Troy Mullins awoke suddenly to a ringing in his ears. "UGH, Damn head is still pounding", he sighed as he rolled over in his bunk. His eyes squinted open, burning as they adjusted to the dim light of the numbers on his alarm clock. The alarm droned on with a buzz for a moment, then was silenced as Troy slammed his fist into the clock.
"NO, I just fell asleep!", he though, his eyes closing again. Twenty seconds later, he sat up abruptly in his bunk, managing to hold his head with one hand as he threw his legs over the side. "I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead.", he grumbled.
As Troy struggled to his feet, he felt all of his joints cracking and popping as they strained against his effort. At 5'10" and a lean 185 pounds, Troy was well built, but 35 years of hard living had taken its toll on the 3rd generation barman. He couldn't imagine what 65 years old would feel like. Not that he planned to live that long anyway.
On his left side, he felt a burning around his ribs. He poked at the area and was rewarded with a sharp pain that made him twitch a little. "Must of been one heck of a night.", he muttered to himself, still groggy.
He stumbled across his quarters toward the bathroom, almost tripping on his crumpled up uniform in the process. Fumbling around in a drawer, his fingers ran across a strip of cold steel. Luckily, he had remembered to close the straight razor last time. He put it down gently on the bathroom sink and continued to scavenge for one of the three things that might get him through his shift.
"Found Ya!", as he popped the lid off a non-descript pill bottle, his eyes finally adjusted to the light. He proceeded to down four of the pills with a gulp of water from the sink. "Acetaminophen, CHECK!", he exclaimed, "One down two to go."
He ran his hand across his face and then over the crown of his head, feeling the course stubble as he stared at himself for a minute. "Screw it! I've got no one to impress!" He tossed the razor down again and headed back out to retrieve his uniform.
Troy pulled on the tattered relic, admiring the grease and blood stains. Each one told a story and the Junker wore them like badges of honor.
His heavy duty boots came last and were just as worn as the rest of his uniform. They hadn't been polished since he "Salvaged them". The rumors about how he acquired them spanned a gambit of tales from the unlikely to the insane. There was even one where he knocked an off duty LPI Officer clean out of them and took them after the guy threatened Troy's friend. When asked about the subject, He always just smirked a little and simply replied, "I salvaged them.”
Troy didn't consider himself tough in any way and was generally thought of as a nice enough guy, if maybe a little blunt now and again. But, he did have a streak of Berserker in his blood that he struggled daily to control when things got heated.
The infamous boots buckled on, Troy started for the door, paused a moment and, as an afterthought, grabbed the straight razor he had left neglected on the bathroom sink and tucked it in to his left boot. Seconds later, the door slammed shut to his quarters and he was off and running.
He struggled through the cramped hallways of Beaumont base toward the elevator lift access tunnel. A slight limp in his left leg only noticeable if you were looking for it.
The hallways were always an, "At your own risk", affair. Maintenance teams worked around the clock, and repairs to the station seemed like they were non-stop.
Sometimes, you had to navigate your way through a hail of red hot welding sparks and grinder spray where they were repairing the outer hull's damage from the latest Xeno attack. Then there were times where the power would be re-routed due to someone's Frankenstein ship building experiment and the halls would go completely dark. Feeling your way to your destination along walls with worn out wires running along them could be an electrifying experience if it came back on suddenly. Still other times, you'd have to backtrack half way around the station because an entire hallway would be collapsed due to rust and was impassable.
Junkers are masters at repair, but their thriftiness also causes them to neglect things until the last possible moment. To them, it’s just good business sense to stretch things as long as possible when resources are limited. Troy wondered if someday the rust would eat the base whole.
He reached the elevator lift and stepped inside. The door creaked shut with a moan. He turned to see the control panel had been ripped clean out of the wall, wires hanging, sparking occasionally. "Come on!", he said annoyed. He grabbed two wires and began carefully twisting them together. The elevator whirred to life and started to climb its way up the shaft.
Troy watched as the level indicator lights cycled faster. He'd have to time this just right or he'd end up stuck. Level 3....4....5...., "Here goes nothin', and MEZZANINE!", Troy exclaimed as he ripped the two wires apart. One of the wires hit the metal wall of the elevator and sent a scalding spark in to the flesh of Troy’s hand. "@#!*", Troy backed away and the elevator slide to a stop.
He made his way to the Mezzanine where his friend and nemesis the Beaumont Bar was waiting for him. Punching in the door code he sighed, "Let's get this one over with."
The door slid open and the humid, wafting stench of stale ale, dirt, and sweat hit Troy in the face. As he walked toward the bar area his feet stuck slightly to the floor with each step. "First things last.", Troy thought, as he reached behind the bar for the second thing that would get him through this shift. He clicked on the coffee maker with a smile. "Caffeine, CHECK!", he said, "Two down, one to go."
