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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

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Wanderer of Sol - Business Chapter 4

Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here, Chapter 3 here

Chapter 4

After an appetizer of freshly baked bread, the nature spirit had regained a fair amount of her strength, at least enough to walk and find a more comfortable sitting spot in her servant's home, where he offered her, and the rest of his guests a meal.

“It's not much, not much at all, but my mother was a kitchen witch as well as a gardener. I've put what I can into it for you.” Jackal said, placing a bowl in front of each of his guests and began serving them. Jackal's lentil soup was famous. Almost as famous as his late mother's.

“The taste of this... I never knew having a tongue would be such a boon.” She was amazed that humans could turn something so simple as the beans she created from seeds and soil into something full of flavor and soul.

“Honestly Ma'am, I couldn't do it without you.” Jack was humbled by her compliment.

“Please, call me Sacra, Jackson. We're both children of nature. There's no need for formalities.” She smiled at him, then mimicked Robin, as she dipped her bread in the soup. Sacra's eyes lit up.

“Right. Sacra? What can we do to help the crops? And to keep you healthy?” Jackal hadn't even started his meal yet. He was too preoccupied by the current events and wanted to get the work done as soon as it could be done. He was a farmer after all.

“I'm not... I'm not sure how you can help.” She said with a sigh. The joy of her meal was gone, as she too knew there were pressing matters. “It's just so much work. You have thousands of acres of Mars' skin to plant your crops, which I could handle. But to feed your people, you have to farm in your buildings. Twenty floors of farm going into the sky. It's brilliant, and the lives of those plants are so well kept... But I can't keep up, poor Jackson.” She paused. Her eyes were sad, almost shameful, as she looked at Jackal “I'm a young spirit. Mars has only given her fruits to man for three hundred years, and my skin... You're only the third generation to grow here, aren't you Jackson?”

“Y-Yes, Sacra...” Jackal took her hand, showing his undying support for her. “My grandparents came from Venus, bringing their craft to help garden here on Mars. This isn't your fault. Not your fault at all. We're asking so much of you, Sacra. I'm a green witch. I should be able to do what my ancestors could, and help you.” Both parties felt the guilt of being unable to carry an unreasonable burden. The table was quiet for a moment.

“Did you know... Did you know your grandparents were there for my birth? They planted trees and herbs and fields here until Mother found it necessary to breath me into life, just like my elder sisters elsewhere on Mars. I was made out of the unyielding passion they showed for the plants, and my mother. I've watched them from that moment. I saw your mother come into the world. Watched her play in the greenhouses. Loved her while she watered my leaves. I held her while she looked at the stars from my tree branches. I supported her when she met your father, as he sold her seeds and tools. I-” Sacra laughed a little. “I remember your conception in a field just east of here, sweet Jackson.”

“Ha, that's probably more information than Jacky wants to know.” Munin chuckled, but Jackal corrected her.

“No, not at all. I think that's beautiful. Did you watch me the way you watched her?” He inquired.

“I did.” She smiled, rubbing the top of his hand with her thumb, affectionately. “I watched you plant your first crop. A potted sunflower. I was watching when you earned the name Jackal. You dropped a shovel on your toes, and yipped and howled. Your grandfather called you a 'little jackal'. I remember the blood and sweat you shed the first year you worked the fields with your family. That was a trying year for you, but you grew so strong. You're still so strong.” She reassured him. “I cried when you left my fields to spread and gather knowledge with the rest of Mars, but I cried joyfully knowing my sisters would meet you. You planted seven vast fields for them, in the impossible deserts. You would have gone on to plant so many more... I was there for your mother when she passed. Or she was there for me. I cried and cried, and she wiped away my tears before she moved on. I still cradle her bones. I miss her very much.” Sacra had many things she had to say. Smiles and stories that needed to be shared. Tears that needed to be shed. Both of them had tears to shed. By the end, there was no more guilt or burden. They could begin addressing the problem honestly.

First, Wanderer suggested they get a better understanding of the problem. A tour of the grounds and hydroponics towers.

“For the past few decades we've had to focus on volume. Even after terraforming when Mars was settled, there's not a lot of farmable land. And with the population boom at the end of the war, we've had to grow more and more. Lab synthesized foods help supplement, but humanity is still dependent on agriculture.” Jackal explained to the group as he demonstrated the hydroponics system.

Robin looked around and noticed that there were several people passing by as the tour continued. Often times people would stop and say hello to Jackal, or wave in passing. She found it peculiar, given that he was dressed in a way that most witches only do in private, or when meeting other like minded individuals.

“Quick question. How do the other farmers respond to you being a witch? I can't be open in an electronics store or hacker space without someone ridiculing me or threatening to burn me at the stake.” Robin's experience was echoed by Wanderer. Even in the 25th century, people still feared what they didn't understand.

“Oh, they're mostly alright with it. Mostly fine, really. Around here, farmers are superstitious, but we've been green witches here for, well like we discussed at lunch, three generations. Many of the farmers here were raised along my grandparents casting spells on their parent's crops. It's just part of life, and they're willing to accept it, wholeheartedly. We've always been a staple of the community.” He explained in a casual tone. For him, this was daily life. Through the rest of Mars, and even further out in the system, he had made a name for himself as an eccentric but brilliant botanist, agriculturist, and terraformer. In this town, there were no secrets.

The tour concluded in an office, reviewing orders and looking at numbers. Munin was abjectly bored. She'd had nothing useful to say since they left the green house. She did suggest causing civil war on Mars, thus lowering the population, and in doing so, lower the need for food. Wanderer told her it was a horrible idea, so she sighed and went back to picking her nails with her boot knife.

“Let's break it down and figure out where we can help Sacra do what she does.” Wanderer suggested. “Sacra, would better hydroponics make it a little easier for you to manage the growth of the plants?” He asked, and she nodded.

“But there's only so much I can do. While, if the plants got more nutrition and light, it would make the load lighter for me, I'm still not strong enough to handle all the layers of farms stacked on top of each other. It's like having to do twenty times the work on the same field's footprint.” She explained. Wanderer could tell she still felt upset that she couldn't manage this on her own.

“Robin, you've been taking notes this whole time, right?” Wanderer was starting to formulate a plan in his mind.

“Do you really need to ask?” She replied with a smirk, whipping out her touch screen.

“Obviously not. Do you think you could optimize the automated system a little?” Again, he already knew the answer, but he needed the conversation to gain speed, and get everyone's heads together.

“Oh yeah. Just from what I've seen, I could probably tweak the system and get another ten percent efficiency, without using magic. With Jackal's help, and if I commune with the AI that runs this operation, I might be able to double that.”

“That would be wonderful!” Sacra chimed in “I don't know if that would be enough, but it would certainly help. If only I were stronger.”

“How about a cult?” Munin suggested. “A spirit or god gets more power when more people believe in and praise them... Or fear them.” She said, not looking up from their nails, but admiring how clean she managed to get them.

“I-I don't know. The farmers are superstitious, but they don't have a cult mentality. Most of them already have a religion, and I don't want to impose beliefs on anyone.” Jackal voiced his concerns, but the gears in Wanderer's head were beginning to turn.

“I think I agree with Munin.” Wanderer stated sternly. Munin fumbled and dropped her knife, letting out a quiet “What the fuck, really?” as she turned to look at him. Jackal looked concerned, but he trusted his friend, and didn't object.

“Munin, how long can a spirit keep a human form?” He asked her, being the resident expert on the subject.

“Indefinitely, so long as they don't die. And they'd die just like a human, but they could, probably, get a new body if the rite was preformed again, after some time and with enough belief in them. Why? Are you suggesting Sacra becomes a living deity or something, because that's a little crazy, even for me.” Munin wasn't sure if she was on board for this one or not, but she was curious to see what Wanderer was thinking.

“Not exactly a living deity. Jackal, you said your family is renowned for what you've done. You, yourself, are a folk hero in the countrysides of Mars.” Wanderer reasoned, and Jackal seemed to follow.

