"It's war out there. People ask me how I trade in the current climate. Trade embargos, fleet blockades; wholesale Technocyte outbreaks. I tell them it's easy.
We're Corpus. Everyone has their price."
- Darvo Bek, on post-Collapse Society
"I'm afraid it is not in the interest of our business to disclose the movements of our passengers." Hemry Torvith said grandly, thumbs hooked in the suspenders that kept his suit trousers aloft. "We value the privacy of our patrons highly."
Torvith was precisely the kind of Corpus parasite Vern loathed. That they now shared the small dingy office in a Low Stack docking bay irritated him all the more.
The place was a mess. Blinking, barely functional monitors and copious amounts of discarded data slates vied for competition with the over spilling ashtrays and fast food cartons strewn about the desk. Torvith was chewing on a congealed mess of noodles and featureless meat, masticating loudly.
"You know the rules, Hunter Vern." Torvith chewed jovially, moustache wiggling as his lips smacked together. "'Self-Interest is the Truest Path to Enlightenment', as the good Prophet says."
Torvith himself was an arrogant man of limited height and questionable girth. His facial tattoos mouthed loyalty to Anyo Corp, but on closer inspection revealed several key inaccuracies both in script and structure. What should have read Son of the Prophet in one script instead read something else entirely; the translation of which was perhaps best left unknown. Vern thought better than to point this out. Still, even his considerable patience was at an end.
Scanning data from the Severance had led them here. Time was credits. The trail was growing cold. There were any number of escape vectors a target could take in a city as layered and labyrinthine as Prospect 141. Parson-Luk and Isolde waited outside, together with an assortment of heavies.
Their presence was not required. Terrenus Vern reached up and removed his mirrored goggles.
Torvith dropped his spoon with an audible clank.
Vern's eyes were cybernetic replacements. The skin across his eyes was leathery with scar tissue.
His cold mechanical eyes betrayed no emotion.
"I was hoping simple common sense would tell you that our interests were aligned, Mr. Torvith; that the speedy departure of both my associates and I would be logically in your self-interest; allowing you to continue running this fine facility without fear of further disruption. It appears that is not so."
Vern leaned forward in his chair, unmoved by the aromatic stink of steamed gene-fish.
"Look, it's very simple. I am a successful hunter, operating under full licence from Anyo Corp on no less than three planets. I could pay any number of slicers to hijack your records; raze your firewalls and freely distribute the data to all and sundry interested in learning just who comes through this sorry port, and how often. But that would be unnecessary, wouldn't you agree?"
Hemry Torvith gave a slack nod, growing pale. Vern's lips formed the thinnest, fleeting smile.
"Good. And would you further agree that it is in the best interest of Docking Bay Two-Twelve that accredited, licensed brokers working in the best interest of Anyo Corp be assisted wherever possible; up to and including providing access to your cam footage?"
Another nod.
"Splendid. And you will provide this information freely and without further delay?"
One final nod.
"Excellent." Vern slid his goggles back into place and rose to his feet. The numerous pistols, knives and grenades affixed to his webbing clicked and jangled as he moved for the door.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Torvith. May Profits Guide You Well."
Hemry Torvith sat frozen where he was; appetite quite forgotten.
The search teams fanned out throughout the Market Sector, pushing locals aside brusquely and tossing stalls where people resisted. Crowds thinned considerably as the roving gangs wound their way through the streets, sowing chaos.
Isolde watched them with considerable distaste.
"How goes the search?" Vern's voice crackled over the com.
"Messy." Isolde replied, holding her wrist com to her mouth. "Where did you find these oafs?"
"Margins are tight. We needed numbers. They were within budget."
"Bravic got what he paid for."
"Be that as it may, we work with the tools provided." Vern was nonplussed. "Get back here, there's something I want you take a look at."
"Who will coordinate the local teams?"
"They know the terrain, they'll manage. I need your expertise here. Brahvic's recovery team are finished salvaging whatever the hell was left on that ship."
"Liset." Isolde corrected, automatically. "On my way."
