The Skirax Belcher Gig

“Mint in crate? What exactly do you mean by ‘mint in crate?’” I had not wanted to take this meeting, but when a well-paying client asks you as a favor, you damn well better not pass. Still… kitra noi, what is this guy babbling about? He clears his throat, and glances wearily through the window out of our private booth. Sweat beads on his brow, which is an accomplishment considering the weather outside. “Ah, well, exactly as it sounds: the item in question was to be kept in pristine manufacturer’s condition. Removing it from its crate would greatly reduce the collectability and resale -“ “Okay, okay,” I interrupt. “So, you want to keep it pretty.” Who buys a brand new gun to keep in its box? Apparently, this guy. “Is there much, uh, ‘collectability,’ in new weapons?” “Oh, very much so. Vintage firearms are often of a known-scarcity, thus making pricing predictable. However, the volatility of the speculative market results in -“ “Sure,” I cut him off again. “I don’t understand it, personally, but sure.” I’m being rude, which isn’t abnormal in-and-of itself, but I’m acutely aware of it right now. Usually, people get offended by this point; this guy’s too busy fretting about his stolen gun to really notice. “So, what do you want me to do about it?” He sips his drink. It doesn’t go down easy, and he rubs his chest. I don’t think Mr. Kurio here is used to the non-top shelf stuff. “Our mutual acquaintance was certain you were the man for the job. He assured me that you have found numerous lost treasures, despite ample danger, and always with great discretion. Is that not the case?” I grin. “Well, he ain’t wrong about any of that. Problem is, I usually deal with old junk. Stuff buried in abandoned wrecks or forgotten temples. That kind of crap.” My comm buzzes again: Aeronok keeps texting about a fuel surcharge, the kind of nonsense he specializes in having fits about. We’re good for it, so I’ll let him sort it out. “I don’t usually run down thieves. Too much shooting back. If these guys were willing to hijack your cargo container right off the hull of your ship, I’m not sensing that they’ll be particularly keen to part with it again on peaceful terms, right?” He screws his face up in what looks like a mixture of irritation and indigestion. That certainly ticked him off. “Now, Mr. Legate -“ “Oh, please, call me Tresor. Mister is so formal.” I take a swig. The drink stinks, but I didn’t pay for it. He sighs. “Sir, if this is all a joke to you, I’ll take my leave and find someone serious. You may keep the deposit.” That perks me up. “Uh, ‘scuse me? Did you say deposit?” “Yes, ‘deposit.’ I was told you usually require one before beginning work. Don’t tell me you didn’t receive it?” Oh, I received it all right. “Uh, no, it came through just fine.” I’ve taken suicide jobs that paid less than this so-called deposit. “Ah, ‘bout how much were you thinking for the whole gig?” “Isn’t your deposit a standard ten percent?” Ten. Percent. By the Spire, that was… “Yep, sure thing. I’m in. We do charge for excess fuel if going over two tank-fulls.” “Fine.” “And any landing permits, lane fees, or entry taxes we incur are paid by the client.” “Yes, of course.” “Ship munitions are expensed at a flat rate of -“ He waived his hand. “Yes, yes, Mr. Legate, fine. Any ancillary bills can be sent to my accountant. You’ll do the job?” “Any Union involvement? Concordance?” “If so, I would have dealt with them directly. Again, are you agreeing -“ “Most definitely, I am onboard.” I grab his hand with both of mine and give it a good shake. This may not turn out so bad after all. He looks slightly relieved. Slightly. He doesn’t seem to like the handshake, so I only hold it a moment longer before letting go. “Excellent. I’ve made arrangements for you to speak with the artisan who crafted the piece.” He starts tapping away at his very fancy comm. “Uh, sure, you want to give me his number, and I’ll reach out?” Other than an image of the thing, I don’t really need anything from the guy who built it. