Chapter 6: Doomsquad

The advent of space travel had exposed the human body to strange new environments and stresses. Zero-gravity, cosmic rays, a massive spectrum of different radiations, and things that forced human society to invent whole new words, and, in one notable case, a new verb tense. New branches of medicine and biometric technologies had been birthed and fed by the demand to adapt the human body to an environment in which it had never been meant to exist. Cyborgs and the genetically modified soared and danced through the heavens and space just as the ancient humans might have seen angels frolic through the heavens, a testament to the sheer boundlessness of the human spirit.

However, one thing almost never demanded of the body of a spacer is the ability to sustain a prolonged sprint.

At first the advantage in the frantic run from Crazy Ivan's to the spaceport was decidedly Parson's. Parson was younger than Gizmo and in much better shape physically from a reasonably balanced diet and being dragged into countless bar fights of extraordinary length by Chris Ennings. Gizmo's shorter legs, portly physique, and tendency to eat potted meat and synthocheez while figuring out how to turn Ennings' new pizza oven into a Neutron Alchemist soon left him red and wheezing in Parson's wake.

But like all of the inner circle of the Perse crew, Gizmo knew how to play to his strengths. Mopping the sweat from his brow with one hand, Gizmo pulled a small, dark gray rectangle from his back pocket. With a few quick twists and folds, carbon nanotubes interlocked and micronic circuits had activated to produce a small, reddish mat, already refining solar energy into contragravitational forces in the form of hovering. Its middle bowed slightly as Gizmo stepped aboard, and with a slight shifting of weight he was zipping forward, easily swerving around Parson.

“Hold on a second!” Parson called after Gizmo, who obligingly whipped the rug around with a deft turn of ankle and came to a stop facing Parson.

“You've had that thing all this time?” demanded Parson, panting slightly from his run.

“Around four years.” Gizmo shrugged. “I made it from Captain Ennings' cappucino maker. I was going to call it a 'Shagway' but every time I said it Ennings would try choking me for some reason.”

“You don't say. So why haven't you used it before now?”

“Well I never really needed it for myself before. I'm always in my lab on the ship, I seldom go planetside. But I usually use it to move bigger parts. It's how I got that trifusion cascader down to those methane caves quickly enough to thaw Ennings out of the wall. And you see this part?” Gizmo waved his arms through the empty air around him, “That's the part that doesn't protect me from dirtsharks.”

“I see,” Parson replied. “But I was asking why you started out running from Ivan's.”

“Years of experience with you and Ennings has taught me that when one of you starts running that I should follow immediately and worry about everything else later.”

“That is certainly wise.” Parson paused. “So, do you have another one of those magic carpets?”

“Yes.” Another pause. “OH! You want to use it! Sure, here you go.” Gizmo quickly produced a second Shagway and tossed it to Parson.

Parson railed an eyebrow as he stepped on. “Pink?”

“I'm hoping Ennings needs it someday.” The two men laughed as they zipped toward the Spaceport.


Ennings frowned as a sea of stained concrete, broken windows, and a complete lack of activity came into view. “What the hell is this dump?” he demanded.

“The spaceport, sir.” Philo didn't look over from beneath the sunglasses he'd procured from their vehicle's owner. “The autonav says-”

“To hell with the autonav! It's probably as broken and defective as the rest of this ruined planet. I know spaceports. I've been to hundreds of spaceports. I, in matter of fact, grew up in spaceports. This is not a spaceport. Spaceports have activity. Ships and people and electricity and that stink of scorched atmosphere and terrible caustic chemicals and people who haven't bathed in a solar year. This has none of these things but the stink.” He sniffed.

“Sir, as I was telling you during our landing, the main planetfall here was relocated to Clockwerx City by Clockwerx when he seized power, and as a consequence the spaceport here was abandoned.”

“Well what in the flaming supernovas of crunched quasars would Gizmo and Parson find so important in an abandoned- wait. Did you say you were telling us about the planet during our LANDING?”

“Yes, sir. As you may remember I always take the time during planetfall to give you an overview of the planet.”

“Philo, did the fact we were screaming and crashing not tell you that we weren't listening?”

“In point of fact, sir, we so frequently find ourselves in a situation with an overabundance of screaming, crashing, shooting, or some other form of chaos that were I to interrupt my normal functions and duties for them they would remain off indefinitely.”

Ennings opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again. “Well I can't really argue with that.” Ennings admitted, stroking his chin. “Good job on adapting to the unexpected. Now as I was saying before, What would Gizmo and Parson want in an abandoned spaceport?”

“Well as they were tasked with locating a ship, the logical assumption would be that they have found one. As you'll recall from my briefing, there are rumors that Merchants have starting using the empty buildings.”

“Philo, the only thing I recall about your briefing is everyone but you screaming, various things on fire, a minicryo with my ex-cook's head in it and making a sizable crater in a dirtshark nest. If the topic is not one of those things I assure you that I do not recall it.”

“Understood, sir.”

