Beaumont Base was not the sort of place a sane individual went after the artificial lighting dimmed. The corridors were draughty, floors dented and pitted, despite the attempts of various optimistic Junkers to repair them over the years. That, combined with the regular thud of heavy boots and the odd scream from the transports in her docks was enough to dissuade most visitors, lest they join those unfortunate souls. Slave convoys were not infrequent, though finding anyone that would admit to seeing anything was only marginally easier then pulling teeth with a crowbar.
For those visitors willing to risk the slavers, 'The Old Seven' bar was a popular stopover. Barely more than a narrow indention in the wall, the Seven was popular more through location then quality. It certainly helped that Mich, the short-sighted bartender and manager, had shut down any other establishment on the station. How he'd managed it was anyone's guess. There was a rumour going around that his bar staff were patrons who'd drunk more than their share and been handed over to the slavers, passive as babes. So far, no one had been willing to give up their drinking privileges to confirm it.
A smattering of tables, cheerily decorated with battered tablecloths, completed the Seven. The bar was, as usual, sitting at its usual level of occupancy for an early morning. A few dedicated drinkers stared into their ales, searching the filthy yellow brew for purpose. Others had finished their exploits far earlier, and lay slumped in corners, in positions no sober man would have considered tenable. One Junker's beard, slung over his head, had aligned itself perfectly between the sleeping man's eyes. A remarkable feat, had anyone besides Mich been around to appreciate it.
A gentle hiss reverberated through the bar, barely more than an aggressive breeze. One of the five upright figures in the bar raised an eyebrow, regarding the environment-suited individual before him. A metal canister on its waist gave a second low click as the figure moved to a table, lowering itself down with consummate care. Maybe someone'd broken a bottle or something. He disregarded it, returning his gaze to a speck that looked an awful lot like his ex-wife. Outcasts were pretty common anyway, he concluded happily. No point disturbing them.
Across the Bar, Sarah McFarlen fumbled with her wrist computer, quietly cursing every glove maker to ever live and his children to the deepest depths of hell. The rebreather gave another click.
The door opened, and in,stepped a cloaked figure. The guy by the door demanded weapons, but backed up when he spoke a few words. The figure slipped off the cloak and threw it over his shoulder, walking to where the only sober person in the bar was. Setting down the cloak, he took a seat and laced his fingers together, and looked at McFarlen.
"Miss McFarlen."
He wore a prominetly white outfit with a black, almost runic trim, and a silver necklace. Inside his jacket, the butt of a slug-pistol could be seen, with the insignis of a Coalition arms company on the side. He motioned the bartender for a vodka.
The girl glanced up from the screen, the rubber of the suit resisting the motions of her neck. It probably hadn't been necessary to bother with the whole Outcast get-up, but you could never be too careful. Especially considering what she'd seen recently. The sight of the pistol had her instinctively reaching for her own weapon, only to grasp empty air. She had long since given up carrying firearms, far less using them. Not to mention, the stranger could probably far out shoot her if he chose to. That wasn't what he was here for though, was it? No, if he wanted to kill her there would have been plenty of opportunity to do so without so much as talking to her. Maybe that's why he was speaking to her. Perhaps he wanted to confirm her identity, just to be sure.
A glass clattered against the table, staining the table with a liquid that certainly wasn't vodka. The bartender frowned, crossing his arms over a shirt that had seen too many late-night brawls.
"This isn't some fancy restaurant son. You wanna drink, you damn well order it at the bar. Then you take it to wherever the hell you're sitting. We clear?" He stood, legs apart, watching Hunter.
Sarah swore inwardly. This was definitely not on the list of things she needed. She simply nodded to Jeremy, waiting.
A man wearing a grey three piece suit walked in with his hands in his pockets. His hair was short and chopped into a somewhat tidy style and he seemed an average size but still belittled by the numerous junker mechanics and scrappers sitting at the bar's tables. He didn't seem intimidated by the place itself despite the fact he stuck out a little.
The Old Seven wasn't renowned for appreciating formal attire, but he had business here, and had done before. Some turned to scowl, others nodded, some greeted and the greeting was returned.
John noticed the two unlikely characters perched at the bar. The woman's hand twitched at her empty holster which was just as well, he wasn't planning on staying long and a brawl wasn't what he had in mind.