She clicked off the com and walked over to Parson-Luk.
The Ostron Hunter was crouched near an alleyway. What he saw Isolde could not make out for the life of her. He turned to look up at her, earrings jangling as he beamed toothily.
"A trail, Surah. Come, come." He beckoned to her eagerly. "Come see."
"I can't, not now. Terrenus needs me. Can you manage?"
The hunter nodded solemnly. Besides Vern, the skittish hunter was her closest companion these days.
"You." She snapped her fingers at the nearest passing clutch of mercs. "With him. Now."
The sloping crew of thugs knew better than to mess with the reputed Void Witch. Vern called the shots, but the hooded witch enforced them. They peeled off and followed the itinerant hunter down the alley. Isolde scanned the market, hairs prickling at the back of her neck.
Isolde frowned. She could sense something. An old familiar feeling.
Unconsciously, Isolde's hand drifted to the knife secreted within her belt.
Turning on her heel, she swiftly made for the Docking Bay, never once losing the feeling she was being watched.
"You sure?" Fellik asked doubtfully.
He was a slab of a man. Hired muscle, one of the One Forty-Ones; a major local crew. Like him, his boys had uniform shaved heads and matching sigils branded over their left eyes depicting the city's numeric designation in jagged Corpus script.
Parson-Luk nodded enthusiastically, pointing toward the faltering holographic sign of the Mangled Moa.
"Yes, yes. So close. Close, close utz."
Fellik chuckled. Even by Low Stack standards the place was pretty miserable. Crude bullet holes and old plasma scoring marked the walls; memories from some ancient fight. It was exactly his kind of place. Bullet holes or not, Fellik didn't care. The One Forty-Ones were stone killers. Nothing scared them.
Fellik checked his piece. A chunky revolver; locally produced. He flicked the cylinder open with a snap of his wrist, grunted in approval; before slapping it shut again and tucking it in the back of his pants.
"C'mon."
They started forward, making for the Mangled Moa's sorry looking entrance.
As they approached, Fellik paused to check on the trapper. He frowned.
Parson-Luk was nowhere to be found.
Kelpo Marr lay stretched out on the table, stripped of his environment suit. The boy watched the older man's chest rise and fall, listened to rhythmic mechanical tick-sigh of the respirator unit Neera had stashed in the backroom of the Mangled Moa.
Kelpo was corded with lean muscle that spoke of tough living and limited food. The boy quietly noted that both Neera and Telin were no different in this regard. Telin served as a decidedly inexperienced nurse to Neera's meticulous doctor. Evidently, this was not the first time she had patched somebody up, nor the first time Telin had helped her.
The boy admired her craftsmanship as she worked, addressing Kelpo's wounds with practiced efficiency.
"Are you a Lorist?" the boy asked, perplexed.
"A what now?" Neera frowned as she worked. "Scalpel please, Tel."
"A healer."
"Kid I'm a bar tender." Neera never took her eyes off the patient. "Running a place in this city? You get real good at patching people up, real fast."
The boy nodded. There was nothing but the snip of scissors and the gurgle of the life support machine. Bored, the boy stood up and wandered out into the main bar, leaving them alone.
The bar was every bit as grimy inside as without. The main bar was a collection of battered tables and recycled furniture; cobbled together in ramshackle fashion around the bar. All manner of bottles, decanters, flasks and jars cluttered the rear wall of the bar. Most of it was home brewed. The boy picked up a flask, unscrewed the lid and took a sniff. Spluttering, he set it back, blinking back tears.
"That's called Paint Thinner." Telin confirmed from the doorway. He was drying his hands with a dish rag.
"How apt." The boy winced, wiping at his face.
"Kelp's favourite." Telin threw the dishrag on the counter, perching on a stool next to he bar.
"Is he alright?" The boy asked.
"He'll live. Don't tell her I said it, kid; but Neera's damned good at what she does. Besides, we've been through worse."
The boy raised an eyebrow. Telin's face darkened, as he poured himself a shot. He knocked it back, grimacing.
