Space Station 22 [Invite-only | FT]

[Wuchu]

This is a crossover between Miranda-22 and The Other Place. Invite-only; if you’d like to join, please TG me and Miranda-22.

Through means not well-understood by humanity, Pentti and I had inexplicably ended up in a bit of a pickle.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not on Earth anymore,” Pentti said.

“Yeah… I have a similar feeling,” I told him.

We were standing in the middle of a highly futuristic bazaar. All around us, voices screamed out the prices of various goods, shouting slurs at salespeople and cursing the names of various stores. It must have been one giant floor, going on seemingly endlessly, like a Walmart or Amazon warehouse straight out of hell.

I looked up. I couldn’t see the ceiling, although I knew it must have been there. The sheer size of this location, combined with the moisture in the air had produced a sort of microclimate, and clouds were forming right at the top. Through them, you could see faded lights, powerful enough to shine through even dense fog.

The loudspeakers dotted around us began to ring some awful ear-worm jingle, followed be an announcement in a jolly, female voice:

“Reminder to all our employees and visitors: exit port A-4 is currently shut down for repairs until late-October, 2368. The Colonial Authority apologises for any inconveniences this may cause.”

Pentti furrowed his brows.

“Colonial Authority? The hell is that?”

“How should I know?” I said. “I’ve been here just as long as you have, y’know.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Do you have to turn into a tit every time we’re in an unknown, alien situation?”

“It’s how I cope,” I said to him. “Gimme a break. Last time we got lost I was almost shot in the head by an octopus. I think I’ve earned the right to be snarky.”

Pentti’s head turned as he waved a dismissive hand at me, walking towards one of the stores.

“Wait, no, don’t leave me alone here!” I exclaimed, running after him.

“Excuse me,” Pentti asked cautiously, tapping the shoulder of one man, who was browsing a selection of whiskey bottles. “This might sound a bit strange, but could you tell us where we are?”

The man turned to face Pentti, revealing his - and I have to admit this - epic beard. Although his eyes were narrowed, as if already irritated by us, I could tell they were intense. This was someone who could give you one mean side-glance and have you give him all your lunch money. Lucky for us, we didn’t have any money at all.

[Miranda-22]

(Image)

This is a crossover between Miranda-22 and The Other Place. Invite-only; if you’d like to join, please TG me and Miranda-22.

Through means not well-understood by humanity, Pentti and I had inexplicably ended up in a bit of a pickle.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not on Earth anymore,” Pentti said.

“Yeah… I have a similar feeling,” I told him.

We were standing in the middle of a highly futuristic bazaar. All around us, voices screamed out the prices of various goods, shouting slurs at salespeople and cursing the names of various stores. It must have been one giant floor, going on seemingly endlessly, like a Walmart or Amazon warehouse straight out of hell.

I looked up. I couldn’t see the ceiling, although I knew it must have been there. The sheer size of this location, combined with the moisture in the air had produced a sort of microclimate, and clouds were forming right at the top. Through them, you could see faded lights, powerful enough to shine through even dense fog.

The loudspeakers dotted around us began to ring some awful ear-worm jingle, followed be an announcement in a jolly, female voice:

“Reminder to all our employees and visitors: exit port A-4 is currently shut down for repairs until late-October, 2368. The Colonial Authority apologises for any inconveniences this may cause.”

Pentti furrowed his brows.

“Colonial Authority? The hell is that?”

“How should I know?” I said. “I’ve been here just as long as you have, y’know.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Do you have to turn into a tit every time we’re in an unknown, alien situation?”

“It’s how I cope,” I said to him. “Gimme a break. Last time we got lost I was almost shot in the head by an octopus. I think I’ve earned the right to be snarky.”

Pentti’s head turned as he waved a dismissive hand at me, walking towards one of the stores.

“Wait, no, don’t leave me alone here!” I exclaimed, running after him.

“Excuse me,” Pentti asked cautiously, tapping the shoulder of one man, who was browsing a selection of whiskey bottles. “This might sound a bit strange, but could you tell us where we are?”

The man turned to face Pentti, revealing his - and I have to admit this - epic beard. Although his eyes were narrowed, as if already irritated by us, I could tell they were intense. This was someone who could give you one mean side-glance and have you give him all your lunch money. Lucky for us, we didn’t have any money at all.

Bertie Price, port manager, one-time smuggler, one-time captain, one-time syndicalist, one-time nihilist, one-time, well, quite a lot of things, was, at the moment, right bloody irritated. That seemed to be a trend of his; every time he found himself away from Miranda, things seemed to go wrong. And especially here, in this most chaotic of places, there was quite a good deal of potential for things to irritate him.

For example, the two people who had come up behind him to distract him from determining whether Sheridan's or Shiner-Miller would be a better change of pace for the lads back home. Such a choice would, potentially, be a matter of life or death, depending on whether or not the bottles could be useful in breaking up a bar fight. Oh, yes, certainly an important decision that warranted his full attention. Ah, what the hell? Why not humor these kids? They looked like kids, at least, they were young enough, even if they both had a look of perpetual tiredness about them.

"You mean that in the metaphysical sense, or the literal sense? Because metaphysically, we're buried, sealed-in, trapped, held down, and generally snowed in. Literally, much of the same."

The one on the left seemed confused, if only slightly. The one on the right was hard to gauge, but he seemed moderately less so. If anything, he looked amused at his current state of affairs.

"If you wanted to know the name of this here joint, it's the Cabane Délabrée. The man in charge, Marc, tells me it means beautiful villa. The translator says 'piece of shit', and you know what they say, never trust a Frenchie." He laughed a bit at that one. Oh, classic Bert.

Now both of the kids looked confused.

"D'you... genuinely not know where we are? No? Aight, well. In descending order, you're in the Milky Way Galaxy, a very small portion of which we'd call civilized space, and... I'm sure you know that one, moving on, this here star's Beta Virginis, a lovely place, really, and we're on a piss-poor hunk of rock orbiting that charming star, in the fifth tunnel the worker bees blocked off and filled with atmosphere they lovingly call a habitation space, in the free-market section, standing in front of good old Marc's Cabane. Talking to me, ol' Bert, a nobody in the grand scheme of things, really. Hope that helps." Bertie flashed them a thin, pursed smile, then stuck out his hand. "Shake? They do still do that in the inner systems, right?"

