who had huddled up against the veranda fence, clutching her head desperately.
“Fu Lai’an, do you still consider yourself a subject of Shengshi?”
The Servant sniffed and shifted between the three piles of sand and wet clothes. When the snake slithered over to give her a hand, Fu Lai’an reluctantly accepted. However, as she rose, she looked down and then back up.
“This servant prays, Your Lordship, that whomever judges You in the afterlife will be more merciful and forgiving than Yourself.” As the snake’s smile disappeared, Fu Lai’an reached into a small bag on her waist and extracted a vial of salt. She opened her mouth and swallowed its contents. Immediately, she started to choke and her skin began to drizzle off. As her hand melted away in Shengshi’s palm, the last of the King’s Council became a pile of sand.
The snake looked around. He then stared at the small heap of sand in his hand before closing it tightly. “Even in my final days on this planet, I still cannot act the leader I tell everyone to be…”
That moment, the clouds began to tumble and roll. A certain presence was in the air, and the snake scowled upon identifying it. The sky darkened, wind howled across the plains and picked up loose items on the deck of the Jiangzhou, and rain pelted the ground. A great shape rose out of the Giant’s Bath which a single flash of lightning outlined as the watery form of Ashalla staring down at Jiangzhou.
“There you are, Shengshi,” rumbled the voice of the storm.
“Forgive me if I am not myself in welcoming you, dear sister, but I am in a foul mood,” the snake hissed somberly in no particular direction.
“As am I.” Ashalla leaned forwards. A large watery limb gripped the bow of the Jiangzhou, causing it to rock precariously. Ashalla’s head stretched forwards until it was within arm’s reach of Shengshi, her face as large as the snake. “When you cursed Li’Kalla’s island to rot, did you consider where that rot would go?”
“Oh, is THAT why you are here,” muttered the snake and rolled his eyes. “Not to say hello, not to visit - noooo, it is always because -something- dirtied your oceans or did not go quite along with your plan. Now, did I consider in the moment that I punished Li’Kalla’s people for her insolent behaviour, that rot, like most liquids, runs towards the sea? No, I did not, and I am sorry for that.” He sighed. “There, is that better?”
The boat creaked and groaned as Ashalla shifted her weight. “I thought you to be one who cared for the cleanliness of water. I thought I could trust you not to pollute me.” The Jiangzhou shifted suddenly as Ashalla shoved it a few metres downriver, away from her. “The environmental damage has long since been rectified, but you have wounded my trust.”
The snake hissed. His crew on the deck below looked busy trying to rebalance themselves with the ship’s movement. “Of course I care for water purity; however, again, that was not quite the thought running through my head in the act, now was it? Certainly, it is a shame that this has caused this rift between us - it truly is - but know that the rot leaking into the ocean was not an intended effect. I do not know if intention is something you even consider in this case, but there it is.” He sighed again. “Are we finished?”
“Careless. Negligent.” Ashalla’s turbulent water seethed for a few more moments as her gaze bored into Shengshi. “Do not let it happen again.”
“Oh, I would not worry about that. I reckon very few such events will happen again by my hand, indeed.” The boat rocked one final time as Ashalla loosened her grip on the vessel and straightened back up to a more natural posture.
Shengshi’s gaze shifted to the Giant’s Bath. He then looked down to the deck at the unsteadily kowtowing servants, all of whom were facing Ashalla in the distance. The kowtowing servants had not escaped Ashalla’s notice either. But Ashalla still had more to say.
“None, not very few.”
“A figure of speech, sister - there will indeed be nothing at all.”
“Good.” The storm above seemed to ease, although Ashalla still stood in the Giant’s Bath.
The snake blinked lazily in her direction. “You are still here…”
“Unless you had matters to raise with me, I can leave,” said Ashalla in a voice like a running creek.
The snake pursed his lips and gave a somber hum. “... Do you ever think about K’nell?”
The storm calmed further, with the wind stopping and the rain reduced to a light drizzle. “I do.”
“What do you think about when you do? Anything in particular?”
“His music and artistry,” Ashalla said in the soft patter of rain, “Why do you ask?”
The snake sighed. “See, of late, I am beginning to think that he had the right idea. To leave, I mean.”
Somewhere in the depths of Ashalla, a bubble surfaced and popped. “Oh. Are you leaving too?”
The snake nodded at the Bath below Ashalla. “I will make some final preparations before I do, but yes. I will return into Fengshui Fuyou, where the infinity of rivers will make me impossible to find. Away from all this, this chaos of bloodthirsty gods, of ungrateful mortals, of my own doing. Peace from it all.”
“And what will you do then?”
The snake shrugged. “Maybe I will fade away with time - finally finish that book I am writing. Maybe I will return at the end of all things, broken after millennia of loneliness, and dry up every river and choke every seed. Honestly, Ashalla, I do not know. All I know is that I am tired of this life.”
“Orvus said the same thing,” Ashalla said. Her gaze seemed to freeze over, her thoughts elsewhere.
“Oh, I can imagine. He likely has more reason to be tired than me - than anyone.”
“He did,” Ashalla said. Then the rain dripping onto Shengshi’s shoulders spoke in a whisper only he could hear, “Is this how a god dies? Reality obeys our will, yet if we lose the will to live, then do we cease to be?”
“Immortal in every way, except in the heart. I wonder if the Architect ever considered this?” The snake straightened himself up and stared outward across his jungle. The distant bicker of Biashara had faded, no doubt due to the weather. “Do you ever think about giving up?”
“Such a thing is unthinkable to me. I will persist so long as there is water in this world,” said the whisper.
“Must be nice,” the snake hummed. “Yet I thought prosperity would be enough to bear me for eternity. Now look at me.” He shook his head. “My rule has been riddled with conflict and disputes. How would this world have fared if I had given up sooner, I wonder?” He gave Ashalla a raised brow. “I reckon Li’Kalla’s island would have been doing much better.”
“Li’Kalla’s island is recovering. I even gained some worshippers from cleaning up the blight,” Ashalla said, her voice returning to normal volume. “You did good in this world, Shengshi. These three rivers and the life in and around them, along with many other rivers. The cleansing of the river of Seihdhara’s ichor. The Wuhdige tribe. Hermes and Xiaoli and the Dreamers. My Kraken met Chuanwang with the city you had made for the Dreamers - a clever idea.”
“A handful of accomplishments in an aeon of existence. I am glad they happened, but looking at Asteria, at the island, at Kalgrun - many wrongs have been committed. It is almost a balance, it is. Maybe that can be written on my epitaph…” He smiled in no particular direction. “... Shengshi, a god of the balance between good and evil.”
Ashalla was quiet for a few moments, then she looked at Shengshi and said, “This is what you will. I shall not stop you. May you find the peace which you search for, Shengshi.”
The snake nodded. “Thank you, dearest sister.”
Ashalla’s watery form began to shrink, but before it disappeared she spoke again. “You may keep the painting. Let it remind you of the good you did on Galbar, and of me.”
The snake chuckled. “Yeah… I will.”
Siwei, the Council of Four, return to Shengshi’s boat. He tells them why he called them - because he plans to abandon Galbar. The council are upset. Their loyalties lay with King Anu of Talemon. Tensions escalate until Shengshi smites them and they die.
Ashalla appears. She scolds Shengshi for polluting her oceans with the Rot - a negligent act, which Ashalla makes Shengshi promise not to do again.
Shengshi then reveals his plans to leave Galbar. He has grown tired of this life. After some final preparations Shengshi will sail into the Fengshui Fuyou and get lost forever. They have an extended heartfelt goodbye.
The sickly, chipped metal of the surrounding acid-burnt buildings drifts lazily on the industrial winds in this part of the city. The crusted sewage smears up against the foundations of structures much taller and much older than what could ever be considered safe, and the air is so polluted that one couldn’t see further ahead than one’s own outstretched arm. Crumbly asphalt, or what had once been it, roughly outlines what had once been a road network, down here, but now one can barely walk straight along it, let alone drive on it. An endless network of pipes and roofings forms a low skydome over the area - in every sense, this part of the Bottom tier is essentially a network of tunnels underneath a grander city. The temperature is unbearable down here, being deep underground and overclogged with hot fumes.
Yet despite all these factors that should approximately equate this area with the surface of a gas giant, it is vibrant with life. Lackluster life, yes, but life nonetheless - millions of outcasts from various societies gathering in one place to live out their misery as a single group. These people are weakened by harsh lives and a harsher environment, starved with little to no access to even the most basic necessities. Members of every race, human and xenos, all gather around relief centres, religious communes and soup kitchens to live another day.
This weakness makes them apt targets for kidnappers and flesh traders.
Grigo Pizarro flicked on the infrared vision on his gas mask. Behind him sat squatting a bunch of equally equipped thugs wearing black suits and wielding stun guns. Pizarro scanned the open street through the fog - infrared wasn’t an ideal spectrum to use when scanning down here, considering the heat of the air. Still, it was the best they had, and these cooled suits their buyer had offered them made this work so much easier. His eyes fixed on a crowd surrounding what looked to be a rabbi holding a sermon before an improvised synagogue altar. His crowd appeared sufficiently large, and their security was nonexistent.
With a quiet signal, Pizarro and his thugs snuck their way over through the smog. Their approach was completely unseen, and it wasn’t as though anyone would warn the praying crowd if they saw them, either. The first thugs to break through to the crowd opened fire on whoever was in range. A panic immediately broke out, making them all the more easy to round up. Before long, Pizarro and his thugs had caught most of them and were tossing them into the back of a truck. A few more trips like this, and then they could return to their buyer with a proper offer.
The Mykola Gogol docked at the southern surface port of Raygon’s leisure district, before several smaller flyers broke off from it to go down into it’s vile depths. It was a rather large rectangular prism pattern of vessel, the geometric nature of the ship easily marking it out as originating in the Councillary Confederation of Neohumanity. Anyone acquainted with the CCN would know that prisms were typically transport vessels. This one was of an intermediate size, clearly not carrying something in true bulk like loads of cheap consumer goods but at the same time it wasn’t to be carrying just a few luxury baubles.
The flyers that descended were cargo carriers each and every one, the security of the LZ being assumed. Nevertheless they kept radio silence and activated their quasi-stealth protocols. It was just in case, for one never really knew what sort of nastiness was around the corner. Besides, the CCN wasn’t particularly keen on any journalists one way or another happening upon the trade here. Although any economic relationship with Raygon was by definition immoral in the median sensibility of Eden, people only really paid attention to things like human trafficking to cause scandal. To Neohumans, this was somewhat puzzling, for the calculated suffering produced by things like buying simple toasters from Raygon was projected to be far higher than the place being drained of a few of its lowest wretches. Really, the outdateds were so unreasonable!
Still, they were the main population of Eden and their sensibilities dictated what had to be hidden and what could be done publicly and though they didn’t like it, the Confederates stuck to following this duality. All of this raced through the head of Vilho Bulow as his craft made touchdown. Today he was getting a very, very valuable cargo. The CCN always needed more people, exponential growth being one of the defining traits of the state. But mommy cyborg and daddy cyborg could only do so much, and even the mass kidnappings, adoptions, and willing immigration was still not enough to satisfy the demand for the population in the Sol system. Besides, Raygon’s people had thanks to natural selection developed quite some interesting genetic traits. Oh, it wasn’t anything particularly noteworthy, but it was still a matter of scientific interest and would make the sum Neohuman population a little more genetically diverse. In return, the gangers of Raygon would get something very juicy, oh yes. The scum of the planet would be very surprised to see other scum use the fancy toys brought here. As vehicles that carried the shipment of cryoguns, radcannons, sonic emanators and other esoteric weapons made by Neohumanity came behind Vilho, he checked the time and coordinates to make sure he was in the right place. He wanted to finish the transaction as fast as possible and begone. He could easily breathe the toxic air and bear the extreme heat of this place, but that didn’t mean he liked it. It was dark, but from soft but deep red glows in Vilho's irises the Raygonians would be able to see him.
“Eyo, mekanikk kopeng. Dis fine day fo’ lil’ trade, yah?” A skinny, lanky man, a mere ant compared to the wonderous fusion of machine and flesh that was Vilho, came out of the smog with gloved hands extended out to the side. “Mi called Grigo Pizarro. Welcohme to de Jank Ya’d.”
The red irises focused on the fellow identifying as Grigo, scanning him for weapons and analyzing heat signature, as well as facial expression and other factors to determine if this was friend, or foe. "It is… a pleasure to meet you." Vilho said, his voice smooth and silky but possibly synthetic. Save for the irises he was fairly human looking, although this was perhaps a little misleading. Save for his brain and skin grafts to hide and protect the cybernetics beneath Vilho was entirely machine. "You may call me Vilho. Do you have the product?" he asked, except, not quite. The universal translator implanted in him would have done the work of perfectly expressing his intended meaning in whatever the dialect that Grigo used was.
“Oya, kopeng Vilho, you kno’ Pizarro oh’ways delivah, yah. Right in dat dere trukka, yah. Fifty-six ‘a dem, drengens ‘n pikas, yah - ol’ ‘n youngs.” He gave an impatient whistle and waved over an approaching truck, flanked on the sides with thugs equipped with improvised and home-engineered guns, wearing the same cooled black suits as Pizarro along with shabby gas masks.
Pizarro cursed under his breath. “Oya, oya, oya - hurry de fuck up, yah! Kopeng here busy man, yah!” The truck stopped a few metres away from them, backdoors facing Vilho and him. A pair of guards each grabbed a door handle and pulled it open. A crowd of terrified civilians, both human and xenos, screamed and tried to escape, but froze in their steps upon seeing the rest of the guards aiming pipe guns and rusty pistols at them.
“Oya, stay de fuck down, yah,” one of the thugs warned a teenage human as she attempted to jump out of the truck. Pizarro rolled his eyes behind his mask and thumbed at the crowd while facing Vilho. “Dis wha’chu want, yah? Proppa’ flesh, dis - best mi find down ‘ere.”
“Yes, yes I’m sure he does.” Vilho said, sighing as he walked over to the truck. As it opened he looked inside to examine the contents of it. He took about a tenth of a second to count and recount all fifty six to make sure he wasn’t being gypped, and satisfied he went on to take a look at the individuals.
One he picked up by the neck with a hand, raising the poor fellow to Vilho’s towering eye level of two hundred centimetres. In a flash several surgical tools sprouted from his back which took off the man’s head, then cut a small circle in his scalp to throw aside and remove his brain with. Like a cashier’s barcode scanner wide lasers came from the eyes of the Neohuman to analyze it. “The usual contaminants. We can deal with that though.” he muttered, and another small mechanical limb came from Vilho’s back to seal the brain in a plastic-like material, before yet another cooled it. Another Neohuman came from the lander with a box in which the remains of the dismembered fellow along with the sealed brain were placed, and then he went back inside.
Vilho took yet another look at them, scratching his chin with one of the cybernetic limbs. “The mean phenotype is semitic and expressed stronger than usual. I take it they’re largely from the same place?” he asked, picking up yet another by the neck to turn this way and that, before dropping her. “For the future it’s better if they’re different. The more different, the better.”
“Yah, mi keep dat in thinka’, kopeng,” Pizarro promised faithfully. “Mo’ not de same, de betta’, yah.”
He hopped up on the truck, noticing one of the aliens. “This one is a xeno. We’ll take it, but it’ll fetch you less. For the future, it’s better if you grind down any xenos you bring us, they’re easier to transport that way.” The Neohuman might surprise even the Raygonians who had seen his kind before when he A) demonstrated the sheer amount of his hidden limbs when one emerged for every single xeno and B) demonstrated the strength in the otherwise thin and frail looking cybernetic tentacles holding the aliens up in the air well above him.
“Still, this is a good batch.” the transport cars that were behind Vilho opened and in either hand he place rather large and very strange looking weapons. “Your pay is here. It can be tested, if required.”
“Oya, kopeng, you too kind, yah,” Pizarro said and accepted one of the weapons. He aimed at a nearby pile of trash and unleashed a cone of ice that instantly turned the garbage into fragile blocks of frozen sludge. The thug let out a crazed cackle and cocked the weapon. “Oh, shazza! Dis gon’ wreck dem Hermanos Pendejos, yah! Aight, both’a dem for dis batch, keh?”
“Yes.” Vilho said. “There’s also a few radcannons and sonic emanators. I hope I don’t need to tell you: ‘don’t point them towards your face.’ Ideally, the radcannons and sonic emanators you shouldn’t be using without protective suits or power armour, but if you’re careful you can make sure the last thing the enemy hears is rock music just a little bit too loud without your own ears bleeding. What I’m saying is be careful. I don’t want such good partners to accidentally bake themselves alive; it would be very, very unfortunate.”
The several Neohumans stepped out of the lander to carry the weapons out of the cargo cars before sending a signal for the vehicles to change their functionality to instead store live people now. While the exchange of products happened Vilho looked back to Grigo. “So, when might we meet again? We’re always happy to take a few souls and hand over these toys.”
Through his gas mask, Grigo was grinning from ear to ear. His thugs were already grabbing and marvelling at their new weapons, showing them off to each other with mad laughter. The bandit leader stretched out an open hand and let out a flattered laugh. “Oya, kopeng, don’chu worry ‘bout us. We seen ‘nuff radiashan ta know when git out, yah. ‘Bout dem new batches, mi give ya comm a lil’ ring-ring when we ready, yah? Should be some time next month, ke. For now gotta lay low - let dem bilgeas come outta dem homes again, roam de streets, yah. Makes dem easy peasy roundy uppies, yah.”