Ennings yanked the wheel and pulled off into a parking lot for an abandoned Meet 'N' Cheez.

“Sir-” Philo started as he noticed Ennings' suddenly grim face. Ennings pointed to the squadron of red-and-black vehicles, troopers, and Doombots heading into the rows of hangars.

Philo took a picosecond to scan his vast data banks. “Oh.” he said. “Fuck.”


Gizmo and Parson folded up their Shagways as they stood in front of Hangar 18.

“Should we knock?” Gizmo asked.

“No,” Parson replied as he walked through the office door. A Merchant had been here- Parson saw, and smelled, that the inside of the door frame had recently been ringed with Doorchime charges. A bit excessive when dealing with an old corvette, but then again this Merchant had to work under Clockwerx.

Parson pushed open the door into the hangar. “I can see why this thing was so cheap. It sure doesn't look like much. Were those pirates hauling garbage with it?”

Gizmo gasped as he followed. “The kid wasn't joking! That's a Geller ship!”

Parson whistled. “Damn thing's an antique. Weren't they designed for, like, wizards, or something?”

“Psychics.” Gizmo corrected. “These things predate the goddamn Interplanetary Interstate. Supposedly, they could jump into Aetherspace without using a drive. Less than a hundred were ever produced, or so I've been told.”

“Why so few?” Parson asked.

“How many psychics do you think there were, exactly?” Gizmo asked.

Parson shrugged.“Well, you always hear stories about psychics finding murder victims, or mansions haunted by ghosts, or wizards curing cancer without hyperscalpels. . .” Parson said. “Just seems like the past was a might bit more magical than the world we're living in.” Gizmo nodded.

“Right on that count. There's no wonder in living, anymore.” He then scratched his butt with the heel of his Shagway controller and spat. “I reckon we could make a killing just selling off the parts as mementos. There are an awful lot of eccentric rich weirdoes into stuff like that. I know a guy who designed his entire mansion to run on steam.” Gizmo twitched his moustache in contemplation.

“I don't care what you do with it. A psidrive's as useful as a diesel engine- there's nothing to run either of them anymore. But first let's find the buyer and work out a deal.” Parson unconsciously hitched his pants, feeling the weight of his pistol bounce against his thigh. The two men walked around to the stern loading hatch. Gizmo inspected the controls. “It's unlocked. Stand clear.” The door silently swung down to form a boarding ramp that the pair strode up and into the ship.

“Anyone here?” Parson called out as they walked up the narrow gangway. As they approached the bridge door an autogun unfolded from the ceiling and pointed at them. The men wisely froze.

The bridge door slid open and a young woman stepped out, wearing a poofy pink dress with ruffed sleeves, a skirt-apron bastard spawn, and a headband with matching kitty ears. Her dark hair made the crimson band across her forehead even more noticeable. Cold eyes measured their worth. The autogun's barrel moved in tandem with them.

“Who are you and why are you on my ship?” she demanded.

There was a long pause, finally broken by Parson.

“Are- are those kitty ears?” Parson stammered.

“What?” The girl's hand went to her head and pulled off the headband. “I'd completely forgotten about this thing.”

Parson and Gizmo looked at each other and started laughing hysterically.

“Damn it this is not funny!' the girl fumed, causing the two men to laugh even harder. She looked down over the work uniform she'd forgotten she was wearing, the pink fuzzy cat ears in her hands, and let loose a few choking gasps of laughter as well, equal parts nerve and shame.

Gizmo was doubled over against the wall. Parson had tears running down his face and was on the floor, pointing at the cat ears. Jenny dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her apron and tried to regain command of the situation. Laughter echoed throughout the ship.

The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve, and the autogun fired, leaving a smoking hole in the floor. The laughter abruptly stopped as all three stared wide-eyed at the wisps of smoke curling up from the floor.
“Huh. I didn't actually expect that gun to work.” the girl admitted.

“Well, that was about as sobering as seeing your mother naked.” Parson said, climbing to his feet. “Look, kid-”

“Jenny.” the girl interjected.

“Jenny.” Parson nodded. “My name's John Parson and my associate here is called. . . Gizmo.” Gizmo nodded. “We are in a really bad way right now, and we want to buy your ship. Just name your price.” this was not the first time that Parson had gambled on Ennings' money-making abilities.

“It's not for sale.” The coldness had returned to Jenny's eyes.

“Really, with the money we give you you can go buy another ship, a much nicer one. We just need-”

“Wait, Parson.” Gizmo stepped closer to Jenny. “That's a T.I.A.R.A.” It wasn't a question.

Jenny nodded warily.

Parson's eyes widened. “You're an Esper?”

“There's no hiding it now!” Jenny grumbled.

Parson found himself at a loss for words for one of a very small number of times in his life.

The ship shook from a massive explosion outside. The crown seemed to hum and Jenny gasped and paled. She braced herself against the door to keep herself upright.

“Doomsquad” she gasped in reply to everyone's unvoiced question. “Shot through the door. I'm new to this and I didn't think to scan outside the ship. I've got the forward shields up. Run out the back door- there's no one that way.”