[Wuchu]

“Shake? They still do that in the inner systems, right?” Bertie said, as he held out an open palm towards Pentti.

Pentti gave me a puzzled glance, and hesitantly shook the bearded man’s hand. I could tell that Pentti’s hand was being crushed just a tad, his fingers sliding together.

“Yeah, we, uhm…” Pentti began to speak, but without any idea of what to say. To be fair on him, I don’t think anyone understands how The Other Place operates. I have doubts that even Alpha knows.

“... took a left turn. Walked through the wrong door. Noclip’d,” I said.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Pentti said. You could say that.

He let go of Bertie’s hand, lightly wiggling his hand to relieve some of the tension.

“We tend to get lost like that,” I told Bertie. “Silly us.” I gave Pentti a light punch on the arm.

Suddenly, the jingle resumed. It was still stuck in my head from the last time - it really was catchy. Capitalism at its finest, I suppose.

The intercom lady spoke.

“Thank you for advancing the Earthly cause. To show our gratitude, all ships departing to the Far-Black will get a 12% discount on all purchased metal goods over 30,000 CSECs.”

Thank you, Mumie Kapital.

I noticed the edge of a gun holster on the man’s hip. Well, I’m sure this eccentric bearded stranger, in this here alcohol section, in this here random star-system won’t turn out to be a serial killer. I cleared my throat.

“So, ol’ Bert,” I spoke, clasping my hands together and pointing at him, as if praying to an apparition of Zeus himself. “You wouldn’t happen to know where two handsome lads could find this baguette-boi? We’re, as the wise Seneca said, ‘in deep shit’, and could use a little direction in life.”

“Maybe a bit more than ‘a little’,” Pentti added.

[Miranda-22]

“Shake? They still do that in the inner systems, right?” Bertie said, as he held out an open palm towards Pentti.

Pentti gave me a puzzled glance, and hesitantly shook the bearded man’s hand. I could tell that Pentti’s hand was being crushed just a tad, his fingers sliding together.

“Yeah, we, uhm…” Pentti began to speak, but without any idea of what to say. To be fair on him, I don’t think anyone understands how The Other Place operates. I have doubts that even Alpha knows.

“... took a left turn. Walked through the wrong door. Noclip’d,” I said.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Pentti said. You could say that.

He let go of Bertie’s hand, lightly wiggling his hand to relieve some of the tension.

“We tend to get lost like that,” I told Bertie. “Silly us.” I gave Pentti a light punch on the arm.

Suddenly, the jingle resumed. It was still stuck in my head from the last time - it really was catchy. Capitalism at its finest, I suppose.

The intercom lady spoke.

“Thank you for advancing the Earthly cause. To show our gratitude, all ships departing to the Far-Black will get a 12% discount on all purchased metal goods over 30,000 CSECs.”

Thank you, Mumie Kapital.

I noticed the edge of a gun holster on the man’s hip. Well, I’m sure this eccentric bearded stranger, in this here alcohol section, in this here random star-system won’t turn out to be a serial killer. I cleared my throat.

“So, ol’ Bert,” I spoke, clasping my hands together and pointing at him, as if praying to an apparition of Zeus himself. “You wouldn’t happen to know where two handsome lads could find this baguette-boi? We’re, as the wise Seneca said, ‘in deep shit’, and could use a little direction in life.”

“Maybe a bit more than ‘a little’,” Pentti added.

"Well, if this wrong turn you mentioned spat you out here, it's got terrible taste. This is about the worst- maybe second worst, on second thought- place for light-years in any direction. No good taste, no good beer-" he turned to face the rack- "you hear that, Marc?"- and swiveled back to Kotera and Pentti. "-no good anything, really, can't think of anything positive about it-" a turn, "Nothing, you bloody Canuck!", and a pivot. "And yet here we both are."

From behind the rack came a Maine-accented voice muddied by time and by hardwood. "And yet you still drink it, pal!"

"Oh, yeah, Marc's behind the bar, if you want him. He ain't French, either, he's a Newfie through and through. The name's just a bad joke about Quebec only he understands. If you've got six hours to hear how St. John's' got some claim over the St. Lawrence, I'm sure he'd explain it to you. Good luck understanding it, though."

Bertie snapped his fingers. "So, it's direction you're after, huh? Yeah, I wouldn't go asking Marc for that, all he's good for is pointing you to the next drink. He's kind of like the intercom, that way, you know? Like, who does the Man think he's fooling? Idiots? The only people heading out to Fab are contractors, anyways, it's not like He's doing anyone a favor 'cept himself, charging His own fellas less on goods he already owns."

"If you start ranting about how terrible your life is, Al, I'm throwing you out of here."

Bertie raised his arms in mock fright. "Oh, no, he'll make me leave his street vendor! What ever will I do?"

A short, portly man with curly blonde hair and a boyish face, wearing steel-toed boots and a Hawaiian shirt that defied all laws of fashion stepped around the corner and leaned against the rack. "I'll sell your beer to someone else." He looked Pentti in the eye. "So, anything catch your eye? I've got Shiner, Miller, Shiner-Miller, no Sam Adams, bless his soul, Coke, whatever."

"Har har." Bertie stepped in front of Marc with a half-fake look of concern on his face, cutting him off as he did. "Just give me four bottles of S-M and I'm out of here."

Marc nodded and reached for the top shelf of the rack. As he rummaged around to look for the bottles, he craned his neck to look at Pentti and Kotera. "So, you fellas wanted to talk to me, here I am, in the flesh. I ain't a long loaf of crunchy bread, though, hate to disappoint."

"Hey, now wait a minute, Marc! I was-"

"Shut it, Al, and let 'em talk. They said they was in deep shit, now, that ain't something to take lightly."

[Wuchu]

Boy, we always seem to walk into some characters, don't we.

I walked up to the bar, and leaned against it, resting my elbow on top. "You see, Marc," I began. "We come from a long time ago, a galaxy far, far-"

"Please don't do the Star Wars speech," Pentti interrupted.

"-I wasn't going to do the Star Wars speech," I told him, making a face.

"Go on, then. What were you going to say?" Pentti said.

