An OtherSpace roleplaying log
This scene played out on our OtherSpace Discord server and has been lightly edited for readability, with timestamps and out-of-character chatter removed. The story is ongoing, and new participants are welcome! You don’t need previous knowledge of Freewheeling to join in. Come looking for shelter, food, work, company, or trouble. There’s usually enough of each to go around.
Location: The Motherlode Tavern, Freewheeling, Tomin Kora
In-story date: Evening, Jan. 16, 2650
The Motherlode is open. On Tomin Kora, two weeks after the attack, that counts for something.
An electrical storm rolls across the Red Scarps beyond the tavern’s patched viewport. Each flash throws the scaffolding around Freewheeling’s dome into sharp relief. Repair crews are still working out there, moving carefully along the struts.
Inside, the tavern is warm, crowded, and mostly dry. A battered ore pan catches condensation beneath a leaking pipe near the door. Someone has drawn a chalk circle around it and written CLAIM REGISTERED on the floor.
The walls are old pressure plating covered with mining tools, cargo tags, faded photographs, and souvenirs left by crews who promise they’ll return for them someday. Above the bar perches a brass mechanical canary that once served as a pressure alarm. Its green glass eye watches the room, and its head swivels whenever the outer door opens.
A new sign hangs beneath it:
NEW TO FREEWHEELING? FIRST CUP IS CHEAP. SECOND COSTS A STORY.
The storm keeps ships on their pads and packs the Motherlode with people who might otherwise never share a table. Port workers nurse drinks beside travelers with nowhere to go. A pair of salvagers argue quietly over a claim map. Someone near the back is looking for crew. Someone else is pretending not to listen.
Behind the bar, the evening’s bartender pushes cups toward anyone who looks uncertain. “Find a chair,” he calls. “Tell somebody what brings you to Tomin Kora. You can even tell the truth, if you’re feeling reckless.”
The lights flicker. A few patrons glance toward the mechanical canary. Its eye remains green, so conversation carries on.
Then the main door opens.
A port courier steps inside with a metal lockbox tucked beneath one arm. The case is scorched along one edge. Someone has burned the House Veyl crest from its lid, but not quite well enough.
The courier crosses the room, sets the box on an open table, and produces a folded delivery chit.
“The instructions say to bring this to the Motherlode tonight,” the courier says. “The recipient is listed as ‘whoever shows up.’”
“That’s not a recipient,” the bartender replies.
“It’s enough to collect the fee.” The courier heads back into the storm before anyone can ask a useful question.
For several seconds, the lockbox does nothing. Then the indicator beside its seal changes from amber to red. Above the bar, the mechanical canary turns its head toward the box.
The bartender watches it, then looks around the room.
“Well,” he says, “who wants to start with their story?”
Sitting at the bar nursing his Demarian ale, Ambermane looks up. He’s a ragged old cat, amber-colored from head to toe, with a slightly darker stripe pattern. Age has roughened his fur and grayed his muzzle. He wears black pants, weathered Vanguard-issue combat boots, a matching bomber jacket, and a white shirt. “Live as long as I have, and you gather enough to tell before even a bonfire the size of Tomin Kora can burn to embers,” he says with a snort, picking up his ale and sipping it. “How about a tale of betrayal? Of waste? Of self-worth? Giving your all to an organization that crumples you up like the empty beer can in the corner and throws you over its shoulder?” His voice carries a bitter edge. “That’s the story of my life. Fifty years with the Vanguard. Fifty years of blood, sweat, claws, and for what? ‘You’ve reached the minimum retirement age of seventy-five. No exceptions. Here are your discharge papers and a pat on the back.’”
He snorts again. “Now I write my own story. My ship and I go where we will, do what we will, and if the price is right, ethics are negotiable.”
His whiskers lift in a wrinkly grin. “Take that story as you will.”
A squat fireplug of a man, not much taller than five-foot-three, sits at a corner table with his back to the wall and the brim of his fedora tugged low. Most of his face is lost to shadows. He taps beefy fingers on the tabletop, considering the Demarian’s story. He grunts. “Sounds like your gripe is with bureaucracy. Which…” He shrugs. “Fair. But during those fifty years, I kinda think you made out okay, yeah? Room. Board. Training.”
Ambermane looks over, taking him in for a moment. “You’re not wrong,” he says with a snort. “Can’t fault them for taking good care of their soldiers. I can fault them for not realizing the potential of all the years those soldiers give, and can continue to give.”
A claw scrapes lightly against the bar. “Bureaucracy. About the only constant this universe has, isn’t it?” He takes another sip. “It’s what got this place into the mess it’s in right now, isn’t it? But a mess creates opportunity.”
“Lots of opportunity and need,” says a petite human woman in her forties from a nearby stool. Long black hair frames an oval face with dark eyes, a long nose, and full red lips. She wears a white blouse beneath a black leather vest and a knee-length leather skirt. A leather boot covers her left leg to the knee. Her right is an exposed bionic prosthesis. “I hear there’s a great need for people well versed in handling paperwork and comm tech, but just like you, my Demarian friend, I aim to decide what jobs I take on and when.”