“Right, notify our representatives at your leisure then. Oh, and make sure to let us know when your little friends get accustomed to your new weapons. We’ll make sure to bring in something else then, chem dispersers and arc weapons. We may well want to one day put this partnership on an even larger scale, if that becomes possible.”
“Wow, that really was quite the spectacle, mr. Wellsley! You could hear the gunshots all the way over here. Almost had me thinking your enthusiasm had caused a little tier-in.” He raised his glass to his companions, one of whom was still the Cala from before, while the human had been replaced with a Misle. They clinked their glasses with Shawn’s with supportive chuckles. The bar was the same as before - deafening music, dim lighting, a faint tinge of urea on the air - however, the guests seemed for some reason to keep to themselves even more than before. More specifically, George felt an eerie lack of stares in their particular direction, despite the fact that Shawn and his companions were being quite rowdy. The Qurok bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.
Desperately, George crossed his arms and chopped them forward at the air, ooking in an anxious whisper. Shawn’s laughter dimmed slightly and he sighed. “Oh, mr. Wellsley, where’s your sense of celebration? You’ve finished your mission, you’re no longer deep in debt, and!” He tapped his wristband and brushed away the ads, opening a videofeed and flicking it over towards George. “... Congratulations. You’re famous.”
The video appeared as a small flat ray-shield hovering above George’s wristband. It displayed, very clearly, his three assailants, the Raygonian, Putt and Qurok, being absolutely annihilated by the Bobby he had hacked. Granted, the Putt and the Qurok had been killed before he hacked it, but it still appeared as though George somehow manipulated it, especially when the very, very visible remote control appeared in his hands midway through the clip.
“That final warcry at the end, though… Mmm! Oh, that really just puts the cherry on top,” Shawn praised.
Wellsley paled so much that his fur appeared to whiten. He pointed at himself and slit his throat with his thumb, clicking his tongue hopelessly. Shawn’s smile gave way to a pair of pursed lips complementing his skyward glance. “Nnnno, not necessarily. Yes, you attracted a bit more attention that we had planned for, and yes, there’s a fair chance that someone or something will come after you at some point, but hey, look on the bright side!”
George raised a miserable eyebrow. A hatch opened on the table before him and unveiled a rising platform carrying a small wrapped box and a shrouded bottle. The box unwrapped itself and opened to reveal a paper note. Upon it was written a number - one much larger than any George had seen outside of price tags. The bottle unshrouded itself and the label read Dom Perignon.
“This is your pay in advance for your next mission, and with it, you can probably buy yourself out of this little pickle, hmm?”
George nearly screamed, instead throwing his hands into the air and concentrating his every fiber on not exploding with energy. He tapped his wristband and tapped at the ads with such recklessness that he opened several to the cacophony of ad music, pitches and automated offers. Eventually, he had managed to tap into his bank to behold his balance: As the note had promised, the number was grander than any that had ever filled that account before. George popped the Dom Perignon open with the snap of his thumb, chugged down a couple of mouthfuls and slammed it to the tabletop with a deafening smack. Even Shawn recoiled a little. George flattened his left palm and struck his right index across it multiple times with rampant enthusiasm, ooking eagerly along. The Cala and Misle exchanged curious glances and Shawn leaned forward. He extracted his cigar tin, pulled out four rolls and offered one to each around the table. He then placed it on the table and activated the jammer function. Immediately, the wristband screens fizzed out.
“It’s good that you’re eager, mr. Wellsley. It’s a trait every employer wishes for in an employee. Of course, the proportionality of the payment should provide a hint as to what sort of mission you’ll be assigned next.”
George simmered down, his brow furrowing suspiciously. He once more crossed his left palm with his right index finger and Shawn extracted a metal tablet from his chest pocket. He tapped a button on its side, igniting the tablet’s screen, and passed it across the table to the Simmie. George analysed the picture of the screen and the Misle and Cala both took a few hip-swaying steps over to his side to look alongside him. The picture revealed a Simmie, a scarred and beaten male gorilla with a multitude of pointy braids down his elongated skull and a white, stained tank top over his torso. It was looking away, suggesting that the picture hadn’t exactly been taken with his consent. He wore blue, ragged jeans and had gold, silver and platinum jewelry around his enormous neck and on the knuckles of both his hands and feet. His enormous arms were heavily tattooed and branded with various markings and sigils belonging to a very popular gang over in the southern hemisphere Leisure district.
“Do you know this Simmie?” Shawn asked as he leaned back into the sofa. George shook his head. Shawn tapped the table twice and the bartender hologram appeared, though it was fuzzy on account of the jamming.
“Yezzzz--... -Awn?”
“Bring me a lighter, if you would. I seem to have misplaced mine. Oh, and some more fruit gums, too.”
“Ri-... -Way!” The hologram said and disappeared. The table soon opened its hatch in front of Shawn and delivered his order. Shawn unboxed a match and lit his cigar, taking a moment to taste the smoke before fixing his gaze on George once more.
“Hou Banhei, also known as Barry Ho or just North Star. He’s the second pillar of the Celestial Dragon triads, a captain of sorts.”
George frowned. He laid two fingers horisontally and lifted them up. Then, he took his two index finger and rubbed them against each other sideways while pointing upwards. Finally, he flexed his right index, placed it on his templed and pulled it away, flexing and unflexing his finger. Shawn shrugged.
“Apparently, the nickname comes from his time in the Silverback Company. He served a long time as private police in the mining colonies on Bick-3, especially in the north. As if that planet’s not a cold hellhole already. I guess he somehow got the nickname and it just sort of stuck. Honestly, it’s not the worst name to have pursuing, well, any sort of career.” George frowned back down at the picture. Barry Ho looked like ex-military, but from what George could see, there were no signs of mechanical implants or scars from any removal of such. He gave his temple a scratch and ooked ponderously. Again, Shawn shrugged.
“That’s among his secrets. All soldiers in the Silverback Company receive mechanical enhancements to boost their combat capabilities, but our friend here doesn’t appear to have any or even have had any. This has, of course, led a few circles to speculate that his supposed membership in the company may have been a lie, but no-no, their official records state that Barry here was a member all the way up until ‘53. He got laid off with the Crash.”
George nodded. A common fate around that time. He then looked at Shawn, placed his hands on his own right shoulder and then tapped the back of his left hand his with right fingers facing forward, pinky flexed upwards. Shawn snapped his fingers.
“Roxanne, dear, would you light mr. Wellsley’s cigar for him?” The Cala courtesied, took a match from Shawn’s matchbox, placed the cigar in George’s mouth and lit it with a feline smirk about her lips. George cleared his throat sheepishly. The Misle went back to sit next to Shawn and popped a fruit gum in their mouth. “Your mission, mr. Wellsley,” Shawn began, “is to make certain mr. Ho meets with the undertaker by the end of the week. Our client was very insistent that it be by then, lest their plans would sadly be in quite the bind.”
George wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. He had killed intentionally before, but there had always been a reason for it - self-defense, anger, thievery… It had never just been “because someone told me to.” Still, the money doesn’t lie, he thought to himself, and the guy was probably scum, anyway. Who wasn’t down here?
“Expect a reward similar to what you received today. I suggest you use a good chunk of that money to buy yourself some weapons and men - good men. From what I’ve heard, Barry is many things, and unprotected is not one of them. Bribe the local peacekeepers to keep the Bobbies away and, most importantly, prepare a get-away car. Model and price is not important; what -is- important is that it runs and that it runs fast.” Shawn’s voice had grown uncharacteristically serious by now. “Take it from me, mr. Wellsley - you’ll want to prepare for this one.”
George grew anxious at the shift in tone, but blew out a plume of smoke and nodded. The night went on a little longer, with the four of them politely enjoying each other’s company.
The same night, George went through shadowy alleys and climbed wires and pipes between the slums of the streets belong. More than once, he passed through small colonies of Simmie hobos in tree and scrap houses in the pipe and wire jungle above the street. George hadn’t had to move into one of these yet, but he had come close. With this job, though, he hoped that day would never come close again. Several of the hobos called out to him, but George ignored them all. He instead merely dove through the pipe-top towns and back into the chaotic sprawl below.
I’ve never been to this part of town before. It’s three hours away from home, but at least my card covers the whole of New Macau. Shawn said this was where I should go - Laopao Street. It’s not the biggest gun market in the New Macau, but it’s apparently pretty safe, he safe.
George hopped down an overcrowded set of stairs and found himself being dragged along by the crowd. The current eventually pushed him against the wall, where he grabbed onto a ledge and managed to drag himself out of the river of flesh, until he found that the ledge was a shop window, manned by a grinning Putt wearing a brown apron and a red fez.
“Goooooood evening, honoured customer! What brings you to my little hole in the wall?”
George looked left and right before shrugging with an ook. Trying his luck, he made a gun with his right hand and snapped his thumb up and down. The Putt nodded in understanding. “Say no more, fam - you’ll find no better piece than one bought at Jerpo and Son’s. What kind do you want? Kinetic? Energy? A combination, perhaps?”
Wellsley frowned. He made a gun with his hand again, then a circle with his opposite hand which he wiggled in front of the hand-gun’s barrel. The Putt nodded.
“Of course - we have a wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide selection of kinetics in stock. What will it be used for? Self-defense? Cold-blooded murder? Driveby?”
George blinked sheepishly and dragged his right hand around his left hand as if the left hand was a round sphere, raising his eyebrow. The Putt nodded.
“You’re right, sir - all-of-the-above is a most viable answer. Handheld? Or something a bit heavier, perhaps?”
George flexed his right hand.
“Handheld it is. Let me have a look.” The Putt walked behind a curtain in the back of his shop and for a while, the only sounds were the cacophony of the street behind George. After a minute or so, though, the Putt returned with a handheld pistol about twice the size of George’s fist. George furrowed his brow and grabbed the weapon by the handle, turning it around in his hand to get a good look. The Putt grinned.
“PS-12 Automatic Handgun. Modifiable however you may want, comes with fully automatic sub-machine gun fire options, scope, custom clips and suppressor extensions. I’ll give it to ya for two ninety-nine, because you’re such a great customer and we have a special business offer -for- you! Buy this one and the PS-32 submachine gun for, get this, only six ninety-nine. A steal, right?” The Putt hopped behind the curtain again and found a specimen of the second weapon. George hummed. He pressed his fingertips together into cones and pressed the cones against each other, twisting the right one upside-down. The Putt smirked.
“Since you asked so nicely - no, the extras are not included. Want me to include them?”
George frowned and nodded. The Putt slapped together some holographic abacus blocks that popped out of his wristband. “Right, so, extras such as scopes, suppressors and ammunition, plus the guns, will total you two grand six ninety-nine.”
Wellsley’s jaw nearly smacked into the ground. He thumbed downwards and the Putt smiled.
“Alright, alright - since you’re such a nice guy, I’ll give it all to ya for two grand four hundred, how’s that?”
Again, Wellsley thumbed down. “Okay, two grand, three fifty?”
The ape shook his head. The Putt began to tear up. “Look, here I am, trying to run a business, and I’m honestly, honestly, trying to give you the best price I can, okay?”
Wellsley thumbed down. The Putt gasped. “Shit, bro… I got a wife and son, you know that? What’re they supposed to eat? They already eat corpse starch! How low can you go, huh? You suggest a price.”
George frowned. He had gotten a lot of credits, but he should play it safe. He raised two fingers into the air. The Putt eyed them curiously.
“Two grand?”
George nodded.
“SOLD!” the Putt suddenly burst out loudly and George blinked. Before the Simmie could protest, the Putt had bagged the guns, ammo, scopes and suppressors, subtracted the amount from George’s wristband, shoved the bag into the ape’s arms and closed down the metal curtain over his shop window. Behind the metal curtain, George could hear the faint, celebratory cackles of the merchant. George opened the bag and stared at the contents. Could these be fake? He had never actually bought a gun before, so he had no idea what a “proper one” looked like. He strolled down the alley and found himself a comfortable garbage bag to sit on. He began counting the bullets he had bought, finding out that he had bought a total of three clips for both weapons. He grimaced - he would probably need more.
He clicked a clip into the handgun and fired at the opposite wall. The loud bang followed by the pling as the bullet bounced against the metallic wall both suggested that the gun was quite real, but Wellsley would have to wonder how durable it was if the merchant had celebrated over a 2 000 credit transaction.
Either way, that was the weaponry out of the way. Now George had to find some companions. He made his way down the overcrowded alleys, shouldering as discreetly as he could he newfound bag of weapons.
Now where would he find those?
“So, let me get this straight,” the bulky Raygonian across the table grumbled through pursed lips. The lighting in the Mercenary Recruitment Centre just down the street from the Laopao Street weapons market, was evidently not the focus of the company’s budget, leading everyone to wear a shadowed scowl regardless of actual facial expression. Behind the trench-coated Raygonian stood two more of its kind, plus a Qurok and an Ataraxian, all equally baffled at the request.
“You want us to join you in taking down Barry Ho.”
“Ook,” confirmed George.
“-The- Barry Ho.”
“Ook.”
“Of the Celestial Dragons.”
“Ook.”
The five mercenaries exchanged glances yet again. Their leader, who had introduced himself as Nop Slint, furrowed his brow and looked down at this twiddling thumbs. “Sir, with all due respect, we’re a respected establishment around here - pranking is not a nice thing to do, and frankly way below the belt--”
“Ook!” George protested and placed his index finger on his chin pointing upwards, then flicked it forward. Slint blinked.
“Sir, you keep saying you’re serious about this, but…”
“OOK!”
“Okay, okay! Ugh… Give us a minute to talk.”
The group huddled together and left George to scout out the dark, dank room. All around, tables with clients on one side and mercenary bands on the other were settling deals of honest pay for honest murder, all in the wonderful spirit of the Bottom Tier service economy. There were warriors from all over the cluster: deserters looking for a fresh start or just a place to hide; lifelong killing machines in search of somewhere to apply their talents; or just average cold-blooded Joes or Jennys in search of easy credits. The corner hosted a bar, as was tradition, and next to it was currently an arm-wrestling competition between a Krunt and a Qurok. It seemed the Krunt was winning.
“Right,” said Slint suddenly. George blinked.
“Ook?”
“Yeah, no… We won’t take this mission, sir.”
George hung his head. Slint frowned. “You know how it is, sir. Ho’s not an easy ape to kill, and I won’t risk my squad’s safety that badly just for a lousy five grand.”
George ooked hopelessly and Slint sighed. “Mr. Wellsley, we mean no disrespect, really. Hey, we actually got a tip for ya if you’re really feeling that suicidal. Yux?”
The Ataraxian fingered a note out of her breastpocket and placed it on the table in front of George. She then pointed to a darkened door at the far end of the room. “You take this note and walk over to that door. Knock five times, wait one second, and knock twice more. Then they’ll ask for a password, which is on that note. Read it as quietly as you can to the man behind the door and walk inside.”
George frowned suspiciously and shrugged. The Ataraxian shook her head. “No questions - just do it.” As if to hurry him along, she took him by the hand and led him off his chair and towards the door. George blinked anxiously at the affair, but couldn’t quite think of what to do before he had been placed before the door and the Ataraxian had disappeared back into the crowded establishment. George eyed the menacing rusty door, and considered for a minute to just look for a different mercenary employment business. He looked over his shoulder - the exit couldn’t be seen through the crowd. He eyed the door again. This definitely leads into some fucked up hole where I’ll get shot or something, he thought to himself anxiously as he hammered at the door the exact number of times instructed.
“Password?” came a voice behind the door. George fumbled the note open and started spelling it out with his hands. When done, he waited. Nothing happened.
“Uhm… Hello? Password?” came the voice again. George blinked and looked up. After a second, he smacked his face with his palm and groaned apeishly. There was no slit through which the man could see him spell. Instead, George tried his best to scan the words into his text-to-speech app on his wristband.
“A, L, G, O, R, E, B, R, O, M, A, N,” the mechanical voice mumbled at the metal. A moment passed before the voice went, “Are you a fucking cybe?”
“Ook!” George protested. Another pause passed.
“Oh, a Simmie? Well, I’ll be damned...” The door eventually swung open and a gray hand came out from the darkness behind it to pull George inside. The door shut close after. George didn’t even have time to scream before he was plopped down onto a chair in front of a table with one flickering light bulb. George looked around in panic, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet. At least, not before a voice directed his gaze forward into the midst of a dark cowl with two red eyes glaring back.
“Sssssooo… In your hour of need, you’ve come to ussss… Forfeit hope, forfeit joy - avaunt be morrow, avaunt be yester! FEEEAAAR! FEEEEEEEEAAAAAAR--!”
“Jesus, boss, why you gotta be like this every god damn--”
“OH! OH! I’m sorry! Did you get us this fancy office with YOUR amazing bartering skills? No? Well, of course you didn’t - you suck!”
“This is the washroom, though--”
“SHUT!”
There came the tumble of aluminium pipes and heavy feet - presumably, someone had stepped in an empty bucket. A few stumbles later, the roof lightning switched on at the move of an unfortunate elbow, and George sat staring at a blinking, chubby Qurok in a white tanktop holding a broom, a frowning Jakai scratching her head with a claw, a Nerkin trying furiously to pull a bucket off three-taloned foot, and a small female Petalos with a black hood, looking about two inches from exploding with anger. “This god-damn-- THING!” snarled the Nerkin and eventually just ripped the bucket in half. The room was silent for a second. George raised a quivering finger.
“Ook?”