"..." I looked at him with a blank face. His folded his arms, and raised his brows expectantly. "... well, we're part of this little group of rascals, and through means esoteric, we oftentimes end up in these little space-time mix-ups. It's not a biggie, believe me - we just need to find a certain extragavant Rubik's cube and we'll be right back home."

"We technically aren't supposed to be within 50 metres of each other, in order to try to minimise these things," Pentti said.

"We technically aren't supposed to be here, though."

He snapped his fingers, pointing them at me. "Good point," he said.

I looked back at Marc and Bertie. While Marc's face showed expected disbelief and confusion, Bertie's expression remained the same as it had before.

No one spoke for a few moments.

Pentti coughed, and I turned to look at him. He pointed his thumb to his left, where down a couple of other stands away from us, two armed espatiers were walking. They were heading towards us.

I quickly pulled up my mask from my neck, and Pentti turned towards the bar, trying to conceal his face. We've grown to accept that it's better safe than sorry - besides, who can really keep track of all the places you're considered a wanted criminal?

As they got closer, the one on the left turned his face towards me. He was wearing a full-face helmet, and spoke in a heavy London accent.

"Oi- oi-!" he shouted, pointing towards us. "Bit sick, are we?"

I waved at him, and relaxed against the bar. "Yessir, just here to get something to clear the throat." I coughed into my arm.

"Aye, aye, well keep your ugly muzzle covered, then. Don't want ya gettin' the whole damn place sick."

The two laughed, and made their way past us.

Pentti looked at them as they walked away. "So, are those guys from that Colonial Authority, then?" he asked Marc.

"You said something about a tunnel," I said, looking at Bertie. "Are we underground?"

[Miranda-22]

Boy, we always seem to walk into some characters, don't we.

I walked up to the bar, and leaned against it, resting my elbow on top. "You see, Marc," I began. "We come from a long time ago, a galaxy far, far-"

"Please don't do the Star Wars speech," Pentti interrupted.

"-I wasn't going to do the Star Wars speech," I told him, making a face.

"Go on, then. What were you going to say?" Pentti said.

"..." I looked at him with a blank face. His folded his arms, and raised his brows expectantly. "... well, we're part of this little group of rascals, and through means esoteric, we oftentimes end up in these little space-time mix-ups. It's not a biggie, believe me - we just need to find a certain extragavant Rubik's cube and we'll be right back home."

"We technically aren't supposed to be within 50 metres of each other, in order to try to minimise these things," Pentti said.

"We technically aren't supposed to be here, though."

He snapped his fingers, pointing them at me. "Good point," he said.

I looked back at Marc and Bertie. While Marc's face showed expected disbelief and confusion, Bertie's expression remained the same as it had before.

No one spoke for a few moments.

Pentti coughed, and I turned to look at him. He pointed his thumb to his left, where down a couple of other stands away from us, two armed espatiers were walking. They were heading towards us.

I quickly pulled up my mask from my neck, and Pentti turned towards the bar, trying to conceal his face. We've grown to accept that it's better safe than sorry - besides, who can really keep track of all the places you're considered a wanted criminal?

As they got closer, the one on the left turned his face towards me. He was wearing a full-face helmet, and spoke in a heavy London accent.

"Oi- oi-!" he shouted, pointing towards us. "Bit sick, are we?"

I waved at him, and relaxed against the bar. "Yessir, just here to get something to clear the throat." I coughed into my arm.

"Aye, aye, well keep your ugly muzzle covered, then. Don't want ya gettin' the whole damn place sick."

The two laughed, and made their way past us.

Pentti looked at them as they walked away. "So, are those guys from that Colonial Authority, then?" he asked Marc.

"You said something about a tunnel," I said, looking at Bertie. "Are we underground?"

Bertie flashed a sidelong glare at the two espies. "Keep on steppin', fucking bobbies," he said with a growl. He turned his attention back to Pentti and Kotera, a thin mask of calm on his face. "Yeah, they're Authority. Money-grubbers, is what they are. You don't join the espies unless you don't care about jack-shit 'cept how much exchange they pay you at the end of the day."

"Now that's a shit assessment, Al. They provide security, I guess, though they've got about as much subtlety as a hydrogen bomb. Now, I ain't convinced ya weren't shitting me on where you're from, pals, but you don't need to worry about them dragging you behind the woodshed. For one, they'd shoot you in the street, if they were gonna do it anywhere. For another, they don't really bother to... enforce? Petty crimes and such. They just stand there and look menacing, so folks don't get out of line." Marc shook his head as he slid the bottles into a plastic shopping bag and sat them on the counter.

"Whatever. Espies are sellouts."

"They're just working jobs, same as we used to. You can't fault 'em for knowing where the money is, eh? Here's your poison, by the way."

Bertie grabbed the bag and dropped it at his side. "Let's agree to disagree." Turning to Kotera, he continued. "Changing the subject, and to answer your question, yeah, we're in a tunnel. The Authority built this colony in some dried-out lava flows, since the place would be rad-shielded and they wouldn't need to invest in anything more than life-support and sealing up the place. Typical lowest-bidder contracting, if you ask me." He started to walk off from the booth, then stopped and pointed at Marc. "I'll pay you when I get back to my ship. Thirty CSEC work?"

"At least forty. And you pay me here or never."

"Thirty-five." Bertie reached into his back pocket and pulled out a PDA, slim and expensive-looking but nonetheless chipped in three out of four corners. He stared intently at it for a moment as he tapped away, then in one motion placed it back in his pocket. "Payment should've gone through." Bertie tilted his head to look at Pentti and Kotera. "Hey, well, you two got names? You've got ours, after all, my spatially-displaced chums."

[Wuchu]

“Oh, of course, right,” Pentti spoke, facing Marc and Bertie. “My name’s Pentti-“

“-like ‘pent up’,” I added.

Pentti walked behind me, and put his hands on my shoulders, as if about to present the world’s worst prize.

“And this is Kotera,” he continued.

I pulled down my mask, only to finally notice the awful smell surrounding us all.

“Why build this dump in the first place?” I asked, looking to Bertie. “What’s its purpose?”

Pentti looked around us. “Seems like a market to me,” he said sarcastically.