“So... Sacra stays human and tend the gardens with me?” Jackal was unsure at first, but the more he thought about it the more it made sense.

“Exactly. She works here, posing as a witch, a friend of yours, maybe one you met on your journey, who's come to lend a hand in helping the food shortage. Before long the people here will love her. Would that kind of praise help her, Munin?” Wanderer needed to check his plan for holes before everyone got too excited for a solution.

“I mean, that's boring as fuck compared to starting a cult, but yeah, that should work fine. Praise is praise, when you're a spirit or a god. You just need people to believe in you, in one way or another. If you got that, you'd be stronger. And if they really like you, you could always expose yourself and start a cult later, I guess.” She saw the value in this kind of a plan, even if she thought it was the least entertaining variant of her plan.

“Sacra, what do you think of this idea?” Wanderer questioned. She looked like she was still absorbing it all.

“I'm... I'm still very new at this whole having a body ordeal, but I could get used to it. And I've watched the people of the area for decades. It certainly wouldn't be hard to pretend to be a witch. I would be willing to try.” She seemed optimistic, a little excited, and a bit nervous.

“Don't worry, Sacra. I'll fill you in on what you need to know about being human. It's easier than it looks.” Munin chimed in, winking at the nature spirit. Robin's jealousy was still easy to read on her face as she took initiative.

“Cool, I'll take Jack and we'll get to work on the hydroponics.” She declared, linking her arm in his and dragging him back to the room that housed the farm's servers, glaring a little at Munin as she left.

“Are you two actually dating now, or something?” Wanderer asked, half joking, but also half very much not joking.

“Nah, I just like pushing her buttons. I mean, I started pushing her buttons right before we landed, but like you said. 'deadlines and shit'. I'll help her blow off some steam later. You can help too, if you want.” Munin might have been trying to push his buttons too, but Wanderer was used to this kind of teasing. And he knew she definitely wasn't joking about a word she said.

“Alright then, I've got some antiques in the ship that might help give Sacra a boost. Altar cloths, offering bowls, incense, a couple books and the like. I bet Jack could make use of it, and it's well within his budget. I want to be in Asimov City by midnight, so let's get to it.” Wanderer said with a clap of his hands. He was happy be able to help, happy to be able to move some inventory, and happy to get out of that office before Munin started flirting with Sacra.

A few hours later, Robin was wrapping up her final enchantment on the servers, and ending her communication with the farm's AI. Her job was the most tedious and time consuming of the group's, but everyone else did what they could with the time. Munin brought Sacra a bag full of extra clothes that Wanderer had been using as packing material to keep items in his cargo safely padded and hidden. Wanderer helped himself into Jackal's kitchen and prepared dinner for the group. It wasn't as good as Jackal's cooking, but it was enchanted and consisted of lots of off world goods that would be hard to find on Mars. Wanderer didn't mind dipping into the ships pantry to celebrate a job well done. Besides, he knew he would be leaving with top grade produce and home made preserves by the bag load, as was tradition when visiting Jack.

With the last loose ends tied up, full stomachs, and a modest amount of credits in hand, they said their goodbyes. Each got another round of thanks from Jackal, and a hug from Sacra as they promised to visit again soon. It was time to move on. They had a long flight to make, and clients to meet in the morning.

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

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Wanderer of Sol - Business Chapter 3

Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here

Chapter 3

Next on the docket was to stop in the agricultural district of Sacra Fossae. Wanderer had heard from a local contact and botanist, that the crops were doing less than favorably. The region was under more and more pressure to supply produce for the whole of Mars, ever since Ceres stopped their production as an agricultural pillar to their neighbors. The Jovian Uprising some decades ago had a profound effect system wide. And while Jupiter and her moons won independence, the sudden war had bankrupted several near by planetoids, and the repercussions were felt far and wide, like ripples in a pond. Now Mars was on her own, and while her citizens wouldn't know it, there were many local witches and wizards fighting to keep her afloat, and do their best to keep another stone from sinking in this pond.

“Hey, guys. We'll be landing in five. It should be a pretty chill deal.” Wanderer's voice echoed over the ships intercom. “Munin, you blood free yet?” he asked just before the doors to the pilot's cabin slid open.

“Yeah, yeah. Next time we get into it like that I'm going to borrow one of Robin's welding aprons.” In strode the punk, fresh from her shower, towel draped over her shoulder, and not much else. “Does this town even have a landing pad? Seems more rural than we normally do.”

“There should be on the other side of those hydroponics towers.” Wanderer tried to ignore the fact that Munin's breasts were about a foot from his face, as she leaned down to adjust some controls, making his maneuvering easier. “And Munin, I know it's a chill job, so armor isn't necessary, but you should probably put your tits away before we land. You'll freak out the locals.”

“You know you like it, you freak.” Munin teased, sitting on his lap and wrapping her damp towel behind his neck. “Even knowing what I am, you still like it.” She licked her lips. The ship swayed to the left abruptly before correcting back to it's intended path.

“Munin, I'm flying.” Wanderer gave her a look that said “As much as you're right, this isn't the time” and Munin just let out a chuckle.

“Pfft, fuckin' mammals are so easy to fluster. I'm going to go see if Robin's done with her book. If not, I'll snap her out of her trance. She's more fun than you anyway.” Munin told her captain, hopping off of him and prancing down the hall towards the common area.

Minutes later they were on the ground and meeting in the cargo hold.

“Hey, Robin. You know it's hot out there right?” Wanderer inquired, taking note of the silken scarf she was suddenly wearing. He obviously knew what had happened, but if it wasn't apparent enough, Robins stuttering response and the grin on Munin's face was evidence enough that she had left marks on her victim. Wanderer just told Robin not to sweat it, and he was just poking fun.

The crew walked down the loading ramp to be greeted by a peculiar looking man, even for Mars' fashion. He wore layers of dust and dirt covered coats, with mud caked slacks and boots. His hands protected by thick green gardening gloves, the cuffs of which were traced with embroidered flowers. He wore a hand trowel on his hip like a pistol, and adorned a bandoleer of pockets, filled to overflowing with various seeds and soil supplements. His freckled and unevenly tanned face was framed well by his oversized glasses, capped off with a traditional witch's hat, that's cone was slumped over to the side, just a little. And of course the hat matched his gloves, in both color and floral embroidery.

“Wanderer! I'm so glad you could make it! Just in time, as always, just in time!” The green witch said with a kind of frantic tone to his voice that Wanderer had come to expect. Jackal had always been the nervous type.

He walked up to Wanderer and shook his hand vigorously, taking it in both of his gloves, before turning to Robin and doing the same.

“It's good to see you too, Robin. Very good, glad you could make it. And, ah, and who might this be? I don't believe we've, um, met before, Ms?” He said looking between Munin and the others rapidly, fishing for an answer to the stranger.

“Jack, this is Munin. I think she was indisposed last time we were in the area.” Wanderer introduced his crew mate to the strange little man. Jack's eyes met Munin's as they shook hands and he stuttered out a “Y-yes. Yes you are. Good. Good to meet you.” He swallowed “Munin.”

“So how are things, Jack?” Wanderer interrupted whatever was going on between Munin and Jack. Leaving people like them to stare at each other for too long could be dangerous, and, like Wanderer said, they had deadlines and business to conduct.

“Oh! Things are not good, Wanderer. Things are terrible. Absolutely terrible. I can't even begin to explain how things are going. Crops are failing. I tried various rituals, but it was like Mars herself just couldn't sustain the fields, which scientifically speaking should be improbable, because our hydroponics system gives the plants calculated quantities of specificity blended nutrients, and optimal water and light.” They were walking and talking now as Jackal turned somewhere in the first sentence and started pacing away.

“So, ruling out the mundane, and with substantial confidence in my own spells, I knew there must be something else. I turned to those books. The old ones you brought from Earth, last time you visited. I thought I found a rite that could be used as a template. I just had to tweak it. For Mars, because it was designed to commune with the spirits of Earth's gardens. Oh, I can't even begin to explain it Wanderer. I'll have to show you. I'll show you, and it'll make more sense.” He continued with a bullet train of thought, as they approached what looked like an abandoned green house. It was missing panels on the roof and some walls, which the resulting holes had been covered up with tarps.

