August 2024 – Fiberwyre – Ammonia Afterparty

by Lt. Cuddles

Hallken raised his head towards the transport’s engine sounds. It was an instinctive movement: he couldn’t see the shuttle at all behind his fogged brawler helmet. He couldn’t see the Anaconda either, nor Lieutenant Kii’wa, or the Kriigel agents, the Draal saboteur, nor the Kosmosoldat, or the SAS, or the Varangian guards, or the Bearpode.

Yellowish ammonia fumes were sizzling all over the factory, thicker than Dickensian smog and only slightly less healthy.

“Just like home” he thought, looking at how his gloves were showing signs of corrosion and sharply inhaling from his rebreather. He felt a tinge of anxiety at the resistance his lungs had to fight against: the filters were starting to clog.

He stood up from behind the parapet and jumped over it, running towards (he hoped towards) the sounds of the MedEvac. He took two long strides before hitting something barely visible on the ground. A body. Looking down, he saw a Kosuil agent, his face contorted in a rictus, his eyes swollen shut, mouth agape, his hands, now still and lifeless, grabbing at his armor’s collar, scratch marks on his own neck.

The former O-12 agent had to fight against his investigatory urge to light a cigarette and drop a dry one liner on the misfortune of this death. “nobody here to hear it anyways” he told to himself, and resumed his run, ducking under a hissing stream of gas that was escaping from one of the main ammonia tanks.

Still following the sound of the jet engines, he ran next to a pipeline, then over it, and then in between some scaffolding, bumping against someone else, intent in doing the same. With a cuss and a curse, he felt something of his equipment catch, stopping him abruptly in his run, making him fall over, his legs running a couple steps farther than his torso could follow. The soft impact with the factory floor proved that the other guy suffered a similar fate: they fell on each other in a tangle of limbs, panicked grappling, and labored breath.

The two tried for a minute to get up, climbing on top of eachother, punching and kicking, but for each inch gained, they both dragged each other down another panicked inch, practically rolling in place.

The Jet engine sounds were getting closer and closer, the transport was getting ready to land.

In a rush of panic, feeling the hand of the stranger grabbing onto his helmet and rebreather, moving it a scary millimeter away from its correct position, Hallken gambled. He pushed the mysterious opponent upwards and away, grabbing on the scaffolding for leverage, helping his opponent up. And up he went, relieving the former investigator of pressure and punches.

Hallken, still laying on his back, took a moment to readjust his mask, feeling a chemical itch creeping up around his jaw and neck. He didn’t have much time to get his bearings and get back up on his own: he felt a strong hand grab him by the scuff of his vest and pull him up to his feet. He then felt the arm fall on his shoulders and the weight of a person lean on him. “Come on lad, me left leg gave oot, but we can make the shuttle if we rilly go fer’it” behind them an ammonia tank exploded with a thunderous hiss, removing all of Hallken’s hesitation about helping an enemy on the battlefield. He grabbed the Caledonian man’s hip and the two of them ran-hopped towards the MedEvac’s probable landing area.

The Ducktail pub has never been hard to find. Any amount of investigation would easily result in the main establishment’s address: down shaft 34/B, halfway stop, follow the signs.

Once reached shaft 34/b, a gigantic and perfectly square hole carved straight towards 1777 Du-Ɛ’s center, one would find rather easy to reach the so called halfway stop, which used to be a large dormitory-village for the workers, a ring of platforms and houses built by the first prospectors, way back when.

Like much of the planetoid’s quarters, structures built upon structures were bolted, welded, hammered or glued to the living rock and to each other, sprawling around the sheer cliff faces like cancerous growths of plasteel, eternit sheets, and neon lights. This deep into Du-Ɛ, the neon lights were the only form of illumination, painting each little corridor and stepladder a different shade of red, blue, and yellow.

The Ducktail Pub’s holosign shined alone over the far side of the mineshaft, like a mocking gemstone on a deformed, slightly square ring. Anyone patient enough to navigate the labyrinth of chutes and ladders all the way around, and lucky enough to avoid trouble, could reach the pub from the elevators hub within the day (plus or minus 6 hours, depending on how well they knew the place).

Friendly bouncers would gladly let in whoever was able to show a valid MERC license, and the body scanner hallway was elegantly disguised, hardly even noticeable.