Corrine raises an eyebrow at the abandoned box, then looks toward the robotic bird and the bartender. “Interesting pet you’ve got there.”
The bartender, a thin, middle-aged human with tousled black-and-gray hair, glances up at the mechanical canary. “Not a pet, really. Came with the joint. Doesn’t do much until the pressure plummets, and then Mickey jump the moat.”
Newt enters the bar, silent and green in his baggy, hooded cargo jacket and pants, except for one thing: He’s forgotten to turn off the soles of his boots. Every step lights up with a green glow. Oblivious, he looks around, spots a table at the back near the man in the fedora, and slinks over to sit.
“Nice shoes,” the man grunts as Newt settles into his chair. “Very stealthy.”
Ambermane snorts, his whiskers pulling up into a toothy grin. “Back in the day, that’d make a nice target.” He takes another sip of ale.
“A very decorative warning system, then,” Corrine tells the bartender, “though I don’t think it’s interested in pressures at the moment.” She looks from the bird to the case. “Anything glowing red is probably legitimate cause for concern.” She smiles at Newt. “Kid, I’m not sure this is the best place for you to be right now.” Turning toward the courier’s departure, she adds, “That sounds like a trap if ever I heard of one. Whether for you or the person who claims it, I’m not sure.”
By this point, the courier is out in the street. He barely glances at the forks of energy crackling along the Red Scarps outside the protective dome. He climbs onto a waiting hoverbike, its cargo basket burdened with several other packages, and whirs off into the night.
The bartender eyes the red telltale on the box. “That nice fellow said this could be delivered to anyone who shows up.” He shrugs. “Everyone pick a number between one and twenty. Closest to the number I’m thinking wins the prize box.”
Ambermane decides chance is best. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a weathered twenty-sided die. “Well, I’ll let fate decide mine.” It rolls and bounces along the bar, stopping on a perfect twenty. “Well, the die has spoken.”
Corrine blinks, looking Ambermane up and down. “Do you keep a twenty-sided die on you at all times for just such a happenstance? I choose six.”
Newt looks at his shoes, tapping them against the table legs and sighing as they light up. “Forgot to turn them off.” Embarrassing. He taps them again. Nothing happens. Right. Sorted. He looks up. “Hi. Uhhh… ten?”
“I don’t leave anything to chance if I can avoid it,” the man in the fedora replies. He fumbles in a pocket of his trench coat, takes out a pack of cigarettes, and eases one from the plastic. “Leave me right out of this.”
The bartender points at Newt. “My number was thirteen. I guess you’re the winner, kid.” He frowns. “Maybe your parents should come in and sign a waiver.”
Newt straightens. “I am?” Then, addressing the other matter: “They’re busy with stuff.” He slides off his seat and heads for the box. Beneath his hood, his helmet’s visor comes down for a scan.
“Lucky thirteen,” Ambermane says, retrieving the die and putting it back in his pocket. “Could be good luck, could be bad luck. Have fun, kid.” He grins, then chuckles to Corrine. “Back on my old ship, I’d game with my senior staff during the slow times. A lot more fun than poker.”
“Nothing says you have to accept the box, kid,” the man in the fedora says, tucking the cigarette into the left corner of his mouth. He takes a silver lighter from another pocket.
The scan shows Newt that there’s something inside the box, but it doesn’t look terribly dangerous: a flat plastic square containing a circular disc made of polycarbonate substrate. Newt pauses at the suggestion, stares at the box, and ponders.
He gives a slight nod to himself, takes the box in his green hands, and carries it silently back to his table. He positions it with the top pointed toward the man in the fedora, of course, and examines how to open it.
It looks easy. More or less.
The box speaks in an atonal male voice.
“Recipient, provide name.”
The man in the fedora flicks his lighter and touches the flame to the tip of his cigarette. He watches with interest. And maybe a little concern.
Ambermane raises a bushy brow ridge. “Aim this end toward enemy?” He looks between Newt and the man in the fedora, his curiosity piqued. The tip of his tail begins to twitch.
“Between the lights and the label,” Corrine muses, watching Newt, “you’d think whatever’s in there might be important to someone. Not something a bunch of random folks would draw lots for.”
Newt stops what he’s doing and sits up. “Uh. My name? Bob.”
“Bob acknowledged,” the box’s AI replies. “Ownership assigned to vocal signature: Bob.”
The container clicks. The light turns green.
Newt grins, satisfied, and opens the box. He takes a careful peek inside, then removes the disc.
The planet remains intact.
“Bob” is now the recipient of a mint-condition compact disc containing the 1970s Lou Reed album Metal Machine Music.
Corrine looks over curiously. “Well, what’s it say, ‘Bob’?”
Newt grins. “It’s shiny and has writing on it. Very rainbowy.”