Parson tensed up. He saw something familiar in Jenny's eyes. Something he used to see in himself, not so long ago, before he met Ennings.

“No.” Jenny and Gizmo both looked surprised. Parson looked at Jenny. “Look, we need you and right now, you need us. Let us through and you have my word we'll help you.” He put a reassuring hand on Jenny's shoulder. Jenny stared at him, looking for something in his eyes.

The ship shook again.

Neither Parson nor Jenny moved.

Finally, Jenny sighed and stepped aside. The bridge door slid open.

“You won't regret this, Jenny.” Parson helped Jenny into the command chair before turning to Gizmo. “Find the Systems console and see what we've got in the way of hauling ass out of here. I'm going to check defenses.”

Gizmo nodded. “I'll try to get the reactor up so everything isn't running off of her.”

“you mean-”

“Yes. Psidrives use Psi energy and she is the source.”

Parson looked at Jenny. “Stars, Gizmo, she's just a kid . . .”

Gizmo was working on a console. “She's older than most of them were. Fusion up in 30 seconds.” Gizmo tapped at a few keys, and squinted. “There are a pair of mass drivers embedded in the nose of the craft. Think they're loaded?” Jenny shrugged, almost falling out of the chair from the sudden burst of vertigo. She tightened the six-point restraint system currently securing her bepoofed butt to the chair.

Parson sat down at a console showing shield information. “Chris is going to love this.” he muttered, as he started locking down the ship.

Chapter 5 Part 2: On Negotiating

The Galactic Average corporation, being the prolific testaments to Capitalism they were, had long ago defined itself into several branches in order to best expedite the squandering of public funds on fancy projects that never actually produced anything of any use to anyone. There was Galactic Average Medical, who produced three hundred metric tons of gauze on any given Tuesday, Galactic Average Industrial, responsible for making sure that televisions expired exactly two weeks after their warranties did, and Galactic Average Provisions, responsible for propagating corn across the untold reaches of space and time.

There was also the Galactic Average Bank, but that particular organization had been forcibly separated from the rest of the Galactic Average during the rush to construct the Interplanetary Interstate. Ever since the split the organization developed certain. . . eccentricities.

At the moment, former captain and notorious space jerk Chris Ennings stood in the central courtyard of the Galactic Average System Headquarters, three tall buildings uniform in their absolute drabness, the combined force of which controlled the majority of the commerce in the Hauser system. He clutched in one sweaty palm an elixir torn from the hateful breast of Doctor Clockwerx, an android who represented the absolute zenith of science gone batshit.

From the documents he read, Ennings knew that the Doctor's serum was capable of repairing every feasible damage the human person could withstand without being reduced to the consistency of a fine chutney. He knew that whatever organization got their hands on it could put Galactic Average Medical out of business so fast Adam Smith would shit bricks of fire. In his weaker moments, he'd even fantasize leveraging that for a posh position as some sort of undersecretary, or manager, or whatever the sort of thing that middle-aged men spent their days doing, but that wasn't going to be the case.

He took one step towards the building, knowing that this invention was going to get patented and buried so deep that, uh, some other famous person would be totally, um, surprised. Or something.

"Do you need backup, Captain?" Philo asked, disentangling himself from the tall drink of water leaning nonchalantly against the car.

"No. . . Really. Please, don't let me, uh. . ." Ennings tried to banish the terrifying spectacle of heavy-robot-petting from his brain. ". . . Inconvenience you."

"Assisting our egress is never an inconvenience." Philo said. "Furthermore, without my assistance, how can you hope to find the president of the medical wing?" Ennings shrugged.

"I was planning on figuring that out once I got in." Ennings smiled a wry, charming smile. Philo sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Do you even know which building is the right one?" He asked, exasperated. Ennings stared blankly at the android for a moment, and then pointed at the large caduceus decorating the front of the nearest tower. "Right, well, best of luck then." Philo replied, not missing a beat.


The inside of the tower was oddly subdued, even for a hive of pencil-pushing office drones slowly counting down the days until their inevitable death. Ennings, who had set his brain to 'Take-no-shit badass,' strode manfully forward, and impositioned himself most disconveniently for the harried, mousy secretary, quietly nursing instructions into the phone.

"Hello." Ennings said, smiling a smile that conveyed just how large his teeth were. "I'm here to speak to your president. I have a business proposition that I think he will find most. . ." Ennings paused dramatically while suggestively tapping the elixer upon the poor woman's desk. ". . . Compelling."

The woman stared at him with the same mixture of awe and fear with which cattle regard an oncoming murdertrain. She pressed a secret button and handed him a small key on a fine gold chain.

"First elevator to your left, sir." She quickly withdrew her hand and continued to stare at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Ennings paused, shocked that his plan actually worked.

