23
V47 Pilot drifted down from his battle-mech’s cockpit, half hearing the whine of its resealing canopy. He still had a flesh-and-bone core under that scruffy green flight suit… could feel every micron of weird biological tissue… but at least he was plated in cyborg armor and threaded with circuits again. It was the little, familiar things that mattered, y’know?
He had drones and real weapons now, too, making the theft of his energy-blade less of a problem. His status ID panel seemed to be glitching, though, blurring his hologram face, rank and data. But then, he was out of the system, no longer an asset.
V47 Pilot glided down from his battle-mech’s gantry to a pierced metal gangway, where he was very much met. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the Titan’s arrival. Freighter and transport crews, mostly, with a few local workers and even some deep-labor types.
They did not block his path (wouldn’t dare), but the waiting people had left him only a straight, narrow aisle. Scanning them, V47 Pilot saw that their auras were streaked with nerves and with tension, not anger. They were very respectful, but worried.
The Behuggler mascot hovered above them, piloting its own mini battle-mech. Even the station’s theme song and lighting had changed, becoming intensely dramatic. V47 Pilot touched down on the gangway with a slight, metallic -chik- sound. Next, he acknowledged them all with a nod. He was a mech pilot. A warrior, while they were only statistics. The ones who got killed, as battle raged on overhead; unremembered, unmourned, unremarked.
“Greetings delivered,” said V47 Pilot. He spoke aloud. Had to, as he was no longer a part of the network and could not effectively send. “How may I assist?”
One of those crowded folks shuffled forward. Whaler-1, according to his glowing ID panel; a massive, bald orc.
“Greetings returned, Sir. A nano-tick of your time, Officer, please.”
Right. Time was exactly what he did not have. Not beyond five sidereal days, but the pilot said,
“Speak. My business is urgent. But, If I can, I will render assistance.”
Whaler-1 inhaled sharply, looking around at his jostling fellows. Then he spoke up for all of them, saying,
“Thank you, Sir. It’s just… Are they coming? Are we under attack? And, why the lockdown? No one responds anymore when we query OVR-Lord, Sir. What has happened?”
That was a lot of questions at once, so he took them one at a time.
“The Draug advance has been halted. A cease-fire is in effect. Only hyper-space jumps are forbidden. Travel by gate or at multi-light speed is still allowed. OVR-Lord is compiling, please wait. And… we are doing our best to resolve the situation as quickly as possible. Thank you for your patience.”
Whaler-1 bowed his head in acceptance, causing his tusks and shaved scalp to gleam in the spotlights.
“Thank you, Officer,” he replied. “We don’t get much news. Don’t matter spent bullets to anyone up in the mainframe, see?”
He saw, and he wanted to change that, along with most everything else in this terrible place. Next, one of the deep crew stepped forward. Altered animal stock, she was, with some basic cyborg cleaning attachments. A young white rabbit with a twitching nose, wide, dark eyes and long ears that the light shone through, pinkly. A scrubber: fast growing and quick to replace. Speaking for all of the Laps, Hounds, Tabaxi and Araks, she cleared her throat to say,
“With excuses, Sir… there’s been a rumor going around. No one’ll say where they heard it, but… is it time, Sir? Is it Someday?”
Well, that was a laugh. Everyone knew about Someday, and the great heroes who’d bring it to pass. Heroes. Like Rogue Flight. Like Deathknell or Ace. Not some decal-pasted, off-the-shelf mech pilot; a former cyborg who’d lost all of his most useful parts. Still…
“I cannot say, good Doe.” (He would not call her Scrubber-227.) “It is in the nature of epics and legends to always be far in the past or the distant future. But if I can help to bring Someday about, I shall do so. You have…”
It was then that the buried data file val.exe opened up. Brought him into sudden contact with two other versions of himself: one spurting blood on a primitive battlefield, the other fighting to salvage a terribly wounded orc. At V47’s augmented processing speed, the contact and high-view took no time at all to absorb. Just blinked and went on, saying,
“You have my word and my bond, that I stand between you and the darkness.” He was not this ‘Valerian’, nor ‘Miche’, either… but Pilot he meant what he said, taking strength from his other selves’ brief, ghostly presence.
Then he took a few ticks to scan and save the data of everyone present. As had happened for him, Pilot promised them life without saying a word. Even the stupid Behuggler got copied and saved.
A ripple of hope spread through the crowd, which parted enough to let him on through. A great many stills and vids were captured; would be much treasured, later.
He was off the gangway and onto the asteroid 7.2 ticks later, searching personal files for the spot where he’d last seen the Shop of True Need. His previous self’s memories ended here, after a kiss and a scan from his companion, Foryu. Strange feeling, that. Knowing he’d died, but not how or why. Hearing from Ace that OVR-Lord had killed him and tried to scrap V47, after the pilot had made his report.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Well, better luck this time,” he said to himself, as an odd, dome-shaped white building appeared. Just popped into place in an ally, elbowing ‘Horbad’s Hot Honeys’ and the ‘Lucky Strike Casino’ aside. “And may OVR-Lord’s bugs ever prosper. Hope they spaghetti that 404 clone right down to the motherboard.”
‘Querying Pilot. You will maintain contact this time?’ V47 inquired, as Pilot stepped up to that shuddering dome of a building.
“To the best of my ability, yes,” he replied. “If we are disconnected, allow thirty ticks before you respond, Vee, and broadcast, don’t shoot.”
The battle-mech’s AI promised nothing. Just clenched itself down in his thoughts, close as a friend or a brother. Right, so… There are things that you face all alone, and the Shop of True Need was one of them. Once again, on crossing its irised threshold, Pilot lost contact with V47. Only this time, before that heart-shredding amputation could drive them to violence, a tiny port opened up in the shop’s iron shielding.