“Well, we'll help however we can, Jack. Just show us the problem.” Wanderer tried to take him down a notch, from near hysterical to mildly panicked.

“Alright all.” Jackal stopped at the door to prepare them. “Please be respectful and remain calm. She's vary weak and I don't want to frighten her. I've been having a hard enough time keeping the farmers from looking in here.” He told the group while fumbling with his keys, and unlocking the door.

As the green house door slide open, all were met with the reflection of golden eyes in the shade of the covered roof. She was laying in a nest made of hay and soil sacks. Her skin was like adobe, smooth and curved, but her ribs presented themselves on her heavily breathing bare chest. Her hair was curled and colored like the rolling dunes of Mars, draped like silk, down to her feet. She was beautiful, but obviously distressed, as she slowly turned her head away from the group standing on her threshold.

“Ma'am, I've brought visitors. I think they may be able to help you. Please, may we help you?” Jack beckoned into the solemn room.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Munin was visibly upset by what she saw in the room.

“She's been like this since I found her. I preformed the rite and she came out of the soil. Came out like this, and she looks half starved. I summoned her to ask how I could help her, but... But I don't think I'm strong enough to hear her. And I don't know how to return her.” He explained to Munin, but really he was begging for her understanding. Munin had no time for his excuses as she pushed him aside and strode into the building.

“W-Wait, you can't just go in there.” He protested, half out of reflex.

“You dare to tell me where I can and can't go, Jackson Anna Elizabeth Connors?! Jackal of Seven Fields?! Plow and Trowel Jack?! Fuckin' leave us while I figure out your fuck up, Green Thumb Jack!” Munin's fury alone was enough to knock Jack off his feet as he stumbled backwards, only to be caught by Wanderer's waiting arms.

“I-I'm sorry, Memory, my dear, sweet Memory. Please, go right ahead. Please. I'm sorry.” He muttered clasping his oversized gloves over his mouth, as Wanderer steadied him to his feet and the green house door shut before him.

Time passed in relative silence. Munin could be heard talking quietly from time to time, inside, but no one could really understand what was being said. Wanderer and Robin tried to get Jack to relax, but he was shook and in shock. Munin can have that effect on people, especially people that feel like they're about to die. Which is another effect Munin has on people.

“I think I've done it Wanderer.” Jack broke the silence. His face was still in his hands, his gloves removed and laying in the dirt beside where he sat.

“Done what, Jack?” Wanderer asked, quietly.

“I've done the worst thing a green witch can do. I-I think I've killed my goddess.” He began to cry. Robin put her hand on his shoulder as she sat in the dirt with him.

“You didn't do anything like that, Jack.” She tried to reassure him, but honestly didn't know. She didn't work with gods. Electrons and the spirits residing in circuitry were more her thing. Possibly the furthest thing from the nature worshiping witch that sat beside him.

“I did Robin, I did. I did... I wasn't getting results trying to commune with her with divination, or terramancy. My scrying told me nothing. Not a thing. So I figured I'd invite her here in person. Ask her in person. She's like a fish out of water, and I'm holding the rod and reel.” He was beginning to sob as he slumped over onto her shoulder.

Wanderer sat down with them, offering a hand on his back and comforting words. “You're a farmer, Jack. Not a fisherman. Just wait, Munin will figure this out.”

“You're fuckin' right I will.” Munin said opening the door behind them. Jack nearly fell over and scrambled away, and would have if it weren't for Wanderer and Robin holding him in place.

“So, I just got done talking with her. She's not exactly your goddess. She's Sacra Fossae, or the spirit of it. If you worship Nature and Mars, she's like an angel, or something.” Munin explained “She can't talk because she's severely parched and exhausted. What kind of libations did you give to her when you summoned her?” She seemed to have cooled off a little, now that she had an understanding of the issue.

“Um, I, uh. I offered cakes and, and, some whiskey. Just like the book suggested.” Jackal stumbled over his words, still intimidated by Munin, but he got there eventually.

Munin crouch down to meet eyes with him “Jack, you gave hard liquor to an overworked agriculture spirit that lives in a desert?” Her question was intended as an answer as a wave of realization washed over Jack's face. A moment later he was up and digging through a box containing gardening tools to retrieve an ornate watering can, engraved with flowers and trees. He rushed to a near by hose, filled the can, and reached into his various pouches and pockets, sprinkling the contents in and stirring the mixture with his fingers. Almost stumbling over the green house steps, he hastily entered the building, as Munin stepped aside and started walking back towards their ship. Wanderer and Robin could only just hear what he was whispering to the faint spirit.

“Sacra Fossae, my dearest Sacra Fossae. Please forgive my foolishness. I'm truly and deeply sorry for my ineptitude. Please accept this offering and allow me to help you.” He begged honestly and sincerely. She seemed to accept as he bowed his head and handed her the can. She drank of it and cleared her throat.

“Sw-Sweet Jackson. I always knew you meant well. Your nature goes hand in hand with mine. I'd happily accept your help.” She smiled kindly at him. Wanderer and Robin could practically feel a weight lift off his shoulders as they listened in.

“Anything. I'll do anything you need, Ma'am.” He told her, clutching her hand.

“Could you... Get me something to eat? I'm starving, and Lady Munin informs me I have to eat while in this mortal human form.” She seemed almost embarrassed that she herself didn't know this. Jack scrambled to his feet and promised to be right back, as he rushed past Wanderer and Robin, making a beeline for the community kitchen, nearly bumping into Munin as she walked back towards the green house, carrying a bag.

“Here you go Sacra.” She said, taking something out of the bag as she walked back into the shaded portion of the greenhouse. “You're going to have to wear some clothes while you're in this form, because humans freak out if you show them your bare body, for some reason. And you have a really nice body, if you don't mind me saying.” Munin was already going for it.

“Oh... Thank you!” The nature spirit smiled happily at the compliment as Munin helped her sit up and put on the gown that was brought to her.

“You'll be fine once you get some food in you.” Munin reassured her.

Robin looked a little jealous as she adjusted her scarf. Munin was in her element. Wanderer was reading a book he had brought with him.

Chapter 4 here

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

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Blinking lights

This blinking light was always a wonderful way to start an adventure. “No Fold Fuel in Catalyst Chamber” was highlighted by a dim LED in Wanderer's console. While he napped away the hour through deep space autopilot, there seemed to have been a malfunction. The leak wasn't as big a deal as the fact that the only options of navigation were short boosts through local space, the nearest station more than a few weeks away. The nearest planet? What a place to run dry...

At moments like this, being so starved of options, can actually be a boon to even an experienced wanderer. Too many options could lead to regret and mistakes. No, at this moment, Wanderer could only do a few things, which needed to be weighed, measured and stacked against each other.

First, a distress beacon could bring help in a matter of days, being not too far off the main trade route between Ganymede and Mars. The down side to simply asking for help one quarter AU off the beaten path is the likelihood that a pirate vessel is far less likely to give you some gas and a jump.

The next option is to scan for local vessels crawling through the sector and try to meet them through snail jumps. Again, probably pirates, but there is a better chance that they could be locals. Pirates tend to go where the action is, and Wanderer could plainly tell there was no action anywhere near here. Still while the odds of finding anyone out in the deep blackness of “Nowhere Important” is incredibly low, but it beats getting out and pushing. Might as well start scanning while enacting the last option.

Wanderer started taking stock of his rations while the scan ticked away. This option would be the most tedious, but it looks like a few week slow crawl to the nearest station would be the safest option and most likely to not end in Wanderer being robbed in deep space.

While arranging his food in increasingly smaller, and increasingly less tasty piles, Wanderer noticed another blinking light. While wondering what could possibly be wrong next, the text “Entity Found” blinked on the local wavelength scan results. It was a station, less than an hour thrust 13 degrees off Wanderer's current Z axis. There were no records of a station out here. “Probably pirates” could be a theme of Wanderer's train of thought by this point. He glanced at the last 2 piles, consisting solely of some kind of “canned meat probably” and Rocket Noodles that were past their expiration date, meaning they were most likely created before the first fuel crisis.

