As the Ghost’s cargo ramp lowers, Wil looks over at Bennie. “You all set?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” the Brailack asks, then starts off down the ramp.
The spaceport, on the surface, looks just like any other on Fury; kind of dingy, only maintained just enough to keep from being condemned, overcrowded with ships, both working and not, with aliens of all types milling around.
“Bennie, is there a market outside this spaceport? I did not see one when reviewing the sensor data,” Gabe says, joining the hacker on the duracrete surface of the spaceport. Bennie wiggles one hand in the universal so-so gesture.
As Wil joins them, the cargo ramp raises. Over the comms, Zephyr says, “Good luck. Don’t let Xarrix swindle us.”
Wil tuts. “Come on, son,” he says in a deeper voice than his normal one.
Bennie looks up at him. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“Never mind. Come on.” Wil starts off towards the exit of the spaceport.
* * *
“Wow, this is like frontier land, but with aliens,” Wil says. The city beyond the walls of the spaceport is a weird mix of modern and rustic. In the distance, the main residential area is a series of mid-height towers, made of polished stone of some type. The immediate area around the port is full of wooden warehouses and commercial buildings, of various designs and levels of upkeep.
Most of the people on the street are in red velvety robes, with hoods up over their heads. Visitors stand out, a lot. “Should we procure robes?” Gabe asks.
Wil shakes his head. “No, it’s probably good we stand out a bit. I’d rather look like any other visitor, than someone trying to blend in.” He glances at a robed figure walking by them. “Plus those look really hot.” He brushes his brown duster open, adjusting the gun belt on his hip. His heavy armor is back aboard the Ghost, since the likelihood of a firefight seems low—plus he hasn’t entirely gotten used to Jarvis.
“So, what do these folks do? You know, when not praying and stuff,” Wil asks, glancing down at Bennie, then back to the street. Small wheeled cars are bustling up and down the road, some towing small trailers.
“Farm,” Bennie offers.
“What do they farm?” Gabe asks. “I was not aware of agriculture on Fury.”
“Goju.”
“Come again?” Wil says.
Gabe replies: “Goju is a fungus that performs exceptionally well in arid environments like that found here on Fury. I am surprised it is not more prevalent, to be honest.”
“That light brown stuff? Looks like tofu?” Wil asks, remembering that there’s a large container in one of the cupboards, left over from before Wil came aboard the Ghos—back when it was still the Reaper, under the command of Lanksham, the smuggler who saved him from dying alone in his damaged space-pod.
“I do not know what tofu is, but yes, goju is light brown. It can be prepared many ways and is a staple protein on less wealthy worlds.”
“This way,” Bennie says, turning left down a side street, following the map on his wristcomm. “Goju tastes like feet. If I never eat it again, it’ll be too soon.” He looks up at Wil. “You’ve probably eaten a ton of it, if you ever ate in a restaurant on this planet. It’s everywhere.”
“The things you learn,” Wil says.
“Indeed,” Gabe replies. Then the droid turns his head. “Captain, I believe we are being followed.”
Wil turns his own head slightly, trying to look as if he’s examining something in the shop window they’re passing.
“Smooth,” Bennie says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Shut it,” Wil mumbles, then takes a quick glance behind them. Without moving his mouth too much, he says, “I couldn’t see anything.”
“Four beings, approximately one hundred meters behind us.”
“Wow, that’s some distance,” Wil says, then looks up at Gabe, a full head and a half taller than him. “Guess it wouldn’t be that hard to keep tabs on us, bean pole.”
Bennie cranes his neck. “Yeah, you kind stand out, Gabe.”
Gabe is silent for a minute as they continue down the street, then says, “I believe I can remedy that.” With some whirs and clicks, Gabe begins shrinking with each step, until he’s the same height as Wil. “We should take a slight detour before our pursuers reacquire us in their sights.” He takes a right down a narrow alley. Wil and Bennie hurry to keep up.
“Man, you’re just full of all kind of tricks,” Wil pants. “Those—what did you call them? Originals?—must have been all kinds of fun at parties back in super robot intelligence land.”
Gabe studies his friend, “Nothing in the data I had access to indicated that the Originals engaged in partying. All indications point to them being a ruling class of cybernetic intelligence. I suspect they took their role quite seriously.
Bennie chuckles, but continues walking. “Come on, we’re almost there.”
* * *
“What is that phrase Wil uses? Penny for your thoughts,” Maxim says, sitting at the kitchenette table across from Zephyr, who’s been sitting there silently for several centocks now, slowly spinning her glass of water.
“Has he ever said what a ‘penny’ is? They must be tremendously valuable, to be offered in exchange for one’s thoughts,” Zephyr replies. Maxim shakes his head: no. “I was thinking about what we talked about back on Brai. I mean, here we are working for Xarrix again, when it didn’t end so well last time.”
“To be fair, in a way, it did—end well, that is. I mean, we rescued Gabe, cleared our names, saved the Harrith system from being forced to join the GC, and exposed a massive conspiracy within the GC and Peacekeepers.” The big man shrugs. “That’s not nothing.”
Zephyr nods. “You’re right. On the larger scale, we did a tremendous amount of good. On the smaller scale, we nearly died—more than once—we were hunted by the Consortium for months, and we really didn’t get paid all that well.”
Maxim takes the glass from his companion, drinks the last of it, and gets up to put the empty glass in the cleaning unit. “I never thought I’d worry so much about money.”
“Me either.”