[Miranda-22]

“Oh, of course, right,” Pentti spoke, facing Marc and Bertie. “My name’s Pentti-“

“-like ‘pent up’,” I added.

Pentti walked behind me, and put his hands on my shoulders, as if about to present the world’s worst prize.

“And this is Kotera,” he continued.

I pulled down my mask, only to finally notice the awful smell surrounding us all.

“Why build this dump in the first place?” I asked, looking to Bertie. “What’s its purpose?”

Pentti looked around us. “Seems like a market to me,” he said sarcastically.

Marc smiled at the two. "Well, those are certainly... names. Genuinely never heard them before, good to see something unique. Shakes things up around here."

"One way to say it." Bertie smiled at Kotera's scrunched nose. "Better put that mask back on, son, unless you like phosphorus. Marc here tells me the regulators in the agricultural tunnel broke down last week, which has of course fucked everything right up. That's why it looks like a jungle up there, that's why it smells like garlic and manure, that's why it feels like a sauna down here. Takes a while for the atmosphere to return to equilibrium." He paused and scratched at his beard. "Well, all things considered, that little bit of cloth's probably going to be about as useful as the colony administrator is at hiring reasonable contractors, so. Might as well leave it off."

"Sure, whatever, Al, that's one way to explain it." Marc walked back behind the rack, raising his voice. "Well, Pentie- Panty- Pent-up, you know, that works, I'm not quite sure why they made it. I guess to give washouts like me and Mark Hamill over there a place to wash up once we're all done and spent."

"I'm still going, you know."

"Sure, on a hunk of metal around a nowhere star with a bunch of drunks to keep you company. Nothing wrong with that at all!"

Bertie laughed a deep, coughing laugh that sounded more like a death-knell than any sound a human body should ever make. "Home sweet home! To answer your question, they built it for the same reason they build everything. Someone told 'em to. And then people came here, 'cause they told 'em to. Right, Marc? You were, what, a computer engineer, until they told you they didn't need you?"

Even muffled, Marc's voice had clearly taken on a harder edge. "I quit, Al. You know that. They were adding new software every day, expected us to integrate it all to the network like what we did was magic. Then they acted surprised when we started dropping like flies from the workload. I hear they fixed it up now, but, well, I was one of the ones who dropped. And now I'm here." He stepped out from behind the rack, a new weariness etched into his face. "I guess that didn't answer your question very well. If you want a bett-"

The loudspeakers around the marketplace crackled to life once more, blaring that same obnoxiously cheerful alert, followed by that same obnoxiously pleasant voice. "It is now six hours into the work cycle. Your dedication to your work is appreciated. A reminder that bulkhead three will be sealed for routine maintenance between 1600 and 1900 hours."

[Wuchu]

"YoUr DeDiCaTiOn To YoUr WoRk Is ApPrEcIaTeD," Pentti and I said in unison, in the same mocking tone.

I idly pulled up my mask once again, tightening it just a bit more in order to block out the stench. Now that he mentioned it, it was incredibly hot down here. I didn't notice it before, but I've been sweating ever since we walked through that door.

"Pen-tti," Pentti corrected Marc, putting extra emphasis on the syllables. "Your job sounds awful, must've been a nightmare to keep up with those quotas. My previous employers were similar, though; they did things for the sake of doing them, seemingly just because it could be done."

"Sounds about right," I said. "Mama Kapital needs more sons, I suppose." I took a few glances around. This place was something straight out of Bladerunner, if Bladerunner was on an even smaller budget. Across the street, I could see a rat drinking from a can of soda, using both hands.

"So, what's this about a hunk of metal and drunkards?" Pentti asked. "Where are you heading off to, Al?" He seemed considerably less nervous than before. Perhaps it was the aura of alcohol surrounding us. Or maybe he was getting a high from the toxic air?

"Asking for a friend. The friend is a king," I added.

[Miranda-22]

"YoUr DeDiCaTiOn To YoUr WoRk Is ApPrEcIaTeD," Pentti and I said in unison, in the same mocking tone.

I idly pulled up my mask once again, tightening it just a bit more in order to block out the stench. Now that he mentioned it, it was incredibly hot down here. I didn't notice it before, but I've been sweating ever since we walked through that door.

"Pen-tti," Pentti corrected Marc, putting extra emphasis on the syllables. "Your job sounds awful, must've been a nightmare to keep up with those quotas. My previous employers were similar, though; they did things for the sake of doing them, seemingly just because it could be done."

"Sounds about right," I said. "Mama Kapital needs more sons, I suppose." I took a few glances around. This place was something straight out of Bladerunner, if Bladerunner was on an even smaller budget. Across the street, I could see a rat drinking from a can of soda, using both hands.

"So, what's this about a hunk of metal and drunkards?" Pentti asked. "Where are you heading off to, Al?" He seemed considerably less nervous than before. Perhaps it was the aura of alcohol surrounding us. Or maybe he was getting a high from the toxic air?

"Asking for a friend. The friend is a king," I added.

"Oh, dear God, you've no idea," Marc said, passion filling his voice. "I swear some of the architecture they wanted us to incorporate was Unix-based. Unix! That's ancient! Three hundred years since that stuff was last relevant, and here they are asking us to just 'sudo' it in! Because that won't crash the fucking network the first time it's accessed! Oh, but no! Gotta go forward all the time, gotta make everything perfect, gotta make sure the system's able to take a 300% uptake in capacity, because that's going to happen any time in the near future! I swear to God, I would've just stayed back home in the Commonwealth if I knew the Authority was going to put me through this much shit." He threw up his hands in frustration. "Goddammit, I hate them so much. And, y'know, it's not even their fault. Their bosses laid it on their heads, they laid it on ours, it's just a goddamn feeding chain. There's always a bigger fish, and they're all scared shitless they're gonna get munched. And they wonder why half the inner systems are filled with syndies." Marc leaned back, spent. "God."

"And I thought I was meant to be the disaffected grouch." Bertie leaned over and gave Marc a playful shove. "Well, the hunk, if you really need to know, is a little space station a system back along the Circuit named Miranda I like to call home when I'm not out doing... things. I guess you could say I run the place, though... the good folks back home gave me the job more for my, well, skills than anything more tangible."

"He means he got them drunk with homemade 'shine and they made him boss. Now he's out here selling what little produce he's able to reap and seeing the sights, meager as they may be."