"Well. . ." He rapped the vial once more. "Thanks." He swiftly turned and walked for the elevators. He passed a pair of security guards, assault weapons slung over their shoulders, and he suddenly became cognizant of exactly how muddy and disheveled he was. The guards gave him a once-over on his way to the elevator, which was rather disconcerting. Ennings considered himself much more deserving of suspicion, and he couldn't help but feel the least bit slighted.

The elevator he had been directed to slid open, unleashing a crowd of people into the lobby, all of which tried very hard to pay Ennings no mind, all the while giving him a wide berth. Entering the elevator, the well-dressed man in charge of sitting on a stool and pushing the button accidentally bumped into his shoulder with a force that is hardly ever indicative of an accidental anything.

Ennings tried very hard to push the nagging sensation of disease out of his brain as he slid the delicate gold key home. The doors closed as the carriage rocketed upwards, and Ennings focused mostly on the thought of escaping this afflicted ball of mud.

"Eventually" He said out loud to noone in particular "They're going to figure out who I am. Better to escape with my life, I can do more good alive than I'd accomplish dying for a grand gesture." He concluded, failing to convince even himself. He laughed the sad, forced laugh of someone choking on their morals.
The elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open, revealing a long hallway crafted of large slabs of smoky marble. He knew that it wasn't real marble, rather, it was a semi-permeable membrane that would allow burly men with scary energy weapons to perforate Ennings in all manner of ways, without affording him the opportunity to return fire. The realization that he was surrounded on all sides by the advanced version of tinted glass did little to expel the nagging worry in the back of his skull.

The hallway terminated in a heavy red door, bare except for a black bar at eye-level, presumably for some sort of retinal scan. Hesitating for a moment, Ennings gently knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked, more forcibly. Nothing continued to happen. Reverting to brute force, he kicked the door as hard as it could, and it flew open. Ennings winced as the sound of something expensive shattering echoed across the spartan office.

"I knew you were coming." The tactiturn man at the desk spoke carefully. "So I left the door open." He said, measuring his words like precious gold powder.

"Well, I know that now." Ennings retorted, not knowing what else to say.

"Well I'm glad you know that now." The man replied, mockingly. "I would find your cognative abilities highly suspect if. . ." One could observe the gates being thrown back on the lion's cage of seething fury raging in this man's cockles. He flexed his hands like he wished they were full of vertebrets and pasted another veneer of politeness on his jowls. "Please." He said, gesturing to a single black seat set before his empty desk. "Join me."

Ennings strode quickly across the sable carpet laid out across the smoky marble floor that he guessed might actually be marble this time. He paused to gaze out across the expanse of Sikking City, a giant mud-crusted testament to a collapsing economic infrastructure, and decided he liked the view better from the plush seat in front of him.

Mostly because it framed the other Galactic Average buildings in such a way that it looked like the ham-faced man before him was a little red ball in an unfathomably huge game of Pong. Ennings giggled a little, and a ripple of confusion danced across the man's flab.

"What do you want?" The President (whose name was Gilbert, which you know for no other reason than a sudden shocking shortage of pronouns) asked slowly.
"Why, I'm here to make a business proposition." Ennings said cheerfully. "I have something you want. . ." He said, leaning back. "And I went to no small lengths to retreive it, either." He twirled the little vial dexterously between his fingers, and sinisterly between the fingers on his left hand. "I expect compensation."
"Of course." The man replied, reaching for something under the desk. "Name your price." This caught Ennings attention.

"Well, we can start with whatever you've got in your wallet." He said.
"Wouldn't you rather I just make a deposit into your Valet? I can promise the utmost discrepency upon my part, the sums will be small and wired through puppet accounts, we can parse it over a few days, the Bank won't suspect a thing." Gilbert stared into Ennings's eyes with a strange mix of hate and desperation that would confuse even the most seasoned empath. Ennings subconsciously crossed a leg across his knee and set his hands in his lap defensively.

"My Valet was recently destroyed." He said plainly.

"Of course." Gilbert did little to conceal his biting sarcasm. "How professional."

"Don't presume that my sub-par planetfall is any indication of my abilities as a businessman, Mr. Gilbert." Ennings said, wagging his finger. "There ain't more than a handfull of pilots who'd even think of running a light transport through the goddamned blockade of a planetary defense you've got here. Hell, ain't more than a scant handful anywhere that would even think of trying to land anything at all what's had most of it's thrust capacity shot to shit." He bit his bottom lip has memories of explosions ran through his brain. "Those mass drivers are nasty." He stated.

"Look, I don't care." Gilbert said, throwing ettiquite to the wind. "I know you must think you're some almighty badass for what you've done, but I want you to know that I don't give one god damn shit for what you think you can do." He tossed a fine leather billfold upon the table, it slid straight into Ennings' lap. "Take the money. Empty my fucking account if you want, I keep my passcode written on my access card, I don't fucking need it. Now do what you were god damned paid for," He rose and leaned across the table intimidatingly. "And give me my goddamned cargo!" He growled. Ennings, sufficiently cowed, handed the man the vial.

He didn't take it.