The hooded Petalos seemed to calm somewhat, but rolled her eyes and glared daggers at her squadmates behind her. “Well, the moment’s gone, so you might as well show us what you’ve got. You need someone dead right?”
And so George explained the whole mission in as much detail as he had received himself. The four strangers occasionally exchanged glances of worry or interest, but no one said a word until George had explained in full, unless it was to ask questions. When the ape had finished, the Petalos gave a quiet “huh”.
“That sure is… Something else. Usually, we’d just get hired to settle domestic disputes, really,” the Jakai added. The Petalos gave her a glare and hushed. George frowned.
“What she meant to say was, we, uh… We DOMINATE disputes! Yes, beware, all who walk the sinful world of Raygon--”
The Qurok rolled his eyes. “Boss, please, you’re scaring the client again.” The Petalos gave George a suspicious glare, receiving some anxious ooks in return.
“... How much’d you bring?”
George held up five fingers and all four of the mercenaries frowned.
“Five grand for Barry Ho? No dice,” declined the Jakai. The Petalos hushed her again and pointed at George.
“You, turn around. We need some time to discuss.” While George did as he was told, the size of the room and his proximity to the others essentially meant that, no matter what he did, he could hear everything they said.
“So, I’m thinking--”
“There’s nothing -to- think, boss. Five grand is nothing when it comes to taking out a big shot like Ho,” the Jakai tried to explain.
“I’m with Sesley, boss. We handle small fights, not triad shit,” said the Qurok.
“Well, I say we fuck him UP!” the Nerkin protested and slammed the table, making George jump a little.
“Okay, so… Two against two?” the Qurok offered.
“This always happens - every time…” Sesley the Jakai muttered.
“Shush, all of you!” the Petalos commanded and raised a finger to the sky. “This place… This place was given to us for our great efforts - this mission--”
“No, boss, we were confined here for being a nuisance, remember? Jeff here couldn’t stop assaulting the Mosley Crew and--”
“They had it coming!” the Nerkin roared and, once again, slammed the table.
“Okay, but that only enhances my point,” said the Petalos loudly, her finger still pointing to the sky, or rather, the ceiling lamp. “If we do this - and succeed - we’ll be the biggest players on the market!”
A silence followed. The first to break it was the Nerkin Jeff, who said, “Boss, you’re insane.”
Sesley sighed. “Well, I suppose I would get shot on the street for existing anyway.”
There came a weak slap and another sigh. “It’s been an honour, people,” mumbled the Qurok. “I’m in.”
“Ape. You can turn around again.”
George did as he was told - a little annoyed at the name-calling, though, and eyed the Petalos. “We have been discussing intimately--”
“Ook!”
“Alright! Alright, we’re in,” she muttered back and extended her hand. “Since we’ll be working together, we should introduce ourselves. I’m the boss of the Fairy Dusters, Oxigania Toxica.” George shook it reluctantly. Oxigania gestured to the rest of her squad.
“This is Sesley Prox, master assassin.”
“I used to be a barista,” Sesley added through a cough.
“That’s Cody Mezzanusospolimos.”
“Just Cody’s fine,” the Qurok said with a smile.
“And that’s Jeff.”
Jeff offered George a razor-sharp claw. “Pleased to be acquainted, Mr. Ape. And you are?”
George frowned and spelled out his name with his hands. The four mercenaries nodded.
“George Wellsley, huh,” Oxigania mumbled. “We’re honoured to be of service.”
“Knowing you came to us, you didn’t have another choice, did you?” Sesley asked with a smirk. George shook his head and Oxigania glared at her colleague.
“Shush, Sesley. Don’t worry, Mr. Wellsley. Everything will go just like planned!”
There was a moment of silence, once again broken by Jeff.
“So!” he snapped, “What is the plan?!”
George comes back to Shawn to celebrate. Thanks to his stunt, George is now a famous man. It seems only fitting that he get his second mission ASAP, right? He got some sick cash for this one, and his next mission pays even more. Next up, he’s gotta shoot a gorilla gangster, so he goes out to buy a gun and get companions. He’s ripped off, probably, when buying guns. He then goes to a mercenary hiring place and tries to get some mercs. He’s initially refused, but is then sent to a secret crew in the back of the establishment. After some shenanigans, George teams up with the hopeless dream team of the sarcastic Jakai Sesley, the wild Nerkin Jeff, the doom-minded Qurok Cody and the theatrical Petalos Oxigania.
Workplace: Gurrpi’s Golly Gunships, a CruiserCorp subsidiary.
Current Debt to the Adamantium Bank:15 999 ITC Credits.
“By Allah, that’s quite a story, Lobby…” Mohammed Sahar gave his ayran a sheepish sip. “You, uh… You need a hug or something?”
“No, I don’t need a fuckin’--!” Zigg stopped himself mid-fit, dipping his lips into his cup of gutter ale and bubbling angrily. The small, copper hand of his colleague squeezed his shoulder supportively.
“Okay, soooo… How about we take this slowly, alright? How, uh, how do you plan on handling this? Hmm?”
Zigg kept growling into his drink. Mohammed turned his shoulder squeeze into a pat. “Buddy?”
Zigg finally withdrew the cup from his lips and sighed. “I don’t know, Mo… I just don’t fucking know. My options are… Pretty much nonexistent.”
“Okay, let’s take a deep breath and--” He shut up upon seeing Zigg’s surly expression. “Right, uh-hum. What’re your options, then?”
Zigg downed his ale. “Well, for started, I could go to the bank--”
“Oh, biiiiig no-no.” “Exactly. Getting a loan to pay off a debt’s a death sentence. Which is why I thought of going to Laogui--”
“LAO--” Mohammed’s face darted around and he tried to the best of his ability to hook his arm around Zigg’s neck and pull him down to his face for a whisper, “The fucking triads?!”
Zigg wrestled himself loose and nearly knocked the small man off his bar stool. The man corrected his balance and furrowed his brow disapprovingly. “Lo, you can’t be serious.”
“Well, there’s always a third option.”
Mo gave his ayran another sip, grimacing slightly at the sourness. “And that is?”
“Hopping on the first ship to the Federation. Settle on some corner planet in the periphery there, make a new home and--...” Zigg quieted down at the sight of Mohammed’s expression and shake of the head. “... Yeah, I figured.”
“You’re already branded, man. AB’s got its eyes on you wherever you go. Your every transaction, your every paycheck, your every Allah-damned breath belongs to them now.”
“Well, how do I fix this, Mo?! Tell me!” Some heads turned in their direction. The bartender hologram gave them a glance before returning to polishing some abstract holographic cups. Zigg stared suspiciously back at the others before hunkering down to Mohammed’s level. “... Got any bright ideas, Mo?”
Mohammed tugged at his bushy black beard pensively, mumbling something to himself. “Well, uhm… Would you get enough if you sold your flat?”
“Well, I don’t -own- the flat. I rent it,” Zigg replied hopelessly. Mohammed nodded understandingly.
“I see, I see. Uhm, how much was the deposit for it?”
“Ten kay or so. What, you’re not honestly suggesting we move out, are you?”
Mohammed shrugged. “Well, it’s either that or the squad for you and your debt for your family.”
Zigg raised a finger in protest. “I might not get the squad.”
“Getting sent to Ripp-5 to mine uranium sands is essentially the squad, man.” The two of them deflated and said nothing for a while. Mohammed took another sip of ayran. He then tapped the bar counter twice and the bartender appeared before the two of them in an instant.
“Yes, mr. Sahar?” she cooed with mechanical enthusiasm.
“Another one for the large gentleman here. I’ll have a falafel plate.”
“I’d like a döner, too, actually,” Zigg added.
“Of course, gentlemen. Will you be paying for all of it, mr. Sahar?”
“I’ll cover the döner,” Zigg declared. Mohammed nodded.
“As you wish,” the hologram said with a smile and materialised the bill in her hand. The two of them touched the bill with their wristbands, making the little “boop!” ring out with its gentle, yet eerily annoying pitch. The bartender then blinked over to the other edge of the bar to simulate tapping another ale. Before a minute had passed, she had already appeared before them again, placing the ale down on the counter before Zigg just as a hatch opened on the counter surface, lifting up a tray with a pint of the goo-like yellow brew and a smoking piece of carbo-gluten pita stuffed with fried and hacked protein farse, some corn and cucumber gums, spinach and enough “white sauce” to make those ingredients nonexistent. Mohammed got something similar, only the protein farse had been replaced with greasy clumps of breaded soy bean mash - essentially the exact same thing as protein farse, but (supposedly) less recycled proteins.
Zigg picked up his overfilled vessel of food, half of which seemed to spill back onto the plate as he did his best to keep it in one piece. Mohammed took a piece of falafel, broke it in half and dipped one half in some of Zigg’s spilled sauce, mumbling a friendly “thaaaank you”. Zigg rolled his eyes and bit into the slab of food.
They ate their food in silence, both of them contemplating their exchange and what could be done about the situation. It didn’t help Zigg that Neo-Turkish döners also were incredibly rich and made talking a feat of strength. However, once they had finished eating, Mohammed sighed.
“I’ve heard there are -some- good places in the Bottom Tier--”
“I’m just saying, alright? Bring your belongings, get a good flat in the bottom tier. Rent’ll plummet and you’ll only live slightly worse off than you do now.”
“Not. Happening!”
“Well, why not?”
“I’ve been stabbed once already - if we move to the bottom tier, we’ll be lucky if that’s the worst that’ll happen to us.”
Mohammed picked at a sad piece of damp spinach on his plate. “O Allah… Okay, look, I’ll-- I’ll get in touch with some people, ask around. They might be able to shelter you for the time being, and--”
“Mo, you don’t have to. They’d just be putting themselves in danger. No, no, I’ll have to talk this over with the wife. She’ll-- ugh!” Zigg clutched his abdomen and keeled forward, slamming his face onto the bar counter. The holographic bartender appeared with a smile, which suddenly disappear. “Oh my, had too much to drink, sir?”
“Shit, get a doctor, lady!” Mohammed called out as the patrons of the bar slowly began to turn their eyes to them. The hologram simulated holding a smartphone.
“Of course, sir. Which insurance company do you--”
“NO! No, no more hospitals. M-Mo, in my pocket - the right one. A small packet.” Zigg tried to lean in a direction that made it easier for Mo to reach his pocket. Mohammed hopped off his stool, skipped to the other side of Zigg and reached into his pocket. Sure enough, there was a metallic packet there, labeled “Rejectionol: Kidneys” and offered it to Zigg. In a swift motion, Zigg fingered the box open and extracted a syringe, which he promptly stabbed through his shirt into his belly. A minute later, he lifted his head off the counter and began dabbing his sweaty face with the hem of his shirt. Mohammed frowned.
“So… That’s why you can’t go down there, huh.”
Zigg nodded and took some panting breaths. “Rejectol is impossible to get down there - well, the real stuff, anyway. Usually doesn’t get this bad, but my body’s not accepting this new cybe kidney. I know that’s a common thing among cybes, but shit… Never knew just how painful it is.”
“That, uh, rejectol. How much did it cost ya?”
“Remember how I said my debt to the hospital was fourteen grand?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m currently sixteen grand in overall debt.”
“Fuck…” Mohammed sat himself back on his stool. “Who the fuck lets companies manage the sale of critical medicine?”
“You know where you are, right?”
“Listen, I pay my zakat like any good Muslim - if I was richer, I’d buy a lifetime supply of Rejectol for all cybes and sub-cybes on the planet.” Mohammed raised his ayran cup proudly and chugged down the rest. “This world’s seen enough unfairness. Whatever happened to respect and common decency?”
“Again, you know where you are, right?” Zigg rolled his eyes with a smirk and gave his wristband a glance. “Shit, that time already, huh?”
Mohammed gave him a glance. “You heading home?”
Zigg got up from his chair and tugged his jacket on properly. “Yeah, gotta discuss what to do with the wife. Kids’ll want to know, too.”
Mohammed sighed and placed his hand over his heart. “Alright, Lo. Stay safe, okay?”
Zigg nodded and returned the gesture. “Yeah.” As he spun around to walk out, though, Mohammed called out.
“Oh, Lobby!”
“Hmm?” Zigg hummed and turned back.
“You should come over some time. Bring your family and I’ll have Ayiisha cook us some machboos.”
Zigg smiled. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
Mohammed grinned back, though somewhat forced. “... Yeah. Please stay safe.”
“Sure.” Zigg then left the bar and walked into the blaring noisewall of advertisements and city chatter.
“The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Praetarei.” Ambassador Rev said, dressed in a fine ebony colored suit, flanked by two guards. “Let’s discuss further details of your contract in my office, your men in the meantime can make free use of this station’s amenities.”
“Wonderful, wonderful. Force Commander - come here, please.”
The lady standing at the front of the battalion, a seemingly young human with side cuts underneath a long length of purple hair running down the right side of her head that matched her hyperfiber suit. She stomped one combat boot to the floor, marched forward until she arrived before the ambassador and the CEO, and saluted. “Yes, Ms. Praetarei?”
“Ambassador Rev, this is Force Commander Erina Thatch - she will serve as our primary representative to you once the contract has been signed, if it pleases. Commander Thatch, the ambassador has given you and your soldiers permission to use the amenities aboard the station as you see fit.”
Thatch turned so her body faced the ambassador and once again saluted. “Thank you, ambassador. It shall be a pleasure to relax after such a long jump.”
The ambassador gave a nod of acknowledge to Commander Thatch. “I’ll leave you to that, Commander.” He said, turning his attention back to the CEO. “This way, please.” A short time passes as both the Ambasaador Rev and Ms. Praetarei traversed the glistening corridors of Pathway station, passing by station personnel, all giving nods or salutes to the pair. Before long they would finally arrive to the Ambassador’s office, the doors sliding wide open to reveal a lavishly designed office space. The Ambassador took his seat near the edge of the room, a ray-shield window display right behind him. Rev leaned forward on his desk as he got comfortable. “Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador,” Ms. Praetarei said with a smile and sat down in a chair. She tapped the Raygon band on her left wrist and blinked at the brightness of the holographic display popping up before her. After lowering the brightness a little and tapping out of the ads not even her special subscription could subdue, she opened up a document on the screen, enlarged it and showed it to the ambassador. “Here we are. Everything is as we discussed pre-arrival, with one exception - after a second opinion from our arms supplier, we have decided to switch to hardier lithium-ion battery packs. That will add an additional… Let’s see here… Ah, yes, an additional five hundred thousand ITC credits to the already agreed amount. Is this agreeable still?”
“A bit steep, but acceptable.” The Ambassador said. He looked down to his desk as he pressed down a button. “Bring in the payment.” Within a few moments, a service android, one of those new models with their life-like humanoid faces, entered the room with a rather heavy briefcase. The Android approached the desk as it placed down the briefcase, unlocking it to unveil the previously agreed upon amount of credits. “Your additional payment will be transferred in a later date. I hope this will suffice for now.”
Ms. Praetarei graciously accepted the briefcase and whistled as she weighed it in her arms, looking rather strained doing so. “Oh, this will--... ‘Scuse me,” she said and deposited the briefcase back in the droid’s arms, huffing a little, “this will do wonderfully. Well, then - SkullCorp’s Fourth Battalion is yours to command, Ambassador. Is there anything else you would like to discuss? You mentioned further details?”
“Ah, yes. I did say that.” The Ambassador said. Rev leaned backed against his chair as he clasped his talons over his knees. “This isn’t public knowledge as of yet, technically hasn’t even happened yet.” Rev paused as he stood up from his chair and walked over to his wine cabinet, grabbing a glass and cracking open a bottle of Parravon wine. ”The Federation is planning to support the Orleans Invasion of Duro One. We simply await the official directive from the Madam Chancellor herself.” He paused once more, pouring the wine in his glass. “Oh, I apologize, would you like some? It’s simply exquisite.”
“Oh, why, yes, please,” Ms. Praetarei burbled happily and accepted a glass. She gave it a whiff, raised it to the ambassador and took a sip. “Oh my, that is fantastic. Mmm! But yes, if I am understanding you correctly, the Fourth should remain invisible for the time being, yes?”
The Ambassador nodded. “Correct, for now they are to remain on standby on this station. Once the Federation announces its support of the Orleans invasion and deploys its task force, the fourth will rendezvous with our forces near the planet’s orbit.”
Ms. Praetarei hummed to herself and took another sip of wine. “Understood. The message will be relayed to Commander Thatch. Does the station have combat simulation facilities? Holodecks or the like would suffice.”
Rev took a moment to sip of the wine. “The best we can offer are holodecks, your men can make use of them to their hearts desire.”
“Do these accept type 3 memory cartridges? Oh, sorry, that’s the standard in Raygon space. They’re the skinny ones, you know? Those that you put into the machine to set up a simulation?” She tried to mimic its shape with her hands. It looked square. “For legal reasons, we prefer to use our patented simulations, you understand.” “Of course, of course.” Rev said. “Might put a bit of a strain on the system, but our holodecks are up to spec for the most part.”
“Fantastic. That should be no issue, in that case. We have to keep them in shape for the actual fighting.” She had some more wine. “Do you have any other questions, ambassador?”
“Oh no, you’re free to go Ms. Praetarei.” Rev said.” Only that I ask that this conversation stays between us. The Federation’s activities in the frontier is a…sensitive matter, I’m sure you understand.”
“Client discretion and secrecy are paramount to our company, mr. Ambassador. This conversation never happened and we’ve never been here.” Ms. Praetarei winked, downed the rest of her glass and stood up. She opened the display on her wrist, tapped out of the ads and eyed the time. “Well, then - I should be returning to Raygon. I’m certain our competitors will be tracing our ship, as usual. By the way, be on the lookout for additional offers - if the Desperados make contact, ignore them at all cost. They’ll rob you blind.”