He began taking the stools off the tables and bar, setting them up in their places of torment for the evening. "Looks like we lost four more last night.", He thought, "Now, where did I put that Duct Tape?".
With the tables set up and the taps all checked and ready to go, he reached behind the counter and clicked on the neon sign. "BAR'S OPEN!", he yelled, just as the first of a long line of deviants he'd have the pleasure of meeting tonight stumbled through the door.
With a sigh of relief, Todd "Mouse" Mercer (local freelancer) wiped the sweat off his forehead, tugging his goggles onto his almost black tangle of hair.
"Damn, I've gotta catch a break from this crap," Mouse flew through the jumphole, his ship rocking back and forth as it came to a jolting halt in the Texas system.
Through the debris, the young freelancer landed on some backwater base, fixin' his ship up from the ,"Damn blue fish, stalkin' me in Cali..."
Finally, Mouse found his way to the bar and slumped depressingly into a seat at the far end, as to get a better view in case anyone... ~Stop it, man, you're freakin' out, quit bein' so paranoid!~ Mercer thought to himself.
"Aye! Bartender! Mind I ask for a ScrewDriver for a tired 'lander, eh?"
It was a slow shift, just the way Troy liked it. He served up a few drinks to the handful of regulars that never managed to miss a night of drunken stupor and then there was a lull in the action.
Troy stepped in to the back room and, after sifting through the wasteland of paper that cluttered the area, managed to liberate a copy of the latest “Profit and Loss“ report for the bar. He scanned the pages with contempt. “Hmm, looks like we might just break even this month, that is, if I don’t run out of Duct Tape.” He frowned.
Just then, he heard a loud call from the back of the bar. “Aye! Bartender! Mind I ask for a ScrewDriver for a tired 'lander, eh?"
From the office in the back room, Troy could hear a few low chuckles from the local patrons in the bar. He dropped the unsatisfying page he was holding back on to the cluttered office desk. “Did someone just order a “Screw Driver” in a Junker bar?” , He thought, a half smile coming across his face. “It’s got to be Rod messing with me again.”
Rod Ledman worked in Beaumont’s Shipping and Receiving department and liked to give Troy a hard time. Troy stuck his head out of the back room expecting to see the elder Junker sitting there laughing at him, but the table the order came from was blocked from his view by one of the big pillars that prevented the rotting ceiling of the bar from crashing down on the unsuspecting patrons. “I’ll fix ol’ Rod a good Screwdriver.” ,Troy mumbled sarcastically to himself, grabbing a mug off of the shelf behind the bar.
The drinks at Beaumont were served in a mixed-matched assortment of containers ranging from Scrap metal cups to old antique chalices, all of which were collected from debris fields one way or another. This particular one was an old tarnished Rheinlander beer stein that had a glass bottom you could see through as you drank.
Troy grabbed a container of something that resembled Orange juice from the refrigerator and poured it half full. Then he tilted a bottle of the finest Vodka, or was it watered down lighter fluid? “Well, you just had to trust the label, didn’t you?” , he thought to himself. Then Troy reached under the bar in to the tool box he always kept handy and pulled out the Phillips Head that he had borrowed from Corey Wright, the Dock Master, a few days earlier and began to give the concoction a good stir.
Troy stepped out from behind the bar with the stein in hand, complete with the handle of the screwdriver sticking out of the top like some kind of demented straw and proceeded to make his delivery, a big grin on his face. As Troy rounded the pillar his face went blank. He stumbled a little and a few drops splashed out of the stein and descended to the floor leaving a cleaner spot in the grime.
The man sitting in the far booth wasn’t his pal Rod! It was a dark haired man, goggles strapped to his forehead, looking a bit jumpy and shaken. Troy thought about turning and heading back to the bar to remove his little piece of Junker humor from the drink, but the man had already spotted his order coming and Troy thought better of making any sudden moves. “I’ll just have to try to act natural.” , he thought as he took a deep breath, preparing to sell his act.
“One Screw Driver.” , Troy said in his best professional bar tender voice, scanning the man’s eyes for his reaction. As he began to place the drink, he noticed the table was excessively wobbly from too many quick fix repair jobs over the years. In one smooth motion he pulled a cardboard coaster out of his pocket and, instead of placing it under the drink, he dropped it to the floor and slid it under the table leg with his foot, effectively stabilizing the table for one more night of service.
Tapping his fingers against the wobbly table as he waited, Mouse listened to what he perceived was the barkeep in the back and started drifting into space.
“One Screw Driver." down came an ill looking concoction in a piece of scrap, a screw driver hanging out and all its glory.