Instead, he looked at it with the same mix of indignant outrage and confusion that rich people get when their many butlers prepare them salmon caviar instead of sturgeon. He grabbed Ennings by the collar and began shouting.

"What is that?" He scrunched his face up, like it was some sort of magic eye puzzle that would reveal itself that way. Ennings paused. Disparate half-realized suspicions began clunking around in his brain, like an irregular granite Rubik's cube.

". . . This is the stuff."

"What stuff?"

"The stuff I stole from Clockwerx. You know, his miracle medicine." Ennings smiled as disarmingly as he could. Gilbert's face rippled meatily, dissolving into a mixture of fear and queasy disgust that most people experience during a gas station sandwich-induced BM. He walked towards the large wrap-around windows of his office, and stared out at the crumbling city beneath him.

"I want my family back." He said quietly. Enning's stomach dropped twenty floors, then went flying back into his throat.

Shit.

Gilbert slowly turned, stared Ennings right in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but the fear scrawled across Ennings' features caught his attention. He hesitated.

"You're not one of the kidnappers, I take it?" He asked, anger quickly subsiding. Ennings stood, tucked the wallet into his pocket, and backed slowly out of the room.
"Ah, no." He said, standining in the threshold of the imposing red door. "Terribly sorry." And with that, he turned and ran as quickly as he could to the elevator.
"Hey, my wallet!" Gilbert shouted, just as the doors closed.

Ennings hammered the ground floor button as quickly as possible, until the elevator began to descend at near free-fall speeds towards his waiting egress. He pulled the wallet out of his pocket and inspected the contents. Several thousand pentacreds (just enough for a ship capable of getting them out of the system), a long string of sentimental photos, and a collection of bank cards, the most notable of which was a matte black, with nary a clue as to it's use. As loath as Ennings was to pass up such a tantilizing little incite to adventure, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

He pocketed the money as the elevator doors opened into the lobby, still crowded with similarly dressed office drones migrating in groups. Not missing a beat, Ennings pulled the fire alarm in the elevator, trigginer a klaxon that didn't so much encourage an orderly exit from the building, as freeze everyone in their tracks for a moment. Realizing what was happening, the drones went absolutely rip-shit, and began charging for the nearest exit. Never letting a good panic go to waste, Ennings charged out of the elevator, slammed through the same group of security guards from before, taking the opportunity to slip Gilbert's wallet into an unsuspecting pocket, and didn't stop running until he was behind the wheel of the hatchback that Philo's robo-whoring had secured them.

"Good to see you made it back safe and sound, Captain." Philo said cheerfully, ready and waiting in the passenger's seat. "Gizmo called, he wants to meet us at the Spaceport, he said it was urgent. Did you sell the vial?"

"No, but I got us money." Ennings kicked the ignition into high gear and pulled out into the hectic traffic. Behind him, he saw a pair of Millitary dropships unloading a number of heavily armed and armored warriors into the plaza, pouring like a human river into the Medical building. Enning's heart skipped a beat, but he consoled himself in the knowledge that no-one saw him.

Except the plethora of cameras that probably adorned every street corner and hidden crevice in that building. Shit. Ennings silently cursed the wonderful security blanket that modern day technology provided the average layperson. If nothing else, he told himelf, it makes my job damn tough.

"In the interest of avoiding any self-incriminating action," Philo said, noticing the near-riot taking place in the Galactic Average System Headquarters, "I shall refrain from asking any questions."

"Good." Enning breathed. "Hey, what happened to your boyfriend?" Philo slung a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the disheveled comatose heap in the cramped back seat.
"Goddamn, dude." Ennings said. "Did you at least buy him a drink first?" Philo shrugged and smiled, letting the wind from his open window ruffle his synthetic blonde hair.

Chapter 5 (part 1): On Haggling

Ennings gripped the wheel of his shanghaied hatchback like the delicate outer shell of a precious egg made out of gold leaf and uranium. Weaving through traffic with all the grace and majesty of a lion on ice skates, he made double sure that no scratches, dents, or unwanted explosions befell this car.

A low moan oozed from out the back seat, sending a cold chill down Ennings' spine. He had told Philo to distract the driver with "the move I used on that guard back when we attacked the prison on the Jingoistic Duchy of Elmo-07", which, in Ennings' mind, was a swift blow to the back of the neck with a tire iron. He shot a quick glance into the back seat, watching the man and the man-bot grapple with all the passion and fury of two rabbits reunited after a stint in the Navy. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing on the imposing quadriplex of towers that marked Sikking City's capital district. Definitely didn't remember using that move back on Elmo, Lord no.

Parson and Gizmo wandered into the lobby of Crazy Ivan's Spaceatarium with all the nonchalance two men walking away from the smoking ruin of a hovertruck can muster. The first thing Parson noted, scraping the toe of his boot across a thick coat of dust on the worn tile floor, was that Ivan clearly didn't suffer from and cleaning-based flavor of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Inexplicable bits of machinery and cracked ceramics lay scattered about every surface that wasn't used for walking or sitting, most of which was either faded from exposure to the long rays of afternoon or concealed under the aforementioned dust.