“Duly noted” Rev nodded. “Regardless, the Federation only seeks the services of SkullCorp, your expertise is most useful in what we have planned.”
“We certainly hope to satisfy. As discussed, the Fourth thrive especially well when unseen. The model 98 fires laser beams soundlessly that can cut through ten inches of steel, so they are as useful in assassinations as they are in sabotage. Use them as you see fit, of course, but their assets will be best utilised in the shadows. They commonly operate far beyond the frontlines - separated into squads, naturally. What radio encryption does the Federation use again? Commander Thatch might need a copy of it to sync their relays.”
“Ah, my apologies, I’ll get that done.” Rev said as he took a seat once more as a holo-screen materialized before him. Pressing down several keys before a loud “bing” sound rung. “There, Federation Radio Encryptions have been uploaded into your wrist-comm. Your soldiers should have little trouble assessing fed-comms.”
“Fantastic. That should be all on my part, then. I wish you the best of luck in the coming conflict and certainly hope our soldiers live up to your expectations.” She spun around, took a step and stopped. “Oh, by the way, would it be too much to ask if you could fill out this customer satisfaction survey for today’s service?” Another “bing” sounded from the Ambassador’s screen. “It takes two minutes at the most. Thank you in advance. It has been a joy to do business with you, Ambassador Rev.”
Rev nodded. “The honor was mine, and farewell Ms. Praetarei.”
So I ended up taking the job, after all. Shit, I couldn’t believe it either, honestly - not at first. Lil’ ol’ Wellsley, about to take on a motherfucking Gala-Grid drone security station.
Fuck, why am I doing this?!
The debt’s already settled - they called this morning. I haven’t seen Shawn’s guards at all - I’m not being followed. Is it greed? It’s greed, isn’t it? Christ, George, why’re you like this? Is it just to see if you can do it at this point? Are you really that curious?
Alright, alright - calm down, G.C.. Pray to God that you’re not rusty. You’ve got this. You’ve totally got this.
George knuckled his way through the dark, passing behind some sleeping Raygonian bums. A distant cackle broke through the soundscape and George dove for cover.
“Won again, bitches!” the voice continued to a choir of groans. George permitted himself a peek out of the shadows. There, across the street, in the light of an exhausted LED, a Qurok, Raygonian and Putt sat playing some kind of game - George couldn’t quite make it out. To his chagrin, though, he noticed that the way to the drone station was opposite of the group - worse yet, they were sitting in an open street. His eyes scanned the area in desperate search of some manner of cover. The shadows could do, perhaps.
“Bah! Ourm, you’re cheating!”
The putt put a hand on his chest and gasped. “Now, now - I’m a businessman, mr. Hippi, but cheat? You’re woundin’ me, man.”
The Raygonian presumably known as Mr. Hippi’s fist hammered the tabletop. “I JUST drew that card! How do you have it?” Ourm shrugged.
“I didn’t do anything, though! Jerry, did you see me do anything?”
The Qurok growled a deep ‘no’. The Putt gestured to him. “See?”
“Shut up, Jerry, you’re losing anyway!”
‘Oh’, was all the response Jerry could muster, looking somberly down at his cards. All of a sudden, there came the bang of metal. All three of them turned towards the sound.
“Who’s there?” Mr. Hippi spat. He rose from his chair and grabbed a bat he had hidden under the table; Ourm unholstered a rusty pistol; Jerry flexed and unflexed his fingers, on which he clearly had been wearing knuckle irons. “Come on out!” Mr. Hippi called again and golfed a rusty can into a distant wall.
“Under there,” Ourm snapped and fired a shot. It ricocheted off the reinforced concrete behind a pile of garbage and scrap, illiciting a panicked ‘ook’. A shadow knuckled its way out from behind the garbage, tailed by a few more shots. “A god damn Simmie, holy moley.”
“You’re a shit fucking shot, Ourm,” Mr. Hippi muttered.
“Hey, it’s not like I use this thing that often.” They looked at one another. “Should we go after it?” Ourm asked.
‘Hungry,’ Jerry growled.
“Yeah, I’m with Jerry on this one, and you have all our money. I could go for a bite or two.”
“Jesus, guys, we’re not actually going to eat him?”
“No, jackass, we’re robbing him so we can get something to eat, duh!”
Jerry hung his head. ‘Oh.’
Both Ourm and Mr. Hippi frowned at him. “Alright, calm down, big guy. HappyBurger will have to do, alright? We, we don’t eat people.”
‘Ok…’
“Well, should we, y’know, give chase?”
“Yeah, sure.”
George had no idea how long he had been running - all he knew was that he had already passed the drone station by a long shot. He’d have to go back, and that meant sneaking past his pursuers. Christ, today of all days. Would they believe him if he said he had no money? Doubt they would.
“Come ooooout! My boys are starving, man - have some compassion and give us your money. We’ll tone down the pain if you do it right now. The longer you wait, though…” Another clang as a brick struck the very same garbage container George was hiding behind, causing him to freeze up. “... The worse it’ll be for you.”
The rip of thin plastic and subsequent cacophony of diverse falling garbage filled the soundscape, followed by two groans and a sigh. “God damn it, Jerry, look what you’ve done to yourself!”
‘Bag was older than I thought…’
“That’s always the case, though,” Ourm explained. “Nobody double bags down here. Jesus Christ, you smell even worse now.”
“We’ll pitch in. Get you a shower later, okay? This monkey better be fucking loaded.”
George’s quivering hands slowly reached down into his pocket, from where they extracted a butterfly knife. As quietly as he could, he locked it into blade mode and drew a number of panicked gasps through his teeth, praying to whatever deity was out there that they wouldn’t hear his heart jumping out of his chest.
“Oh shit.”
George held his breath.
“Yo, what’s up?”
“Sshh! Bobby incomin’.”
George’s eyes widened.
“A bobby? Fuck, of course it’d show up right now. A’ight, spread out, look busy.”
The rustle of plastic and floored garbage indicated his three pursuers went to hide or disguise themselves as upstanding citizens not in the middle of robbing someone. Sure enough, the rustling was soon drowned out by the slow, metallic clanks of robotic feet stepping through the street. Some more fierce whispering jumped between the three, sounding specifically aimed at the Qurok for some reason.
“CITIZEN. IDENTIFY YOURSELF.”
Oh, that was why.
“Uhm,” Jerry rumbled. “J-Jerry Lokamopolous Ruip III - citizen number, uh… “
George swallowed and looked around. As far as he could see, there weren’t any signs denoting property ownership. As quietly as he could, he opened his wristband panel, immediately breaking the quiet soundscape in the otherwise largely empty street with deafening ads. He tried as quickly as he could to close the screen down again, but the ads naturally had blockers over the exit buttons for the first five seconds of playing.
“SOUND DETECTED. CITIZEN BTC-051-143-223-768-132, DO YOU HAVE ACCOMPLICES?”
Jerry swallowed. “Nah, must be the ape.” In the distance, George could hear one of Jerry’s friends hushing violently.
“ELABORATE.”
“Chasing an ape,” Jerry muttered. George suddenly noticed a scramble of plastic nearby.
“‘CHASING AN APE’ NOTED IN CONFESSION. VIOLATION OF PRIVATE CITIZEN NAP ADDED TO LIST OF CRIMES. YOUR PUNISHMENT FOR TRANSGRESSING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY IS--”
“Wait, whose property is this?!” came suddenly Ourm’s voice in protest.
Meanwhile, George was growing increasingly wary of the approaching sound. He tried to slide further away along the garbage contained, but shortly thereafter, he saw a thick fist grab onto the side of the contained. It pulled to itself a fat, grinning face with tiny, beady eyes.
“Hello, little monkey,” Mr. Hippi murmured sadistically. George choked on a scream and picked up a nearby clump of hardened sludge, chucking it at Mr. Hippi’s face. The Raygonian couldn’t dodge in time and snarled.
“UGH! Fuck, you’re fucking DEAD!” Mr. Hippi roared and began clawing his way towards George through the piles of garbage around them. George, meanwhile tried desperately to scramble to his feet, but found his tracks frozen by the approaching clanks of metal.
“COMMOTION DETECTED. EVERYONE - REMAIN CALM.” A red-coated robot fist the size of George’s whole torso grabbed the garbage contained and turned it over, revealing the Prrp & Sterlington Model 7B “Bobby” Peacekeeper Mech in all its frightening stature. Its thousand glass eyes analysed the scene, one Simmie holding a knife frozen in a crawling pose with a Raygonian grip about one of its feet. Mr. Hippi looked equally terrified.
“ASSAULT DETECTED. CALCULATING PUNISHMENT.”
“Jerry, help me!” Mr. Hippi squealed. The Qurok’s eyes darted around before he suddenly gave the robot a mighty push. The alien’s strength was actually considerable enough to cause the robot to stagger. However, the moment Jerry had shoved it, George saw that it dawned on his face what he had just done.
“Jerry, what the fu--” was all Ourm managed to get out before both he and Jerry were immediately peppered to bloody mush by the Bobby’s shoulder-mounted machine gun. Mr. Hippi drew a hacking gasp.
“G-guys?! GUYS?!”
“ASSAULT ON OFFICER OF THE LAW - PUNISHMENT CALCULATED: EXECUTION.” The machine then turned back to George and Mr. Hippi, only - Mr. Hippi had gone over to check on the mutilated corpses with teary eyes.
“CITIZEN, DO NOT MOVE. MOVING WILL BE CONSIDERED AN ATTEMPT TO FLEE THE CRIME SCENE.”
“Fuck you, Bobby! You killed my, my… Oh, God…”
George, meanwhile, tried to sneak its way up behind the Bobby. By now, the streets were slowly filling up with curious citizens looking for some entertainment.
“EVERYONE - STAY BACK. TO INTERFERE WITH BUSINESS OF THE LAW IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH,” the Bobby droned mercilessly and began stomping over to Mr. Hippi. However, just as it was about to take its first step, it stopped and droned some more, this stuff unintelligible. It stood frozen, and all the spectators eyed it curiously. Mr. Hippi mouthed some silent curses of disbelief. After a moment, a melody played.
“REBOOT COMPLETE. ADMINISTRATIVE CONTROLS GIVEN TO: USERNAME_CAESAR.”
George hopped out from behind the robot, holding a duct-taped and modified touch pad in his arms. He pointed at Mr. Hippi, whose eyes went wide with realisation, and screamed a loud “YAAAAH!”
“AFFIRMATIVE,” went the Bobby and immediately reduced the Raygonian to a carcass with more holes than Federation Cheese. The crowds, understanding what had just happened, suddenly went screaming for the hills. George took a moment to realise what he had just done, before also realising the attention he had drawn to himself. Without a moment to lose, he knuckled his way back the way he came, his trusty Bobby following along faithfully.
Technically, I did the job perfectly after that. Sure, the original plan was to -sneak- in and hack the place - knock out some circuits, fuck up the charging stations, same old, same old. Still, those three a-assholes put that plan in jeopardy. Like, fuck, I got seen - I’m fucking dead. I had the Bobby level everything - the station, every camera spot along the way. Fuck, was that the right thing to do? Have I drawn more attention to myself?
For all they know, it could’a just been a Bobby that went rogue. Yeah, that’s right. Just a rampant Bobby. Happens all the time, right? Giant robot cops with machine guns and fists that could crush concrete blocks like fuckin’ pop rocks. I made sure to delete the OS, too - can’t be too careful. Anyway, jobs’ done, right? Better lay low until Shawn gets back to me.
“Honey? This spinach, what brand is it? It tastes different than usual.”
Mrs. Zigg placed her own plate down on the table and sat down. She put a spoonful in her own mouth and hardened her eyes at the plastic back on the kitchen counter. “Can’t quite see it from here, sweety. Think it was some Cosmart brand.”
“Happy Belly? Yum-Bo? Pepperridge?”
“Okay, relax, I’ll check,” she huffed and rose up. Their children, Sambel and Lobona Zigg, sat eyeing their food, occasionally stabbing fruit gums with their forks. Mrs. Zigg took the bag in her hand and offered it to her husband. “Remmizipp Farms, apparently.”
“Remmizipp?” Mr. Zigg mumbled and eyed the brand logo. “... Hang on, I know this one. Isn’t this one at least forty credits more expensive than Happy Belly’s?”
Mrs. Zigg looked away. “We-well… You know the bonus I got last month? I just thought we could--”
Mr. Zigg growled and rubbed his face into his palm. “Christ, Clora, that was supposed to go to our savings.”
“I just wanted one nice breakfast for once, Lobutos!” she shouted back. “Is it too much to ask that we can just have actual spinach for once?!”
“Mom, dad - please don’t fight,” Sambel protested. Mr. Zigg impaled a soggy, sloppy leaf of spinach on his fork and put it into his mouth.
“Son, if there’s one thing any of us can teach you, it’s that the only way out of here is to save up - no matter what the ads tell you. That’s why you eat as cheaply as you can in the hopes that at least your children can eat well in the top tier some day. Your mother here, on the other hand--”
“Oh, -I’m- the bad guy, of course,” Mrs. Zigg snapped and rose from the table. She turned and grabbed her jacket and bag.
“Honey, I’m just trying to teach our kids a--”
“I don’t want to hear it! I’m going to work, and if you don’t clean up those plates after you’re done, I -swear- I will…” She pressed the button for the door to open and nothing happened.
Mr. Zigg frowned. “Will what?”
“Ugh!” she screamed and kept pressing the button. Finally, it opened, briefly letting in the cacophony of advertisements echoing between the walls and she left without a word. The room fell silent again, save for some sad sniffing coming from Lobona. Mr. Zigg groaned and put another forkful of spinach into his mouth.
“Dad? Why did you get angry at mom for what she bought?” Sambel asked after a long reign of silence. Mr. Zigg sighed again.
“Like I said earlier, son, we gotta save every credit we can. It’s the only way you two can get a better life.” He impaled a slice of fruit gum on his fork.
“But, but… What about the ads? They’re telling us to buy, aren’t they?”
“They are - which is much of the reason why we’re, well, stuck here. Listen, it’s easy to get hooked on the sales and the bonuses and the subscription services, but we gotta--”
“Stevonbee’s parents have the unlimited hot water sub,” Lobona muttered quietly. Mr. Zigg grit his teeth.
“And Stevonbee’s dad is in huge debt with the mob -and- Adamantium! He fell for the trap, which I’m telling BOTH of you not to do.” The two children looked down and sniffed. Mr. Zigg took the moment to steal a glance at the small digital clock on the stove. His heartrate skyrocketed. “Aw, Christ, I’m late for work! Sambel, son, mind cleaning up after your old man?” Mr. Zigg had already risen from his seat and jogged over to the door.
Sambel frowned. “Sure, dad, but what about school? Our lessons are starting soo--”
“And there it is,” Sambel muttered, “dad, we really gotta--” “Yeah, I understand, son. Have fun with school! Just - make sure it’s clean before mom comes home, okay?”
Sambel returned an unenthusiastic thumb-up. Mr. Zigg winked back and donned his hat, pressing the opening button on the door at least nine times before it responded and lead him into the apartment complex hallway.
“... Only 599 credits! You cannot miss it! Only five nine nine credits for a brand new…” the nearest advertisement speaker blasted. Mr. Zigg had always been surly about the fact that they had received the room with an ad blaster right above the door - this one with a motion sensor, too. Down the hallway, he spotted the seventeen other speakers that seemed to turn to him like hungry wolves. As he passed them, one hand on his small suitcase and the other covering one ear hole, they each boomed their message, often backed up by a non-copyrighted track.
“Howdy there - you look like the type who could use a small break…”
“TANG SODA! EXCLUSIVE LIMITED TIME SALE ON TANG SODA AT COSMART! ONLY 39,99 CREDITS FOR A CASE OF TEN -- YES, YOU HEARD US RIGHT…!”
“... It ain’t just the air and soil of Sage 4 that makes proper, healthy grain… It’s love and care…”
“Flyer got wrecked by your neighbour? Did the boss violate your contract again? Call Oatman&Steve Attorneys…”
“Shalom! Be blessed by Elahim, shimshon. If you’re in need of a lil’...”
“In need of a loan? Adamantium Bank’s your ticket out of poverty! Drop by our nearest office today and…”
Mr. Zigg wiped the annoyed sweat off his brow as the advertisements became so overlapped that each message was indistinguishable from the rest. It was all just one audible, bubbling soup of words - taunting him and his family’s wealth (or lack thereof, rather). At long last, he reached the door, which thankfully was on the bottom floor. In the door, he met about seventy others: Raygonians, mostly, their barrel-like shapes wagging from side to side with their every step; sprinkled in between was a Putt or two, their shorter forms nearly drowning between their larger peers; finally, Mr. Zigg swore he could see one or two Shas, too - he had no idea any lived in his building.
“Mornin’, Mr. Zigg,” came a rumble from behind him. Mr. Zigg looked over his shoulder and tipped his hat.
“Morning, Mrs. Imhotr. Heading to work?”
The Qurok adjusted her hardhat, broadened to fit her skull size, and smirked. “Where else’d I go? Sewage pipes gotta be cleaned, lest this whole block’ll stink worse than it already does.” She lit herself a thick cigarette and took an unfathomably long drag. The whole group of workers had exited the apartment building and were moving through the loud streets, hoverers and flyers soaring over them and cars rumbling far below. Advertisements were just as deafening here as inside - perhaps even more so.