He examines the lettering. “Says something about Loo Read. Uhhhh. Metal Machine Music? Weird.” He keeps turning it against the light, watching the rainbows.
Ambermane’s tail twitches as he studies the disc. “An entertainment object. A very old one, indeed. But such items can easily hold encoded secrets.” His eyes narrow, and his ears fold back slightly.
Corrine hums thoughtfully and looks at her wrist chrono. “A ship’s computer or a terminal might be needed for scanning and downloading data.”
“What becomes of me now, Bob?” the box inquires.
Newt looks at Corrine. “You reckon we can check out what’s on it?” Then he looks at the box. “Uhhh, you can come with me if you want.”
Corrine blinks at the case. “I wonder if the AI attached to the box has the capacity to read it. I mean, an AI verification protocol does not typically inquire about its fate. Otherwise, we need a scanner. But it’s up to you, Bob.”
“Given that it was inside a rather secure device,” Ambermane says, “makes one wonder if it truly is as innocent as it appears.” With an amused twitch of his tail, he adds, “You seem to have acquired a pet there, kid.”
“If I can be of use, I will serve, Bob,” the box replies. “I am, however, incapable of reading physical data from the object that had been contained within me. Information security protocols are in place. I am sworn to secrecy and firewalled.”
Newt gives Ambermane a blank look before refocusing on the box. “Wait, what? You know how to read it?”
“Sworn to secrecy and firewalled,” Ambermane says with more than a hint of sarcasm. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“A compact disc player should be able to access the content,” the box replies to “Bob.” “The disc itself is not encrypted, but I am blocked from scanning anything that I deliver.”
“A what now?” Corrine asks the box, looking over at Ambermane. “You have one of those lying around, too? If not, I would try a ship’s scanner.”
“Even if I ask you?” Newt asks. “And what’s a compact disc player?”
“The item you have received is a compact disc,” the box explains. “A compact disc player is a device with a laser that is capable of scanning the disc and producing sound from it. You would also need speakers.”
Newt makes an appreciative sound, watching the light reflect off the disc. “Where can we get one of those? Or can we use a scanner to read it all, like she says?”
“A time machine,” Ambermane says. “Or a very niche antique store. That form of entertainment device hails from the twentieth century.” His tail twitches.
Newt looks up and stares at him. “Seriously? Twentieth century? That’s, like, AGES back. What the…?” He looks back at the disc.
The bartender scratches the back of his neck, considering the item in Newt’s hand. “You could probably check Hunthel over at the Junker Shop.”
Newt looks up from the disc. “Reckon? Prolly expensive, yeah?”
“Maybe,” the bartender replies. “Hunthel’s not running a charity.”
The man in the fedora grunts. “I gotta think that music’s somewhere on the infomatrix archives. Better give it a listen before you drop good credits on an antique.”
“I rather doubt the music is what is of importance,” Ambermane says. “Why go to all the trouble to put an antiquated audio disc into such a secure box?” His tail twitches idly. “Quite elaborate for what would amount to a practical joke, don’t you think?”
Corrine turns to Newt. “Whatever you choose to do, I offer my assistance. I’m pretty good at coaxing information from computers. Finding a reader is the tough part. Then we could scan for encrypted data.”
“Well, I like it, and I wanna see what’s on it,” Newt says. He looks at Corrine. “You reckon you’ve got something that can read this?”
“Well, if we can find one of these compact disc things, I can probably get a computer terminal to interface with it and see if anything besides music is on there. We should talk to the junker first, I think, before trying to rig a laser scanner.”
The man in the fedora chuckles and shakes his head. “You go right on ahead. Plug that thing you just got at random into a system interface and let it do whatever it’s going to do. Me? I’m gonna settle my tab and double-check the data security settings on my ship.”
Ambermane nods toward him. “A very valid point. You have no idea what that disc truly contains, as I have been alluding to. Caution is very highly recommended.”
“Of course we’d find a secure port,” Corrine agrees. “But the fact remains, we can’t plug a disc into anything. We need a reader. Best option is to find a player designed to read that thing, or I need parts. Either way, our first destination is the junker.”
As the big people talk, Newt just stares at the shiny. “OK. Let’s go, then.” He slips off the chair, preparing to put the CD back in the box and the box into his bag.
Corrine rises from her stool, her metal limb clanking against the deck. She turns to regard Ambermane, the bartender, and the gentleman in the fedora. “Any advice for dealing with this Hunthel?”
“He doesn’t haggle,” the bartender replies.
“Oh, don’t look at me,” the man in the fedora answers. “My advice is to lever that disc on a curb and stomp it to shards.”
“So no barter, trading in kind, then?” Corrine asks. “Just straight currency? That sounds like no fun at all. We may end up rooting about for laser emitters, but might as well try the direct route first.”
The bartender shakes his head. “Not saying he’s credits-only. I’m saying if you come at him with an offer, it better be something he wants and nothing less. He may want information. May want weapons. May want someone’s throat cut. Depends on his mood.”
