Drew wondered why everyone in the bar wore masks. He tried to focus on his drink, but the glass was dirty, and the ice smelled faintly like sulfur. The booze burned Drew's throat, which he appreciated, but couldn't fully enjoy; Drew wanted to keep his wits about him.
If Drew was being honest with himself, he felt freaked out.
The other bar patrons didn't do anything to reassure him. Only a few seemed openly hostile, shoving and shouldering him on his way to the loo and daring him to lose his temper. Drew wasn't impressed. Military service didn't turn out the way he hoped, but he did learn how to ignore jerks trying to troll him. Most of the customers ignored Drew, hunched over their drinks or water pipes, and that was fine by him. Drew couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He wasn't sure whether to trust his instincts (the same instincts that said to trust everything he saw on the vid channels and not a single thing his parents said.) He took another burning sip from his glass.
Drew didn't like the idea of sharing oxygen with Scar. He didn't understand how Yang could be so chill about working with one of the monsters.
"Hey," Drew said, to the bartender, a short pot-bellied man with a walrus moustache, "Can I ask you a question?" Drew didn't slur his words, but he looked at his glass with new respect. Strong!
"We don't sell answers," the bartender said. "Do you want another drink?"
"No," Drew said, putting his hand over the top of his glass. "I'm good." The bartender grunted, moved away.
Drew grew up believing Scar were no better than fleas, termites or water bugs, suitable for extermination when spotted. You squashed a mosquito trying to draw blood from your arm, you didn't apologize. You didn't reason with a wasp's nest if you found one hiding under the eaves.
"Hey," the bartender said, to Drew, startling him. "Someone wants to buy you a drink."
"What?" Drew asked, forehead wrinkled.
"Free drink. Ask from who?"
"From who?" Drew repeated, obediently. The bartender with the walrus moustache pointed down the bar. Drew looked. He recognized the guy, or his white coverall, anyway: this was the guy who tried to talk to him while they waited in line. Drew didn't like the idea he'd been followed; he was even less comfortable being followed by someone who apparently never took off their rebreather.
"No thanks," Drew said, speaking loudly and making sure his gaze hit both the bartender and White Coverall. The drink was already poured, sitting next to Drew's original glass. The bartender pretended he didn't hear or see Drew.
"I do not wish you any harm," White Coverall said to Drew, in a clipped, artificial voice. "I am interested in hiring a javelin pilot. I overheard your companion say he trained CSO Jewel. I infer you are a pilot as well?"
Drew eyed White Coverall. He remembered what Yang said about keeping to himself, but Shapers' balls! Drew wasn't a kid.
"Why do you need a javelin pilot?" Drew asked. The stranger got up, switched seats to be closer to Drew.
"My motive is confidential," White Coverall said, in a softer voice. "But my confidence that you are also a javelin pilot has increased. Pay and responsibilities will be commensurate with experience."
When Drew heard the shotgun pump, his heart skipped a beat, but he didn't panic. The shotgun wasn't aimed at Drew, but Mr. White Coverall. Yang's finger rested comfortably on the trigger.
"I told you before, nephew," Yang said. "You're not to go socializing with the locals."
"I am seeking multiple javelin pilots," White Coveralls. "Pay and responsibilities-"
"I heard," Yang said. He lowered the gun barrel. "Give me your contact info. I might know someone."
Drew's head swiveled. His eyes popped. Yang glared back at him.
"The work is urgent," White Coverall said.
"You're on private property," Yang said. "And I'm friends with the owner. If I shoot you in the head, he'll make me pay to have the mess cleaned up."
"I don't get paid enough to clean up the dead bodies," the bartender said.
"Otherwise, I won't suffer any bad consequences for shooting you dead," Yang finished. "So thanks for the offer. Don't call us, we'll call you. Get out here, and leave my nephew alone, you hear me?"
White Coverall dropped a card on the bar. If Drew was in his javelin, scanning the card would provide detailed contact info. Stuck in real life, Drew only glimpsed silvery script before Yang reached over and pocketed the card.
When the stranger disappeared through the bar's front door, Drew was surprised to feel his stomach muscles relax.
"What's up with that guy?" Drew asked Yang.
"What's up with you?" Yang said. "I ask you to sit still for an hour-"
"More like two hours," Drew said. "And that guy only approached me because heard you lying about training CSO Jewel."
"I was telling the truth," Yang said.
"She didn't exactly back you up," Drew said.
"We've got a complicated relationship," Yang said.
"And you ditched me to go conspire with a... a... Scar!" Drew blinked when he heard the words come out of his mouth. "Sorry," he began. Yang slapped him on the shoulder.
"Nah," Yang said. "Don't apologize. Maybe we both could have handled things better." Yang swung into the seat next to Drew. He raised a finger. The bartender obliged him with a glass bottle, already open, with a purple wax seal but no label. Yang poured dark beer into a waiting glass. He took a long sip, smacked his lips. "That's the good stuff," he said.
"Did you meet the Scar?"