“Always wondered - don’t we have cybes to fix our plumbing these days?”
“We do,” Mrs. Imhotr replied curtly.
Mr. Zigg shrugged. “How’s the competition?”
She exhaled a thick, smouldering plume of smoke, her wrinkly features somehow even more pronounced in its shadow. “Eh, it’s manageable. Thankfully, the alloys they use in cybes down here’re still not strong enough to handle the acidity of the sewers. Still, they’ve pretty much outshined us in the finer pipes.” She shook her head. “Worst part isn’t even the competition - our boss’s squeezin’ out every penny he can get from every assignment. The micromanagement’s off the rails, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Mr. Zigg frowned. “Really sorry to hear that, Mrs. Imhotr. Hope the paychecks aren’t too affected. How’s the wife, by the way?”
Mrs. Imhotr groaned. “Ugh, she’s been a wreck lately.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. Found Vidrio in her drawer the other day. I think she’s reboundin’, man.” She took another long drag of her cigarette, almost draining it dry. They neared the station, which was packed to the brim as always with all manner of workers heading to their respective workplaces. The hiss of train breaks and hum of battery-driven engines nearly drowned out the blare of advertisements. Mrs. Imhotr shook her head. “I dunno what to do, man. I can’t afford to put her in rehab again, and I can’t afford to lose her. Not again.”
“H-hey, look, it’ll be alright, no? Just… Set some spending parametres on her wristband and get rid of the product she’s gotten so far. Where is she now?”
“I told her sister about it and we agreed she’d take care of her for a week or two while I clean the apartment. Her sister’s a good person - she won’t get in trouble there.”
“Well, as long as she’s safe. Hey, when do you get off work today?”
“Seven as always. Why?”
Mr. Zigg thumbed over his shoulder. “Actually, my wife’s pretty fed up with me, too. Want to head to Johnny’s after work?”
“You had a falling out with your wife and your solution is drinking?” she asked with a snicker. Mr. Zigg shrugged.
“In truth, our fight was so stupid. She’d bought some expensive lettuce, or was it spinach? Anyway, I got angry, but only because she can’t save cash for the life of her, Jesus…”
“Hey, HEY. You know how I feel about blasphemy, right?”
“Right, sorry, sorry. Gotta ask, how much big’s the church subscription these days? 99 a week?”
“79, actually,” she replied with a grin as she ducked under the slightly too low doorway into their part of the station. “They reduced it in time for the season.”
“Christ, seventy-nine a week to go to church…”
“Mr. Zigg.”
“Right, sorry. Blasphemy.”
Mrs. Imhotr rolled her eyes and sighed. “No, it’s alright. So, about your wife?”
“Oh, right.” They had arrived at the platform of their train, the time table predicting the arrival of the next train in three minutes. Mr. Zigg sighed. “Yeah, so things are pretty tight nowadays, and the wife decided to blow her bonus on some more expensive food… We got into a fight and bada-bing, bada-boom, I’m sleeping on the couch, I reckon.”
“You have a couch?”
“No…”
Mrs. Imhotr snickered. “Well, that sucks. On one hand, I don’t see what the problem is - a little good food every now and then should be a right; on the other hand, now… Well, I’m actually feeling it pretty hard.”
“Right? Like, what if we had needed the money to, to send the kids to the doctor, or, or--”
“Go to church?”
“Uh, I dunno, maybe? Point is - we can’t afford to buy on impulse, and my wife’s having a hard time realising that.”
“How big was her bonus, anyway?”
“Like, one-sixty? Not a lot, but a credit earned is a credit saved.” The train approached from their right and hissed gently as it slowed down. The doors were lifted up to unleash a river of alien flesh onto the platform, prickled with the occasional human. When the cart was almost emptied, Mr. Zigg and Mrs. Imhotr started wrestling their way inside, taking a standing spot before being figuratively locked in place by the rest of the commuters.
“But, like, it couldn’t have cost that much, right? Unless she bought, like, Remmizipp or something.”
“Exactly what she did.”
Mrs. Imhotr whistled sheepishly. “Ouch. One bag of that’s almost a hundred.”
“Right? And it has less in it.”
“Did it taste good, at least?”
“Oh, it was amazing, but not as amazing as those extra credits would’ve looked in our savings account.” Zigg cupped his face in his hand. “Ugh, talking about this leaves my mouth dry.”
“Did you bring your cup?”
“We’ll see,” Mr. Zigg mumbled and opened his suitcase. He rummaged about as deftly as he could, considering he could barely move. “... Crap, I forgot my cup.”
“Hang on,” Mrs. Imhotr mumbled as she dug around in her backpack. Shortly after starting, she had pulled forth a small, but thick, metallic thermos, which she handed to Zigg. “Here. It’s got the, the, uh, the dark roast sub.”
“The three credit one or the twenty credit one?”
“Three, I think.”
Mr. Zigg frowned and tapped his wristband against the cup. It went ‘beep!’ and said, “Three credits deducted from your account.” The cup then begun to vibrate violently for a few seconds before it gave a gentle sucking sound and sounded a ‘pling!’. Mr. Zigg uncorked it and gave it a whiff, cringing slightly.
“If the band hadn’t already told me, I could’ve guessed this was three credit coffee, yup.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied sourly with a half-grin. Mr. Zigg gave the thermos a slurp and then handed it back to the Qurok, who also gave it a swig. The train began to slow down, the next station approaching. Mrs. Imhotr let out a ‘nn!’ and corked the thermos. “Right, this is my stop. So… Seven, right?”
“Yeah, if you’re still up.”
She shrugged and tapped her wristband. “I’ll let you know if there’s a change of plans. If not, I’ll see you there. Laters!” She then proceeded to wrestle her way back out of the train, her two and a half metre tall frame wading through the masses as if they were water. Mr. Zigg made a half grin and leaned up against the wall of the train to close his eyes for a few moments, the rest of the passengers keeping him comfortably from falling over.
“So that’s the story, sir. So therefore, I wondering…” Mr. Zigg gestured a bit with his stubby hands.
Opposite a large desk made of plastic resembling mahogany sat a guppy mecha-suit, within which dome floated a frowning guppy, specifically Mr. Gurrpi, CEO of Gurrpi’s Golly Gunships. "Mr. Zigg, we're a small company, sure, but I still have 694 million employees here, and you know I like you all, but if I was to give everyone who asked for it a bonus, we'd be bankrupt within the hour."
"But!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Zigg, but no. If you give it your all for the rest of the year, I'll consider it around Commercial Christmas, alright? Omni, make a note of that."
"Yes, Mr. Gurrpi. Note made to: Consider providing Mr. Lobutos Zigg, employee ID 459-993-101, with a Commercial Christmas bonus amounting to [unspecified] based on the sum of his merits," the robotic voice from Mr. Gurrpi's mecha-suit replied monotonously.
Mr. Gurrpi's suit gave a shrug. "I'm sorry, Mr. Zigg, this is all I can do for now. If you can make yourself worth it, I'll set the bonus to, uh, let’s say 15% of your December-2 paycheck.”
“Note edited: Commercial Christmas bonus set to: fifteen percent of December-dash-2 paycheck,” said Omni.
Mr. Zigg’s eyes glistened with surprised. “R-really? You’d do that for me?” And through the thick glass dome of the Guppy mecha suit, the Raygonian could see Mr. Gurrpi grin wholeheartedly.
“Of course! I appreciate all my workers, Mr. Zigg, and reward those who do a good job. Now, I think you oughta get to it if you hope to snatch the bonus for yourself.”
Mr. Zigg was already halfway out the door. “Don’t have to tell me twice! Thank you, sir!” The mecha-suit gave him a thumb up while the guppy inside had returned its attention to the display on its desk. The Raygonian closed the door behind him and giggled to himself. Yes! He would get a bonus and could make up for his wife’s dent in their savings! This was perfect! A beer with a friend later would put the cherry on top, so when the clock struck half past six and Mr. Zigg was skipping down the street from his office building, it seemed only fitting that all should come crashing down at the hands of an armed robbery in an alley. The masked thieves beat Mr. Zigg to a pulp and left him face down in a puddle of filth, hacking into his wristband to steal his money. They then disappeared into the night.
When Zigg woke up, he was at the last place he wanted to be. He would rather be in the grave, the alley or even the bottom tiers over a place like this. The walls were completely white - as were his sheets and the armless robe he wore. Next to him stood a Petalos dressed in a white coat, holding a touch pad. It gave it a few additional taps before noticing that the patient had awoken. Putting on as good as smile as she could, the Petalos faced Lobutos.
“Ah, you’re finally awake.” She adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Zigg, is it?”
Mr. Zigg’s eyes darted around. “Who called the ambulance? Which hospital is this?”
“The caller never said their name. As for where you are, you are at Polygon Emergency Hospital, CT-Block A090-001-001, “Gala-Grid Heights”. How are you feeling?”
Mr. Zigg’s heart rate shot up considerably. “Polygon?! Fuck! FUCK!”
The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, if you would please calm down--!”
“My insurance doesn’t cover this hospital! Doctor, how long have I been here?! What treatment did you give me?!”
Immediately, the doctor distanced herself from Mr. Zigg and eyed the touchpad with skeptical pursed lips. “... Oh, is that so. Well, I had hoped we could’ve waited with this until later, but since you’re so eager.” She gave the pad a few additional taps. “Your grand total for a two day stay with the addition of a cast for your broken arm and a cybe replacement for your ruptured kidney--”
“Ruptured kidney?!”
“You had been stabbed, sir. It was either a replacement or removal.”
“Christ, you should’ve just removed.” He buried his face in his hands. “... I can’t pay for anti-rejection drugs, lady. I can hardly pay my family’s rent.”
“Well, shouldn’t have gotten stabbed, in that case. Health authorities always recommend staying out of the street at all times to avoid such unfortunate events.”
Mr. Zigg scowled at her. “I have no choice, doctor! I don’t own a hoverer!”
“Again, not my problem, sir. Your grand total is 13 999 credits.”
“Thirteen--” was all Mr. Zigg squeezed out before he clutched his chest, taking deep breaths. The doctor sighed and tapped a few more times on the pad.
“Adding a possible heart surgery to that, making the grand total--”
“NO! No.” Mr. Zigg slowly set his feet down on the floor. “I’m fine. How long do I have to pay?”
“Thirty days, sir, if you don’t plan on doing it right here and now.”
“I’m telling you, doctor, I don’t have the money.”
“Then thirty days it is,” replied the doctor and tapped the screen. A hologram of the bill was sent into Mr. Zigg’s wristband, where it gave the screen a blue-ish hue. “Make certain the amount is paid by this day next month or we will get in touch with the Adamantium Bank. Your clothes and such are in the closet over there. I would get the nurse to help you dress on account of the cast and all, but I take it you wouldn’t want to add more to that bill, huh?”
“Please leave,” Mr. Zigg growled.
The doctor smiled smugly. “Well, then. Have a good day, Mr. Zigg.” She then exited through the automatic slider door. Mr. Zigg stood up, shaking a little to regain his balance. He tapped his wristband and scanned the screen that popped up. His inbox had blown up and he had fifty-eight unanswered calls, mostly from his wife. He buried his face in his palm again.
“Mmm… MMM! Oh, my, Rexxy, that is an absolutely wonderful wine. Which one is it?” Mrs. Zhang nigh bellowed as she took the bottle and inspected the label.
The mountain of Raygonian fat on the opposite side of the table thundered a chuckle and raised his own glass, which seemed to disappear in his enormous fist. “Why, that’d be the Parravon Red, m’dear - had them crack open the cask this very afternoon.” He parted his car tire-like lips and gulped down a slurp. He smacked his lips together to savour the flavour and growled in satisfaction. “Ah… Worth every credit, every time.”
“Certainly, mr. Og’slough, its flavour is… Beyond exquisite. Tell me, who is your merchant? I would very much like to get in touch with them,” came the voice of Gala-Grid’s chief lawyer, a Petalos named Optima Lux.
Once more, there came a rumble of laughter from Arrto “Rex” Og’slough, CEO of Og’slough Bros. Asteroid Mining. A cybe waiter refilled his glass. “I couldn’t do that, good sir - everybody knows that as soon as I tell anyone about where I get my wine, people’ll stop coming over!”
A wave of laughter washed across the table, ranging from enthusiastic to polite in nature. Rex dabbed his forehead with a cloth and wheezed out the last of his guffaw. His beady eyes shifted to one particular face, this one directly opposite of him. It was one dressed with a small, black mustache, well trimmed brows and a haircut worth six million credits. It wore glasses augmented with constant feeds from every social network, news network and company statistics - or at least, so it was rumoured. The glasses were engineered so only the user actually could see those panels, encrypted with DNA, it was said. The face gave the wine a whiff, wagged the glass around a bit and tilted it to his lips. A small hum followed the nip, further followed by a smile and a nod.
“Truly, mr. Og’slough, your merchant merits nothing less than a mansion on this very moon, if you ask me.”
Some giggles flowed between the guests. Rex himself looked as though a weight the mass of Raygon had been lifted off of him. He dabbed his forehead again as discreetly as he could and raised his glass. “Cheers, my lord - I’ll drink to that.”
“Lord” Zhang Lintao’s half smile was joined by a sharp snicker. He turned his head to the right and patted his wife on the shoulder. Mrs. Zhang at his side nodded to her husband and stood up, clapping her hands. The table fell silent. The lady, twenty-five years Lintao’s junior flashed everyone her most sincere smile and beckoned one of the cybe waiters over, who came with a colourful box on a tray.
“Soooo… As you all know, there is a certain someone here whose birthday is todaaay!” The cybe made its way over to Rex, whose forehead once more began to moisten. Whoops and applause broke out in batches around the table.
“O-oh! S-such an honour, my lord, misses Zhang— my lady, I mean…” Rex dabbed his forehead again and faked a chuckle. His eyes shifted around as if looking for exits. The cybe was next to him now - it bowed forward and held out the box. Most of the onlookers either smiled or forced themselves to. Rex looked nervously at Lord Zhang. “R-right here, my lord? In front of all the guests?”
Lord Zhang merely nodded once, his smile as small as ever. Rex once more blinked down at the box: It was a custom-made giftbox — it was crimson red and speckled with dots of gold; the metallic sheen revealed that the box likely was more of a contraption than a mere container (although one could never tell with the Zhangs). Rex tapped the top of the box carefully, holding his breath. The box slowly unlidded itself, then unpacked itself, revealing on the cybe’s tray a small pedestal which held up a holographic display of the asteroid belt of the Wosmo system, the most profitable piece of Og’slough property. Rex blinked in surprise and took the pedestal in his hand, turning it around to savour the display.
“Why, this… This is splendid, my lord.” Rex tried as he could to bow, though his body didn’t have it in itself anymore to move too much. Zhang Lintao simply nodded politely.
“A small gift is the least we can provide on a dear friend’s birthday.” The man’s eyes scanned the faces of the other guests, all of whom appeared considerably relieved. “So, shall we have the appetiser?”
Rex smiled as genuinely as he could. “Of course. I hope you all are starving - we have ten courses to get through today!”
“Oh, that will do a number on my figure,” Mrs. Zhang whispered anxiously as she sat back down next to her husband. Lord Zhang shot her a strict scowl.
“You know what to do if it comes to that, dear.”
The young woman swallowed and nodded. Cybe waiters came around the table to place down silver plates, upon which lay perched a delicate, mouth-sized, square cake, topped with a mound of pink cream and splattered rustically with a fragrant sauce. They waited until everyone had received their plate before slowly starting to eat.
Dinner had lasted for a total of six hours, during which jokes were told, stories were shared and litres upon litres of wine were drunk. The alcohol really only bothered those who let it affect them, though - at this level, it was uncommon not to have at the very least augmented one’s liver and kidneys to break down any and all forms of damaging substances. Some adjusted the settings so that list didn’t include alcohol - some kept it on the list. Lord Zhang was among those, needing to be at peak performance at all times. To the trained eye, perhaps, it would’ve been obvious that whenever Lord Zhang had spoken to anyone but his wife at the dinner party, it had not been to anybody in the room. In truth, he had been attending sixteen different company meetings through his glasses. He hadn’t been the only one, naturally - everyone had opted out of the party at least four times to attend to their respectively businesses.
Lord Zhang, however, had barely even been present. Sixteen meetings were no simple affair, and even then, he had had to decline two - all costing his company a grand total of six billion credits. The loss had made him furious, and some of the guests at dinner had noticed that his grip about the wineglass was but a muscle twitch away from snapping it.
Even now, after dinner, his step hammered against the carpet-covered marble floor with the rage of an open flame. Following him dutifully and fearfully was his wife, her eyes fixed on the ground. Whatever was foolish enough to come down the hallway in their direction immediately stepped out of the way.
At last, Lord Zhang and his wife came upon their presidential suite. The doors automatically parted to reveal their one hundred square metre chambre, complete with a large jacuzzi, a drone-manned bar, two bathrooms, a dining area and a mini golf course with interchangeable parts. The wall on the southern side, to the left of the door, was covered from floor to roof, wall to wall with wardrobes, each one propped with Mrs. Zhang’s clothes. The doors opening incited also a small growl, and a small, slim, green feline reptilian with a wide, triangular head pawed its way over and rubbed itself against Mrs. Zhang’s leg. The lady smiled and picked it up, holding it affectionately in her arms.