“Well, if they're that close, they've probably already picked me up in their local scans. Might as well stop in and say hi.” Wanderer said aloud, almost hoping to hear someone in his lonely cabin tell him it was a bad idea.

“Hello?” he shouted down the vacant hall. Every echo was crisply captured by Wanderer's open visor, as the ruptures in silence pooled in the sides of his helmet. The fact that O2 was on, but the station was abandoned was troubling. Power was still flowing, pulsing. Emergency lights flickered, desperately coaxing any who would listen to long decamped escape pods. Mag-boots engaged, he strode appose to the their warning. It was like wading through a current of unease.

Long corridors, long shut doors passing steadily on either side. Every bit of drifting debris appeared as a specter waiting to lunge. Wanderer was not one to frighten easily, but the encroaching atmosphere choked like dust filling his lungs. Cool condensation escaping his lips with each breath.

But then a figure, a child, bathed in soft blue light at the end of the hall. She was kneeling. Crying? Suddenly, as if frightened, she raced towards Wanderer. Her movements skipped and lapsed through time as in synchronous with the emergency lights. Her scream rang in Wanderer's helmet. Closing the visor gave no relief from the fearful shriek. As distance closed and Wanderer prepared a thought to dispel the apparition, she vanished with a blink of the overhead lights, and did not return.

A sigh of relief. Wanderer had heard of things like this. Not a ghost per say, but the thoughts, emotions, fears and memories of a final moment, encapsulated in it's surroundings. Not alive, but not necessarily dead either. It was more akin to a primitive spiritual AI, running simulations in a cycle of never ending trauma. A horrible and narrow existence on the edge of sentience. Wanderer's only thought at the moment was not to encounter the memory of whatever she was running from.

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

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Devil Tied in a Chair

Prologue: A wizard known as Wanderer stays true to his namesake, scouring the solar system for knowledge and new magics. As one would imagine, this is dangerous work. Like any final frontier, the cold black is full of all kinds of desperate riffraff, liking to survive by taking from another. Today Wanderer found himself on the losing side of a conflict with such riffraff, and it’s time to sort this out the way a wizard knows best.

Devil Tied in a Chair

There are 99 pirate clans in Federation of Flags. Out of the 99, Wanderer has had dealings, or otherwise running-ins with 72. Out of the 99, only 6 recognize wizardry as existing and utilize as a tool in their ranks. Out of the remaining 93, all of them are incredibly superstitious and the bulk of their crews straight up fear magic. As they should. Today Wanderer found himself with his hands tied, sitting in a chair, with a bag over his head.

“So, that’s a bit of a junker ya were flying in our sector.” Came a voice from the black. Lesser voices snickered and chattered from beyond. “We found yer stash in the vents. I suppose you fancy yerself a smuggler. You must be new to it as ya’d know that all smuglin’ goes through us in our sector. Or if ya ain’t new, you musta missed the memo that this here sector changed to our hands last year. Wanna tell me what’s in those boxes before I have one'a the boys torch it open and damages what mights be inside?”

Wanderer stared into the black and sternly asked “What colors are you flying?”

“Oh, he thinks he’s interrogating me?!” the room erupted into laughter and howling. “Listen to me when I say I’m the one asking questions. What’s the combination to yer boxes? We wanna take a look inside, and I’d be sure ya wanna keep your fingers.” The dominant voice reached out of the darkness and Wanderer felt it grab his wrist, a pressure on the first digit of his right pinky.

Wanderer rotated his hand in his bindings and grabbed the hand of his captor, with the ring and middle fingers curled and contorted against their palms. Warm blood escaped the edge of the joint where the pirates blade slipped across in the movement.

“Tell me what colors you’re flying and I’ll give you the combination to the first box. We have a deal?” The voice was silent in the dark for a moment, then an answer came with a slight quiver.

“That-That sounds fair.”

“The blue box, labeled ‘toiletries’, 487A685G. What colors are you flying? Don’t worry, if I’m lying you can take that bit of pinky. Send a guy to check my stuff.”

The darkness made an audible gulp as the hand shook loose from Wanderer’s grasp. A few people were heard leaving the room. “We’re ah- We’re Crimson Concordant. We own this section of-”

“Awesome.” Wanderer said “I want speak with Ralph”

“Ralph? Which Ralph are you talking about?” The voice spoke with a clear of the throat.

Wanderer turned in his seat, lifted both his bound together arms and pointed, with his ring and index finger of his left hand, into the crowd he could see clearly in his mind, and said “I want to talk to that Ralph.” As a scream came from the direction he had pointed and someone could be heard running out of the room, as some others entered. It would seem that there was a Ralph and he nearly shit himself as he ran past those who went to check the cargo.

“Sir.” Came a younger voice. “The blue box were full of bottles filled with… things? And this silver statue. I don’t know what that is. I’ve never seen anything like it…”

“I want to talk to Ralph the Red. The guy who commands this floating pile of shit? The Captain? Orange box. 654B5874. Go ahead. Have a look and get your boss down here.”

There was silence for a second and then foot fall headed back towards wherever they were storing Wanderer’s goods. Time passed as Wanderer sat idly in his chair. The room has gone quiet, aside from the odd whisper here and there.

“Sir. I don’t know. It’s dark stuff, Sir. We opened the box and a bunch of moths flew out. Shrunken heads. Bones. The whole inside is crusted in this… black. Sir, I don’t think we…”

“Lad, you don’t think. You do want I ask of you. Stranger, how’d you know Ralph Biggins was sat over there? And how do you know our Captain?” The voice asked, appropriately in the dark.

“If you ever make it to Captain, you’ll know me too, Sam.” There was the sound of stumbling over chairs.

“What kind of Devilry is this? Somebody club the demon! Knock him cold before he lays a curse on us all!” The interrogator shouted as more chairs fell, draped in panicked men. It sounded to Wanderer that the whole of the room’s occupants were backed up against the walls, save for the couple cautiously making their way, step by step, towards their prisoner.

Once they were a few paces away, Wanderer suddenly stood from his chair and began floating several inches off the floor, as the chair flew across the room with supernatural force, smashing the door control panel and locking the crew in with him. Screams let out, as the bag lifted off Wanderer’s head and he could see his was in the mess hall. His interrogation was probably meant to be this meals entertainment. Sam was near the door, begging for a security detail to come and unlock them from their new hell, as the door opened and he and everyone else bolted past the tall man with the red beard who freed them.

“Oh hey Ralph! Long time no see!” Wanderer exclaimed, hovering a foot and a half off the ground.

“So there I am, flying for Ganymede when one of your boys shoots a fucking harpoon through my cargo hold? Like, not a mag-graple, but a literal barbed harpoon. When the fuck did you guys start using harpoons? I had to shut off air to the back half of my ship and shit. It was kind of a pain in the ass.” Wanderer was understandably upset.

“Well, my boys didn’t know who you were. Kind of hard to let the patrols know you’re on the ‘Don’t Fuck With’ list when your name and ship ID changes every time we see you. And you still swear you’re not a smuggler?”

“That’s fair, but nothing on my ship is illegal. Frowned upon, yeah. Dangerous as a portal straight to hell, certainly. But I’ve got the proper paper work for the human remains, which I’m transporting to put to rest, by the way, and everything else more or less in the clear to most local governments, or at least they wouldn’t know what they even are, so they can’t charge me with anything.”

“So why did you put them in the vents?” Ralph inquired

“Because…” Wanderer hesitated. “Because they wouldn’t shut up…” he answered, staring deep into the coffee Ralph had given him.

“So how did you know Sam’s name?” Ralph wanted to change the subject

“Oh, I’ve got copies of Ganymede’s entire police record stored in my prosthetic eye. And it’s not just a computer and a camera, ya know. It’s got audio capture functionality too. I just ran a vocal analysis on those records once he started interrogating me. I knew who he was around the time I got them to search my first box. I had an audio map of the whole room and half of the crew in it by the time Sam drew blood.” Wanderer explained like it was just another average day’s occurrence.