Bertie nodded at that. "Fate deigning to give me a brachy freighter and my own ice refinery doesn't hurt, either. It sort of sets you free, you know? Knowing you can go places with a way to get back where you came from? That ain't a privilege most folks have these days. Though I suppose your king friend might disagree with that assessment. How'd you meet a king, anyways? There hasn't been one since... what, 2240?"

[Wuchu]

Oh, right. Forgot we're in the future. Things - as awful as they still are - have changed somewhat. You'd reckon we'd have learned that after asking Cleopatra for her WIFI password.

Pentti looked uncomfortably at me. He was far less experienced, at least when it comes to bullshitting other timelines.

"We get around," I stated plainly. "So, you're sort of a space pastoralist, then, huh? Herding your little band, occasionally leaving to sell the stock, floating around without purpose."

Pentti spoke up. "It doesn't sound too bad, honestly. I'd take it over nomadism."

"You're welcome to go back home, Pentti," I told him.

"But am I?" he asked, making a face which signified he's about to go into a snarky little rant. "Because, as of now, I'm stuck 30 kilometres below ground in some star-system in the middle of god-knows-where, stuck with you and a bunch of randos," he paused, turning to Bertie and Marc.

"- no offence -"

He turned back to face me. He started to take a few steps in my direction.

"Stuck on an alien planet with no money, no way to protect myself except for a dainty knife, no damn food, no drink, and with my legs constantly burning like hell!"

He was now only a few inches from my face, breathing angrily. I patted his head.

"I love you, too, Pentti."

His face softened. I still don't know if it's out of affection, or out of weariness. Either way, never fails to work.
I leaned against the bar once again.

"D'you mind if we hitch a ride with you, Bertie?" I asked. "As he's said - we've got no money, except for a bunch of lint and old Earth notes, but if you help us out and we find our Rubik's cube friend, I'll introduce you to 'em. I reckon you'd like them, too - they have a knack for parties and know like, what, 600 recipes to make beer alone?"

"Not to mention the saké there, God," Pentti said, looking up in a silent prayer.

[Miranda-22]

Oh, right. Forgot we're in the future. Things - as awful as they still are - have changed somewhat. You'd reckon we'd have learned that after asking Cleopatra for her WIFI password.

Pentti looked uncomfortably at me. He was far less experienced, at least when it comes to bullshitting other timelines.

"We get around," I stated plainly. "So, you're sort of a space pastoralist, then, huh? Herding your little band, occasionally leaving to sell the stock, floating around without purpose."

Pentti spoke up. "It doesn't sound too bad, honestly. I'd take it over nomadism."

"You're welcome to go back home, Pentti," I told him.

"But am I?" he asked, making a face which signified he's about to go into a snarky little rant. "Because, as of now, I'm stuck 30 kilometres below ground in some star-system in the middle of god-knows-where, stuck with you and a bunch of randos," he paused, turning to Bertie and Marc.

"- no offence -"

He turned back to face me. He started to take a few steps in my direction.

"Stuck on an alien planet with no money, no way to protect myself except for a dainty knife, no damn food, no drink, and with my legs constantly burning like hell!"

He was now only a few inches from my face, breathing angrily. I patted his head.

"I love you, too, Pentti."

His face softened. I still don't know if it's out of affection, or out of weariness. Either way, never fails to work.
I leaned against the bar once again.

"D'you mind if we hitch a ride with you, Bertie?" I asked. "As he's said - we've got no money, except for a bunch of lint and old Earth notes, but if you help us out and we find our Rubik's cube friend, I'll introduce you to 'em. I reckon you'd like them, too - they have a knack for parties and know like, what, 600 recipes to make beer alone?"

"Not to mention the saké there, God," Pentti said, looking up in a silent prayer.

"None taken, bud. I'm about as much of a nobody as you can get. However, to the question of, well, hitching a ride, you might not like my answer. It's... complex."

For a moment, Bertie was silent, thinking, weighing the options. Technically, it was a simple binary- a yes/no answer. To say yes was to take on an extensive responsibility- two more mouths to feed, two more bodies to keep alive, two idiots with no experience in space travel placed in a tight environment where the slightest mistake had a chance of being fatal. But to say no was to leave these people behind. And, despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, every time he'd told himself it didn't fit with his persona, his character, Bertie wasn't one to say no.

"In short, eh, I ain't sure. You know about mass requirements, right? Well, in short, you're probably both, well, let's be generous and assume you had good breakfasts. 80 kilos each. And I'm hauling back food to the lads. So I can't very well dump 160 kilos of food, now can I? Especially since I've already bought it with my own money."

That was an important point to mention. Money, so says the capitalist, is important.

"So, I let you hitch a ride on my ship on two condition: One, you can guarantee me that you can refill that food store. Two, you promise me- promise me- that you ain't fucking with me." Those last words were emphasized with a pointed finger and an intense look. "You're actually from some space Rubik's cube and you need help getting there."

From his place behind the counter, Marc peeked out at Bertie. "Uh, Al, you sure you don't need a drink, or something?"

"Yes, I need a drink. Coke, Marc, hit me with that eighty proof."

"Coke Max runs sixty-five."

"Right. Sixty-five."

[Wuchu]

Kotera was sitting at the bar, leaning so far that he almost laid over the counter. Though his mouth was covered with his favourite piece of cloth - a pseudo-camo print of overtly bright yellow and black - you could see the wide smile in his eyes. He was enjoying this far too much. He looked to me.

"Whadd'ya say, Pentti?" he spoke. "Can we cover - what was it? - 160 kilos?"

I scratched the back of my neck in thought. "I think Yaniv still owes me for those Kadaran rocks, should be easy," I said, before turning to Bertie.

He had a strange aura to him. A tired one, yet one still full of vitality. His moustache and full beard obscured much of his face, just like with Kotera, though likewise, you could read his thoughts through the eyes. Problem was, to me, he was still thinking in a foreign script. Perhaps I'll decode it with time, seeing as it seems we're going to be travel buddies for the foreseeable future.

"You can trust us," I told him. "The Cube is very much real."

