The Wolfe Marches 1

NANOWRIMO

BRADBURY 

INDUSTRIAL ZONE 4

Fifth shift local time 

The bar had no name, save perhaps the flickering videopaint signage that said ‘DELIVE’ across truck-sized garage doors that had not opened in twenty years. It squatted between a robotic factory that disgorged a mobile pallet-train of tool parts every 10 hours, and a long-abandoned molecular font that lent the neighborhood air a characteristic tang. The font was the bar’s reason for being in the place it was; the residual discharge confused bull drones that drifted in Bradbury City’s pale night sky, sniffing for sin.

The only way in was through a maze of tunnels. The comparison to rats was lost on no-one.

Captain Marta Lasher of the Avaent, her engineer Kean Morn, and the security bion 47 found their way blocked by a seven-foot-tall Labor as the tunnel narrowed, just outside the bar’s entrance. 

The Labor, going through the motions of checking various valve sensors on pipes that lined the tunnel wall, looked down at them with dull unblinking grey eyes. Massive nostrils flared, taking in their scent – sandalwood from the captain, cleaning fluid from the engine jack, and nothing at all from the other bion. It knew these scents, but hesitated. There were orders about them, but from months or years ago. It wasn’t sure. Slowly it oriented on Kean.

Seconds passed. Kean let his hand drift casually towards his firearm, though the bird-popper he carried in town probably wasn’t powerful enough to scratch the massive Labor. It wasn’t like they had left here on the best of terms, last time. If ‘running gun battle with security’ counted as bad terms in this part of Bradbury. He was pretty sure that was the one he’d shot in the face. Kean’s stomach did a slow roll as the re-tasked bion looked him over, but he stood his ground. 

47 had their standing orders. They waited, patient as a stone, for the other bion to make a move.

Lasher stepped forward and frowned. She canted her head towards the roll-aside hatchway. “There’s not a problem, is there?” she said, her voice a hoarse rasp against the silence. The bion’s mask-like face betrayed nothing until it nodded and stepped aside.

The nod was all they needed. He turned away and pushed through a hatchway that opened onto lights and music. Two steps in was Benny, the owner. Human, mostly.

“Benny, I got a guy that can tweak the facial recognition on those things. Takes longer every time,” Kean said. 

Benny adjusted his tie and jacket, his cold eyes cutting to the door and back. “Stop getting your nose broken might help.”

Kean smiled tightly. Any other way caused his recently re-set nose to send lancing shocks through his head. “Adds character to my callow features,” he said. 

Which was true. Aside from that and a couple of scars, he was identical to at least three others in the bar, members of the same decommissioned clone line. They had washed up here, same as him.

Benny looked to Lasher, and gestured back to Kean.“I might have some work for your boy. Got two more Labors to replace the one what got cut up last week. They need a re-imprint. Might as well refresh the others at the same time.”

Lasher glanced back and Kean nodded. The Captain had business elsewhere tonight, but a little extra cash in the ship’s kitty never hurt. Never turn down work, he could hear from his father. Lasher and 47 continued on past the circular bar, back into the shadowy recesses where work was done and deals were made.

Kean decided to fish for some info. “You had someone slice up your help? Who?”

Benny gestured for Kean to follow as he walked back to his office. “Bad enough I had to put him down. Damn shame. He’d been with me since the start. Just starting to be worth something, too. ‘Cycler didn’t give me shit for him.”

Benny’s office was small enough that Kean had to sit at the man’s desk to do his job. He rolled up his right sleeve and put his arm down near the terminal. He smiled a little as Benny turned away when hair-fine lines slithered from the ‘skin’ of his wrist towards the terminals’ port layout, formed connectors, and seated themselves into the desk unit. Codes flashed in his virtual vision as the connect adjusted to the foriegn system. Good handshake, and he was in.

He set one part of his mind to cleaning up the bion imprint files. Benny had acquired an array of cheap combat routines, probably repurposed militia files, and actually paid for a basic labor/maintenance package. Benny, or most likely his assistant Patrice, had tried various things to cobble together other routine systems for the six Labors he employed as basic guards. All Benny had done was blur the imprints. Labors were purposefully designed without much upstairs. Clear attainable objectives worked best for them. 

The other part of his mind was spent fending off Benny’s own info-fishing. Thinking he was distracted, Benny pumped him for info. Where had they been? How was Lasher doing? Were they looking for work?

They were always looking for work. “You need to talk to the captain about that,” was the pat phrase Adian always gave. 

Benny had the decency for once to look uncomfortable. “You go talk to Steeple. I hear he has something you might be interested in.” 

Kean considered, as he re-organized Benny’s imprint files. Steeple ran what Lasher called an  ‘import-extort’ business: his crews recovered salvage, then he ransomed pieces back to their original owners at ten times the price. 

He didn’t even hold out for a finder’s fee. Might be something hot. He dropped the recorded convo in the captain’s box on their internal network. She’d look at it soon as she could. He wasn’t getting any bug-out orders and telemetry from the two crewmates were still green. Things must be going better than usual.

That was when someone kicked Benny’s steel office door off its hinges.

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