The first thing that Gizmo noticed, however, was that Ivan had a penchant for relics. Hawking Radiation suppressors, Inertial Dampening coils, Pulse Beacons of various magnitude and accuracy, the functional half of a Capissen 38 wormholer, and a set of well-loved entry couplings for a planetfall-scorched primary buffer panel.
Wasn't a damn thing hadn't seen use this side of a decade, Gizmo figured, mustache twitching all the while. Clearly, Ivan was a man to visit when you needed something the eraserheads over at Galactic Average Manufacturing couldn't provide.

A girl no older than 14, clad in a filthy set of coveralls, popped her head up from behind the front desk.

"Can I help you?" She asked cautiously.

"Yes, we're looking for Ivan." Parson replied. The girl cocked an eyebrow.

"Ivan's dead." A look of shock crossed Parson's face.

"I'm. . . I'm sorry." Parson ran his fingers through his hair. "I knew Ivan from way back when, the Clockwerx Rebellion back on NPH-IV." He smiled at the girl. "You couldn't have been older than two or three at the time, your papa just wouldn't stop talking about you." Parsons gazed off into space, a wistful smile playing upon his lips. "He was a good man. I promised him, I ever need a ship in the area, I'd come to his shop, said he'd hook me right up." He shook himself out of his reverie, slowly walked towards the front desk. "I'm sorry to hear that he's gone. I should have visited sooner, but you know how life his." He rested his elbows on the desk and smiled as charmingly as he could.

"I'm not Ivan's daughter." The girl replied. "I never even met the guy. The place was abandoned when I found it, so I cracked the lock and set up shop here." She tapped a finger against her cheek. "Good effort though. If I was his daughter I probably would have believed you, if that's any consolation."

"It's not, really." Parsons snarked. "So, dispatching with the theatrics, my companions and I are in dire need of a ship.

"I had gathered as much. " She said as politely as possible. Gizmo enjoyed a hearty chuckle at his superior's expense. "What kind of ship would you be in need of?"
"Something cheap, with a Sub-Aether drive."

"Ooooh. Mmm, no." She flipped through the crisp pages of a formidable tome, reviewing her stock. "I can do cheap, or I can do Sub-Aether drive." She tapped a pen against her chin thoughtfully. "How many people in your crew?"
"Three, and one robot." Gizmo interjected.

"Industrial? Repair? What sort of robot?" She asked.

"General purpose, he's about as big as Parson here." He said, crossing his arms across his chest satisfactorily. "Built him myself, I did."

"So why not just call him an android?" She asked, absentmindedly itching her scalp with the back of her pen.

"He's not part human."

"No, you're thinking of cyborgs." She corrected. "Androids are just human-shaped robots."

"Wait, what? Are you sure?" Gizmo asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I actually think she's right with this." Parson added. "I remember reading something about this the last time I went to get my teeth cleaned." Gizmo was clearly confused.

"You're sure? I've been working a fair bit longer than you've been drawing breath, little one, and I've never heard it played out this way before." Gizmo said, mustache twitching.

"Well, there's the odd chance that something may have changed since the development of the internal combustion engine, gramps." The girl said, refocusing her attention on the binder. "You should keep up with emerging developments, some pretty interesting things have happened here in the present." Gizmo opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but was quickly cut off by the girl's revelation. "Oh, found something. Five man crew, Sub-Aether drive." She pursed her lips in thought. "Cheap, too. Not more than a few thousand Pentacreds." Parson's face lit up.

"How much?" He asked. The girl continued to consult the book.

"Looks like it's a modified corvette. Confiscated from a pirate hauler, it's a scouter with a midrange burn, enough to check out an environment, make sure it's safe for the capital ships."

"That's nice, how much is it?" Parson began rapping his fingers against the desk anxiously.

"Huh, all original tech, too. That's nice."

"But how much does it COST?" Gizmo asked, growing swiftly irate.

"Let's see, it is. . ." The girl flipped the page, running a finger down a long list of numbers. ". . . Sold. Whoops." She smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, looks like it left not more than an hour ago." She leaned back in her chair and kicked her feet up. "Hell, you could probably still catch them at the spaceport. Record says that it's a Geller-class, whatever that is. Can't be many ships taking off on this side of the mudball," Gizmo's ears perked up.

"What did you call it?"

"A Geller-class, probably one of those antiques from before Galactic Average restructured." She shrugged. "Why, had one when you were younger?" Gizmo frowned the sort of frown only old men with hairy lips can frown.

"No, I'm just now catching up to my mid-life crisis." He turned and walked for the door, drawing a communicator from his pocket. "Parson, let's hurry."

"Why?" Parson asked, looking up from the desk. Gizmo spun on a heel and donned his shades in one swift move.

"We've got a ship to catch." He said, as badass as possible. For a moment, no-one uttered a word.