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. He’ll be on the holo momentarily.” With that, his wrist display lit up, sending a projection floating into the air between us. Well, scrap. “Uh, hello? Hello? Are you there? Hello?” There’s what looks like a ceiling, and the sound of someone tapping on the mic at the other end. “Great, this is why I don’t talk to anyone -“ “We’re here, Mazabot,” Kurio replies. “I believe you have your camera pointed up.” “What? Oh, okay.” The view changes, and a harried-looking Drin, with a patch over his first left eye, suddenly fills the air. “Can you hear me now? I had to charge this communicator. I don’t like talking to nobody, so it died. Can’t tell if it’s working, I’ll have to reassemble it.” I’m pretty sure I’ve raised one eyebrow up and out of the stratosphere, but my most recent employer is enraptured. I guess he’s fanboying. “That’s quite alright, Mazabot,” he says with a forced chuckle. “In most situations, I’m sure your genius doesn’t require such trivial matters as, uh… speaking.” “Nope.” “Yes. Well then.” Kurio gestures my way. “I have Mr. Tresor Legate here with me. He’s agreed to pursue your stolen work of art, and return it to my collection.” “Ah, yap.” Mazabot: Drin of few words. I’ve known a few Drin; smart folks, weirdly good at building all kinds of oddball gizmos. Social graces tend to be… lacking? Most of them are perfectly peaceful, but they just want to be left alone doing what they do, and they’re not afraid to tell you to get lost. I hate to generalize, but it’s the truth. I think that’s why you find them scattered all over the galaxy: the further they get from each other, the less they need to talk to anybody. Case in point, the loquacious one. “Mazabot, would you be so accommodating as to send over the images you have of the weapon? And, perhaps, describe its unique operation to Mr. Legate?” I would say this guy is a suck up, but I’m pretty sure he’s legitimately fawning here. “Yup. Picture.” Like I said, I’ve seen Drin handiwork before: it ain’t usually the prettiest. Function trumps form every time. But, based on what Kurio had told me, as well as the astonishingly high price he had paid at auction, I expected… well. Not this. I squint at the projection, trying to comprehend what’s in front of me. “What is that, a flamethrower?” There’s tubes and canisters all over the thing. The frame looks bolted together from random junk. I’m pretty sure there’s an exhaust pipe from a ‘27 Fonta in there. It’s utterly bonkers. “PFFT. It’s nothing like a flamethrower,” Mazabot indignantly replies. Kurio looks cross again, shooting daggers at me from across the table. Mazabot’s face reappears, mouth all screwed up, thinking. His long ears twitch. “Well, actually… it’s almost exactly like a flamethrower.” Kurio is grinning ear to ear. “Mazabot, would you elaborate on what sets the Belcher apart from common weaponry?” “The Belcher?” I ask, incredulously. Mazabot pipes up. “Yeah, the Skirax Belcher. Ya’ ever heard of a Skirax?” Oh yeah, I’m familiar with the Skirax. Squirmy little slug buggers, a foot long and prone to attempting to cuddle. Aside from being gross, there’s one minor problem with that: Skirax venom is insanely caustic. It can burn through damn near anything, which is why it cost me the lower deck of a starship. And the replacement value of a landing pad. And reparations to a fuel tender that was idling underneath. The Drin like to keep them as pets. “Uh, yeah, I think I’ve heard of them,” I casually lie. Kurio continued for him. “The Skirax’s venom is remarkable, but due to its rarity-“ “You ever try milking a slug?” “- and the difficulties in storing it -“ “Smelting adamontious is even harder.” “ - its applications have been… limited.” Mazabot shrugs. “You never know. So, I keep some handy.” I squint. “You keep dangerous death goo around… because it might come in ‘handy’?” My turn to shrug. “Fair enough.” Kurio is beaming. He clearly loves this stuff. “Mazabot constructed the Belcher to propel a stream of Skirax venom up to twelve meters, making it a potent offensive weapon.” “It’ll burn a hole in a cruiser’s plating in about four seconds,” Mazabot mutters, chewing on a protein bar. “Not that I tried or nothing.” I rub my forehead. I’m clearly missing an important detail. “I get all that. But what good is this thing when you run out of Skirax slime?” I look between the two of them. “You just pop into the nearest exotic animal shop and ask to squeeze their death slug for a few months?” Kurio gets a giant grin on his face. Seriously, I feel like he’s going to ‘squee’ at me at any moment. Or eat my face, could go either way. “And that, Mr. Legate, is where Mazabot’s most spectacular of ideas reveals its genius. Go on, Mazabot, don’t be so humble,” he cajoles the Drin. Mazabot stops smacking his lips on the protein bar. “Ah, I made a