He’d almost lost Vee forever, back at the orbital station’s incinerator. Had the cartridge been dropped into nuclear flames, he’d have followed it. This… wasn’t as bad. Over more quickly, though still a hard, painful shock.
The shop’s withered gnome crouched on a long counter in back, waiting impatiently while the AI and pilot clamped back together. Then,
“You certainly took your time coming back for that parcel,” she complained, over rattling objects and tinkling glass. “I have refused 6.02 x 10^28 very high bids for it, Boy. Customers across the plenum wanted that data.”
Uh-huh. V47 Pilot threaded a path between crowded shelves, boxes and bottles. Would have just levitated, but the shop’s piled junk mounded up to its shadowy ceiling. Those tottering stacks left a sightline, but not much room to maneuver. The place smelt dusty and mildewed, crazily lit by gyrating lamps.
“Your pardon, good shop-keeper,” he apologized. “I was detained by… erm… dying. Again.”
“Hmph,” she sniffed, seeming more wrinkles than actual gnome. “I’ll have to add damages and lost custom to your storage fees, Boy. My dark-lantern is broken across the realities, and fifty patrons walked out in each of the shop’s locations. Do you have any idea what that adds up to?”
“More than I’ve got?” guessed the no-longer-quite-cyborg.
“More than you, your ancestors, all their benighted descendants, their gods and this blot of a plane could possibly scrounge, Elfling!”
The parcel rose from her counter, still wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. As it wafted up and across to him, the pilot reached to snag it out of the air.
“Perhaps I can offer a service instead?” he suggested.
The gnome scowled. Jerked a mummified thumb at the stacks behind her, from which a cheerful half-orc AI leaned out and waved. The O-Club’s host, it was, now hard at work, sorting goods.
“Already got a stock-clerk,” growled the shopkeeper. “Thanks, I suppose, to you.” She sounded like she’d bled that confession, not spoken it.
V47 Pilot waved back at OC, glad just to see an old friend. (Well… a few-weeks friend only, but in a lifespan as short as his, weeks were important, and everyone mattered.)
The shop stopped vibrating the instant that V47 Pilot tucked that parcel into his memory. Dust settled. High shelves ceased their dangerous creaking and swaying. Lamps and cords went from wild, swinging arcs to gentler motion, bit by swiveling bit. Also, his credit balance dropped very far into the red. As in, not just his soul, but everyone else’s, owed to the Shop of True Need. That was depressing.
“Right, so… what can I do to repay or replace what you’ve lost?” he asked the gnome. She did not answer immediately, having conjured a mirror to check and smooth that explosive shock of white hair.
“Use your head and that data, Boy. Find Etherion and make the right choice. Set this mess straight,” she snapped, trying new hairdos with sigil and spell.
Sure. Why not? Made as much sense as anything else in a life lived in short, gasping bursts.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said to her. Then, before turning to go, “Can… I query you further, Shopkeeper?”
The gnome looked away from her mirror, dark eyes filling with something like humor (or maybe just gas).
“Go ahead, Boy. What’s twenty-cred more, on a balance like that?”
Splendid. No pressure. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and recharging that cyborg chest-armor. Blundered on with his question, asking,
“Through val.exe, I encountered Miche and Valerian. Also met one who called himself my brother; a thief, whom I do not recall ever decanting with. I would just like to know who they are, and why their data-stream has crossed mine, Shopkeeper.”
Her expression softened at that, smoothing those cavernous wrinkles away.
“The ones you met are struggling through this as well, Child. Valerian and Miche are not you… anymore. As for your brother… that lout would take up a nuclear cannon to swat a mosquito, but he cares for and cleaves to you. He did not so much rob, as replace.”
Then, shaking her head so that the latest sleek hairdo reverted to ‘scrub-brush’, the gnome barked,
“Enough! Off with you, troublesome boy. Settle that debt before it goes into collection, which (trust me) you do not want. Now, go!”
V47 Pilot went, owing more than a plane’s worth, but strangely hopeful. He had to stop many times on the way back along Bide-a-While Station’s lurid main strip. Everyone wanted to buy him a drink or offer their guaranteed lucky artifact.
He couldn’t ingest or carry that bounty. Had to start stuffing his fey-pockets with items that ranged from hand-drawn sigils to rare and valuable relics. It wasn’t until he was back in the Titan’s cockpit that he got a moment of peace. The canopy sealed, shutting out music and adverts. Probes, feeds and contact plates shot back into place, shifting his mind and awareness back to that towering (brightly scrubbed) mech.
He looked around, giant head swiveling to the sound of whirring gears, humming motors and cricket-chirp relays. Took in the station and all of its gathered assets. He’d vowed a vow, and he meant it. Step one was to launch and then open that data packet, safely away from Bide-a-While Station.
The docking gantry swung aside, releasing him from its gossamer strands. On quarter-impeller, V47 Pilot pulled up and away from the asteroid. He’d been tagged again; this time with: “Follow me for a good time at Bide-a-While Station!” Didn’t begrudge it, because sometimes the smallest, most annoying things could turn into a key, helping to save those you cared for most.
“Come back soon, V47 Pilot!” burbled the station’s AI. “We’ll leave the light on for you!”
And… code-writers willing… he would.
“Thank you,” he answered, returning Behuggler’s salute.
Then, he rocketed off, heading back to that shining industrial gate. It was there that he turfed up and opened the data packet. Learning… so much. Coordinates, yes; but also, the whole wretched history, lied about for so long, masked with nonsense like Rogue Flight and Battle for Arda. The whole awful truth.