“I figured you had some kind of trick. So how’d you pull off the flying?”

“…I’m a fucking wizard, Ralph. You tie me up and sit me in a chair for 20 minutes, I can find a way to levitate. I could imposed my will over quantum forces, pleading with the machine spirits of the grav-pads in your mess hall for their aid, or just fucking blast magic out of my ass like a rocket. I’m a fucking wizard, Ralph.”

“Sure, Stranger.” Ralph was skeptical of what he’d just seen, but knew to take what Wanderer said with a healthy dose of respect. “If anyone could do something like that, it would be you.”

“But seriously.” Wanderer took a sip of his coffee. “When did you guys switch over to fucking harpoons?”

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

Text

The Witch of Neith

Wanderer’s old friend isn’t able to help him find all the answers. He’ll need to consult a more powerful witch. A witch few can find. Traveling to the untrue moon of Venus, Wanderer hopes to find her. Suddenly, with no recollection of how, he finds himself in her presence.

The Witch of Neith

Wanderer walked into the solemn chamber. From the inside it seemed as though it had no ceiling or walls, just stars. In the distance a warm orange figure could be seen sitting, miles away. Peacefully sitting. In three steps Wanderer was in her presence. She was towering and humbling and radiant as a sun. She flickered like a fire, but sat like a burial mound.

“Bruja Madoli, may I comb your hair?” Wanderer beckoned, knowing the ritual he had just begun might be an arduous one.

“Si…” She replied.

Perspective shifted in this room and Wanderer stood above her. He took out a white comb from his bag and began gently parting and pulling. Her hair fell through the teeth like fine chain strands, with weight and purpose, as all of Bruja Madoli had.

“How have you been since I last visited you, Bruja Madoli?”

The words that came were in forgotten Old Spanish, but the thoughts were clear to any she spoke to.

“It has been a good moment.”

It had been at least a year since Wanderer’s last visit.

“I watched a man’s life begin and end. I follower a raindrop from it’s conception. And witnessed a kitten play with the lace of a young girls shoe. A very fulfilling moment”

It had been at most a year and a half. But this is why Wanderer visited Bruja Madoli.

Her hair and cloak and mask all darkened and shimmered. Her calm surface looked like magma slowly settling.

“It sounds like you’ve witnessed some adventures, Bruja Madoli.”

“Si. And have you?”

Wanderer froze, comb deep in the celestial witch’s hair. This had never happened. Bruja Madoli had never asked a personal question before.

A moment passed, what could be a lifetime for both parties. Wanderer regained his composure, smoothly pulling the comb free, stroking again. A sound came from Bruja Madoli. It might have been a giggle, or a pulsar rotating a dozen times. Who could tell?

“Bruja Madoli, you must have seen my adventures, even those that have yet to happen.”

“No…” She replied “I save those. For after your death. Neither of us shall know. What a surprise?”

Bruja Madoli’s porcelain eyes squinted on her smooth featureless face into what could only be understood as a smile.

Wanderer smiled as well, fully aware that she could see him standing behind her.

“I agree. Bruja Madoli, what can I fetch you to eat?”

She paused, and produced a long fingered hand from beneath her robe, touching a talon to the part of her mask where a chin would be.

“I crave… An apple… And fire.”

Wanderer sat in front of Bruja Madoli and produced an apple from his bag. He cut it into thin slices and placed them in a silver bowl, handing it to her, and never breaking eye contact until it was firmly in her hands. She picked the slices up one by one. They dissolved in her fingers until half were gone, and proposed to save the other half until lunch.

He then lit an old match, the kind that hadn’t been made since before the fuel crisis two hundred years ago. The flame lifted from its stick and floated to her mask, where a mouth bubbled into existence and flame vanished inside, as mouth vanished in suit. Her eyes smiled again. She seemed to appreciate the vintage.

“That was very good. You spoil me Wanderer. Almost none of my visitors still present such traditional and quality gifts. What can I do for you, nameless friend?”

“There’s a wolf following me, Bruja. His pack is the biggest in the galaxy. His claws are sharp and long. His fangs gnashing. Why does he hunt me and mine?”

“Why does a wolf hunt? To feed. And become stronger by taking the power of it’s prey. You have something The Admiral wants. All of our kind do.”

Wanderer woke up in his bunk, empty silver bowl at his feet.

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

Text

3 Days in the Desert

This is a little WIP I’ve got to finish.

Wanderer has been seeking guidance on a problem he’s facing. His old friend, a seer on Mars, has a good chance of divining a solution for him. The problem is finding him somewhere in the vast deserts of Mars.

Three days, Wanderer had been holding his namesake in the deserts of Noachis Terra. The basalt dunes shifted and sank underfoot. The ancient sand knew many things from millennia of listening to the murmuring winds of Mars. One thing they were reluctant to share was information regarding the acquisition of water, or the location of the seer Wanderer had been seeking.

His old friend Rickert could speak to the sand, and the stones, and what little life scratched out an existence here. Wanderer once tried to learn to speak with Mars, but it all came at once. The voices of Mars are loud and many. Without practice they could overwhelm an untrained mind , causing them to drift throughout the desert until thirst or hunger claimed a new voice. Wanderer would do his best not to tell his stories for the rest of time on the Martian surface. He needed shelter for the night, if not from the harsh desert, than from their unending words.

Wanderer pulled a ball from his pack and tossed it onto the black sand beside him. Upon contact it snapped and spun into a modest tent that could fit one. He then produced a small metal box, which accepted a capsule into a port on it's side. With the press of a button the box began seeping flames, warding off the encroaching dark and warming the tired traveler. All that was left is to fashion something to eat with one of his few remaining prevision, and try not to listen to the chanting of the stones around his camp.

The Martian dark is especially eerie, and even more so for the particular gifted individuals who can hear subtle muttering of the land.

“He's coming.” said the dry grass “It has fangs!” exclaimed a pebble. “They can read it, if asked of them.” “You'll never know how they died.” “Nine paces and he'll find his end.” “Took his bones! His bones!” “Whisper in his ear as he burns.” “The right eye forgot tears, but remember everything else.”

The night dragged on as Wanderer sipped his tea and scraped the last of the rehydrated stew from his cup. The comfort food had done little to ease his nerves. Shadows danced at the edge of his tent, prophesying relentlessly. One shadow caught Wanderer's eye. It stood still while the others quivered in the licking light of his fire.

“Ask! Ask! Ask!” screamed the choir of black sand. Wanderer shot to his feet, pistol in hand “Who's there?! Step in to the light! I only give one warning!”

“You know your light has no baring on me, friend, but I'll happily surrender if you make me a bowl of whatever you were cooking.” A figure stepped into the radius of the camp fire, light glistening off his foggy pale eyes and hairless head, his hands half raised in foux-surrender, and a grin from ear to ear.

“Rickert, you bastard! I almost put a hole in you!” Wanderer shouted with relief as he walked forward to hug the desert nomad. “I'll cook you whatever I can! It's good to see a friendly face out here.”

“And it is good to hear your voice again.” Rickert replied with a pat on Wanderer's back. He sat before the fire, placing his bladed walking stick on the sand at his feet, calm as the colossal dunes that surrounded the camp. “The desert has been restless tonight, have you heard it, friend?”

Rickert knew full well that was why Wanderer had been so jumpy. This was his way of poking fun at the voice he hadn't heard is so long. It would be difficult to get a chuckle out of a rock, so teasing a living friend must have been a rare commodity.

Wanderer pored a bit of the last of his water into a small silver pouch, compressed a bubble that was laminated into the side of the packaging and watched as steam rapidly spewed forth from the opening in it's top. “Yeah, they're pretty talkative. I don't remember them being so active last time I was here.” Wanderer replied, reaching out to Rickert's hand and placing the precious gift of lab-grown venison, hydroponicly raised vegetables, and off-world sourced mushrooms in his grasp.