He turned his attention to a booth a short walk across from the bar. Two pilots wearing customary bandoliers gestured him over and he strolled over to take a seat.
Rythmically he sat, tugged his jacket straight and put his hands together on the table.
"Classy place gents, although you may want to reconsider your choice of location to discuss this deal"
"It's what we agreed, and we'l talk nonetheless, got it bretonian?"
John reclined in his chair and pulled a cigar from his inside pocket. He crossed his legs and took a moment to light it properly. He licked his lips and placed his hand to his chin as if to explain.
"It's of no bother to me, but i'm merely applying caution in relation to my last business trip here. A couple of gas pistols and some cutlery, nice bunch of lads, shame it all got nicked a few moments after they walked out of here"
John nodded to the bar entrance. He took a draw on the cigar.
"Kids eh?"
One of the men stood up in outrage but his companion gestured for him to remain calm.
"What can you do for us?"
John's face turned to more of a serious manner.
"I'l get you your shopping list, but first, i'd like to know who i'm in business with..."
Jeremy just chuckled darkly. He didn't even stand. He just chuckled. The bartender was suddenly shoved by an unseen force away.
"Right, why waste my time with your second-rate vodka. Hell, Toledo has better vodka. And its in the middle of a warzone."
Jeremy withdrew a flask and took a swig.
"Coalition makes the best."
He drummed his fingers on the table, looking at McFarlen.
"So. You want info. Ask away."
He seemed relaxed, even though he had been rude to the bartender. He just watched her, waiting. Anyone who approsched,them would find they could not move close to the pair for some reason; a few patrons moved to the other side of the bar. He blinked a few times rapidly. He didn't even seem serious. He just seemed curious about the woman in front of him.
If she'd been half-sane, the mention of the Coalition would've sent alarm bells ringing. Then again, she was sitting in the Seven at night dressed as an Outcast. So, sanity wasn't on the list then. Sarah cocked an eyebrow as the bartender as he staggered back.
"How did you do that?" She asked, curiosity trumping paranoia. For a moment sounding like nothing more then a small child at the fair.
She paused, tugging off the rubber rebreather. She didn't need the thing, and in the confines of Beumont it was just plain uncomfortable. The mask was rubbing on her neck, not that it would've worked anyway, it was at least two sizes too big. Behind the gear, her eyes were ringed with dark circles.
"Oh, right the War. Sorry." The girl shrugged, sinking her hands into her pockets. "Well... There's alot of stuff really. I mean, tons. You can just start with whatever you're happy talking about."
"I joined near the middle of the Nomad War.. For history's sake, consider it around where Trent ended up meeting Kress. I had been recruited by an agent on Los Angeles. It was after the death of my father, Thomas Hunter. No clue what killed him until that man told me."
Jeremy stopped drumming his fingers.
"I kissed my little sister goodbye and left. It took forever to reach Toledo, but we did. I was originally just another pilot, but I had an aptitude for building friendships. I was given the rank of Captain and lead two wings of fighters, mostly for keeping Toledo safe. The farthest I got out was a strike on a wing of infected Rheinland ships in Omega-3. It was part of the detachment sent to get Trent. After that we returned to Toledo. It was quiet, until Trent and Ozu assaulted Heaven's Gate."
Jeremy took a swig.
"From there, it was loud. Nomads assaulted us at least once a day. But it was only a few. We lost one or two pilots a week. But that was nothing compared to what happened when Trent and Von Claussen returned on the Osiris..."
He sighed.
"They cam in droves. We were barely holding them back. It only got worse. As the eggheads got the Artifact running, Marduk Guardians, the Nomad's battleship, arrived. We followed Trent in assaulting them, taking down two finally. But it wasn't enough. Colon Trent and Colonel Zane were recalled to Toledo. We held off for as long as we could as they evacuated personell to the Osiris. Me and the remainder of my wing were ordered to break off. We lost two more doing that. Me, my wingwoman Rebecca, and another pilot, Lieutenant Akrich, managed to make it to the Osiris. In the end, we had around twenty ships. Ten Anubis fighters, Trent, Juni, King, Von Claussen's fighters. Maybe a few more. Four Dromedarys. The Osiris and the Dromedarys were sent to the location of the Alaska Jumo Hole to cause a diversion. Wish we had the gorram Clydesdale Brigade there.