Finished packing, Newt looks up at the bartender. “No harm in asking, right?”
“As I say,” the bartender replies, “depends on his mood. Good luck, kid.”
“We won’t know what he’s in the mood for without speaking with him,” Corrine agrees. “Where might we find him?”
“Just down the street, past the gun shop, between the Demarian bodega and the dribgib adoption agency.”
“Sweet.”
Newt looks up at Corrine. “Let’s go.”
“Sure,” Corrine says. “Maybe we can adopt dinner on the way. Stay close. I don’t wanna explain to your folks how I lost their kid on the streets of TK.”
She walks slowly and carefully, looking for the businesses the bartender mentioned and frequently glancing behind her to make sure she hasn’t lost Newt.
The man in the fedora sighs and rolls his eyes beneath the shadow of his hat brim. He transfers credits to the bartender, then steps through the exit and onto the sidewalk outside the Motherlode.
He takes a drag on his cigarette and shoves a hand into his pants pocket, looking down the street after Newt and Corrine. Another sigh. He follows them.
Ambermane ponders for a few moments, downs what’s left of his ale, and pays the bartender before heading out himself. He shakes his head, his tail twitching irritably.
He, too, decides to follow, but makes it look as though he’s headed for the bodega. Some bumbler jerky wouldn’t be all that bad at the moment.
Newt gives Corrine a casual shrug. “OK.” He follows along, seemingly content to let her take the lead.
Corrine may or may not notice that she’s leading not just “Bob,” but a parade of individuals toward the junker. She passes the gun shop and reaches the bodega, glancing at the boy again before looking around for their destination.
Ambermane nods to Corrine as he steps into the bodega. The clerk gives him a nod of recognition.
“The usual, sir?”
Ambermane nods back and gets his credits ready as the clerk brings out a pack of fresh bumbler jerky and a variety of colas.
Outside, the man in the fedora lingers near the gun shop.
The door of the dribgib adoption agency swings open. A Castori waddles out with a big black-and-gray bird twice his size on a shimmering fabric leash. The dribgib squawks and ruffles its feathers as it spies Newt and Corrine.
Newt stops walking and stares.
Big bird.
“I had no idea people kept these things as pets,” Corrine muses aloud to no one in particular. She examines the space between the adoption agency and the bodega.
Six men in blue Vanguard uniforms, seemingly a bit outside their jurisdiction, scramble out of an alley with weapons drawn. They aim at the Castori and his new bird, which squawks in surprise.
“Halt! Surrender the bird!” the lead officer yells. “Vanguard Wildlife Enforcement!”
He holds up a holographic badge.
Ambermane steps out of the bodega, munching on a strip of bumbler jerky. He raises a bushy brow at the squad. “You fellas are, uh, a bit out of your jurisdiction, aren’t ya? Must be pretty important to come all the way out here.”
The Castori seems uninterested in being perforated by soldiers, whatever their jurisdiction. He throws his stubby arms into the air in the universal gesture of surrender. In the process, he drops the leash. The dribgib lets out something between a caw and a screech, then scampers rapidly toward the shadows of Freewheeling.
“Aw, dammit,” the lead officer grumbles. “Go,” he snaps at the other soldiers. “Retrieve the package!”
Then he glances at Ambermane, waving his holographic badge again. “Wildlife enforcement! Special assignment!”
“Seen enough of those badges in my lifetime, sonny. They don’t impress me much anymore,” Ambermane says. He takes another bite of jerky, his tail twitching with irritation. “Bunch of Vanguard, in the middle of Freewheeling, after a smelly old bird. So, who in the top brass did you piss off to get this assignment?”
“I wouldn’t say I pissed anyone off, sir,” the soldier replies, frowning. He turns back to the Castori. “Have a seat on the curb. I’ll be getting your statement soon enough.”
The plump ursinoid complies, hands still raised.
Ambermane tucks the jerky into his grocery bag and takes out a soda, opening it with a loud hiss. “New to the force, kid?”
“Not that new,” the Vanguard officer answers. “I was stationed at Orbital Fort Clapton for a few years, over near Sivad. I’ve always been kind of interested in animals, though. Sorta lucked into this assignment, really.”
In the distance, other soldiers shout and occasionally cry out in pain amid the dribgib’s hoots and squawks.
“I had no idea dribgibs were so aggressive, either,” Corrine says. “It’d make a nice human-interest story where I used to work, but not what I was after today.”
Newt stays out of the way and observes, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Anyone who could see his face beneath the hood would find him very, very amused. Still, he keeps quiet as he watches the pursuit and listens to the conversation. Every time another squawk sounds, he looks toward it, pondering.
Corrine continues trying to spot the junker through the chaos, although she knows their mission will have to wait until the Vanguard depart.
“Have you found the rapscallion?” The demand comes from a grouchy-looking Demarian approaching from the direction of the Motherlode. He’s an older male with striped yellow-orange fur, dressed in a silk tunic and linen trousers. He has just one complete arm. The other ends in a stump below the elbow. He stops beside Ambermane.