[Miranda-22]

Kotera was sitting at the bar, leaning so far that he almost laid over the counter. Though his mouth was covered with his favourite piece of cloth - a pseudo-camo print of overtly bright yellow and black - you could see the wide smile in his eyes. He was enjoying this far too much. He looked to me.

"Whadd'ya say, Pentti?" he spoke. "Can we cover - what was it? - 160 kilos?"

I scratched the back of my neck in thought. "I think Yaniv still owes me for those Kadaran rocks, should be easy," I said, before turning to Bertie.

He had a strange aura to him. A tired one, yet one still full of vitality. His moustache and full beard obscured much of his face, just like with Kotera, though likewise, you could read his thoughts through the eyes. Problem was, to me, he was still thinking in a foreign script. Perhaps I'll decode it with time, seeing as it seems we're going to be travel buddies for the foreseeable future.

"You can trust us," I told him. "The Cube is very much real."

"Well, in that case, I suppose we're, uh, going Cube-hunting." Bertie stuck out his hand to the side. "Beer, Marc? I don't talk business without it, pal."

"Oh, yeah, sure." The Hawaiian-shirt-clad software engineer stepped out from behind the rack with a red and brown bottle in his hand. "Coke, just like you asked. You're gonna pay for this one too, right?"

"I always pay, Marc. Except for the times I don't. Now, my two newest friends, you got any questions? I've got about... twenty minutes to kill before I- well, we, rather- need to head topside. I imagine you've got a bit of catching up to do."

[Wuchu]

Kotera took out his phone, unlocking it and fiddling for a few seconds.

"What is the time, anyway?" I spoke first. "And... CSECs, was it? That's the currency here, right?"

Kotera rolled his eyes. "God, always about the money with you," he said. "So, what's been going on with Earth?" His fingers hovered over his phone's keyboard, ready to take notes on everything. "Since, say, the 2070s."

"Narcissistic much?" I told him.

He winked at me, the turned back to look at Bertie, awaiting a response.

I walked up to the bar, taking a spot beside Kotera. Out of curiosity, I looked over Marc's stock. I recognised a few of the brands - what must be considered 'classics' by now - but plenty of the bottles were covered in unknown labels, and strange symbolisms. One of the bottles was tinted opaquely black, and just had the words "DO NOT CONSUME" in bold white font written over it.

[Miranda-22]

Kotera took out his phone, unlocking it and fiddling for a few seconds.

"What is the time, anyway?" I spoke first. "And... CSECs, was it? That's the currency here, right?"

Kotera rolled his eyes. "God, always about the money with you," he said. "So, what's been going on with Earth?" His fingers hovered over his phone's keyboard, ready to take notes on everything. "Since, say, the 2070s."

"Narcissistic much?" I told him.

He winked at me, the turned back to look at Bertie, awaiting a response.

I walked up to the bar, taking a spot beside Kotera. Out of curiosity, I looked over Marc's stock. I recognised a few of the brands - what must be considered 'classics' by now - but plenty of the bottles were covered in unknown labels, and strange symbolisms. One of the bottles was tinted opaquely black, and just had the words "DO NOT CONSUME" in bold white font written over it.

"CSEC? Oh, that's just the colonial standard exchange currency. It's a bloody mouthful, so we just use the acronym. Fixed value, virtual, basically only has value because it's valid in direct transfers with the Authority and they can force you to make direct transfers in the inner systems. So they control the price by making the people everyone ends up buying from have to buy from them. And the time is... let's see, the announcement for six was a while ago, so it should be... 1405. Two hours until the rec cycle, then eight hours of the sleep cycle, then back to work, 'cause the Man don't ever rest, and neither do you." Bertie shook his head in disdain. "As to your question 'bout good green Mother Earth's history, that's more Marc's forte than mine. He's the one born there, you know."

Marc looked at Bertie with a raised eyebrow, then at Kotera. "Aight, 2070? Good taste, that's twenty years before it all went to shit. Um, I'm mostly up on North American history, but whatever. Hope this works for you. Long story short, 2090 the US went belly-up, y'know, when the oil ran out and the people got pissed at 50% tax rates being funneled into levies and dikes to stave off the sea. If I remember right, half of Congress just... didn't show up one day. And next thing you know there's a hundred secesh factions trying to get a piece of the pie. And of course the rest of the world doesn't like the US imploding, especially Europe, and eventually the same thing happens to their lot, 'cept for France, for some reason. Asia doesn't get really fucked until the 2130s when China starts having to deal with Southeast Asia flooding, they end up in a war with India, they both break up in the process, which of course sends the world into a bloody panic, since North America was just settling down and Europe was looking like the borders were starting to become coherent again. On a local note, my home town got shelled 'bout that time. Good ol' Cherryfield. They've got the rocket truck that fired the barrage on display in the square, or they did in 2344 when I shipped for space. Africa got out unscathed, practically, except for the bits the PRC had got its tentacles on, they got right screwed when the folks running their nuclear power plants up and left. Oh, except for the KPR, can't forget about the good old Kenyans. They're probably still ranting about how they're the ethnic successors to all China as we speak. And, um..." Marc looked at the two sitting across from them, trying to gauge their interest as best he could. "...you guys follow all that? 'Cause that was just to about 2155, there's quite a bit left."

Bertie winked at Pentti. "This is what I meant when I said he gets going on this stuff. He gets all warm and fuzzy inside when people give him a chance to spill all that stuff he's got stuffed in his pretty little head."

[Wuchu]

Kotera and I spoke in unison.

"Nope," I said.

"Yup," he said, still glued to his phone, typing away like a chimp trying to figure out the iambic pentameter.

I turned to him. "Do you remember when we heard about the nuclear detonation in Hong Kong?"

He looked up, glancing at Marc and Bertie, before facing me. He nodded.

"I definitely remember you rushing over, yelling about it, that's for sure," he said. Though his mouth was still covered, the tone of his voice gave away the slight smile beneath the mask. "Now hush, spoilers."

He turned to Marc, before looking back down to his phone, "Go on, what was the 22nd century like?"

I opened the pocket of my jacket, and took out a packet of Belomorkanal, which I bought last time we were in 20th-century Ukraine. Half-mindedly, I offered its contents to both Marc and Bertie, out of habit.

[Miranda-22]

Kotera and I spoke in unison.