"I did," Yang said. "We're listed as missing, presumed dead, with the Sentinels."
"That's great," Drew said. He felt hopeful, for the first time in a long while. His stomach muscles (which he didn't realize were clenched) relaxed.
"The bad news is there's a bunch of sealed Corvus warrants associated with our profiles," Yang said.
"Corvus warrants?"
"Yeah. Could be orders for our arrest, detainment, assassination... anything. Or nothing."
"Why are they sealed?"
"Maybe because Corvus knows the Imperial networks aren't secure? Lobster Boy can beat the Corvus security, get us access to those warrants... but he wants more than just credits. He wants us to do a job for him."
"You cannot seriously be asking me to do a job for a Scar," Drew said. Yang grunted.
"I don't take any pleasure saying this kid, but I don't think you've gotten the whole story on the Scars." Drew felt irked.
"Ever since Scars showed up," Drew said, "They've been trying to wipe out humanity. Until we drove them out of Bastion, Scars set off Cataclysms all the time, killing innocent people by the tens of thousands. What part of the story did I miss?"
Yang took a long drink from the glass bottle with the purple wax seal. He belched.
"They were here first," Yang said. "Long before humans showed up, Scars ruled this whole damn planet. We invaded. Killed whole nations of Scar. Some of their leaders triggered Cataclysms, that's true, and they killed a whole bunch of humans, and those miserable bugs deserved what they got. But Scars are like humans; some are good, some bad, and most are in the middle. Some Scars want war with humans. Most don't. They just want to raise their grubs or, I don't know, impress the other hive minds on their block."
Drew folded his arms around his chest. He didn't like Yang's tone, which was fine and to be expected in a sergeant, but Yang kept saying they couldn't go back to the Sentineld, and that he wasn't in charge.
"Thanks for the lecture, but... I'm still not inclined to do any work for a Scar," Drew said.
"Okay," Yang said.
"Okay?" Drew repeated, cautiously. "You're not going to argue with me?"
"Not tonight," Yang said. "We got rooms upstairs. I say we get a good eight hours sleep, eat a big breakfast, then figure out where we go next."
"I want to go home," Drew said. Yang nodded.
"Me, too." Drew waited for more, but Yang's attention was on his drink.
"You really think this Corvus stuff is serious?" Drew asked, finally. Yang shrugged.
"I don't know. Not even sure it's related, but Lobster Boy said all the files relating to our last mission have been classified top secret."
"What does that even mean?" Drew wondered.
"Wish I knew," Yang said. "Not a mystery we're going to be able to solve for a while, though." Yang tilted his beer bottle high in the air, placed the empty gently on the bar, belched again.
"Another?" The bartender, Drew observed, had a knack for appearing just when drinks went dry.
"Not for me," Yang said. "Thanks anyway. I'm heading upstairs." He fumbled in his pocket, produced a swipe card. "I'm in pod 251," he told Drew. "You're in 255. I'll come get you tomorrow morning."
"Another drink for you?" The bartender waited. Drew shook his head.
"Been a long day for me, too," Drew said.
In a chamber not much larger than a coffin, Drew lay on his back and stared at a blank televid screen. The designers of the pods didn't anticipate an occupant who wasn't carrying a PDA. Drew didn't mind the quiet. When the day started, he was a Sentinel, a peace officer, piloting one of the best suits of power armor the Empire produced. Since then, he'd been hit with a cruise missile, lost his armor and his job, fled to an outlaw refuge and now he was facing the prospect of working for, not against, a Scar.
Drew thought of Jewel and smiled, like an idiot, at the blank screen of his pod. The delicate nose, full lips, the playfully drawn constellation of freckles across her face, all blended together into what Drew saw as unique beauty. When she got stern, he loved the way her eyebrows furrowed.
Drew knew some guys and girls might be intimidated by the fact Jewel was a cop as well as a javelin pilot. Drew did not mind! His favorite memories of serving in the Imperial Army involved female engineers who liked getting their hands dirty.
Drew wondered if it was silly for a guy in his twenties to get a crush on a girl at first sight. He yawned, and all at once the fatigue of the day caught up with him. Sleep washed Drew away.
Drew dreamed.
He stood in darkness, almost total, but on the horizon a speck of red light flared. Drew shuffled towards the light. In the darkness around him, he heard things. Thumps. Whispers. Sighs. Drew moved faster; his feet and ankles barked against unseen obstacles that might have been roots, branches, snakes, or maybe all three? Drew knew he was dreaming; he tried to calm down, but he struggled to stop his heart from beating fast, or the sweat from trickling down his cheek.
The world accelerated around Drew. The fire grew from a speck to a roaring campfire, fed by a man in a Dominion officer's uniform who looked almost exactly like Drew.
All the men lounging around the crackling fire resembled Drew. Number two's hair was cut short, in the outlaw fashion, and his clothes managed to look expensive and disreputable at the same time. The third Drew wore a clean Sentinel jumpsuit.