“I would say it's because you're are growing in strength, that you can hear them so clearly, but there is more to it than that.” Rickert sipped his stew “This is really quite good my friend. But no, your clairvoyance is not the sole cause. The wind has been carrying new tales on it. Though I cannot discern it's meaning yet. They started three days ago. As much as I missed your voice and your stories of travel, I must ask, what have you brought with you, to my small red stone, my friend?

“I was hoping you could tell me...”

END CHAPTER

Morning came. Wanderer arose with first light to find Rickert perched cross-legged on a dune, gazing into the distance, towards Hellas Planitia, with unworking eyes. His silhouette of dark skin and dusted red robes blended perfectly with the obsidian sand and iron tinted particles frosting the tops of the drifts. Rickert was a child of Mars. He belonged here.

“Good morning, old friend. Rest well?” spoke the shadow.

“Surprisingly well, considering the ground I slept on kept complaining about lost coins and a feathered serpent all night.” Came the groggy reply.

“Sounds important. Would you like breakfast, my friend?”

Wanderer looked around to notice an empty pan placed atop his camp stove, and no sign of previsions. “Rickert, I don't know how you survive out here, but I can't photosynthesize like you must be able to. Where does one find somethin' to eat in a place this harsh.”

“all one must do...” Rickert raised his hands from his lap to his chest, fingers together as if in some offering of prayer or meditation. His spear cradled in the notch created between his thumbs and index fingers. The ritualistic charms and beads hanging near the knife's edge glistened in the morning sun. “Is listen.” And with that he lobbed the spear in a high arc.

“...Could you get that for me?”

Wanderer trudged through the sand to find the spear perfectly vertical, like a spire framed by the rising sun. Reluctantly, the shaft lifted from sand and at it's end is a strange looking lizard, covered in feather-like scales. It hung lifelessly as Wanderer hoists the spear over his shoulder and walks back up the dune. “Ok, I'm listening. Teach me how to cook this iguana-chicken.”

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

Text

Wanderer of Sol - Business Chapter 2

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2

The loading ramp dropped it's last foot or so with a thump and a small cloud of dust. Robin said she'd get around to fixing that, but the crew had been strapped for cash. As Gomez and his men walked up the ramp, the idea of their deals on Mars going well crept into Robin's mind, and she thought to make good on fixing that door the next time they docked for more than an hour. Wanderer was flanked by the two girls he flew with, Gomez by two men who were big enough to be two men a piece. A little overkill, honestly.

“How you doing Jon?” Gomez reached out to Wanderer's waiting hand as they shook. His men rolled large containers behind them, filled with the objects of Wanderer's desire.

“I'm doing good Gomez. How's business?” Wanderer inquired, as Gomez's goons opened the containers for Wanderer to inspect.

“Eh, it could be better honestly. I'm running low on inventory, low on credits. I can't find buyers the way you can. I don't even know who would be interested in this crap. But they pay top dollar for it, if you manage to find them.” He explained while Wanderer rifled through the boxes.

“Hey, careful what you're calling 'crap', Gomez. We both know this stuff is premium, to the right clients. You'll find them, with experience, and making new connections.” Wanderer responded, hefting a tome, bound in some kind of unidentifiable skin, encrusted in empty sockets, the gems that once adorned it had been pawned long ago, leaving behind nothing but vellum and ink to be appraised by those who knew it's true value.

“Very true, Jon. And that reminds me, I wanted to ask. How do you not have any security, hauling valuable antiques all over the system? Don't you have run-ins with the pirate federations?” Gomez asked while watching Wanderer sort the goods into piles that only he understood.

“We've got Security. Head Security Officer Munin's right there. You've met her, before.” Wanderer pointed over his shoulder lazily with this thumb. Gomez smirked a little until he realized she was leaning on a long club with nails driven through it in odd and crooked angles. She just shot him a look that could kill and he turned away from her, back to Wanderer. “And I've bought favor with a few pirate fleets over the past few years. Anyone who's terf we pass through, at least. Decent people, pirates. That and they're terrified of me. This all looks pretty good, everything I asked for is here. Let me show you what I've got and we can get this trade underway.”

Wanderer lead Gomez past Munin, who looked like she was ready to swing her bat as his head, to a large cargo container. “Everything in this container is in the price range you specified and is more or less one to one with everything you've brought to trade” He explained as he popped the lock on the container, showing walls of books surrounding boxes and crates full of strange statues, antique swords and rifles, and bones from unspecified creatures any would be hard pressed to identify. Gomez could only let out a “Wow” as Wanderer continued. “If you're looking for something in a higher or lower price range, I've got other containers.”

“That's a lot of inventory, Jon.” Gomez said, taking off his sunglasses, and replacing them with prescription reading glasses to skim over the contents. “I'll take all of it.”

“I donno if you heard me correctly. Each item in here is worth the same as one of your items. Now, if you've got enough credits for a few thousand books and everything in these crates then-” Gomez put his glasses back in his pocket while interrupting Wanderer mid-sentence.

“No, I heard you. I said, I'll take it all. Jon, I hate to do this to you, but this is a robbery. You honestly can't expect one girl with a bat to be a real deterrent when dealing with something of this value. I have word that there's a new buyer entering the market and I have to establish a name for myself in this trade, and you've got a collection worthy of making a name for anyone.” Gomez explained, pulling a gun from his coat and pointing it at Wanderer's chest. Wanderer raised his hands slowly above his head. With Gomez standing in the entrance of the container, it would be difficult if not impossible for Wanderer to safely disarm him, or find a way past him, to his security officer, and there was no way he could move fast enough to get behind one of the boxes. For the moment he was a hostage in his own ship, at the gunpoint of someone he had hoped to do business with in the future. Unfortunate.

“And not to be unprofessional...” Gomez continued “But we can't have anyone knowing where my new inventory came from. It might tarnish the name I'm trying to make. And thankfully, 'Jon Dillir' doesn't exist in any citizenship records, so no one would miss you, or your ship. So Jon, or whoever you are, if you have any last words, or prayers, I'll give you the chance to say them, then I'll make it quick and painless. Though I can't say the same for the girl with the bat” He said, aiming the pistol between Wanderer's eyes. With a crack, the two goons approached Munin slowly, extended taser rods from their coats, igniting them into a shower of sparks and arcing electrons. Munin was more than ready to throw herself at both of the mountains of muscle stalking up to her, one step at a time, but she knew she had better let Wanderer say his prayer first. And he did.

Wanderer closed his eyes and began to whisper. The words were so soft, even Gomez couldn't hear them at point blank. Not that he would know the ancient words that lifted from Wanderer's lips. They weren't for him, and they certainly weren't for any god. “Alright. I'm ready if you are.” Wanderer said, staring into the eyes of the man who would kill him.

“Thanks for letting me know you were done. It's been good doing business with you, kid.” Gomez replied. He pulled the trigger only to hear an empty click. He pulled again, and nothing. A few more times and nothing. Cocking the gun again ejected a dud round, and another click, and another. “The fuck?” Gomez asked aloud just before there was the first and only bang. He dropped to his knees and held his leg. Robin was standing off to the side, brandishing her pistol in his general direction. That shot was like the signal to start a race, as Munin leapt at the closer of her two attackers, never even looking back to see if Wanderer was alive. She brought the bat across his face in a gorey eruption of red and sparks, as the side of the mountain caved in like a defunct volcano. The look on her face was manic and blissful as the brute's cybernetic implant got tangled in the nails of her bat, and came out with a swift yank and the spurt of more blood.

Wanderer casually walked over his would be killer and snatched up his pistol, ejecting the remainder of the clip onto the floor, before pushing out a pin and pulling the slide off the top. The whole time, walking out of the container and towards Munin, he resumed whispering at a fast pace, his arm extended to the remaining attacker. As the other man brought his stun baton down on Munin, the spark fizzled and died with the completion of Wanderer's prayer. He had just hit a murderous anarchist with what was little more than a plastic rod. She pulled a knife from her boot and swiftly jabbed it between his legs, as he promptly dropped to his knees and bled for her.