"Nope," I said.

"Yup," he said, still glued to his phone, typing away like a chimp trying to figure out the iambic pentameter.

I turned to him. "Do you remember when we heard about the nuclear detonation in Hong Kong?"

He looked up, glancing at Marc and Bertie, before facing me. He nodded.

"I definitely remember you rushing over, yelling about it, that's for sure," he said. Though his mouth was still covered, the tone of his voice gave away the slight smile beneath the mask. "Now hush, spoilers."

He turned to Marc, before looking back down to his phone, "Go on, what was the 22nd century like?"

Marc smiled, relieved he didn't have to dam the river now flowing in his mind. "Considerably less fucked, in all honesty. I mean, the good ol' US was still broken, and Canada had broken up by that point since British Columbia said 'fuck it' and decided that if Oregon wanted to join they'd damn well let them . And then France decided that if Canada was splintering it was time they got Quebec back, so they made us give the Quebecers guarantees of independence, and that sort of split Newfoundland and the rest of Canada in two, so we just drifted apart, and, well, give it another fifty years and Canada's a Commonwealth in the Commonwealth, which is of course at this point kind of... I don't know, pointless? Half the Commonwealth nations had packed up and left or got screwed over by their neighbors, and the UK fell apart in 2104 when Northern Ireland told England to go fuck off- oh, that's a story, Northern Ireland got Anglicized so it wouldn't leave after Scotland did, but that's not important- anyways, so we're in about 2210 now, right? Well, global warming's done its thing, and honestly the doomers were wrong. Like, the equator got fucked, the ice caps are almost gone, half of Siberia's underwater, but humanity pulled through. We adapted, you know? I don't know if that's a statement to our ability to fuck things up or our ability to roll with the punches. Maybe both. Anyways, the 2200s go down without much happening, really, I mean, the Americans and the Chinese are each wrapped up in their petty wars, India starts developing connections with Africa, the Russians are just sort of vibing, Europe decides it wants to emulate the 1800s all over again and the entire continent's borders start looking like the Holy Roman Empire, what with the literal hundreds of nations all in their confederacies- Bertie's mum was from one of them, yeah?- and in 2234 the Newfies took Maine off the Yankees' hands, thank God. I'd be screaming at Philly like it was Satan right about now if they hadn't. And that takes us to about 2240. Um, this is where the Authority starts to come into play, so... you guys look intelligent enough, I think you've got them pegged, right? Or do you want me to, uh, summarize 'em?"

"I'll do it in two words for ya: The Man." Bertie settled back at that like he'd said something profound, sipping his Coke out of the corner of his mouth.

[Wuchu]

Pentti jokingly punched my arm, chuckling to himself. "Guess all those books of yours ended up worthless here, huh Kotera?"

I rolled my eyes, locking my phone and sliding it back into my side-pocket. "Oh, give it time," I said. "This too shall pass."

I took a single cigarette from Pentti, and pulled out his lighter from his bag. With a loud *click*, the flame ignited, and the cancerous smoke of the 1980s filled my lungs. Honestly, it still tasted better than the air itself.

"Besides, take a look around," I continued. "Does this look like 'progress' to you?"

I turned to Marc and Bertie. "Does it?"

[Miranda-22]

Pentti jokingly punched my arm, chuckling to himself. "Guess all those books of yours ended up worthless here, huh Kotera?"

I rolled my eyes, locking my phone and sliding it back into my side-pocket. "Oh, give it time," I said. "This too shall pass."

I took a single cigarette from Pentti, and pulled out his lighter from his bag. With a loud *click*, the flame ignited, and the cancerous smoke of the 1980s filled my lungs. Honestly, it still tasted better than the air itself.

"Besides, take a look around," I continued. "Does this look like 'progress' to you?"

I turned to Marc and Bertie. "Does it?"

Bertie laughed and shook his head. "Progress is subjective, bud. This could be progress. Nuclear Armageddon could be progress. Pissin' into the wind could be progress. 'Sides, it is progress, to some people, at least." Bertie set down his bottle, a hard, hateful look on his face. "Tell 'em, Marc. Tell 'em why humans are all the way out here."

Marc looked at Bertie askew as he turned back to the bar. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth. Why the Authority exists." Bertie picked the bottle up again, seemingly having decided he needed another drink after all, and took a deep swig.

"Oh, um, they were given a blank check, right? To explore space and develop it. That was the goal. That was the impetus. And they've just gotten so good at it that they, y'know, couldn't stop."

"No, Marc. Why they were made. The place that Earth wanted."

"...Titan?"

"Yeah. Titan. Earth wanted Titan To make plastics." Bertie slammed the drink down again. "Fucking plastics. Caused all of this."

Marc shook his head. "They wanted Titan for more than plastics, Al, you know that. Besides, it wasn't even the first thing they were after. The point was ensuring humanity wasn't limited to one planet. That was literally the mission statement."

"Bullshit. I lived around Saturn, Marc, Titan was what they were after."

[Wuchu]

Kotera started snickering to himself, which then turned into a giggle, and finally into a full chuckle. He looked around the bar, wiping a single tear from his eye.

The three of us were looking at him, puzzled.

He took out a little plastic car from his pocket. It looked to have been made in around the early 21st century, with a plastic shell painted brightly red, and two stickers on its sides. The colour had faded from them, and by now, they were little more than bleached pieces of sticky paper. He propped it up on the bar, and played around with it for a few moments - pushing it back and forth across the counter.

He picked it up once again, and held it up. He held it out to Marc.

"Here," he said. "This is probably an antique by now, or maybe garbage. Either way, it feels right to pass it onto you guys."

We all continued to stare at him, even more confused than before.

He looked back at us, his eyes dotting from Marc to me to Bertie and back again.

"It was a gift," he clarified. "From someone I met a long time ago."

[Miranda-22]

Kotera started snickering to himself, which then turned into a giggle, and finally into a full chuckle. He looked around the bar, wiping a single tear from his eye.

The three of us were looking at him, puzzled.

He took out a little plastic car from his pocket. It looked to have been made in around the early 21st century, with a plastic shell painted brightly red, and two stickers on its sides. The colour had faded from them, and by now, they were little more than bleached pieces of sticky paper. He propped it up on the bar, and played around with it for a few moments - pushing it back and forth across the counter.