"Anyways, I was Alpha 2, Rebecca Beta 2. She was on Juni's wing, I on Trent's. Our job was to cover Trent and his artifact.."
Jeremy chuckled.
"Wasn't easy. We met resistance immediately. Nomads...we did what the Chief did; we shot our way out, just to mix things up a little. The fourteen or so of us managed to make it to Omicron Major...our only saving grace was thier battleships weren't nearbye. To this day I don't know why. We fought our way to the Dyson Sphere, where Trent, Juni, King, Orillion, and Von Claussen entered. The rest of us hung back to cause a diversion. We lost Alpha Three, Beta Three, and Gamma Two before Trent activated the artifact. We lost half our wing, all the Dromedarys...it was a costly victory."
Jeremy fished an object from his pocketland slid it over. It was a patch with the Eye of Horus.
"An orginal patch from the Order's fighter wing. I even got the Anubis."
Sarah nodded blankly, turning the patch over in her hands. The fabric was almost repellent, as though the blood spilt in the War still caked it. When she slid it back across the table the shiver wasn't entirely due to the breeze. Physically it was fine, but somehow the eye just seemed... wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something about that patch sent spiders dancing up her spine. The man in front of her produced much the same reaction. What sort of person sat there smiling and laughing while discussing what was very close to the extermination of the human race? Had it really been so long, long enough for the pain to fade. The realization came to her, wriggling its way through her mind, giving substance to her fears. The war was more than fifteen years ago. Anyone fighting in it must've been at least eighteen, so in their mid-thirties now, at the very least.
The man in front of her couldn't have been more than twenty, barely older then she was.
Her thoughts dashed along, jumping from theory to theory. He could've been an addict. No, she hadn't seen a trace of cardamine on him. He could move things, she'd seen the bartender stagger back. He knew a lot about the Nomad War. He'd just turned up, trusted her. Why? The whole thing didn't make any sense. There wasn't any technology she knew of that could generate fields like that... The Rogue made a mental effort to slow her heart down. The rate it was going, she was amazed Hunter couldn't hear it.
She eyed the man cautiously. There were only two possibilities she could piece together that made any sort of sense. Neither was good news for her. There was only one group in Sirius that might have the technology to develop fields like the one Hunter had used, and have reason to use it against her. She quietly admired the BDM's resourcefulness. She'd never expected them to act that quickly, or so close to home... If the man did work for Rheinland, then it was all over. She'd be hauled off and shipped to some prison god knew where to be interrogated until she lost her ability to speak.
Or he was infected.
The Engineer briefly wondered who he had been, before... It didn't matter now anyway. If she didn't think of something, nothing would matter. He could have easily killed her earlier, so apparently they wanted her for some reason. Perhaps there was a chance, if she didn't let on...
She realised it had been a long time since the thing calling itself Jeremy spoke. She rested her head on her hands, as though contemplating his words, barely managing to keep the shaking from her limbs. Fight or flight. Sarah had run marathons back on Manhattan, flight happened to be her specialty. It was no good if there wasn't anywhere to run to.
"Sorry, it's.. It's a lot to absorb. That many people..." She muttered, waving a hand apologetically. In reality, stretching out her fingers to probe at the air around the table as she passed. Still a chance. If she could distract him... Maybe.
"Where did it come from?" She added, realising a moment too late she'd forgotten to specify what. "The artifact, I mean."
He took the patch back and slipped it into his pocket, and looked at her calculatingly. It wasn't a secret, he knew that. He just wondered if,she would ask something he couldnt answer.
She nodded cooperatively, barely listening to the answer.
"But why was it so special, and what do you mean activate it?" All the artifacts Sarah had seen had been nothing more then rocks. Sure there might have been one or two with a pretty pattern ingrained, or made of a particularly colourful mineral, but nothing overly special. They didn't seem to do anything, other then contribute to her headaches.
She lowered her hands to her lap, nervously toying with a button on her pocket. It was an old habit, childish perhaps, but she really couldn't care less. What did he want?
![[Image: jeremy10.png]](http://i40.servimg.com/u/f40/16/80/35/65/jeremy10.png)
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