Hallken was slowly approaching the pubs’ platform, wearing his mandatory Fiberwyre white jumpsuit, teaching the best shortcuts to his new war-buddy, Alec McLoud, whom he shared a MedEvac with, not twelve hours prior.

“I dinnae expect there were places so un-smelly in one o the planetoids” declared the S.A.S., dodging a couple of TraumaDocs rushing a patient towards the elevator hubs “I oughta tell me colleagues. Maybe they will even want to hire some of ye, to help the AWU”

“I am not sure my current employer is available for that” coughed Hallken in response, tossing a spent lho-stick into the abyss below “but I’m sure the AWU knows people who know people who know people, who know how to put a request to -the Duck-”

“So you aren’t bringing me here to meet some shady contact of yours?” laughed Alec “Short of that, I would hope yer’a’least going to have us meet some fine lass”

The two of them took a shortcut, ducking behind a billboard (Contracts available on LuY: Exterminators needed – possible moleworm or milliperat infestations to be dealt with) and onto a hidden ladder.

“I can’t vouch for the fine-ness of any lass on this whole rock, but I can tell you the Pub serves 70% real Beermix at the main bar”

“Yer kidding.”

“Mercs can pay AND can tell. We are the perfect audience for it”

“Ack, won’t b’lieve ya until I taste it”

Hallken had reached the top of the ladder, and was litting himself another cigarette, while waiting for Alec. “MShure” he mumbled, lho-stick in his lips, “b Muh guesht.” He took a long drag “But I will only pay for the first round”

“Are ye certain? That’s gonna be yer whole payout from your fiasco against us”

They entered the body scanner hallway, making sure to leave their larger caliber guns at the entrance wardrobe

“You call that a fiasco? We kept control and got ground for our client!”

“Ye failed to prevent our union to do the same”

“You did not gain anything you didn’t already have, it was a draw at best”

“If we continued, we would’ve wiped you all oot”

“But we didn’t continue did we? Too much ammonia”

“Yeah due to yer incompetent engineers”

“Or maybe it was intentional… to stall you” Hallken managed to fake a knowing smile, his banter somewhat blunted by the memories of the dead Kosuil clawing at his own neck.

They were interrupted by a fully geared-up, kitted-out, skull-masked operative who was exiting the pub proper, passing between the two of them in the narrow corridor: “Capt. Solus” went Hallken, with a nod of greeting “Nameless peons” answered Solus, pretending to be busy checking his gear to avoid eye contact. “Prick” commented Alec.

Jerodite Solus stopped in his tracks, turned towards Alec, and lifted his gaze up to meet the surprisingly tall Caledonian man’s gaze.

Halken took a long drag of his lho-stick.

After a second of embarrassed silence, Jerodite turned to his Comlog, touched two fingers to his right ear, nodded twice, and declared: “Yes of course, be there STAT”

Alec and Hallken watched him hurry away without a word.

“What in the hell…” started Alec, but the former O-12 investigator cut him short: “Beer?” he asked.

They stepped into the Ducktail’s main room, a huge crowded sphere cut directly from rock, decorated with all manners of dim neons, pict-screens, and free hanging tubeworks. The lighting was colorful and everchanging, but calibrated well enough to give an impression of -stable- illumination. A piece of cheery classical music was playing softly in the background (Ocean Drive, by Miami Nights 1984, recognized Hallken), loud enough to assure privacy in conversations, but not so loud that it forced people to scream at each other.

The main bar, a large ring in the center of the cave, was highlighted by photo-beams from above, manned by five different humanoid baristas, which were either masked, bioengineered, or cyber-implanted to look like anthropomorphic ducks with overabundant hips.

Hallken and Alec made their way through the diverse crowd, dodging and pushing, until they reached a small round table near the edge and sat there, a small holographic pin-up cartoon duck immediately materializing on the table surface and taking their orders.

“As you can see, not many very fine lasses here” commented Hallken putting his cigarette off onto the ashtray at the center of the table.

“Are ye kiddin” commented Alec, still looking around “Then what do you call that one over there?”

Hallken craned his neck around the SAS’ wide shoulders “You mean the short youth with curly hair and the Hack-Deck?”

“Yes that one. Seems feisty.”