"Right." Parson said, not so much defusing the situation as tearing it to shreds with his teeth. "Will you hop on your wrist communicator doohickey and tell Philo to bring the Captain to the spaceport?" Parson strode across the showroom floor and held the door for Gizmo.

"It's not a wrist communicator." Gizmo retorted sullenly. "It's a direct audio uplink. Totally different." He muttered, extending his watch's antenna.

Chapter 4: Nimbus

Jenny could not remember the last time she had been this tired. As it was, she was so tired that she could not remember a lot of things, so it was entirely possible that she had been this tired before but was too tired to recall it. But such thinking was tiresome.

The sun had long since set and the moon would have been up, were it not missing. The locals would sometimes reminisce about the moon, when the Doombots were not in sight and muscles could relax and tongues would loosen and people allowed themselves the luxury of remembering the days before slums and dirtsharks.

The story behind Bochco's thick asteroid ring had astonished Jenny. Before Clockwerx came, Bochco had an large, bluish moon named Nimbus. Its color was rare and by all accounts one of the greatest wonders of the galactic arm. Its gentle blue light was the pride and joy of the Bochconians.

Fifty-three Galactic Average Years ago, it exploded.

No one knows how Clockwerx did it, he announced his arrival not with dropships full of his Doombots or speeches demanding surrender. No words were spoken, no quarter was offered. The moon exploded with a terrible while light that lingered for hours. The people panicked, the government collapsed, and three days later the Doombots were everywhere and that was that.

Legend had it that a few years later a young man named Jason had an intellect so remarkable that Clockwerx became interested in him, and had him brought to his Space Palace. When Jason was before him, Clockwerx told him that he would answer any question the young man wished to ask. Terrified, Jason stammered out the question on the minds of every Bochconian: Why did Clockwerx destroy Nimbus?

Clockwerx laughed for several minutes, a cold metallic hacking with all the joy and music of a blender filled with silverwhere, then regarded Jason. “My boy,” he said, “a man has room in his heart for just one master.”

Ten minutes later, Jason's brain was part of Clockwerx's Brainframe.

Jenny's thoughts returned to the present as she noticed the lights outside of the jumpcab were moving upward almost vertically, telling her that she was almost at her destination. She rubbed her eyes and gathered her wits as the cab came to rest on its legs at the old spaceport.

The old spaceport had been abandoned when Clockwerx built the Glorious Clockwerx Spacedrome in Clockwerx City and mandated the destruction of ships that tried to land elsewhere. Spacers were by and large a pragmatic lot and soon all official traffic went to the Spacedrome and Clockwerx City became the biggest city on the planet while Sikking City, half a continent away, languished.

Speaking highly of Clockwerx City in most places in Sikking City tended to make one quite unpopular.

As Jenny walked as confidently as she could manage through the flickering lights and looming dark hangars, she resisted the urges to turn and look at the jumpcab as its she heard it whir off into the night, and also to reach up and touch her hair clips.
One on each side, the hair clips were a matched personal defense system. The one on the right was a powerful, single use bioneural disruptor- guaranteed to shut down even a shielded brain or computer system for a minimum of ten minutes. The left one was its matching canceler, so she'd stay conscious long enough to make her getaway. The Merchants kept this place pretty quiet but she had made it a habit long ago not to take unnecessary chances.

Jenny stopped in front of Hangar 18. She'd been given very specific instructions; if the light in front was blue, the Merchant was ready and waiting for her; if it was orange, something had gone wrong and the meeting was off; and if it was out, well, they'd not been to specific but Jenny understood she was to flee immediately if she valued her life. Something about a “Dirtshark Migration.” The few people she'd mentioned it to had just shuddered and quickly changed the subject.

The light was decidedly blue. Jenny made sure her face was calm and walked to the business office door, knocking rapidly five times. There was a long pause and Jenny began to feel dozens of sets of eyes on the back of her neck. Just as she felt like she could not maintain her composure any longer, a low-pitched male voice came from behind the door.

“Password?”

Jenny froze. No one had mentioned any password to her. What was she going to do? She was nearly out of time.

“Do you know the password or not?”

“I- I- No one told me about any password!” Jenny stammered.

Another long pause. Jenny fought to keep her hand from her hair clips. They were supposed to activate automatically or with the code word, but that reassurance seemed hollow alone in the dark.

“That is correct.” The door slid open. “Enter.”

Jenny steeled her nerves and walked in. The door shut behind her and the lights came up, revealing an old man with a vocalizer around his neck. His eyes twinkled as he grinned at her.

“Sorry about the pass-” he started, then frowned. He turned a dial on the vocalizer. “Sorry about the password trick.” His voice was now much higher and rougher. Older, Jenny decided. “I had to make sure you weren't Doomsquad.”

“But what good was it?” Jenny asked. “You didn't even tell me there was a password.”

“Exactly!” The man cackled. “But Doomsquad will always guess. 'All Glory To Clockwerx,' they always say.” He gestured to the door through which Jenny had just entered. From this side, she could see it was ringed with focused charges. Ion plasmatics? She didn't know much in the way of explosives. “Then, BOOM!” The man laughed. Jenny fought down a shudder with less-than-complete success. “Old Clank, he doesn't go for the brightest sparks in the fusion dome.”