Wanderer turned his attention back to the crippled Gomez who was muttering something to himself, now that the threat was taken care of.

“Where the fuck did that bitch who shot me even come from?!” He screamed loud enough for her to hear.

“I'm wearing my gray glamourred overalls. The second you guys started paying attention to Munin you totally forgot I was even here.” She explained before returning a question. “Don't you read the stuff you sell? It's like one of the most basic of the basics.”

“That bullshit about magic? It's all bullshit that rich gullible fucks buy.” He replied while clutching his bleeding leg and cursing.

“Sure, man. Did you see what just happened to you? I mean, fuck. Munin's turning your boyfriends into soup as we speak.” She said walking across the room to confront Gomez up close, and to put her back to Munin's repeated bashing of the corpses laying near the loading ramp. Gomez had actually already forgotten who he was talking to until she was standing right in front of him.

“It's true Gomez. I wasn't telling you I was ready to be shot, I was telling her that I had successfully jinxed your gun and she was clear to take the shot. Then I turned off your goon's cattle prod with the same kind of jinx.” Wanderer wanted to be clear, this all went according to his plan, not Gomez's. “Now I've indulged you with one truth. Your turn to tell me everything you know about this new buyer in the system.” Wanderer thought his proposition was fair, but Gomez was still sore about the happenings as he promptly told everyone there to go fuck themselves.

“You don't know shit, 'Jon', or whatever the fuck your real name is.” Gomez was fuming that he had gotten his ass kicked so hard.

“Gomez. You're real name is Francisco Mortim Santos. AKA, Frank, Mory, Mort, Fred, Mark and like a dozen other boring names. Your family are immigrants from the Beja-Faro Republic of Lesser Portugal on Earth. Moved to Mars when you were 6. A few years ago your dad died and you actually sold your own mother for medical testing. That's fucked, Gomez. You're also wanted on several planets, moons, and satellites for everything from blackmail to murder. Eh, you've probably done worse, huh?” Wanderer had began to reveal some of the research he had done going into the deal, but Gomez was just saying “fuck” over and over again with every fact dropped in his lap. “So how about this. You tell me everything you know about this new client you want to impress so much, and I don't drop you off at the nearest police station with all the files and identification documents I dug up on you? You can just hobble out of here, scot-free.”

“Go fuck yourself, Jonny.” Crept out of Gomez's mouth between waves of pain. Robin was pretty sure her bullet was lodged in his shin bone.

“Let me make him talk.” Munin said, prying her bat out of the puddle of gore and machine near the loading ramp. “These guys are fuckin' cheap androids. I need some real blood before the day's over. Not this synthetic shit!” She yelled, hitting the bat into the side of the container housing Gomez. Wanderer wasn't sure if the bloodlust in her eyes was real or if she was putting on a good act to scare him. He was pretty sure, before the fighting broke out, that those guys were androids. Robin thought it was obvious. Regardless, she was getting blood all over the container, and it was probably best if Wanderer tried to keep her calm. “Munin, chill. That's not very professional of a Head Securi-” She brought her bat down on Gomez's hand with a audible crunch. Robin winced and turned away as Munin twisted the nails embedded in his hand and he let out a drawn out scream.

“Alright, Gomez. I'm a pretty busy lady. We've got two more deals after this. I have to go clean all this blood off and do laundry before that, and adding your brains to my coat won't take any more detergent. Tell the man what he wants to know and I'll only brake one of your legs. I'm feeling nice, so the one that's already fucked. Sound good?” Munin thought her ultimatum was completely reasonable, but the next words that came out of Gomez were “What the fuck is wrong with you?” and that was not the correct answer. Wanderer had already turned his back to Munin, knowing how into her work she can get.

After that, Gomez was ready to talk.

“Ceres! The planetoid just changed hands, and word has it, fuck, word has it that the guys who bought it are really into this shit. They're loaded, but they won't deal with just anyone. They said they want people who can prove they're passionate about the product. Fuck me. I think I'm gonna puke.” Gomez spilled his guts, both figuratively and literally.

“Huh, well, that's the first I've heard of this. Gomez, today's your lucky day.” Wanderer explained to him. “I'm keeping this small stack of books that interests me, as compensation for all the emotional distress you've caused me and my crew. And I'm keeping this container to pay for the damage you've caused to my cargo with all the bleeding and vomiting and stuff. The other container of yours is still yours to keep. If you pawn it off you should be able to afford medical attention for your leg and hand. Munin, you want to show Mr. Santos the door, and I'll start getting laundry together and request launch clearance?” Wanderer stated in a pretty matter of fact tone. Munin was already picking Gomez up by the back of his shirt and dragging him towards the loading ramp. She passed Wanderer with an affirming “Sure thing, Captain.”

He responded with a casual “Awesome, thanks. I'll get the hot water started for a shower too. I really don't want you tracking viscera all over the ship again, and you need to be presentable when we land in Sacra Fossae.”

“Sweet. That's kind of you boss.” She replied, throwing Gomez the full length of the loading ramp onto the pavement, then kicking his container at him. “I'll clean up this mess, then I'll be up.”

Wanderer made his way back towards the common area and hesitated outside Robin's room. “Hey, Robin. How you doing?” He asked, shouting into her room through the door. The door slid open and Robin appeared. She had changed out of her work clothes and into something more comfy.

“I'm good, Wanderer. That got a little rough, and I threw up on my enchanted overalls when Munin went all blood lusty. But I'll be ok. Just another day in the life, when you're a boat full of mages dealing with criminals and miscreants.” Robin was a little shaken. She didn't have a problem shooting someone, she'd done it before, but she preferred quick and painless, non-lethal if possible. This was the opposite of Munin in every way.

“Well, I'm about to do some wash, if you want to throw you're overalls in there. I'm using the enchanted soap, so you don't have to worry about all the blood on Munin's stuff staining.” He explained. Making casual conversation was probably the second best way he knew, excluding casting a spell on her to keep Robin relaxed and not over thinking the ordeal they just had. The first best way was to keep her mind preoccupied, which is why he then handed her a book he had taken from Gomez. “I thought you might find this interesting. Thanks for having my back today.” He gave her a smile as his grasp left the book.

Robin's eye's lit up. The book wasn't nearly as old as most of the others from the collection, but it was exactly the kind of thing she would enjoy. An old programming text book, maybe only a couple hundred years old, still in decent condition. Flipping though it's pages, it was littered with loose leaves and notes in the margins, all about technomancy. It was so hard for Robin to find research material on her unconventional school of the arcane arts, but somehow Wanderer always found exactly what she was looking for.

“No problem, and thanks man. This is awesome.” She had already cracked open the cover to give it a proper read. Her eyes were transfixed as they followed line by line.

“Hey, I'm going to get air traffic control taken care of, then laundry. Don't forget your overalls. Robin, I can see you're already in a trance. Witch, you in there?!” Wanderer tried for a moment before giving up, walking into the bathroom, to turn on the water heater, and heading to the pilot's cabin to call in their refueling and launch request. Soon they would be back in the air, but if Wanderer managed his time correctly, it would be just enough time to get some chores done and resupply before having to pay any additional parking fees.

Chapter 3 here

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wanderer-of-sol · 3 years

Text

Wanderer of Sol - Business Chapter 1

Here’s a little taste of a novel I’ve been working on in my spare time.

Chapter1

Wanderer had found himself on this table a dozen or more times before. It was dark as pitch, but he could feel the cold stainless steel work surface chill his back and fingertips through the haze of general anesthetics. Muttered and muddied words struggled to meet his ears, wading through the fog of his mind, and blackness of his vision. No amount of effort would allow him to open his eyes, or feel his face. A buzzing, burrowing sound rattled in his skull, chattering his teeth against the plastic tapping of a breathing tube invading his throat and lungs. Time passed at a trickle, and Wanderer lost track of the sounds and sensations violating his unmoving shell. Suddenly a stitch of light poured in through the darkness, in one eye. Pixels and artifacts flashed before him. It was like dreaming of meaningless text and menus as they floated into his consciousness. Nothing was in focus, not even his mind. He could hear the pulsing of life monitoring equipment and the muttering sharpened into words.