He picked it up once again, and held it up. He held it out to Marc.

"Here," he said. "This is probably an antique by now, or maybe garbage. Either way, it feels right to pass it onto you guys."

We all continued to stare at him, even more confused than before.

He looked back at us, his eyes dotting from Marc to me to Bertie and back again.

"It was a gift," he clarified. "From someone I met a long time ago."

Marc picked up the car and flipped it end over end in his hand, eyeing it with a look that saw another place altogether. "Well, don't this take you right back, huh? Ain't had one of these since... well, since I was a kid. But... I guess I ain't going back there any time soon. Well." He stopped, the car held between two fingers. "You sure? Gifts sure ain't passed on lightly, where I'm from."

Kotera nodded, his face unreadable as ever.

"Well, then. I guess... thank you." Marc took the car and gently set it behind the counter, giving it a little flick before turning back to the group. "Thanks a whole lot."

Bertie sighed and cleared his throat. "Well, seein' as we've got... oh, ten, maybe twelve minutes, I think it's only fair I ask the questions now." He folded his hands together and leaned across the bar. "Well, first-"

"Wait one minute!" Marc came rushing out from behind the counter and leaned over Bertie, putting himself between the two. "This is... that car was... you really are... damn! I thought you were, I mean, you said you were, but I still... just... you really are from someplace Else!" An alien emphasis rested on the word "else", as if to confirm its otherness. "What's it like? How does it work? Where is it? Does it have uniform physics? Can you tell if it's a relativistic space? Is there a baseline time? What about the travel, how does that work? Does it exist along a-"

Bertie coughed again, forcefully. "I guess that's as good an opener as I'll get," he whispered. Smiling an incredibly insincere smile, he turned to his friend. "Marc, have you ever heard the phrase 'don't ask, don't tell'?"

Marc's quizzical look at the question spoke more than he ever could.

[Wuchu]

Pentti rubbed the back of his neck, his expression squished into a mixture of tired confusion and mild embarrassment. He opened his mouth, looking up in thought, looking for the right words to say.

"Well, how long have we got?" he said to the ceiling, as if the steel framework held any answers.

I held up my hand in notice.

"Let me explain," I began. Bertie and Marc turned to face me, while Pentti's eyes shifted, perhaps doubtful of my obvious wisdom.

Marc wore a look of childish curiosity, bent over the bar like an excited child awaiting his newly-purchased toy. Bertie was less excited about the possibility of a transdimensional pocket-universe which holds and maintains the very fabric of our existence like some Lovecraftian glue. From what I knew of him, that was understandable: he's seen plenty of Lovecraft in his daily life. Nonetheless, I held both of their gazes in anticipation.

I looked in silence, my eyes switching from Bertie to Marc and back again.

My hand remained still in the air.

I spoke the words which held to answer to Marc's, Bertie's, Pentti's, my own and everybody's questions about everything. I uttered in tone fit only for these cosmic existential questions which always loom over our heads until the very moment our existence ceases to be.

"42."

A collective groan.

[Miranda-22]

Pentti rubbed the back of his neck, his expression squished into a mixture of tired confusion and mild embarrassment. He opened his mouth, looking up in thought, looking for the right words to say.

"Well, how long have we got?" he said to the ceiling, as if the steel framework held any answers.

I held up my hand in notice.

"Let me explain," I began. Bertie and Marc turned to face me, while Pentti's eyes shifted, perhaps doubtful of my obvious wisdom.

Marc wore a look of childish curiosity, bent over the bar like an excited child awaiting his newly-purchased toy. Bertie was less excited about the possibility of a transdimensional pocket-universe which holds and maintains the very fabric of our existence like some Lovecraftian glue. From what I knew of him, that was understandable: he's seen plenty of Lovecraft in his daily life. Nonetheless, I held both of their gazes in anticipation.

I looked in silence, my eyes switching from Bertie to Marc and back again.

My hand remained still in the air.

I spoke the words which held to answer to Marc's, Bertie's, Pentti's, my own and everybody's questions about everything. I uttered in tone fit only for these cosmic existential questions which always loom over our heads until the very moment our existence ceases to be.

"42."

A collective groan.

Bertie grabbed at the holster on his waist for a moment, thought better of it, and put two fingers in the shape of a barrel to his temple. "Good to know that fuckin' joke's survived the passage of time all 'cross the cosmos. Damn it." He sighed, then turned to Marc with a grin on his face. "Guess you ain't gettin' answers to questions you already know, huh? Like the meanin' of life and all that bull."

Marc did not look amused. "You going to answer the question or not?"

"Don't bother 'is pretty little head." Bertie took another swig out of the bottle, emptying it, and threw it into a trashcan across the way. It landed in the metal bin with a crash. "Onto more practical matters. So, in all your gallivantin' across the, uh, multiverse, I guess that's the proper term, you ever been on a spacecraft? I need to know whether I should expect you to lose it in null-g or not." He scratched at his chin absentmindedly. "Oh, or the concept of dyin' in the void, far away from everything you've ever known n' loved? How's that, uh, make you feel?"

He laughed again. The sharp sound was starting to become just a little familiar, even if it still sounded like a dying bird's caw. "I'm a bloody Freud, I am. You hear that, Marc? Freud?"

A sullen Marc nodded. "Yeah, I heard it."

The emotion gone from his face, Bertie turned back to the pair. "So. T' ask again. You fellas ever been to space? And none of that funny shit, now. I'm dead serious."

[Wuchu]

I could see Kotera gulp slightly as Bertie reached to his belt.

I pushed his gently with my elbow, "Freud, eh, Kotera? You remember him, right?"

He nodded, slightly nervous. Wouldn't be the first time his life was threatened for making an unfortunate joke, and definitely not the last.

We all looked at him for a bit, and when it became obvious that he was not going to get his tongue to work, I turned to speak to Bertie.

"Yeah, we're both pretty experienced," I told him. "Nothing special, but I used to serve in a space armada. No biggie."

"Stop telling people that," Kotera said.

"Stop telling people we're married," I told him. "And maybe I'll stop telling people I'm in the army."

"No deal," he said.

"No deal," I repeated. We both turned to Bertie.

"Deal?" I asked.