"Hey," the fourth man at the fire said. This Drew wore dark green military-style body armor, unmarked with any insignia or banner. The scar stretching from his ear to his lip was healed, but raised and impossible to miss. He pointed at Drew. "This guy hasn't made his choice yet."
"You have to pick a side," Drew in the Sentinel suit said.
"He can do whatever he wants," outlaw Drew said.
"Our choices define us," Drew in a Dominion's officer uniform said. "He needs to pick a side, for his own sake."
"Can I pick my own side?" Drew asked. The others looked at the Drew in the body armor, who laughed.
"You bet you can," he said. The scar twisted his smile in funny ways.
Drew, half-awake, banged his head against the blank vidscreen in his pod. He groaned and collapsed backward, into the mattress. He rubbed his forehead.
When Yang woke him up, Drew didn't remember falling back asleep. His mouth tasted like he'd been eating dirt from a graveyard and he swore his eyelids physically hurt from exposure to sunlight. Only Drew's experience in the military got him up and going. He threw up in the sink of the stainless steel, self-washing bathroom Yang's friend charged his guests to use. Drew immediately felt better. By the time he met Yang in the lobby, along with a stream of other vagrants, migrants and subsistence workers, Drew's mood was decent.
"What do you want for breakfast?" Yang asked.
"You treating?" Drew asked, cautiously.
"Sure, nephew. I know you don't have your ID or credit chip," Yang said, "And even if you did, I hope you wouldn't be dumb enough to use it." Drew thought for a moment, dismissed the idea that Yang was concerned about Drew's financial well-being.
"You think we're being tracked?" Yang shrugged.
"You like waffles?" Yang asked, cheerfully.
"Sure, but... you know what I really want?" Drew said. "Doughnuts. Coffee. Eggs."
"We'll go pick up donuts from this one place," Yang said. "Sit down for a real breakfast at another."
Drew loved food. He was mostly content stuffing his face with whatever was convenient; frozen bricks of pizza, reheated veggie patties slathered with chi-se, soy chips and pseudoqueso, supplemented with chocoyum bars and tubs of ice creamish. He didn't hide the fact his palate was more subtle, but Drew didn't advertise the fact, either. In the Army, some of the guys mocked Drew's interest in cooking. Drew didn't care what knuckleheads thought, but he also didn't appreciate the teasing.
When Drew's bleary eyes took in the donuts on the racks of the stall, the gourmet in him thrilled. These very slightly irregular beauties didn't spring from a pre-mixed batter, squirted into an automated fryer. Some person mixed butter, flour, eggs, a splash of vanilla and ingredients to taste and dropped the batter into a fryer, dusting some with sugar, others with glaze or a thin layer of chocolate.
"Two blueberry bismarks, a raspberry bismark, one red velvet cake donut, one key lime pie pocket, and an Illium crema," Drew said, finally. Paper crinkled, trays in the case slid out in uneven increments. Yang handed Drew the closed box of doughnuts and dealt with the stall's cashier.
Drew took a bite of blueberry bismark. The filling was sweet, but the sweetness enhanced the flavor of the blueberries rather than overwhelm them. The donut itself was light and flaky. Drew approved.
"These are fantastic," Drew said. He offered the bag to Yang. "Might be the best donuts I've ever had."
The paper bag exploded at the same moment Drew's ears registered the sound of a bullet whistling past. The marketplace erupted with screams. Another shot cracked in the air. Some people ran for the alleys, others dodged through traffic in the street, trusting in the sensors and programming of the autopilots. Drew ducked for cover behind the donut stand. He found Yang. Another shot sounded; Drew risked a peek around the corner, trying to spot the shooter. He dodged back.
"Hey, Yang," Drew said. The older man licked his lips, but he didn't answer. Drew took a good look at his companion, and despite his best efforts to keep his face from betraying himself, his eyes got wider.
A red stain on Yang's jumpsuit, centered on the right side of his chest, was steadily growing larger. His right arm clamped over his chest. Yang' s left arm hung limp at his side. His face looked waxy.
"Run," Yang told Drew, calmly. Sweat dripped from Yang's forehead. "No reason to make life easy for bounty hunters," he said, taking shallow sips of air every few syllables.
Some part of Drew considered the idea of retreat. Who was Yang to him, anyway? If he wasn't Drew's sergeant, then he was just some guy Drew didn't know very well. Okay, he freed Drew from his locked-up Sentinel armor, and he taught Drew how to sneak around a Titan, of all things... but those things were basically Yang's job, right?
Even as those arguments played out in Drew's head, he knew he wasn't going to run away. Drew knew his limitations; he wasn't the world's smartest guy, not when it came to formal education or knowledge of Arcanist lore, whatever. Drew had different strengths. Different values.
Loyalty to people who were good to him was one of those values.
"No, sir," Drew said. Another gun shot. Splinters showered down a hole a few inches above Drew's head. Drew's heart pounded.
"Get," Yang said.
"Sorry," Drew said. "I'm not going anywhere. Uncle."