“N’aaw, you’re always so sweet, Bubby… You always know when to come over and cuddle, huh… Yes, you do. Yesh, yew dew. Boo-boo-boo.” Mrs. Zhang affectionately rubbed her nose against Bubby’s and the little animal licked her back before pawing her hair. Mrs. Zhang grinned and turned to her husband. “She’s always so nice to me!”
“Of course, she is. I had her genetically modified to react to you as she would her own children,” Lord Zhang replied groggily and emotionlessly and hung his velvet suit jacket on a hanger that popped out of the floor at his motion. Mrs. Zhang’s smile faded and she forced herself not to frown.
“Y-yes, of course. So you’ve told me.” The creature began licking clean the parts of Mrs. Zhang’s dress that it could reach, seeming a little upset at the flavour of the colour-changing nanobot exterior. The door closed behind them and Mrs. Zhang went to deposit her pet on the king and queen-sized bed in the centre of the chambre. Lord Zhang had already made his way to the bar, hunkering over the counter as if he had had a few too man already. The holographic bartender was already mixing him a local speciality: the Hardworking - a mixture of Arcadia Corp. special brand, dark roasted coffee, Baileys mixed with FSC quality cream, and the finest cocaine in the cluster. In a fell swig, the man downed the shot in a gulp and drew a deep breath. Mrs. Zhang had begun undressing, mechanical hands helping her with her dress’ backzipper. She stole a glance at her husband fiddling with something in his breast pocket. “Aren’t you coming to bed, honey?”
Lord Zhang extracted a small vial finally, uncorked it and revealed the cork to contain a pipette. He squeezed it inside the bottle and watched it fill with a familiar, brown liquid. He dripped one drop in each eye and sucked in a breath through the teeth. Blinking vigourously for a few seconds, he eventually turned to look at Mrs. Zhang with pitch black eyes. Though she had seen him like this many times, she couldn’t help but look away. “... You’re busy, aren’t you?”
“Mr. Polnareff will be up any minute,” Lord Zhang replied with a sniff and a rub of his right eye. He cleared his throat. “If Sustynance decides to cooperate, we may be looking at a grand total of three trillion. That is - if he makes up his damn mind and buys the model seven.” His eyes gradually returned to normal, and any trace of the surly, exhausted man from earlier disappeared. He snapped his fingers and his suit pants switched colour from velvet to gold. A new jacket, this one a blazer in the colour gold, was wrapped about his torso. He took a look in a mirror materialising before him in the form of nanobots and hummed before tapping the side of his glasses, the glass shifting to black shades. Satisfied, he sat down in a velvet sofa and held out his hand. A metallic hand coated with a holographic display giving it some more human characteristics offered him a glass of New Eden bourbon, complete with the perfectly shaped cube of ice. He casually tapped the side of his glasses again and let out a, “Yes, mr. Polnareff - good morning.”
By the bed, Mrs. Zhang sat by her lonesome, caressing somberly the back of little Bubby. He gave her husband another brief glance before tossing aside the velvet bed covers and sticking her legs underneath. The light in her part of the room dimmed, nanobots forming a dark shell around the bed to keep out the outside lighting. She sighed and closed her eyes.
She would be sleeping alone tonight, as well.
Lord Zhang and his wife are on a cruise - Rex Og’slough’s cruise to be exact. They have some wine and dinner and Zhang offers Rex a birthday gift. This makes Rex nearly crap his pantaloons, but the gift turns out to be harmless. The dinner goes on as usual.
Turns out, however, that Zhang had barely been present. He had been at business meetings using his Google glasses, but had had to cancel two of them. The money loss as a result makes him furious, so he goes to his room to do drugs while his wife somberly cuddles their cat. Zhang then prepares for another meeting while Mrs. Zhang goes to bed.
Bright day shone in Western Atokhekwoi, in the unnamed region of the Ihokhetlani, Nebulites, and Vallamir. The Temples stood tall far above the treeline as the population was hard at work, from the Ihemol to the Orvar.
In the west, the southern banks of the Ihemol, near its meeting with the Orvar, were enveloped in a flurry of activity. Although long deforested to make way for agricultural and domestic development, the region was now being flooded with lumber. More specifically many were taking time to build canoes on which to traverse the rivers of the land. Instead of carrying a great number of trips over land, the river’s offered a speedway to transport goods and people. So having only recently been given direction on their construction, they were in great demand at the moment. Priests worked to guide the general population in the proper construction and use, even as the river flowed with what few had been constructed already.
Even of greater importance, was transport to and from the river Orvar. Although the Ihemol had long been resident to the mixed villas and homes of Nebulites and Vallamir, the Orvar had the twin sites of the Obelisk and the Temple. Which now as a great many thought to set new homes and villages closer to the holy places, especially as children continued to grow and one had to think to the future homes as well. As well, the northern banks of the Ihemol grew more in importance as its resources became more accessible with easier travel across the river. Additional prime farmland, although few had moved across it had become a point of interest to many others as well.
Noticeably most workers were Ihokhetlani, although many Nebulites and Vallamir could be found with their children in attempting to teach them some trades or playing with them generally. Without a period of childhood comparable to the other two races and the need for labor, in addition to their physical prowess, the Ihokhetlani found themselves as the majority of the builders. Many even looked forward to when they would be able to carry better stone down from the beginnings of the Orvar and Ihemol by the river rather than what could be found locally or carried overland. A number of the ferrymen found, however, a very odd addition to the lake at the edge of the Orvar and Ihemol. A mirage, it was speculated at first, for it was enormous and shaped much like the ferries they sailed, if not considerably brighter and golden. Stories attracted more attention as rumours of gold- and clay-skinned humanoids dressed in silk swam ashore, yet appeared nothing like the Ihokhetlani. It wasn’t until one of the ferrymen made contact with the strangers that the first riddle was answered. A token was brought to the Holy Synod - it was clay pot the size of a Vallamir’s head. Upon it was written a character in black ink.
The Holy Synod was more than a little unprepared for the strange arrival, a great deal of their numbers were further west, supervising the work on construction. Those that remained at the Temple proper were mostly supervising the construction of buildings near the Temple and while more easily recalled still faced the issue of communication with those distant in the west, even with a fast boat in good conditions to get across the Orvar and up the Ihemol could take many days. Let alone return with the other members of the Holy Synod.
More startling than the appearance of a strange vessel with strange people was the possibility that this was the work of Shengshi, brother of Ohannakeloi and the Supreme Lord and Master of rivers. Especially compounded by the identification of the character by Valdemerl, priest-supervisor of the Shengshi cult, as the Shengshese character for ‘wine’. As the lack of direct appearance of Shengshi, and the less than direct contact initiated, it was considered that the Divinity may be waiting for an invitation. Or perhaps may be demanding wine, having given some in expectance reciprocating arrangement, interpretation of the Divine will was always difficult.
A path of action was decided upon, Hase, Valdemerl, Nebuli, and whatever members of the Shengshi cult that could be quickly found would proceed to approach the vessel and its people and offer an invitation to the Temple proper, using the Scepter of Understanding if necessary. In the meantime, the remaining occupants of the Temple and the nearby workers would attempt to get a reception together as quickly as possible, and send word to the rest of the Holy Synod.
The waterfolk already waited by the shore when the delegation arrived. They fell to their knees in greeting, and the one clad in the finest dress ushered forth a flowered speech in their song-like language, complete with warm, dance-like movement and multiple stages of bowing and kowtowing. Those behind the leader mimicked the movements like they were of one mind. The speech finished and the leader looked upon the delegation with an expectant smile.
Hase felt rather bad that they had let them go through that whole apparent speech without informing them that they had no idea what they were saying. Although they had bowed in the beginning, most of it was completely lost on the group as a whole. Hase spoke, even if understanding was not in the words they might understand the issue better that way. He began in the grinding dialect of the Ihokhetlani.
“We do truly wish to greet you, and welcome you and all of your blessed group to the lands of the Ihemol and Orvar, however I must inform you that I have no idea what you just said. I would recommend you grab a hold of this.”
With that he leaned forward, as if offering the Scepter of Understanding to the evident leader, his Soul-Eye remaining fixed on that person. The leader, while a little reddened in the cheeks, gave an understanding nod and grabbed hold of the sceptre.
“Forgive this servant for asking, but is it right in assuming that this artifact is one with the power to break down the lingual barrier?” he asked.
Hase replied in the same language, “It is that same artifact, the Scepter of Understanding as it were. I would wish to apologize for not bringing it up earlier, it can only teach two mortals eachother’s language not translate it for them.”
“Please, it was this servant’s overeagerness that led it to so frivolously forget that world hosts a multitude of different cultures. It gladdens His Lordship to see so many living in such harmony. Have You come with a message for the Regent of Rivers and King of Crops?”
“On behalf of the full Holy Synod of Recorders, Archivists, and Explorers, of the Temple, I would like to offer an invitation to a reception for His Supreme Fluvial Lordship at the Supreme Temple of Ohannakeloi on the eastern bank of the Orvar river. While we regret we cannot offer more at this time due to the significant work along the Ihemol, we wish to offer our service and recognition of the Divine power, wisdom and influence of the Beloved Brother of Ohannakeloi.”
The leader smiled. “His Lordship understands the abruptness of His arrival may cause some rushed planning. His Lordship wishes to assure the people of the Holy Synod that no contempt will fester in His impression of Your great people as a result of wanting tributes. Your people’s invitation alone is already most appreciated by the great Lord. We shall return to inform Him to sail the sacred vessel to the river of Orvar post-haste.”
“Before such a thing I would like to ask a further request, but on this Servant of the Holy Lord Shengshi rather than that of the Grand Divinity Himself. I would be most pleased to know your name.”
The Servant blinked and bowed. “Naturally. Forgive this rude servant’s lack of proper manners. This servant is called He Bo.”
Hase bowed back. “And I am Hase. Now, to our mutual business.”
The two groups split apart and went on their respective ways to the Temple, the Jiangzhou was much faster than any mortal vessel present here under the conditions and so arrived much sooner as well. The first thing seen of the Temple was the supreme height of it, far above the height of the trees and nearly thrice as tall as the Jiangzhou itself. The many decorations and writings on the Temple gradually came into view as did the final preparations at the Temple, evidently set off in greater speed upon the spotting of the Jiangzhou. A stone pathway had been made from the river bank to the central Temple stairs, evidently drawn from the constructions nearby. Additionally, firepits had been constructed, some still in the process of cooking or heating food in ceramic containers.
As the Jiangzhou grew close, priests began descending from the Temple to present themselves nearer the river bank, as crowds of workers came to stand off to the sides. A call from a hollow horn rang out and the masses present raggedly but as one threw themselves to the ground and calling out.
“We welcome you grand Divine Lord Shengshi, Divine of Rivers, Beloved Brother of Ohannakeloi!”
The ship halted on the river and a great staircase of water ascended up to the deck. The crimson snake extended his arms outwards to take in the praise and music. His mouth curved into a grinning crescent and his eyes smiled as much as his lips. Before him descended first a company of Servants, followed by a group of Vallamir whose demeanour betrayed a great lack of the cultured upbringing of the Servants. Still, they tried. The snake followed, and was trailed by another company of Servants and Vallamir.
“A loyal and worthy greeting such as this warrants a thousand years of amiable irrigation and fruitful crops, I say! What luck - what fortune I am blessed with, to come to a land so distant as this and still receive a welcome of divine class. Truly, oh truly, you ARE the people of my Blessed Brother - a thousand, ten thousand of the warmest blessings upon His Holy name and soul. Tell me, where is the one known as Hase, who represents this worthy union of priests and chroniclers known as the Holy Synod? I much desire to speak with him.”
An Ihokhetlani stepped forward from the rest of the priestly bunch, coming to a kneel just a few steps forward of the main group.
“He has not yet arrived back your Supreme Holiness, from the top of the Temple we have been watching their progress since they were spotted some time after your own Divine Vessel. They should arrive in not too long from now, there are other members of the Synod present if it pleases you to speak to them. If it pleases you to speak to Hase in particular, we have assembled some regional foods and other items of regional interest that you could peruse should you wish to wait.”
Having finished speaking the Ihokhetlani stayed where they were as they awaited a response.
“Ah, naturally. Forgive my impatience - of course, I would be faster.” He grinned. “The very fact that you have prepared hors d’oeuvres is absolutely marvellous. Forgive my rudeness, but would there be enough for the mortals in my company, as well? All are equally ravenous to taste what our superior hosts have prepared.”
“Of course, we have made much in ample supply, we regret to say we have few breads as the stockpiles for grains and such are further west with the majority of the population, I hope your own Blessed Divine self may understand our failings. The food is mostly locally hunted and gathered due to time constraints so we do not have a full variety of agricultural products.”
“Then these will be savoured at a later date, I am sure. For now, we are honoured to be invited to your tables. Please, lead the way, worthy mortal.” The Servants fanned out to the side and the Vallamir formed up behind the snake, who followed the Ihokhetlani to the food tables.
The crowds parted and the priestly group stood to lead back over to the set of tables that had been set out. It was clear that an abundance of wooden tables was not to be found, although there were a few with reasonable decorations, likely drawn from furniture from the interior of the Temple, most were stone slab that had been piled up for the use of tables. On top of the various tables were mostly communal dishes, black bread and stews, many kinds of cooked meats- some skewered on sticks, others with some cutting stones nearby. Meats seemed to predominate as did fairly simple cooking, not without spices but relatively easy to prepare. The fire pits were still in use as it seemed they were still attempting to make more food over the veritable feast.
Some of the priests lead groups of Vallamir to tables as others stayed with Shengshi to a particularly ornate wooden table that had been set up on some slabs of stone to keep it off the ground directly. There a broad variety of dishes filled the table and the first Ihokhetlani priest spoke again, “We wished to provide your Divine and puissant Lordship with everything that we had to offer at the current time.”
“Your tribute is most rich, worthy mortal. Tell me, what is your name? I can tell, you and your kin carry a particularly powerful scent similar to my brother’s. Are you to him what my Servants are to me?” the snake asked. The Vallamir showed their finest display of Shengshese manners, sitting down at the table and waiting for the snake to take his bite. Eamhair sat down next to old nan, itching the skin under her new robes.
“Your praise is golden to my humble self O Mighty and Wise Shengshi. I am called Azunon. I must profess that we, even of the Holy Synod, do not know much of your Servants and what they are to you O Holy One. I can say that the Blessed Divine Ohannakeloi made Ihokhe, and from Ihokhe came the Ihokhetlani and the priesthood.”
Azunon paused, looking around at some of the other priests present. “Recently we of the Holy Synod have been formed to guide the priesthood but also to preserve and find knowledge for all those under our management as sanctioned by that same Most Blessed One. I am capable and willing of answering more that is in my knowledge if my meager mortal offering has not saited your questions O Glorious Divinity.”
“A hub of knowledge, you say? My mind and my brother’s are as one, it would seem, for I, too, have united an order with the sole purpose of pursuing knowledge. Ah, how it warms the soul to see that curiosity runs deep in the veins and bones of mortalkind elsewhere, too. Tell me, if you would, what manner of knowledge it is that you seek. Is it exploratory? Scientific? Religious?” The snake picked himself a piece of meat and bit into it. “This is wonderful, by the way. My most sincere compliments to the chef.”
Azunon turned his head to see which dish the deity spoke of as he replied, “Your Blessed and Puissant Lordship, we of the Temple seek all forms and manners of knowledge. In the west we build boats to explore and use the blessed currents, made of your own will, in the waterways. In the Temple itself we have formulated what few passages we have at our disposal of the teachings of all Divines, very limited I must admit but we have a few attributed to your own Holy self. We record information of the mundane, all things pertinent to mortal life. In this we hope to gather knowledge so that we may gain wisdom in leading our people to a most prosperous and enlightened state as set forth by the Blessed Divine Ohannakeloi.”
He paused briefly giving a small bow, “If it would please the Divine and Judicious Lord, I would like to request a record of your own teachings that the Blessed Divine Ohannakeloi alluded to from his visitation to your most holy and commanding vessel.”
“Such spirit, such dedication -- my, worthy Azunon, your words set this old divine’s heart ablaze. A record of my teachings is the least I can grant you -- nay, it is much too little. For this meal,” he took another bite, “for this hospitality, a quality of which I, in all of my existence, have been so rarely exposed to, I shall bestow upon this jewel of a society any three gifts in addition to my literature. Any three are within limits -- if it can be imagined, so it shall appear before you.”
Azunon threw himself to the ground and many of the priests behind him did likewise or kneeled as space allowed on the sudden move. Azunon spoke, “Your most holy Lordship is more than generous a thousand times over to these poor mortal souls! If it would be allowed I would wish to wait on asking of such gifts until I have had time to discuss the matter with my fellow priests, especially such as Hase who should not long be beyond us.”
“Time, you shall have -- as much as you need. If we may, I would like to remain for a bit, see what the lands of my brother are like. Furthermore, the Vallamir in my company are unripe in the fields of knowledge. If you could share with them a few of your skills, trades and angles of philosophy, I would be most grateful, certainly.” A few of the Vallamir frowned at the remark, but none dared speak up.
Azunon nodded then spoke, “As your Blessed Divinity wishes. I would say when the people of this land first met they had much to learn and to teach one another, the Vallamir have always been a most resourceful and respectable people, they helped many Nebulites thrive in the early years as the Nebulites have taught them in kind. We have no issue in teaching should they have no issue in learning. However, I recognize it may be prudent to bring some of the local Vallamir here, as the strengths and tastes of Ihokhetlani are not that of the Nebulites or the Vallamir. They may learn best in such company as is closest to their own experience.”