More squawks. Getting louder.
The dribgib bursts from the shadows behind the Vanguard officer, emerging from the very alley the soldiers originally came out of. It slams into the man, sending him and his pistol in different directions.
The Castori seizes the moment and waddle-runs away.
The officer lies facedown, his nose bloodied from its encounter with the street.
“Bezel!” the old Demarian growls. “To me!”
The dribgib, just about to start curb-stomping the fallen soldier, claps its beak shut and swivels its head toward the one-armed Demarian.
“Quok!”
Then it casually saunters toward him.
Ambermane takes another bite of jerky and nods to the newcomer, the situation becoming a little clearer.
“Pet-napping, I presume?” He gestures toward the victorious dribgib.
Newt can no longer contain himself. His attention fully captured by the bird and its playthings, he bursts out laughing at the officer’s misfortune.
“So it is or is not illegal to sell dribgibs as pets?” Corrine asks. “Exactly who is being charged here?”
The other Vanguard soldiers come skulking out of the alley as their leader gets to his feet and walks over to retrieve his weapon.
“Not illegal to sell all dribgibs,” he informs Corrine. “But Bezel is a blue-crested nightspine dribgib, which is endangered, and he also happens to belong to Lord Stumppaw Sandwalker of the Stellar Consortium Council. So. Yeah. Trafficking in endangered stolen animals is illegal.”
“So, what brings a member of the council all the way out to this little corner of the galaxy?” Ambermane asks, his tail twitching idly. “Not exactly a pleasure spot.”
Corrine looks at the Vanguard officer with dawning understanding.
“So, the bird is back with its owner, but what of the thief?”
“Oh, we’re going to deal with the thief next,” the soldier with the bloody nose replies. He nods to the other soldiers, who make “hut-hut-hut” noises before drawing their weapons and throwing open the door of the dribgib adoption center.
Bolts of green plasma flash from inside the shop, striking the first soldier through the door while the others dive for cover.
“Man down!” one of them shouts.
“I’m okay,” the struck soldier grunts into his commlink. “Ablative did its job. Suspect just bought himself time. He’s fleeing out the back. At least, I think it’s a he. Nall. Hard to tell with them.”
The revelation earns a raised brow from Stumppaw. “Are you quite certain your men can handle a Nall, Commander Porter?”
“I sure hope so,” the wildlife team leader responds, wiping the blood from beneath his nose.
“Good,” the Demarian noble replies.
As Bezel gives another squawk, Stumppaw turns toward Ambermane. “I actually find this city rather charming in its own decadent fashion.”
Ambermane narrows his eyes.
“Nall? Here? By the Sandmother…” he snarls. “As if the city didn’t have enough rats.”
Corrine hums thoughtfully. “One would think animal-napping a bit below the Nall. It must fetch quite a price.”
Newt’s attention shifts toward the shop as the plasma fire picks up. “Wow. All this for one bird? Nuts.”
Corrine nods in agreement, then turns back to Porter. “Good luck catching your Nall thief, sir.”
The junk dealer, a Zangali named Hunthel, emerges from his shop and activates a holographic CLOSED sign. He looks around at the chaos and shakes his snout with a grumpy grunt.
Moments later, a message comes over Porter’s commlink. “Suspect in custody.”
Porter sighs. “Good. Take him to the Chambliss. I’ll meet you there shortly.” He looks toward Corrine. “I’ll take luck whenever I can get it.”
Newt spots the Zangali and takes in the shop. Things begin to click, and his eyes widen. “HEY! DON’T CLOSE YET!”
He waves both hands overhead before bolting toward the junk dealer.
The Zangali peers at Newt. Grunts. Tilts his head. “What?”
Newt comes to an abrupt halt as one realization gives way to another. He cranes his neck to look up at the Zangali. “Uh.” He points at Corrine. “She wants to buy stuff from you.”
“What stuff?” the Zangali grumbles. His gaze shifts toward Corrine. He clicks a button in the palm of his left hand, and the sign switches from CLOSED to OPEN.
Ambermane chuckles around another bite of jerky, shaking his head at how neatly Newt has thrown Corrine under the bus. His tail twitches as he waits to see how this unfolds.
Corrine looks back at Newt. “Show him the disc, Bob.”
To the Zangali, she explains, “Ideally, we need some kind of ancient data reader.”
Hunthel scratches the side of his scaly snout and turns back toward “Bob.” “What kind of disc? Big disc? Small disc? Fat disc? Thick disc? Square disc? Round disc? Got lots of readers for different discs.”
“Uhhh. It’s thin.” Newt spreads a gloved hand to demonstrate.
“About this size, rainbowy when you move it, and it has a hole in the center.”
“Rainbowy on both sides?” the Zangali asks. “Or just one?”
Newt considers. “Just the one. The other has writing and stuff on it.”
“Ah,” Hunthel responds. “Compact disc player.” He shrugs. “Got three in stock. One works. I sell it to you for… 7,000 credits.”