canister that can generate thousands of gallons of venom from a single drop.” He keeps chewing, just a little. “You can generate more venom… from nothing?” A burp reverberates through the comm. These guys definitely like being alone. “Yeah, uh, not from nothing. From something, but not a lot of something.” I’m used to Drin understatedly creating pretty wild inventions, but this is next-level. “You just… invented it?” I ask, immediately regretting the question. “Okay, so, I was trying to find a way to duplicate barrow wine.” “Uh huh.” “But I didn’t have any to use as a sample.” “Uh huh.” “Cause I drank it all.” “Uh huh…” “So, I looked around.” “Uh huh.” “And I saw the slug juice.” “Uh huh…?” “So, I used the slug juice.” This is genuinely fascinating. Brilliantly moronic, but fascinating. “Huh. Let me recap: you wanted to replicate wine, but instead, you found a way to miraculously produce thousands of gallons of one of the most caustic chemicals in existence?” His four eyes blink. Well, I assume all four: there’s a patch on the one. “Yuh.” My turn to blink a few times. “How?” “Uh… not sure. I was drinking Dry Tabula while I worked, and I forgot to write anything down.” “And then you stuck it in a flameless flamethrower?” “It made sense at the time.” “Sure. Checks out.” Kurio rubs his hands together. “So, you see why the Belcher is so special, Mr. Legate. And why I would like to add it to my collection with utmost haste.” “Yeah, I get it. I would very much like to see it mint in crate and locked away in your private museum. Or The Vault. Or maybe a black hole. Something like that.” This thing is terrifying and needs to be off the board. “Okay, I’m gonna’ go now and find that gun. First: who was the auctioneer?” Kurio slides a business card across the tabletop. A swipe, and the planetary coordinates light up. “S. Mish’s Emporium of Rarities. On Jett. Give Mr. Rosko my block code, and he’ll give you whatever information you desire.” “‘Aight. I’ll be sure to name drop.” I nod to the Drin. “Mazabot, pleasure seeing your nightmare fuel.” “Yup.” “Mr. Kurio, I’ll be in touch.” Time to get to work. 

***

“Yo, Aeronok, I got us a job.” It’s cold out. I pull my coat closer, trying to keep the wind-whipped snow off me. This will be an unpleasant jaunt back. “Sir, I’ve been hailing you for nearly an hour now, with no response. I was beginning to think you were dead.” “Nah, not yet. Just busy. Can you start looking up some info? Need to do a little research.” I step onto the sled, magnetic locks gripping my boots. Goggles down; they make it awfully dark amidst the grey sky, but it’s better than freezing my eyeballs. “Sir, but about the fuel; we were charged an extra twelve credits in improper surcharges, and they will not allow a refund to be released to an Automata. They gladly took funds from me in the first place, but now -“ “Yeah, Aeronok, you know we’re good for the twelve credits, right? It ain’t gonna’ break the bank. Now, can you start looking up data so we can make some real money? MUSH!” “Excuse me, sir?” He sounds indignant. Well, more indignant than usual. The robots stand at attention and begin to trot, tugging the sled across the snowpack. “Ah, not you. I was talking to the drones.” “Hard to tell, sometimes…” he mutters. “What?” I’m pretty sure I just got sassed by an AI. “Nothing, sir. Static.” Damn free-thinking machines, with their feelings and opinions and morals. As bad as people anymore. “Anyway, it was more the principle of the thing, sir,” he grumbles. ”But yes, I can begin processing your request. What do you need?” “Everything you can find on an auctioneer by the name of Rosko. Coordinates are already uploaded for cross-check.” There’s a soft crunch as we go, and the incessant whir of the drones’ mechanical gears. Otherwise, it’s an eerie quiet, the sounds of the city dampened by the relentless snowfall. “And particularly why he would sell out one of his clients.” “I imagine the same thing as always, sir: money.” “Yup. And we’re gonna’ follow it.” I pull my bandana up higher. Feel the frost forming from my breathe. “Oh, and Aeronok?” “Yes, sir?” “One more thing. Check for any exotic pet stores within twelve parsecs.” A pause. “… Exotic pets? You’re not thinking of keeping another Bildibrag again, are you? I still can’t get the odor out…” “Nah. Just a hunch that I need to see a guy about a slug.” The sigh is audible even over comms. “Yes, sir. I’ll dig out the goo remover. Again.”