“So they shall, then. Please summon forth a group each of the local Vallamir and Nebulites so that these mortals, and also I, may learn from what they have to say.” He turned to one of the servants. “Return to the ship and retrieve the first ten volumes of the Classic of Wisdom -- make certain the scrolls are intact.”
“At once, Your Lordship,” the servant replied and turned back to the ship with a following of few hundreds.
“We have several priests of each race that also hold much of the same knowledge gifted unto their minds. I hope such is satisfactory for the current time, as to bring ones with more practical experience may take a good many days before their arrival could come in good number O holy and Wise Divinity.”
“Bring whomever are suited to teach these people. Both they and I can wait. Much of a god’s life is spent doing exactly that, you know -- waiting. Tell me, if you would, the manner in which you worship those to whom these temples are dedicated. Does tribute come in the form of prayer, offerings? If the latter, what manner of offerings? Do you practice live sacrifice of any sort?”
“The Temple itself is dedicated to the Blessed Divine Ohannakeloi, your wise supremacy. He demands little beyond prayer and dedication of thought to his works and their meanings. There are plans for shrines to other deities as well as housing in this area for the general population but we have little in the way of knowledge about their preferred worship. If you would wish for any live sacrifice some might be obliged, we Ihokhetlani have managed to find little trouble with beasts outside of specific beasts and fairly mature Ahomauoi.”
“Oh, that is quite alright, young Azunon - live sacrifices are not quite my preference. Jewels, stones and other brilliant treasures would be appreciated, though. Tell me, who is this Ahomauoi? Another child of my brother?”
Behind Azunon it became apparent that some of what was being said was being carved into clay tablets by some of the priests. Azunon replied, “Apologies for my unclear speech O majestic Deity. Ahomauoi is not a person but rather a kind of creature, they share the form of Blessed Ohannakeloi is appearance, particularly of size when they are young. However, as they grow older they do not seem to stop growing in size, they were first encountered decades ago, long before we knew of such wonders as we do now, before my time in any case. The largest I have seen rival the size of our mortal constructions, although I’ve heard tales of ones that may be as large as your most Holy and Grand Vessel.”
“Interestingly, the Blessed Divine Ohannakeloi once said that they would obey commands from him or other mighty beings, if they could understand it of course. It eludes me what precise purpose they are to serve, but it is not for me to guess the mind of a deity. Perhaps they do something out east, thats where they seem to be most prevalent in any case.”
“Enormous landwalkers with unchecked growth? An interesting idea for a creature.” The snake hummed as he bit into another piece of meat. “East of here… Over the mountains. Are there other gatherings of mortals beyond this valley?”
“Yes, O mighty and wise Lord. Three of the First Ones of the Ihokhetlani led large groups to go settle the east, another One went South, One stayed here, Hase as you know, and the First of the First Ones is of unknown whereabouts to me at least. I know Hase has kept an attempt at tracking them. Blessed Ohannakeloi has spoken of other people in the far east, on the other side of the world, but they do not worship the Blessed Divine and so he has taken little interest in them, so we know little.”
“I see, I see. Yes, these other peoples of the far east know quite little about the world outside their little spheres of reality - in that respect, you are all quite enlightened. From the taste of the rivers here, I can tell that there must be an intimate connection between here and the World Spring - perhaps the flow will carry you see your comrades again in time? Do you miss them?”
“Your supreme excellence, I have little control over the fact that I miss those I held dear who decided to part ways. I know that we may meet again as long as the Pyres burn, I also know that we may never meet again. We Ihokhetlani live longer than most things we have found, but we know we are mortal. I have found it is best to enjoy today, not to forget the joys and sorrows of yesterday or the triumphs and fears of tomorrow, but to keep them and move forward knowing and acting from ones life. I try to tell my congregation this as a priest, the older ones understand, but most are of the newer bunch, in the last ten years. They do not yet know this, I hope they will learn for themselves without too many troubles but we go as we must.”
Azunon looked back to the group of priests behind him before continuing to speak, “We can only hope, and pray to enlightened and puissant Divines such as your own self, that tomorrow will be better than yesterday. I do not know what the future holds, perhaps in a few years I will go east and see if I can’t visit my old friends. Most that I knew left later following the the largest waves of movement in any case.”
The snake blinked, then gave Azunon a warm smile. “Young Azunon, nay… Wise Azunon - you are sagely and pious beyond any mortal I have ever met. Truly, my brother has fashioned nothing less than a masterwork upon creating you and your people, the Ihokhetlani. To live for such ages, yet be uncorrupted by temptations of power, greed or arrogance - it is remarkable.” He nodded. “Again, I must beseech you to pass on your manners, your wisdom and your skill to my company. The counsel of a sage such as yourself would be a blessing to any listener.”
“Your Divine Excellency is far and above a kind being, I know not which word could describe such boundless enthusiasm towards our humble mortal selves. I cannot stand in front of such a request and deny it, I will teach any who wish to learn such things.”
“Then you will.” The snake rose from the table. “When Hase returns, tell one of these Vallamir to walk to the river. Then I shall reappear. Until then, consider what three gifts you wish for me to bestow upon this valley and its people.” Shengshi bowed. “I am most grateful for the food. It was exquisitely prepared. Lady Eamhair.”
The Vallamir woman blinked back to reality. “Y-yes, Sh-- Your Lordship?!” she replied with as deep a sideways bow as she could manage sitting.
“You and your people will remain here and learn from the Itokhetlani, the Nebulites and your cousins. I will return to my vessel and add a few additional texts to the volumes I am leaving here for the Temple.”
Eamhair swallowed. “C-certainly, Your Lordship.”
The snake nodded at Azunon with a smile. “I assure you that they are good listeners - most of the time.”
Azunon bowed as he could, although it was more full a bending of his body given that Ihokhetlani don’t have exactly predetermined joints. “I shall take your assurance to heart your most excellent and holy Majesty. We will have done as you wish when Hase returns.”
Azunon bowed as he could, although it was more full a bending of his body given that Ihokhetlani don’t have exactly predetermined joints. “I shall take your assurance to heart your most excellent and holy Majesty. We will have done as you wish when Hase returns.”
Azunon turned and inclined his head towards Eamhair. The Vallamir looked up, then blinked away shyly. She mumbled a few words in her native tongue, then looked up expectantly as if to see whether she had been understood.
Azunon replied, if somewhat rustily, “I am sorry to say my hearing is not of the same divine standard that you may be used to from your voyages with the holy and noble Shengshi. You may have to speak louder to have others understand you here. You will find that most priests will be able to help you although I regret to say that the general population of Ihokhetlani are not as fluent in the full Vallamir language.”
The priests recording what was being said seemed to continue in the same script they had before, if one could see what they were writing besides a small notation of what language was being spoken, not much changed there.
“O-oh, is that so? Then I’m so-- I mean, forgive me.” Eamhair bowed her torso and stood up, then bowed more properly. “Sorry. This ‘cultured behaviour’, as His Lordship calls it, is all a bit new to us. If I’m not mistaken, His Lordship said you were wise beyond many mortals. We’ve recently lost our home and, and many of our elders with it. As such, we--”
“We have no one to teach our young,” old nan added from behind her and rose to her quivering feet. “We ain’t askin’ you to teach ‘em, but whatever wisdom our elders had has been lost. Everythin’ about the world, nature and so on. Is there anything about such that you can tell us? Anything you’ve learned here that we can pass on as the Lord brings us along to the Promised Land?”
Azunon spoke first to his fellow priests in the Ihokhetlani language, “Convene as many of the Synod as you can to think on the Holy Lordship’s gifts, need to be thoughtful about such things. Additionally, bring whichever Vallamir priests are nearby, I think they would be helpful here.”
He turned back to the Vallamir before him speaking their tongue again as the other priests began to disperse, one of the recording priests stayed. “I will first say that I am sorry to hear such a tragedy befell you. Although, I believe there is much we could assist with, both in the practical regard of action as well as general worldly information. I should ask what is known to your people so I bear not to speak of what you already know.”
“Well… We know of the great Kalmar, Arae, Li’Kalla and Roog, and the birth of our people. Then His Lordship offered us insight into the rest of the pantheon. He, he spoke warmly of the master of these lands, but… We have hardly ever seen anything outside our village. We know how to hunt and survive, but… Such mountains built by hand such as your temple are far beyond us; as is such recorded insight as you possess.” Old nan pointed to the recording priests. “We cannot even write - though His Lordship has given teachers to our youngest.”
“We must then ensure that such things would no longer be far beyond you, although I will admit that it may be difficult for Vallamir without the physical ability of Ihokhetlani. I must first clarify that we did not construct our temple ourselves, although we have the knowledge that should make such a construction possible, I believe Hase was looking into the possibility…”
Azunon faded off as another group approached, a group of four Vallamir, all four bowed to the group present. A young woman, two older men and a single person who was so covered in furs of various kinds it was a degree of luck that enough features could identify them as one of the Vallamir.
The young woman spoke as she rose, “Azunon, Honored Guests.” She nodded to each before turning to Azunon, “They request your presence for the Synod, Hase approaches and they wish to not delay the meeting greatly.”
Azunon nodded, he turned to Old Nan and Eamhair saying, “I believe you will be most well helped by Acolyte Vilhiga, Priests Faegurd and Beohird, as well as…?”
The Vallamir covered in furs spoke in a surprisingly deep voice, “Potter Sigeard, honorable Azunon.”
Azunon spoke, “A pleasure to make the acquaintance. They should be able to assist in teaching many practical arts, as well as answer any other questions you might have about such things.”
It had been a little over a week, far too short a time to teach much of anything but at least it allowed for more Vallamir to coalesce at the Temple and introduce much of the concepts of the technology lacked by the Vallamir formerly of Kalgrun. Acolyte Vilhiga was soon reassigned to other duties but the others and soon more of the Atokhekwoi Vallamir had come in that time. Many sought to not only assist in teaching but soon after to also then go with the Vallamir of Shengshi’s custodianship on their planned journey. They desired to leave for varying reasons, to leave behind broken relationships or to explore in a new land or interest in some Vallamir there, in any case, the knowledge would travel with them.
The Holy Synod had traveled to meet Hase before he reached the Temple area, traveling back with him to both discuss the events transpired but also what should be done with the gifts offered by Shengshi. Debates and decisions abounded but they had some measure of finality by the time they had arrived back at the main Temple area.
As Shengshi had said, they had one of the Vallamir he had brought with him walk to the river. Many supplies, mostly tools and such things, had been assembled for those leaving to take with them. Most of the Holy Synod that was available stood nearby, Hase stood slightly apart from the whole of the group.
As the Vallamir called out as she had been instructed, a distant gong rang as a response and before long, the colossal ship of Shengshi sailed up to the bank. Stairs of water climbed up to the deck and the snake slithered his way down smoothly, his arms wide open in greeting.
“Ah, worthy Hase,” he boomed in greeting on his way down, “it is a joy that you have made it back safely. I trust the journey was harmonious and pleasant, yes?”
“Indeed it was your most Impressive and Wise Lordship.” Hase spoke as he bent over in prostration before Shengshi, “I must tell you that it is a great honor that you have bestowed upon my people to grace us with your continued presence, and that of your well chosen followers of course.”
“Oh, it has truly been my deepest of pleasures. The company of these priests and your unrivaled civility and culture is nothing short of perfection among mortalkind. My stay here has been most exquisite thanks to you.” He tipped his head in gratitude. “So, if I may ask, have you come to a conclusion as to what you will wish for? Three wishes, you shall have - no more, no less - and it shall be my greatest joy to bestow them.”
“Your Lordship is far and above us poor mortals in such a field as kindness, only a Divine could be supremely strong in that attribute. I could not stop from thinking deeply on such an expansive and generous gift from the Supremely Wise Shengshi! It would honor me and all my people were you to grant our desires, that is good harvests for our crops along your great rivers, and to be taught both your own most holy script in full and any humble improvements that could be made to our poor mortal boats. To see your own grand and powerful vessel is to know one’s own limits, we have trouble building ones to transport great stones from the West, or any real number of Ihokhetlani.”
The other priests of the Holy Synod behind Hase threw themselves to the ground as he finished, speaking as one, “We humbly request that your puissant Lordship may consider granting these as gifts onto our people!”
The snake hummed and nodded. “I see, I see. If those are what you wish for, then they shall be granted in the most prosperous of ways!” He lifted one hand into the air. Along the rivers in the valley, across all the plants that drank from their waters, stalks bent under the weight of their fattened grain; fruit grew almost too plump for the branches; roots peeked out of the soil in the fields like curious meerkats.
The snake then lifted his other hand. From it spawned a star-like mist that spread to the heads of all the present onlookers and beyond. It buzzed around them like a curious swarm of fireflies before settling on their foreheads and then dissipating. The onlookers blinked, for they suddenly felt volumes upon volumes of text fill their minds - philosophy, statecraft, law, religion, morality: All of Shengshi’s edicts came together in a single, powerful thought that seemed to make itself at home in their memories.
Following the mist, the snake clapped his hands together. The thoughts of his writing subsided to unveil schematics: Rafts, boats, ships - everything was there. If wood could be harnessed, bent and shapen properly, a distant possibility presented itself: The priests could potentially build ships like Shengshi’s.
The snake lowered his hands again and smiled. “The fields will yield good harvests for as long as your faith is true. Never again shall the people of this valley starve come the hard seasons.” He looked at Hase and poked his own temple knowingly. “How do you feel?”
Hase replied quite carefully focusing beyond the feeling of rapid knowledge acquisition which was so distinct, “Your most Holy Lordship, I must admit having Divine knowledge granted onto one’s mind does become easier to deal with, although it never lessens in its abrupt influence.”
Shengshi chuckled. “So I have heard. I personally cannot imagine what it must be like to have months of reading thrust into one’s mind in an instant. I hope you do not find it invasive in anyway?”
“I could scarcely think so O Divine Shengshi. I am aware of what it is like and I have requested such from you, perhaps if one had no idea of it and the given knowledge was less than pleasant in of itself then I may suspect that would be closer to an invasive situation.”
The snake nodded. “Yes, I suppose there would be a contextual difference there - whether you request or are treaded upon. Either way, I am glad you see it as you do.” He turned back to his ship. “Worthy mortal Hase, my stay here has been of the utmost pleasure - I so wish I could remain for longer.” He gave the Vallamir in his company a quick glance. “However, it is about time I gave these refugees a proper home - a place where they may grow to be civil and prosperous.”
Hase went further into prostration, bringing his full body to the ground as he spoke, “O Mighty and Wise Shengshi, we are honored by your gifts and your very holy presence. I must make a request on you that I would be amiss in my duty to the people of the valley and of your Divine guidance were I to not make it. There are several priests, skilled workers and others of the Vallamir of the valley that wish to join your company and join with your Vallamir in the new home you seek for them. I would humbly beseech you to consider allowing them to do as they so strongly wish.”
The snake eyed the eager followers, all of whom, too, were prostrating before him. He hummed dramatically before allowing himself a benevolent nod. “Of course - all may come aboard my ship and sail to yonder lands. Beware, however, that no such trip is two-wayed; those that go, will never return.”
“O Powerful and Wise Shengshi, it has been ensured that they were adequately aware of the possibility. Such a journey was one way before when the Blessed Divine Ohannakeloi brought them from their northern lands, they are aware that such things may be as they were before. I must say that few families wish to leave, many of those who plan to leave are not bound by much beyond their compatriots here.” Hase paused allowing a silence of a brief moment before he continued, “Perhaps one day when mortal kind has advanced under Divine care, tutelage and assistance those of this Valley may once again meet their fair friends and all those of the most Holy and Divine Shengshi’s immortal graces.”
Once more, the snake nodded. A single snicker escaped him. “Let us hope so. Then they may come. Go to my ship, all who wish to join, and we shall be off in moments.” The crowds bowed and began heading to the massive ship. “Well, then, worthy mortal Hase… I reckon this is farewell for now.”
The stonemen kowtowed again. The snake nodded back and climbed aboard his ship. Soon, they were sailing far into the east, back home towards the Dragon’s Foot.
Snake meets some Synod peeps on Western Atok. They chill out and then the synod tells snake there’s a temple down the river. Snake goes by ship while Hase and his lads go by foot. Snake naturally arrives first, sending an emissary to tell the Synod to prepare for his arrival. Azunon the Ihokhetlani greets them and offers them dinner. During dinner, they talk about his nice it is to hang out and share their wisdoms. Snake marvels in the amazing manners of the stone men and the rest of the Synod. Snake had also brought his Vallamir companions, all of whom look awfully awkward dressed in Shengshese clothing and taught Shengshese manners. The Vallamir listen to the wisdom of the Synod and ask if anyone would like to come with them to Dragon’s Foot to help preserve their culture. Some Vallamir come with. Dinner’s over and snake grants the Stone people three gifts for their kindness. The Synod asks for shipmaking knowledge, good harvests and to know all about the Flow. Snake makes it so. They hang out for another while or so, Vallamir learning from Vallamir. They eventually then go back to the Foot.
