I needed someplace peaceful and quiet to think about my next move. Isolated. Free from distraction. Naturally, I went to the Rathskeller instead.
The popular Volunteer watering hole buzzed with activity, although I wondered for how much longer. Would the VF Social Hub eclipse this rat cellar to become the new hot spot? Would even the Round Table defect, wooed by corporate sponsorships?
Hard to imagine this place without the Round Table holding court.
I squeezed in at the crowded bar hoping to spot a familiar face–Erwina was it? No dice. Not even the thin man with the ear gauges. A new face, a stereotypical bartender from some forgotten film. I was 99% sure he was a bot. Maybe 94%... I heard others referring to him as Lloyd, or possibly Floyd. Hard to hear over the din.
Of course, I realized I didn’t have enough Crypt to buy a drink, seeing as I had none at all. At least for now nobody hassled me about it.
I set the empty wooden chest on the bar and regarded it thoughtfully. Or as thoughtfully as one can with blaring techno and flashing strobes. And I kept my newly forged consumable in hand, its length of fabric wrapped tight around my fist. Trying to add it to my inventory would put me over my storage limit by 6 metabytes.
What were my options to earn money quickly and with minimal risk? I ran through the possibilities. If I couldn’t think of something, I’d have to make a beeline for the Bounty Boards.
I thought about dropping this ornate chest straight down the nearest memory hole. The Serpents never said they needed it back. And if they did? Frag them. Which reminded me–there was the possibility of scrounging together some extra Crypt by data recycling. But would I really go scavenging across The Commons for scrap to recycle? No way I could earn 1,692 before the next cycle, not unless I developed some really sticky fingers.
Although I had been accused once of being a ‘thieving magpie,’ it wasn’t a reputation I wanted to reinforce. Prostituting myself or murder-for-hire didn’t sound all that appealing either.
Another option was selling something I had of value in the Schwarzmarkt. Two problems. First, I couldn’t afford the 100 Crypt ‘mind eraser’ drink order, the clandestine fee for non-Round Tablers to gain entry into that fluorescent backroom. The second problem, what did I really have that was of value? This also applied to using the Auction House above the Supply Depot as a get-rich-quick scheme.
I mentally catalogued what I had on hand and might be willing to part with, along with the few items back in my storage cube: six minotaur data card fragments, ten kappa data card fragments, this Apotropaic Charm, one coco de mer nut, and a throwing knife. Not exactly big ticket items.
But I did have the Voynich Manuscript page. I recalled my original idea to show it to Fancy Jack, the pacifistic herbalist. One page was worth 100 Crystals to the Serpents. Might the other page be worth at least 1,692 Crypt to the curious dandy? If he was really making investments and trying to buy his Citizenship, surely he had some financial liquidity.
Now if only I could afford a cab ride over to the Kafka Building. My last attempt to reach it on foot had been obstructed by the damage from that explosion in Mendicant Row. Like a bomb had gone off. A bomb powerful enough to punch a hole in the fabric of The Collective…
My train of thought was interrupted by a loud conversation at the other end of the bar. A barrel-chested Volunteer with a handlebar mustache and black derby hat pounded his fist against the bar, rattling the many glasses filled with frothy blue booze. He spoke with great agitation to anyone who would listen. And several were.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“This is an outrage! An outrage! Did you read the fine print on this new demerit system? This upcoming patch? Because I did! This whole ‘Loserboard’ is a slap in the litso to every Volunteer that puts their skin on the line!”
The small but growing group clustered around him murmured in agreement, echoing his complaints and adding in their own.
“For those in the lower tranche of Task Completion, there will be automatic fines deducted from their accounts after every tenth cycle. But for the lowest tranche of all, there will be ‘forced re-orientation!’ The Corpo buzzards! Makes my krovvy boil!”
Automatic deductions? I didn’t like the sound of that.
Forced re-orientation? I liked the sound of that even less.
The other Volunteers grew increasingly animated.
“After all we’ve done for them? They drop this steaming load of Shiva on us? I’ve been torn apart. Had my insides ripped out for them!”
“Here, here!”
“They’ve gone too far this time!”
“Frag those Corpo pricks!”
The man with the black hat continued his speech. I had seen him here and there around The Commons, but didn’t know his name. I knew he wasn’t part of the Round Table.
“Well I won’t stand for it. Enough is enough! Tell your friends–we’re ittying to start a union! We’re ittying to go on strike! This is unfair treatment is what it is. Totally unjust! Reality thinks it can mess around with us Volunteers? They’ve got another veshch coming!”
Some of the others began to chant loudly in unison.
“Strike! Strike! Strike!”
They were so amped, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they started breaking furniture. I looked at Lloyd / Floyd, who was casually wiping a glass like not a thing in the metaverse was happening.
Lowest tranche… lowest tranche… Was that calculated per a set interval of cycles, or overall? It had to be the former. Right? I was still a relative newborn in this place. Other Volunteers had bog-knows how much time on me, racking up kill after kill. That wouldn’t be fair.
I wanted to butt in and ask some clarifying questions but knew my generic features, weak starter voice, and total lack of Persuasion would make little impression compared to the rowdy crowd surrounding the man in the black hat. I gritted my teeth, wishing for the placebo effect of the virtual liquor to pour down my throat.
“Strike! Strike! Strike!”
Just then, the blue double-doors of the Rathskeller flew open. A tall figure stood in the entrance, outlined by the bright city lights outside, the flashing strobes within playing across their features like some stop-motion vid.
The throbbing music at once fell to a murmur. The house lights came up. All conversation stopped, the attention of every Volunteer turning to stare in surprise and wonder at the striking individual who strode in like she owned the place.
Tall. Curvaceous. Sun-kissed skin. A cascade of layered brunette hair, now with blonde streaks, spilling over the top of a million-Crypt fur coat. Sparkling jewelry. Smart heels clicking authoritatively across the Rathskeller’s floor. This was a near perfect human specimen. I recognized her immediately.
Monique Rossignol.
Everything about her screamed Citizen. And Citizens, as far as I knew, did not slum it in The Commons. And never in the Rathskeller. The way every other Vol in the joint was acting confirmed it.
What is she doing here?
The new bartender set down his glass and addressed her with unflappable politeness.
“Pardon me, madam. Are you in need of any assistance?”
She cooed a response, her voice as luscious as wild honey.
“I’m looking for a certain Volunteer.”
Oh no. Is she looking for me? Is she still pissed off about all the damage I did to her wine cellar? Or worse–she saw me on the security feed “accidentally” taking home that souvenir bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.
The bottle I gave to Camel… that he probably never drank. Dram! Why didn’t I think of it? Maybe that rare wine could fetch a decent price at the black market!
Mrs. Rossignol continued, looking from face to face, searching. All merely gawked back at her.
“Mag… Magda… Magnus… Magnolia… Magdalene… Magus… I’m afraid I didn’t catch their full name.”
A handful of the Volunteers who recognized me, if only barely, gave me the side-eye, and their shifting body language was enough to eventually guide Monique to a stop right behind my barstool. When I could bear the uncomfortable silence no more, I slowly turned around to face her.
▶ Mrs. Rossignol, ma’am. It’s Magpie.
She furrowed her brow and studied me carefully, pursing her full lips.
“Yes… it is you, isn’t it. You’ve done something to your hair.”
I ran a hand through my dark crop of wavy hair and nodded.
▶ Yeah, I have some now. There’s something different about you too. Highlights?
She ignored the remark.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
▶ Me?
“Come with me. I need your help.”