“That should do it. Let's get the other one out and replaced, then we'll work on removing the first arm. The other teams are backed up with limb enhancement, so we might as well lend them a hand, so to speak.” The voice let out a quiet half-laugh, but was calm and cold as it echoed. It had done this a dozen or more times before.

A moment later a distant frantic chirping could be heard, like a cat had snatched a sparrow from the air. Then another was caught much closer.

“Doctor, something's wrong with the anesthetic machine. The gas levels are dropping rapidly. There may be a leak!” Came another voice, as Wanderer was greeted with pounding soreness.

“Well, find the leak and replace the tank, asap! You know how hard it is to keep these things sedated!” The voice barked, as if trying to scare away the cats. It began to lose it's cool and calm tone as more and more machines started to chirp their warning alarms all around Wanderer.

As he regained feeling to his face and control over his eyes, sight came back, fuzzy in one eye. The other eye's vision was obscured with invisible shapes, and text flash by as it displayed “Initial setup” in his mind. Above him floated a familiar visage, in the reflective focusing plate of the operation light. Thin cuts bled lightly around his right eye. A portion of his light brown hair was removed, in preparation for who knew what. The only clues were the black marker on his lightly tanned skin, directing where and how to cut to the uncaring voices that scrambled around him. His beard was much longer and messier than he had remembered it being. That somehow made sense to him, as he felt like he had been sleeping for so long before waking up where he was.

The chirping grew louder and more frantic as the voices in the room, separated by curtains hanging from the ceiling and lightly muffled by medical face masks, grew louder and more frantic in turn. All attention on him was lost as he pulled the tube from his throat with a cough. Sitting on the edge of what felt like a mortuary's examination table, Wanderer's gaze drifted to what he felt was the center of the room. Something drew him there as the separating curtains started to shift and billow towards him. The only warning of what came next was the sudden flying bodies of doctors, nurses and those they worked on, along with the tables they rested on and tools used on them. They came in a wave as Wanderer's own table was lifted and thrown in turn. He sailed through the air with scalpels and bone saws as his vision was taken up by the rapidly approaching floor.

With a start, Wanderer jumped awake. It had happened like this a dozen or more times before.

“What the fuck's your problem, Wanderer?” Came a familiar voice. Wanderer's eyes focused much faster than they had for him moments ago. The girl sitting beside him was colorful in the way of a poisonous animal, but also foreboding like a raven. Her hair, or what remained of it, was trimmed into a mohawk with a blade of blue, violet and deep red down the center, and short black scruff on the sides. Her eyes were a piercing brown that burned a hole into Wanderer. Her ripped and torn clothes were stitched together to compensate for the scars of many bar brawls, dirty jobs gone poorly, and questionable fashion choices. Even in the year 2422, punk was alive and well in this woman.

“I'm fine, Munin. Just that fuckin' dream again.” Wanderer explained, rubbing his face with both hands, in attempts to brush off the grog left by his nap.

“Great. So I guess we'll be turning around and scheduling a trip for Venus soon?” She seemed annoyed to say the least.

“No, I'm good. We've got places to be and deadlines to make. I just need some coffee. Where are we?” Wanderer replied, stretching his arms in the cramped pilot's cabin. There was an audible pop and a sigh somewhere between relief and pain.

“Like, ten minutes from entering Martian atmosphere. Maybe half an hour from Sulci Gordii Port. I already called in docking with Olympus Mons air traffic while you slacked off.” The evidence of her annoyance was beginning to become clear. Wanderer didn't realized how long he had been out.

“I can take us down, if you want.” He rationed, attempting to get on her good side, but she wasn't having that.

“Nope. Go get yourself some brew. You're useless to me as a captain if you're fuckin' falling asleep.” She wasn't even looking at him any more. Her eyes were on her screen and her hands were finding the switches needed to adjust shields for entry, and line up her orbit to get them where they needed to be. “And call Gomez once you can string together a sentence without yawning. We don't have the funds to sit around in port an extra hour waiting for him to bring the fuckin' goods to the dock.” She added, before switching on the comms and confirming her landing request. Wanderer was always amazed at her ability to sound like a cold hard bitch when talking to him, but a decently sweet thing when chatting to the girl on air traffic control.

Wanderer found his way to the common area with one final yawn and discovered what looked like the coffee maker scattered out in parts across the kitchen table. Above it stood his other crew mate, with a screwdriver in one hand and a crystal pendulum draped in the other. All he could do was ask, “Ah, Robin? What's up with all this?” as his mind was still waking up.

“Oh, hey man. Uh. Well, he wasn't feeling well, so I decided to preform surgery while you were sleeping. I didn't expect it to take this long, but I dropped a screw and it rolled into the vents so I had to take apart the grav-pads on the floor to find it. And when I did, some other screws floated away. Long story short, we're about to find the source of this guy's upset tummy and I'll slap him back together in no time.” She explained while dangling the pendulum over the exploded layout of heating coils and PCB boards. To any normal person she would appear insane, but Wanderer had been traveling with Robin for a couple years now, and she was an expert in things he only had a cursory understanding in. And for Wanderer to only have a cursory understanding in anything of the sort was rare.

“Well, that's good. Anyway, did you make a fresh pot before starting the operation?” He inquired, while wondering if there was any instant left. Or maybe tea. He wasn't picky at this point in time.

“Um, that probably would have been a good idea. Here, you can finish mine if you want.” She said, before putting the screwdriver in her teeth like a pirate holding a dagger, picking up her half drank mug and tapping it down in front of Wanderer. “Ah ha!” she let out, half muffled by the screwdriver as she took it back to her hand. The pendulum's cord pulled tight, contradicting the suggestions given by gravity, pointing directly what Robin diagnosed as a damaged connection leading to the heating coil. “Just found the problem. If you want to wait fifteen I'll have him back together and brewing a new pot.” The goggles she dawned for the surgery amplified the size and brilliance of her blue-green eyes, before she flipped down the tinted welding lenses. It's strap around the back of her head bunched her hair into random tufts of light brown. To be honest, at the moment she looked a little like a mad scientist standing over the Frankenstein's monster of a kitchen appliance.

“Thanks, I'll take yours. I've got to call Gomez in a minute.” Wanderer responded, picking up her mug and walking towards his room, away from the small flying sparks and wafting smoke.

Sipping the coffee gave him a sudden jolt of energy and clarity. It was cold and about half as sweet as he'd like, but it had a certain kick only someone like him could put their finger on. He took another sip, and swirled the remaining shallow cloud of heavily creamed coffee, revealing a peculiar set of lines at the bottom of the mug. Probably the remnants of some artificial sweetening gel, like synthesized syrup or molasses. Time to call Gomez.

“Yeah, hi. This is Jon Dillir. I spoke to you about a shipment.” The voice of “Gomez” on the other line must not have minded that Wanderer was using an alias. Dealing in such rare and potentially dangerous things often prompted Wanderer to take names like Jon, or Bill. The fact that no one knew his name could always be a boon to Wanderer. The fact that he, himself, didn't know his real name was rarely anything more than an inconvenience, even if the question did hold a weight in his mind.

“Yeah, we'll be docking shortly, and we're in a bit of a rush, so... Yeah, of course I have goods to trade as well as credits. Yeah, untraceable. You know me Gomez. We're both professionals here. I'll see you at dock thirteen in a few minutes. We'll deal in my cargo bay away from prying eyes... No I don't mind if you bring some guys. Mi casa es tu casa, Gomez.” Wanderer said as he hung up. Gomez was being a pain in the ass. The few times they had done business before had gone smoothly, if not a little tense. Gomez was new to the trade, but brought decent items to the table. Why Gomez would want to bring some extra muscle onto Wanderer's ship was unclear, but Wanderer had done business under worse stress and peril.

Chapter 2 here

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