Snakeman start: 5MP/11FP 1FP: Teach the people of the Synod to make rafts, boats and ships. 1FP (discounted to 0 thanks to the harvest post): Bless the valley of the Synod with good harvests as long as they remain faithful to him. 1FP: Teach the Synod the Flow, granting them access to all of Shengshi’s ideas on the state, morals, philosophy, hierarchy, cultural ideals and more. See Servant culture, the Flow and Shengshi’s behaviour for what this entails. End: 5MP/9FP
The Holy Synod of Recorders, Archivists, and Explorers of the Temple Start: 0 +1 Major role +1 Minor role +1 Collaboration End: 3
The Bottom Tiers - the place where dreams come to die, rot and rise again as nightmarish spectres out for the blood of their makers. Among all adjectives in every language spoken on Raygon 8, there would probably only be about six that could describe this part of the city as even remotely pleasant - and even that would require vastly different contexts. Ancient sewer and water pipes still in use despite centuries of neglect line the walls, the roofs, the pavement - everywhere, bringing the piss and shit of every class both high and low to the waste processing centres riiiiiight over there. Not that it would matter much anyway where it went; most of it ends up on these streets from the looks of it.
However, if you can ignore the stink (or your nostrils have been seared shut by it already), it wouldn’t take long for you to notice what was living in the muck, anyway. For the muck isn’t even close to the worst - that would be whoever or whatever’s rolled so low with the dice of fate that they’d end up down here. That’s right, lining the streets are beggars by the millions, kneeling shoulder to shoulder with their code bricks presented, just in case someone feels generous enough to donate. Fool’s hope, if you ask me.
“Spending money” is a dream down here. Whoever’s got extra to spare after rent and subs would soon hear a knock on the door and be greeted by a pair of grinning mugs, flexing and unflexing their palms in a beckoning manner. I know a couple who’ve ended up sleeping in the gutter for saying no - they’re the lucky ones. The unlucky ones, well… Ever heard of corpse starch?
… But I’m getting off track. Where was I… Right, Hell - I mean, the Bottom Tiers. First rule down here is that there ain’t no rules - non, zip, nada. It’s every ape for himself down here, and to think otherwise is to wave goodbye to any ticket out of here. Only norms exist around here, and they’re for your own safety. First one: Don’t get close to anyone - and I do mean anyone. As soon as you form any kind of relationship, someone’s going to take advantage of it: Girlfriend? Woops, guess she just got snatched up by the mob, huh; family? Hit by a truck; even your employer might just get his head mounted on a lamp in the parking lot for trying to avoid his debt to big Addy. Boom! Out of work, out of love and maybe just out of will to live, too, huh.
Only money means anything down here - it’s your status, your power, your clothes, your house, your motherfucking ID. Not even joking, flashing the cops your card has more value than any interstellar passport. Money gets you love, protection, comfort - maybe even a ticket up. It’ll cost you, but from what I’ve heard, the centre’s actually liveable.
Laogui Lane… It ain’t my block, but it’s more home to me than Moonlit Gardens’ll ever be. Here, booze is cheap and won’t actually kill you from the inside (right away), and the ladies have at least a basic concept of hygiene. Still, I recommend going for Cybes above anything else - they usually got internal cleaning mechanisms that make them pretty safe. Sure, they don’t show much emotion during the act, but some like that, too. Not saying I do, but hey, I won’t judge.
Right, so who am I, exactly? Name’s George Christian Wellsley. I’m technically still a drone mechanic, but I haven’t been much at work lately. The reason? I’m in deep, deep shit.
Okay, so I may or may not have a pretty bad gambling problem. That’s not important right now. What -is- important is that I may or may not have spent my family’s savings down to the last credit. I tried to explain to my wife that I was really sure black was the winning colour, but she didn’t wanna hear it. Last I heard, she’s living with her sister over in block E somewhere. Haven’t seen her for a few years now, actually. Shit. But, uh, yeah, anyway, so I had to win it back somehow, right? Well, turns out borrowing money to win back your money at the casino is a bit of a gamble (get it?), and gambles can be, well, lost. Not saying I lost this one, but I may or may not owe some people a whole lot of credits.
So you might be asking… Yo, G.C., if you’re in such deep shit, why’re you in Laogui Lane drinking your credits away? Yeah? Well, to that I say…
“Ook!” George suddenly whooped angrily and raised his fist high into the air. A passed out Raygonian lifted his groggy face off the bar and scowled at the ape.
“The fuck you just call me, furball?”
George turned and scowled back, not because he was annoyed, but because the grog was making it difficult to see. The booming music didn’t help much either, the sound alone nearly knocking him out. The ape clapped his hands together, grunted, pointed in several directions and ooked again. The Raygonian snorted, his six nose rings dancing around his flaring nostrils.
“Fuck you mean ‘had a moment’? You on something bad, squirt?” he pursed his lips. “... Wouldn’t happen to have anymore, would ya?”
George frowned and shrugged, shaking his head. The Raygonian sighed through vibrating lips. “And here I was hoping for something fun tonight…” With that, he lifted his enormous body off the tortured bar stool and stomped off on his round, flat feet, tankard of grog in hand. George blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes. How long had he been here, actually? He prodded the band on his arm and watched the familiar holographic display appear before him. After swiping away the ads, he saw the time: 03:49 AM. Jesus, he’d been here a long-ass time. He tapped the bar counter twice and another hologram appeared before him, this one of a beautiful human lady with mechanical augments, dressed in a loose white shirt and suit pants. She stood behind the counter and gave him a small smile.
“Yes, mr. Wellsley, would you like anything else?”
“Ook-ook,” George answered with a shrug and tapped his right middle and index finger against his thumb.
“Very good, mr. Wellsley,” the hologram answered and held her hand. A holographic bill materialised in it for Wellsley to take. The ape peered at the number at the bottom, grimacing a little. He reluctantly tapped the wristband on the bill, sounding a light ‘pling!’ The bartender smiled.
“Thank you for your patronage, mr. Wellsley. We hope to see you again soon.” With that, she disappeared again. George chugged down the rest of his grog and cringed at the consistency. Bottom-tier grog was ironically the most palatable drink down here - at least if you didn’t want to go blind the next day (never try the tequila). Sadly, it had an unfortunate habit of separating, making the bottom less of a drink consistency and more of a chewy gum. Still, at least it helped him forget that he actually lived down here. He hopped off his stool, allowed himself a few moments to stabilise and started heading towards the exit. His intoxicated eyes caught a number of sights on the way: a flock of hookers, a group of stoners surrounding a shisha, the mob…
Oh shit, the mob.
Before George could run, four heavybuilt Quroks had already surrounded him, their faces stern as always. Two of them made very certain to block any and all paths leading to the door. George swallowed - hiring Quroks to serve as your brawlers? That’s expensive as shit - just who had he caught the attention of?
“Heeey! George, right? George Wellsley?”
The sleazy voice was unfamiliar to him, but it couldn’t belong to a friend of his - he didn’t have any! Reluctantly, he turned around to face a human, or possibly a cybe, dressed in a stylish golden suit with a plastic rose in his right chest pocket. He wore star-shaped glasses which glass beamed an intense white light - antishades, as they were called. Those were pretty expensive down here. He sat in a couch, flanked on each side by ladies off different species - one at least fifty percent human and one Cala. The Cala winked playfully at George as she fed the man a gummy grape. Shit, candy? Man must’ve been rolling in dough.
“That’s your name, right? Or is your profile picture a little…” He eyed the holographic display over his wristband, which currently showed George’s Mi-Self page. “... Outdated?”
George frowned. “Ook,” he went and gave him a thumb-up. The man clapped his hands and beckoned him over.
“Oh, that’s great, that’s great! Hey, why don’t you take a seat right over here, mr. Wellsley - I do believe you and I’ve got some business to discuss.”
George stole a moment to eye the door. All he caught in his glance was the clenching and unclenching fist of one of the Quroks. He looked up at the owner, who gave him a challenging frown. He’d be sleeping deeper than the gutter if he tried to get out of this one. Reluctantly, George made his way over to the man’s table. One of the Quroks pulled out a chair for him and the ape sat down. The man extended a robotic hand, palm open in invitation.
“A pleasure to meet you, mr. Wellsley. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while - shame time’s never been quite right.”
George shook the hand as politely as he could. A moment passed before he frowned, tapped the middle and index finger of his right hand against the same fingers on his left and pointed at the man. The man’s smile tightened into a slightly more polite expression.
“Oh, I’m simply known as Shawn. No need to be polite about it, though - just Shawn’s alright.”
Shawn. Had to be a new player in the game. George had no recollection of the same, and he liked to believe he frequented the exact kind of areas where he’d hear the name of this kind of character. Shawn tapped the right side of his glasses and the intense light dimmed considerably to fit the sorry excuse for lighting inside the bar.
“So,” he began, “I reckon you must be pretty curious as to why I called you over. Well, see, I’ve got a story for you. Would you like a drink, by the way?”
George was quick to wave his hands in denial, but Shawn just grinned. “Oh, come on, what’d I say about being so polite?” He tapped twice the tabletop between the couch and George’s chair. Instantly, the bartender’s hologram popped up next to the table, bowed politely and cocked her head playfully to the side.
“Good evening, Shawn. What would you like me to bring?”
Before George could protest, Shawn raised a finger to silence him, still wearing his eerie smile. “Bring us a flask of champagne extract - I’m thinking the Veuve. The ladies would also like another fruit gum plate.”
“A wonderful choice, Shawn,” the bartender praised with another bow and disappeared. George felt sweat moisten his forehead. Veuve fucking Clicquot?! A single bottle cost more than his whole debt. Even if it was extract, one could almost buy a shitty flat in the centre with the money earned from selling a few of those. Forget his business with him - all Shawn had to do now would be to leave George with the bill and the ape’d be screwed for life. A moment later, a hatch on the table slid aside slowly to reveal a rising plate carrying four champagne glasses, a wide plate of fruit gums, and a bottle labeled Veuve Clicquot. George knew it wasn’t the actual brand that had once existed back on Earth - the patent for the name had long since been given away. A mechanical arm attached to the table uncorked the bottle and poured the glasses half-full. The ladies each took a glass and smiled at each other; Shawn took one for himself and offered one to George, who accepted it with a quivering hand.
“Well, then - a toast?”
“Cheers!” the girls sang out together and clinked their glasses together with Shawn’s. George timidly raised his own and took a sip. Christ, that was good: The fizzy tickle of bubbles pricking the top of his mouth; the gentle sweetness and sour tanginess that lingered in his mouth before he swallowed; the satisfying aftertaste. He could never go back to grog after this.
“How is it?” Shawn asked with a smile. George raised a quivering thumb and Shawn chuckled. “Yeah, it’s not bad. That’s why I really like this bar - it has amazing drinks for being a bottom tier establishment. It preserves the soul of this society without losing the quality of its accomplishments - nothing like the endless noise and booming of the top tier clubs.”
George nearly spat out his drink. This guy was from, from, from the top?! Shawn flashed him another smile.
“Surprised? In truth, I don’t come down here very often, so I don’t blame you for not seeing it right away. For all you know, I could’ve just been really high up in the mob. What’s the name of the local gang? Shadow Moon Triads?”
It was Dark Sky Triads, actually, but his name had a better ring to it, George admitted.
“... I suppose I could’ve been. However, I am not. Can you take a guess as to what organisation I represent?”
The ape shook his head and shrugged. Shawn sighed through his smile.
“Really? Not even going to try? Come on, come on - make a guess.”
George finished his glass and set it down on the table. The mechanical hand filled it right back up. The ape made a fist with the thumb pointing upwards, then flattened his palm vertically with the thumb resting against its centre. Shawn chuckled.
“No, I’m not with Adamantium, you can relax. Come on, try again.”
George made a crescent with his right hand and hammered his chest with it. Shawn shook his head.
“I’m not a cop, either.” He snickered and drank some more champagne. He extracted a silver case from his chest pocket, opened it and took out a cigarillo. He cut off the tip with a cigar cutter, stuck the uncut end into his mouth and leaned over to the Cala lady, who sensually lit the cut end with a rusty lighter. Shawn inhaled, held his breath for a second and exhaled a plume of gray smoke that somehow smelled like smoked vanilla. “Alright, mr. Wellsley, I’ll stop playing around. I work for an organisation called Possible. My job, you see, is to make my clients’ wishes happen. In truth, I represent a client who for now would like to remain anonymous. Worry not, this particular client has no business with you, personally, but his wish requires a certain finesse that’s so hard to find around these parts.”
George couldn’t help but be curious. He grunted, shrugged with his hands out to the side, then tapped his forehead before moving that hand away from his skull, flexing the index finger. Shawn nodded.
“My client’s wish, mr. Wellsley, is rule this part of town by the end of the year. They are quite close already, but a little something remains. Can you guess what that is?”
George shrugged. Shawn huffed.
“Alright. My, still so polite. The remaining facility key to total takeover is the local security drone station - the one owned by Gala-Grid.”
George’s eyes blasted open - any trace of intoxication in his body vanished without a trace, replaced by pure adrenaline. He nearly fell out of his chair, and one of the Quroks reached down to reseat him properly. The ape knew where this was going - oh, did he know. Oh, sure, he knew drones inside and out, especially security bots. Hacking a bunch and overthrowing any station was in theory a piece of cake and happened on and off every year. Gala-Grid, though… No way. No way, no way, no way. It was way too big - the largest company in the country, perhaps even in the sector. If he hacked their bots, they’d know. They’d know, and he’d be a dead ape - no, even death couldn’t adequately describe what would happen to him if he got caught meddling with Gala-Grid’s business. In fact, even discussing this out loud could get him shot.
George looked over each shoulder, then down at his wristband - however, he noticed something seemed odd about it. Shawn waved a hand soothingly and blew another plume of smoke. “Relaaax, mr. Wellsley,” he said and extracted his cigarillo tin again. That’s when George noticed it had a slight dent on the top. Shawn put it back in his pocket and dabbed the cigarillo on an ashtray. “Fancy, right? A cigarillo tin that doubles as a band jammer. Incredible what custom orders can get you.” He drew another lungful of smoke. The two ladies had moved to the end of the couch to chat. “Mr. Wellsley, your reaction is understandable. Gala-Grid is perhaps a few magnitudes above the target of a usual heist…”
A FEW?!
“... But if I am not mistaken, you are in a bit of trouble already, are you not?”
There it was. George had been waiting for it. Nothing ever came for free down here, and whatever dirt someone had on you could and would be used against you. Reluctantly, George nodded.
“How much do you owe?” asked Shawn and tapped the cigarillo on the tray once more.
George swallowed and held up five fingers, then crossed his index and middle finger. Shawn nodded.
“Fifty grand, huh? Wow, you must’ve been confident in your dice.” Shawn snickered almost mockingly. George shrank down into his chair. However, Shawn noticed his expression and let out a single chuckle. “Hey, cheer up, old boy. If you decide to take on this little assignment, you can consider the debt paid.”
George blinked. ”Ook?!”
“Oh, yes. By tomorrow, at the latest. The transfer should be instantaneous, but you never know down here.”
George couldn’t believe his ears. He frowned, held up his palm next to the side of his head and, palm facing his skull, flexed his middle finger. Shawn lifted his champagne glass in a toast and deposited the cigarillo butt in the ashtray.
“Mr. Wellsley, I did say it’s my job to fulfill my clients’ wishes. Consider it an early investment into your future career. Who knows - maybe this will be the first of many jobs you will do for us?” He tapped the table again and the bartender reappeared.
“Yes, Shawn? Would you like anything else?”
“No, thank you, I believe we’re done here.”
The bartender smiled and bowed. “Of course, Shawn. That’ll be seventeen thousand, six-hundred and fifty-eight credits, please.” A holographic bill appeared in her palm as before. George didn’t even know her A.I. could pronounce such colossal numbers. Without even a hint of reluctance, Shawn tapped the bill with his wristband, which sounded the familiar ‘pling!’. The bill disappeared.
“Thank you, Shawn. Have a nice evening!” the bartender said and disappeared as well. Shawn rose to his feet and two of the Quroks approached him from his flanks. One dressed him in a thick coat with furry hems and a thick mane, all made from the hair of alien animals, no doubt; the other fastened a stylish mask to Shawn’s face, tapped a button on the side and stepped back. Shawn took a deep breath with closed eyes and exhaled, his voice autotuned due to the mask. He activated his light glasses again.
“Ah… Fresh air.” He looked back down at George. “I would like to point out, mr. Wellsley, that we do much more than simply pay off debts. If you prove to be a worthy asset to our organisation, then next might be a house in the centre? A personal ship, perhaps?” The man shrugged playfully. “Well, then. We expect much from you. Good luck, now!”
George sat in the bar for an extra period of time - he had no idea how long. He, he was cleared - cleared of debt. Or was he, actually? Could he trust Shawn? And what would actually happen if he refused? What if he chose not to sabotage the station? Would those Quroks come after him and leave him in some ditch?
And what if he chose to comply? How would he live after getting into trouble with Gala-Grid? Would Shawn get him some security? Doubt he would. Was it even possible to sack such a station without the owners noticing the perpetrator?
The risk was immense - and so was the payoff. George reached for the smoldering butt of the cigarillo. He brought it to his lips and took as deep a drag as he could, scowling into the air. As he exhaled, he pursed his lips.
He would need time to plan this.
George’s in some deep shit, debts and all. He goes to a bar he knows to drink his chores away.
On his way out, he’s greeted by four big Quroks, a human lady, a Cala lady and a fancy gentleman in a suit. They sit down, the man buys them all champagne and they chat.
During the chat, George learns that this man goes by the name Shawn. He’s from the top tiers and works for an organisation called Possible.
Shawn instructs George with a mission: Incapacitate and overtake the local Gala-Grid security droid station. George is initially reluctant, as Gala-Grid can easily wipe him from reality with less than a snap of their corporate fingers.
However, Shawn offers to pay off George’s debts, then teases the possibility of a live above the bottom tiers. They then leave George to ponder by himself.
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