"Well actually no. That's not true. Not even close. We should be dead." He sniffed, setting the glass down carefully. "We'd be dead, but for you. So, uh… thanks."
Telin raised an awkward toast and did a second shot. His hands were shaking.
The boy simply nodded. A leaden silence fell between them. After a moment Telin twisted about in his stool, eyes narrowed.
"So you really don't remember anything?"
The boy shook his head.
"Just flashes. Here and there. Small details that make little sense in isolation." The boy nodded to the armoured entrance door, indicating the city beyond.
"Is this how the System is now?"
"The System? Hell I don't know about you, but I've never been off world kid. Barely even left this city. Certainly never owned my own spaceship."
"Liset." The boy corrected firmly.
"Yeah, whatever." Telin grunted. "Look, kid: things work a certain way here. Guilds own the city, whether we admit to it or not. They call the shots, we scramble to provide anything we can. Labour mostly; off-world volunteers, infantry for the Navy. Few come back. Every few years we get pissed, things kick off; then Corp sends in suppression teams to kick our teeth in, remind us of our station. Everyone loses."
"An injustice."
"A reality, kid. Want my advice? Better to keep your head down, not rock the boat. You'll live longer."
"Is that why you're a scavenger?" the boy asked.
The question was an earnest one. Telin still didn't like it.
"I'm a survivor, kid. Neera's folks, they had ideals. This place used to be a rallying point for people; a second home of sorts."
The boy took in the patchwork lighting. The faint sound of a drip in the far corner.
"And what happened?"
"The Corpus happened." Neera said as she entered, peeling off a set of medical gloves. "My mother was good with numbers. She got indentured service; life term brokerage contract, full memory wipe. Pops was summarily executed."
Telin offered her the bottle. Neera took a swig.
"Price of idealism kid." Neera sighed and set the bottle back on the counter. She caught Telin's eye and nodded towards the doorway. "Telin can I talk to you for a moment?"
"Sure."
They left the boy alone by the bar.
Kelpo was stable. Pale, sweating profusely, but stable. They spoke quietly to one another.
"He's pulling through, but barely. Just what kind of hell mess did you stir up this time, Tel?"
Telin nodded back towards the kid.
"Found a ship buried beneath the ice. Tier Zero find. Kid was inside."
"Tier Zero?" Neera hissed. "And you woke him up?!"
"Didn't have a choice, Nee!" Telin countered hotly. "Our broker stitched us up. They pulled a gun on us. Things escalated."
"He's not salvage anymore. You know the rules, Tel. At best it's a rescue fee. And based on what I'm seeing it sure doesn't look one Anyo Corp has any interest in paying. You got a plan?"
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster. That kid's trouble. You know it, I know it. Nobody from this town claims a Tier Zero and walks away clean."
"I've noticed."
"And?"
"And I'm working on it. We need to go up the food chain with this. The goons after us are a local crew. Well-funded, sure, but they're subbies, just like me."
"Telin. You're one scavenger. They're a crew. Listen to yourself." Neera pointed towards where the boy sat in the parlour. "Dreams of a pay day aren't worth a bullet in the brain."
"So what are you saying? Just hand him over."
"I'm saying that you need to be realistic here." Neera said. "This place works a certain way. They profit, we stay out of their way; get to live another day. That's the trade-off."
"That's bullshit."
They trailed off. Neera heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair.
"Look." She said, "I can arrange a neutral broker. An exchange. Profit's all they understand. This can be managed."
"Nuh-uh. No way." Telin shot back. "Not after what they did to Kelp."
"You idiot! You'll get yourself killed." Neera fumed. "You're as stubborn as ever."
"You like stubborn." Telin flashed a dangerous smile.
"Shut up." Neera scowled, smiling slightly in spite of herself.
"Excuse me."
The boy cleared his throat politely. They both jumped. He had seemingly appeared in the doorway out of nowhere.
The boy's wide eyes glowed as he looked up at them.
"There appears to be someone at the door."