“Are you Big Doog?” Jenny asked, hoping to get things moving. “Do you have what we discussed?”

The man's smile faded. “Yes, I'm Big Doog. And perhaps I have it nearby.” His eyes narrowed. “The question is, girlie. Do YOU have what we discussed?”

“All but two thousand pentacreds. I was hoping we could work out-”

“Say no more.” Doog was scowling now. “I don't haggle on price and I don't want to hear your sad, heartbreaking story of why you NEED a Geller. I told you once, if you don't have the money, don't waste my time. And YOU were the one who asked to meet two weeks early.”

“But-”

“But it's no matter.” Just as suddenly, Doog's expression returned to joviality. “It just so happens that today an anonymous benefactor wired me two thousand pentacreds on your behalf. All you need to do is transfer me the rest and we can do business.”

Jenny felt dizzy. “But who would-”

“Are you deaf, girlie? AN-ON-EE-MUS. Surely you know the Merchant's Code?”

She nodded. Everybody knew the Merchant's Code. Confidentiality was paramount to a true Merchant. And Doog most certainly was. She had checked on that with the guild before she'd even bought tickets to Bochco. She wouldn't put her life into unknown hands like some spacefaring Goldilocks.

With hands trembling, Jenny braced herself against the pain and pulled a small set of griplocks from her pocket and set them on her left thumbnail. And with a brutal pull she ripped it off.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” She had been hoping she wouldn't need to scream so much when then time came to do this. “BILLYUNS OF SAGANS THAT HURTS!” She grit her teeth to regain her composure and looked up at Doog.

The old man was astonished. Jenny took grim pleasure in the fact that at least all of this had broken through his strange bipolar act. She extended the griplocks to him. “Underside. Bioscan with password “Hartford.”

Doog numbly took the griplocks and pulled a multiscanner from his pocket. “Wait, girlie, this isn't your thumbnail! It's-”

“-Nanomesh.” Jenny finished with a grin, holding up her thumb with its intact, now uncolored nail.

“Stars, girl, you're space addled. Nanomesh? Acting like you ripped off your thumbnail?” he shook his head as Jenny laughed, then looked at the scanner. “Well, this all looks to be in order. Let's do business.” He turned and walked through the doors behind him into the cavernous hangar.

Jenny followed, her heart pounding.

As they entered, the hangar lights came on. It was empty, save for a small, old, rather battered-looking landing ship in the center. It had an elongated hull that tapered to a rounded point at the front, where a small window was visible, currently covered by a blast shield. Closer to the rear, short wings protruded from the top of the hull before arcing sharply downwards. Two empty autogun mounts graced the midsection of the hull, and a large loading ramp sat open at the stern, the only way on or off the ship save for the obligatory docking nipple on the roof. It was covered with stained and and chipped white paint, and near the nose, in faded red letters almost too pale to be seen, was the name-

“Circe.” Jenny murmured.

“Now I know she looks rough, but I swear to you I flew her here myself using my own personal cloak. That's not part of deal, of course. It's up to you to fly her out. She started out as a troop carrier but has been modified over the years. She can comfortably accommodate a crew of ten. The fusion drive is-”

“Wait. What do you mean 'modified?' What fusion drive? I asked for a Geller ship-”
“And you got one, girlie. The fusion drive was added so it could be flown, but all the Psi gear is still there, right up to the red ring in the cockpit. Last Geller ship in this sector still intact, probably the last one in this half of the galaxy. I've no way of properly testing Psi-gear, of course, but all the wires show continuity. Not that it matters- all the Psis are dead anyway. I think the last owner used the ring to dry clothes.”

“It works.” Jenny said. “It will work.”

“Great.” Doog sounded bored. “Pleasure doing business with you. The blank Valet you requested is in the cockpit. I'd get on board and get your biometrics into the computer fast. Doombots are making a sweep come daybreak. They do every time I tap into the power grid.”

Jenny did not reply but walked up to the boarding ramp and into the Circe. Doog vanished into the darkness.

Jenny walked onto the small bridge and sat in the pilot's chair. She powered up the preflight systems. She noticed a small messagepad displaying her name on one of the consoles. She picked it up and read.

“Jenny, I got the strangest feeling you needed some help and who did I run into but old Doog? We've been playing phase-poker for years. Anyway, I can read old Doog pretty well- he's got the body language of an autistic ballet dancer. I know you said you were going to be short by a couple thousand Pentacreds and I know Doog recognized you. And I had the strangest feeling there was a connection. You left so I gave the creds to Doog. Consider this a loan- pay me back or work it off next time you're through.

-Cole.

Cole's Law #84: Take care of yourself out there, Jenny. We'll be waiting for you.”

Jenny was so busy not crying that she did not see the tactical display's urgent warning of approaching gunfire and explosions.