Newt blinks at Hunthel, then turns toward Corrine without a word.
“Bit more expensive than you expected,” Ambermane says. “Just how much do you have on you?”
The dribgib gives an indignant squawk.
Stumppaw bobs his snout. “I quite agree.”
He looks toward Ambermane.
“I paid less for Bezel.”
The man in the fedora shakes his head. “No music disc is worth that, kid.” He takes a drag on his cigarette.
Newt’s shoulders slump. He looks back at Hunthel. “Seriously?”
About this time, the facade of the Motherlode Tavern erupts in flame and smoke. Glass and chunks of concrete fly in every direction.
Hunthel taps the button on his palm.
The sign declares CLOSED.
Then his shop window shatters, and the sign disappears.
Ambermane drops his soda. It hits the ground and bursts into a fizzy mess as the explosion rolls through the street. “Great Sandmother, what in the HELL did that?”
Newt immediately squats down. His helmet snaps shut halfway through a startled “Yikes!” as the blast wave passes.
Corrine’s attempt to negotiate the CD player’s exorbitant price dies before it gets started. “Any idea how…? What the holy…?” She stands staring for a moment, then abandons her original question. “Does that sort of thing happen often around here?”
Hunthel doesn’t hang around to barter. He flees north, big clawed feet thumping against the pavement. His shop doesn’t seem to concern him much at the moment.
The man in the fedora is no longer in the fedora. The blast has blown it off his head and knocked the cigarette from his mouth. He kneels to retrieve the hat, briefly revealing a curly mass of black hair with a growing bald spot near the crown. He replaces the fedora, looks toward the ruined pub, then turns to Newt. “Maybe the disc is worth more than I thought.”
Corrine watches Hunthel run off, then looks at the others. “Well, do we go back and check the debris, or see if we can borrow this CD player for a bit and find out what we’ve got?”
Stumppaw is too distracted by his squawking, panicked dribgib to take any interest in the quest to play an old Lou Reed CD. Bezel flees toward the alley, and the Demarian noble follows, disappearing into the shadows.
Ambermane’s tail slowly returns to normal after fluffing out like a feather duster. He offers the man in the fedora a small nod and an ear twitch. “I’d say your assessment is valid. And I doubt they’ll stop at the bar.” He glances at the junk shop, now effectively open thanks to its shattered windows. “At this point, finding out what’s on that disc seems worth bending our ethics a bit and getting a ‘discount’ on that player.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” the man in the fedora replies, plucking a fresh cigarette from the pack.
Corrine turns to Ambermane and Newt. “One of you mind going through the window to open the door?”
Still crouched, Newt looks around. “What was that?”
“Bomb,” the man in the fedora replies. “Someone really hates that old music. Or had a tab they didn’t want to pay.”
“If I almost died because of what’s on that thing,” Corrine says, “I want to know what it is.”
Newt stands, looking toward the blast site. “Well, I really hope it’s not the music thing.”
Ambermane sets his packages aside, crouches, and springs through the empty window frame into the shop. He gets the door open. “Let’s make this quick.”
Corrine bolts inside and begins searching through the contents.
In a display case, she spies three relatively flat, square devices with control panels and lids that open to reveal laser-operated reading hardware. Each has a round cradle about the size of Newt’s disc. It isn’t clear which one works, but all appear to use either batteries or a cable connected to a power source.
“Aha! I think these are it, but we’ll have to try them to see which one works.” She begins picking the display case’s lock with the practiced movements of someone who’s done this before. “I would rather do it here, but there’s no telling when he’ll come back.” Even as she speaks, she looks for a plug. “Do we try ’em here, or each take one and run?”
“I suggest we grab and run,” Ambermane says. “No sense risking getting caught.”
Corrine nods, handing players to Ambermane and Newt and keeping the last for herself.
“Where to? Your ship?”
“Probably the best place. Out of prying eyes.”
Ambermane nods toward the man in the fedora. “You’re welcome to join us. Your call.”
The man lights his cigarette and shakes his head. “No, thanks. Places where that disc shows up already show a tendency to explode. I make it a habit not to blow up if I can avoid it.”
Newt watches the proceedings, staying out of the way and looking like a stunned mullet.
Corrine glances back at him. “You coming, Bob? You’re the one with the disc, after all. If you want to drop it here and be done with it, that’s up to you. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee our safety. Whoever blew up that bar may assume we already know what we don’t, and they seem the ‘blow up first, ask questions later’ type.”
Newt takes a moment before moving to follow. “Uhh, yeah. I guess.”
He breaks into a short run to catch up. “Wait up.”
Corrine turns to Ambermane. “You lead.”
The man in the fedora is about to turn the corner and head deeper into the city, away from the smoldering ruins of the Motherlode, the crazy bird chase, and the kid with the old music CD. He stops. Frowns.
Opening the left side of his trench coat, he checks that his pulse pistol is still nestled securely in its shoulder holster. He sighs and takes another drag on his cigarette.