“I won’t stop you, but fair warning: she’s almost never seen outside the VIP room. Rumor has it she’s close with the owners.”

“Oh, so she’s fine in more ways than one”

“She may be romantically involved with someone else. Someone powerful”

“Let a gal make her choices”

“She’s also some sort of financial advisor, according to the pub’s last public broadcast on MERCnet.”

“Oof. Well nobody’s perfect”

“So you’re going to try for someone else?”

Alec’s laughter boomed briefly over the music

“Me lad, destiny itself brought me here, by havin me breathe ammonia, do ye really think I’m going to give up that easily?”

Before Hallken could answer, or even react, Alec was up, beer in hand, walking towards the lass he found so fine.

Hallken watched him navigate the crowd, took a sip from his beermix mug, leaned forwards, and tilted his head slightly, shifting his focus on a table some 20 feet away from him.

There sat two individuals who caugt the ex-O12 investigator’s eye. A lanky and tall figure completely cloaked in a Burqua-esque getup, their proportions almost human, except for what looked like a very long skull, or neck, or horns. Hard to tell. Sitting opposite of them, facing Halken, was what he could only describe as a suspiciously good looking woman. She had a set of perfectly proportioned facial and physical features, a warm, seductive expression, and a wholly unnatural magnetic beauty about her. What caught Hallken’s eye, in particular, was her clothing: Fiberwyre jumpsuit, like the Brawler’s own.

They were too far away to eavesdrop on their conversation, but he studied their body language and tried to catch what he could from the woman’s lips movements.

The cloaked figure seemed agitated, twitchy even. They vibrated in place, sending gentle waves across their head covers, to which the mysterious not-a-supermodel answered with a calm nod and a couple sentences, her body language calculated to the millimeter to a perfect image of condescending superiority. Hallken caught the words “buy”, “asteroid” and “get to you” from the woman’s unnaturally natural-looking full lips.

The cloaked figure resumed their undulating movements, to which the woman responded by facing slightly away from them, her body language again displayed to theatrical perfection. The words “contract”, “ammonia”, “landing” and “cost extra” jumped at Hallken’s attention.

The tall individual in the burka resumed shuddering and slid a compact object across the table. A small, perfectly smooth, black box, large enough to contain a chip, maybe a cube, or prehaps an AI core. The woman’s movement in taking the box and hiding it into her cleavage was so fast and smooth that Hallken almost missed it, the word “ALEPH” dropping clearly from her lips into the former inspector’s eye.

The cloaked figure sat perfectly still for a long moment and then finally nodded. They extended a hand under the cloak, grabbing a mug of beermix on the table, and Hallken shuddered in seeing the long, chitinous fingers wrapping around the plastiglass, pulling the whole mug under the burqua’s lip.

The former investigator’s eyes anxiously shifted to the woman, only to find her deep blue ones looking straight at him from across the pub, displaying a penetrating curiosity and a sharp bloodthirsty edge barely hidden by the meticulously calculated sex appeal.

She winked at Hallken, sending a chill down his spine, right before the investigator’s view got fully and suddenly filled with Caledonian SAS: Alec had returned, bearing two new mugs of beermix.

“What’s up lad?” he asked cheerily “yer looking even paler than this morning”

Hallken quickly ducked on the side, looking at the other table.

Empty.

“What” continued Alec turning towards the same direction “Yer looking for someone? Am I gonna meet some friend of yours?”

“I… they… uhm” stuttered Hallken, feeling his throat drying up “I thought I saw someone I recognized” he lied “what about you? back so soon? alone on top of that?”

“Ah you’re a real perceptive one, arent’ ya?” smiled Alec “Yeah I didn’t quite catch the lass’ eye, she was all busy smooching another gal with glasses. On the upside, I did get her work number, and a couple of good pieces of advice. I’m now a proud owner of a whole entire BitCred”

“One? that’s almost worth a miner’s month’s salary”

“And that’s not even the best part!” continued the SAS, lifting his mug towards Hallken “I have a portfolio. I’m going to invest it. You’ll see, I’m gonna REALLY help the AWU”

The Brawler looked around the pub again, for good measure, finding no trace of the hooded Exrah or the walking masterclass in plastic surgery.

“Cheers to that” he concluded in his usual depressed tone, meeting his frend’s mug with his own.