Kor grunted. "What the hell's that even mean?"
"Everyone taken care of, uncle. We're all part the old net, yeah? So Blues say we contribute even if we not wageslaves or got a stall. You pay for the good food, yeah, but they's rations still fill you all the same." He nodded to a large tent housing three makeshift long tables, their tops and bench seats made from plasteel sheets that looked suspiciously like they belonged to the same kind of autonomous vehicles Kor had so recently tried to use to intimidate Laren. The spots were packed from end to end with men, women, and children eating from steaming bowls.
Old net. That phrase again. Kor scanned the giant room and its scores of sellers, tried to imagine what some religious zealot named after a common color would look like. Tried to imagine what all these people could possibly contribute.
"Still don't know what the old net is, Laren."
"It's a thing, you know, connects all us here." He sounded uncertain to Kor, like he didn't know the answer either.
"Connects all us, yeah? Makes us who we is, helps the planet keep, you know, alive and shit, makes sure we don't split apart at the seams." Laren scratched with long, thin fingers at the spot on his neck where gas mask met skin, the seal clearly bothering him. "Man, uncle, I dunno, you know? I look a fucking cleric to you?"
"Uh-huh. Got it." So. Bullshit. Menelauns had the same kind of devotionals and beliefs and prayers. Kor knew them, of course, from feast days and the few trips to Temple he couldn't avoid when he was young. His father was a firm believer, something Kor never understood. "They all believe we're inherently good. What makes them so scary, then?"
They continued down the cramped path, amid men and women hawking their wares, trinkets, and what looked like religious artifacts from across the balkanization flanked both sides. Clearly, the Blues didn't object to other religion. Kor guessed they weren't those kinds of zealots.
"You bring a ruckus, uncle, they's gut you soon as look twice. Kill so fast, you head be spinning on down to the quickcrete."
"Law and order types, then?"
"Not you's or mine, nah. Got they's own code, uncle."
Kor's people had their own rules of living. So did, Kor, for that matter. "What kind of code?"
"Kind that gets you killed you break it, yeah? That not enough? Don't mess with the old net, don't destroy the nodes or whatever. Nodes is what really protects us, you know?"
Nodes? No, Kor didn't know. This all sounded like babble anyways, and, rather than push into some theological and ontological discussion of the Blues' particular codified madness, he let the thread of the conversation drop.
But it was still good info, in a way. A soldier needed to know the lay of the land for any operation, and while Laren wasn't exactly putting together a brief, he was still delivering solid intel Kor could use down the line when he started to make his move. After all, the Zeldith Consortium tower was the most heavily fortified position on Varis. Kor would need every piece of info available if he was going to get inside.
More goods to their left and right: outdated electronic components, software, VR sims, and bulk-grown vat skin for cybernetic coverup. Nothing Kor, nor any other Menelaun, would ever need. They preferred muscle and steel.
Food vendors were sprinkled amongst the stalls like bits of meat floating in vegetable heavy stew. Mycoprotein, spices, glutinous noodles dripping with rich broth as they were ladeled into bowls, strange animal meat mounted on metal skewers to crisp over open flame, their fat running in rivulets so that the fire popped with every drop.
The post-thaw gruel aboard the ship had been filling but flavorless, and now Kor's mouth salivated at the smells wafting through the air from each stall they passed. Laren must have noticed Kor stop to lust after the food because he turned back and nodded to one of the food counters.
"Hungry, uncle? Always time for food."
"Maybe for you, kid, but I'm on a timetable. First shop, food second. Let's go." Kor snorted. "'Sides, you even fucking eat?"
"I help it I got the metabolism of a fusion core?"
Kor grunted, scoped the area in front of the elevator bank. Elevators were the last resort of an urban clearing team, with stairs being more defensible but not much better. At the very least, a unit's movement couldn't be as easily controlled and contained by building security. But, from the look of Qivan's willowy calves, Kor knew elevators were preferred around here. When Laren told him what floor they were going to, he could see why. Besides, it wasn't like this was a war zone.
Laren stepped up, punched the destination floor and building quadrant. 2-5-0-3. Seconds later, a matte grey door was sliding open and the pair were stepping through. The elevator didn't budge as Kor's considerable weight was added. Sensors tracked their movement through the passage, and mag lifts thrummed to life as the doors slid shut behind them. The car came to life with a loud hum and shift of relative gravity. Kor's legs strained slightly more as he and Laren were sent careening up, starboard, now up again before back to port like bloodcells through the building block's circulatory system.
The air pressure continued to lower as they climbed in altitude, and Kor worked his jaw in an effort to open his eustachian tubes. For all the Menelaun talk of genetic superiority, they'd yet to evolve past that simple problem of ears popping. Ironically, it was one of the many things to make Kor doubt all of the council's racial purity propoganda.
Laren Qivan wiggled the tip of a thin pinky in his ear, leaned back against the elevator wall. Something about the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers drummed on the wall told Kor he was nervous.
Kor grimaced as he readjusted the gas mask still hanging from his neck like a millstone. "Relax, kid, we're just doing some shopping. Acting like we're about to orbital drop."
Laren made a hollow-sounding noise behind his mask. "We step out here, just keep moving, yeah? Blues control what they see, some locals know it."
"Guess you have some trouble with people on this floor then?"
Qivan nodded. "Can say that, yeah. We get off and go, uncle."
The lift came to a stop and the doors slid open with a hiss. Laren led the way off the elevator car and down the hall. Kor's jump boots sounded on hard tiles made from some kind of vinyl-like substance and each step echoed up and down the relatively deserted way. Thin doors on either side let to apartments. Music blared from within a right hand one, holo or news vid about Republic fleet movements came from the left. Kor's ears twitched involuntary at the sound of war.
Up ahead, a kid in street gear lounged against one of the walls, gas mask hanging limp against his chest, mouth slack and eyes glued to his hand terminal. He tried not to eye them as they approached, but couldn't resist the urge. Immediately, his gaze returned to his terminal, nearly to his ragged high top shoes. A flurry of hand movement from the kid as Kor and Qivan turned down another path in the residential quadrant.
Spotter. They'd been made. Kor's hands clenched into fists, and his boots squeaked in protest as he stopped. Eyes narrowed, jaw working, he turned and began to go back.
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I write this thing half a page a day, then post it to instagram. For the next week or so, I'll be posting compilations of them on a daily basis till I'm caught up, then switch to a weekly basis.
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