“Goddammit,” he mutters. He follows.
Ambermane nods to Corrine and the man in the fedora, then leads the group to his ship at the spaceport, the Elder Claw. He enters his code, lowers the boarding ramp, and invites everyone into a sparse but comfortable living space.
Corrine nods her thanks and clomps up the ramp, CD player in hand. “Where can we plug these things in?”
The man in the fedora stays at the base of the ramp, drawing the pistol from his shoulder holster. He watches the Vanguard scout vessel Chambliss lift off and head toward orbit.
Then his attention shifts from point to point around the Elder Claw’s landing pad. He’s watching for trouble, not so much nervous as resigned.
Newt follows the others aboard without giving it much thought. His attention is divided between occasional backward glances, concern about getting caught, and speculation about what marvels the rainbow disc might hold.
Ambermane steps over to a small workbench in one corner, its surface scattered with tools and pieces of various gadgets. “I highly doubt something that ancient will just plug in. I suspect we’ll need to fashion something to adapt my ship’s power to it.”
Corrine sets her CD player on the bench and examines the port on its back, then looks through the available gadgets for anything useful. “I suppose a welder might be useful.”
The players are old technology, but someone has already adapted them to accept 27th-century power cables. A fairly generic plug and port should work.
Behind his closed helmet, Newt’s eyebrows shoot up. “Welder? What for?”
With the immediate pressure off, Ambermane takes his first close look at the devices. “Wait a sec. Seems we won’t have to. Someone’s already had these things operating. They’ve patched in power modulators.” He retrieves power cords from a drawer, plugs the players into the ship’s power bus, and switches them on one at a time.
The first two are dead. The third whirs to life, waiting for someone to demonstrate their fine taste in music.
“Well, there’s a stroke of luck,” Corrine says. “Let’s hope it’s a sign of things to come.” She looks toward Newt. “Well, Bob, let’s dance.”
Newt slides his backpack around to his front. He stops reaching for the box and looks up at her. “Wait, what? Nuh-uh. You dance.”
Ambermane chuckles as he watches the device spin up. “If we’re lucky, we’ll just be treated to some old classics.”
“Not well, mind you, but just about anyone can move some part of their body to a good beat,” Corrine tells Newt. Then she nods toward Ambermane. “Let’s hope my bad dancing is all we’re treated to.”
Newt looks down at his backpack. “I just hope it sounds nice,” he mutters, reaching for the box again.
Outside, the man in the fedora watches technicians work on a neighboring shuttle. His pistol rests in his right hand as he stands beside the Elder Claw’s boarding ramp.
Footsteps draw his attention to the left.
A human woman in her mid-thirties approaches, dark hair gathered in a bun. She wears a tailored suit and sensible shoes.
She carries a plasma rifle.
It’s aimed at him.
“It’s rude to point,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother raising his pistol.
“I’ll have that disc,” she replies.
“What disc?”
Her brows knit. The rifle tilts upward, shifting its aim from his torso to his head.
A technician from the neighboring ship, apparently possessing a limited sense of self-preservation, walks over. “Hey, everything okay here?” The woman flinches toward him and shoots him in the chest.
The man in the fedora uses the distraction to scramble up the ramp, narrowly avoiding a shot that blasts near his feet. He fires back down the ramp to discourage pursuit, then hits the button to retract it. “We need to go!” he yells.
Ambermane snaps his head toward the commotion and recognizes the situation immediately. “Ah, fuck.” His ears flatten and his tail lashes as he leaps through the forward hatch, lands in the pilot’s seat, and begins the startup and takeoff sequences. “Hold tight, folks. This isn’t going to be a pretty takeoff.”
Newt looks up at the man in the fedora. “Wait. We do?” Then he turns toward Ambermane. “Where are we going?”
Corrine quickly searches for something to hold on to, preferably with somewhere to sit. If necessary, the deck will do.
“Away from the fucking gunshots, that’s where!” Ambermane snarls. He engages the thrusters and lifts the ship off the pad, maneuvering toward orbit while watching his scanners for pursuit.
The two dead CD players bang into each other and topple onto the deck. The working one slides off the counter and dangles by its power cable, just within Corrine’s reach.
“The hitter had good equipment,” the man in the fedora says as he reaches the cockpit entrance. He grabs a strap bolted to the bulkhead. “Connected and professional. High-paid merc. Enhanced, maybe, but I didn’t see anything obvious. I got kinda distracted by the gunshots.”
Newt squats and plants his hands on the floor. Unlike the other things that aren’t bolted down, he doesn’t seem to budge. “I guess the guy was really miffed that you guys took his stuff.”
Corrine lunges for the dangling CD player, dropping to her knees beside the counter as she tries to hold it steady.
Ambermane gets the ship into orbit, and things begin to settle down. “Let’s just hope they don’t have friends up here waiting for us,” he mutters, ears still flattened.
“I don’t think it’s the junker,” Corrine tells Newt.
The sensors show that the Vanguard starship Chambliss remains nearby. It appears to be moving onto an intercept course. A male voice comes over the comms. “Elder Claw, we are informed that you are in possession of stolen Stellar Consortium data. Please cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.”
“Definitely not the junker,” Ambermane says. He keys the comms while engaging evasive maneuvers.
“Request denied. Now kindly fuck off.” He begins charging the jump drive and pours power into the sublight engines.
“Where exactly do you plan to run?” the man in the fedora asks. “They know the ship. And now we know for sure that’s not just a music disc we’re carrying. We can’t run to the Consortium, that’s for sure.”
“Escape first, plan later,” Ambermane replies. His tail gives an agitated twitch. “As for the disc, I don’t often say it, but I told you so.”
“We need a plan for where to go,” the man in the fedora insists. “Ungstir, maybe. Not the main rock. Too many eyes and people happy to sell us out for Consortium credits. But maybe one of the outliers.”
“I did not exactly volunteer to take it,” Corrine says. “It was rather forced on us. On a child, no less. I can’t help it. It sparked my curiosity.”
Newt sits up at the mention of Ungstir. “Uhhh… what about someplace with no people and stuff? Then we can figure stuff out and stuff.”
“If you have a place in mind, I’m all ears,” Ambermane says, his ears twitching. “Otherwise, the Rock just might be a good place. One of the smaller rocks.” He glances toward the others. “Meanwhile, perhaps we should find out just what is on that disc that now has the entire Vanguard out for our blood.”
“I agree,” Corrine says. “We also have to consider that someone else stole the disc and dumped it after getting what they wanted. But if that were the case, why keep it intact?” She pauses. “Oh well. One step at a time. That disc still intact, Bob?”
Upon inspection, it appears to be.
Corrine takes the disc from Newt and lays it ever so carefully in the tray. She closes it, presses play, and holds her breath.
The first of four tracks begins.
It sounds great, if you like metal scraping on metal. Something like the groan of a steel crate being dragged across a corrugated aluminum floor.
Ambermane claps his hands over his ears. “What in the Sandmother’s name is that?”
Newt stares at the CD player. “Great. That one’s broken, too.”
The man in the fedora scratches his stubbled cheek. “Nah, that’s just truth in advertising.”
The cacophony cuts out for about twenty-three seconds.
Then it resumes.
“Well, I can understand wanting to destroy that,” Corrine says, “but not destroy people for it. Wait. Did it skip or something?”
Ambermane lowers his hands.
“That’s a rather odd gap. Could be something other than audio data.”
“We’ll need more than the old antique to get to anything else,” the man in the fedora replies. He tilts his head, frowning. “Interesting, anyway. Makes more sense to blow people up over something other than terrible musical taste.”
Ambermane watches his course, looking for a suitably remote stretch of space where they might hide for a while. “Question is, where are we going to find it? My ship’s equipment isn’t exactly the best, but I do have some scanners. Maybe we can rig something together.”
“Hopefully, we can do something with basic scan technology,” Corrine says. “If we can get the entire contents of the disc onto the computer, we may be able to distinguish an audio file from something else.”
“Well, I might know a guy,” the man in the fedora says. He cringes after the words leave his mouth. “But we’d have to crash his divorce gala on Antimone.”
“Well, on the one hand, crashing a party is a downgrade from blowing up a bar,” Corrine says. “On the other hand, we might not want to subject a whole crowd of partygoers to potential danger. Could we arrange to meet him afterward?”
“When you meet this guy and his friends, I’m pretty sure you’ll worry way less about their well-being and more about how they might affect our health.”
“Sounds like these guys are a wild card when it comes to helping us,” Ambermane says. “But our options are pretty limited.”
Corrine looks toward Newt. “I feel bad for getting you into this, kid. I’ve chased down more than my share of questionable leads, but I usually don’t have accidental partners.”
“I’m not a little kid,” Newt replies, sounding annoyed. He looks toward Ambermane. “Does this mean we’re going to Antimone?”
“Sounds like we have little choice. Setting course for Antimone.” Ambermane engages the jump drive, then looks toward the man in the fedora. “It’ll take a few hours to get there, so any info you have on what we’ll be flying into, all the better.”
Corrine nods. “For instance, what is your Timonae friend likely to want in return for helping us? I’m already missing one body part. I don’t fancy giving up any more.”
“Well,” the man in the hat replies, “he’s not Timonae, for starters. He’s an Earther who likes to party on Antimone. A lot. When he’s sober, he’s an exceptional hacker. When. He’s. Sober. I’ll leave it at that.” He looks at Newt. “Anyway, I’m Vechkov Prague. And I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you around the Rock.” His head tilts.
Newt stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. Wasn’t me.” He turns to Ambermane. “Hey. Can I do the landing?”
Ambermane grins. “Sure, kid. Just don’t scratch the paint.”
“I think we all may need a few drinks after this,” Corrine says. “Antimone, here we come.”
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