Todd blinked as he realized he had zoned out, while the barkeep slid a coaster under the leg of the table so it didn't wobble any longer. ~At least someone has courtesy around here.~
"Thank ye, mate," the freelancer said hesitantly at first, then added between a sip of the brew and a cough, "Oh, one more thing, aye? Heard of any talk of work around 'ere? Besides the obvious, of course." to which Mercer tapped a finger on the table.
….There was a long awkward pause as the man sat there with a glassy eyed expression on his face. “Hmm, Troy though with a smirk, maybe he’s got lockjaw from all the rust.”
Just then, the bar’s comm link started beeping. “Uh, excuse me, I’ve got to answer that. Oh, and by the way, the drink’s on the house.” He hurried off to the back room, glad for the interruption.
Troy shuffled through the pile of junk on the desk, knocking papers to the floor revealing the scratched up screen of the comm link and punched the button. “Ya what!?” , he answered frustrated from the struggle with the desk.
“Jeeze, wake up on the wrong side of the bunk?”, it was Corey Wright , from the repair bay. Troy dropped the attitude as soon as he saw it was his friend. Corey had been helping Troy trouble shoot two of his CSF’s engines, but they had both been stumped for weeks. “Oh, sorry, it’s been another long dull night. I hope you’ve got good news for me, I sure could use it.”
“Uh… yeah” , Corey started hesitantly, “I think you’d better get down here, it’d be easier to show you this.”
“This doesn’t sound good”, Troy thought with a scowl. “I don’t know if I can, I’d need to get someone to cover this dive for me.”
“Just get down here.”, Corey said. The comm link went blank.
“Great!”, Troy muttered with a sigh.
He scanned the bar and spotted some regulars who he knew fairly well. Pete Blackburn, Rusty Mitchell, and Charles Cook were all huddled at a table in the back corner of the bar. He could see their glasses were empty, so he grabbed a full bottle from the rack and approached.
The low murmur of chatter stopped at the table and they all looked up at Troy. “Hey guys, could you keep an eye on the place while I step out quick?”, Troy placed the bottle on the table. “SURE!”, was the unanimous answer. “Great, just make sure nothing happens while I’m gone, and Thanks!”
Troy locked up the backroom and shut off the taps. Then he grabbed a heavy flashlight from under the bar. He wouldn’t be trying his luck with the lift again, this time it would be the stairs. He’d need the flashlight; the stairwells were usually the first place Junkers looked when they needed to “Borrow” a lamp.
Troy headed down the corridor to the stairwell. The door creaked open. Sure enough, it was pitch black. He clicked on the flashlight. It flickered for a moment and then shined to life. Troy pointed the light over the railing hoping to get a glimpse of the bottom, but was disappointed as the beam was lost in the ink below. It would be quite a workout descending to the repair bay from the Mezzanine level.
A rolling low pitched groan resonated off the walls as the flashlight revealed the rusted warped panels of the stairwell. The inward creases a testament to the lower pressurization of the forgotten chamber that ran directly next to the outer hull. It reminded Troy of the stomach of some otherworldly beast. His head began to pound and his ears popped as he descended flight after flight of cold demented steel, increasing his pace to escape the torment.
As he turned the corner to his 12th flight something caught his foot and he began to tumble. The flashlight was tossed out of his hand as he grabbed for the railing but missed. He watched it fly through the air downward ahead of him as if in slow motion and caught the sound of it clattering on the ground a few flights below as he was half way through his second somersault.
He wasn’t sure if it was the flashlight bulb shattering, or the impact of the jagged staircase on his head, but his world quickly faded to black…………
……..”Wake up Troy, Wake up Son.” A six year old Troy opened his eyes to see his father’s smiling face as the man swung him out of bed and tossed him a fresh uniform. Just as Troy finished getting dressed, his father hoisted him on to his shoulders for the ride to work. “We can’t be late, it’s going to be a busy day!” His father exclaimed, as he ducked out the front door of their quarters, making sure not to klunk Troy’s head on the door frame.
They exited the lift and headed along the open Mezzanine. Troy got a good look over the balcony from his perch. The view made him uneasy and a sensation of vertigo overtook him. Troy wrapped his arms around his father’s head and held on tight. His father let out a loud chuckle as they approached the bar.
The bar door cycled open and as the lights flickered on to life, Troy could see them reflect off the polished bar top. The spotless glasses were neatly arranged on display behind the bar, along with all manner of exotic liquors. The air was fresh with the scent of detergent from the previous night’s cleaning.
Troy began to take drink orders and shuttle them back out to the customers. The place was packed and everyone was having a lively time, as usual.
Troy and his father moved through the day with the speed and grace of Junkers who enjoyed their work, always quick to fill an order, with smiles on their faces and a kind word for those who needed one.
Troy caught a break in the action and as he was approaching the bar, he noticed his father wasn’t smiling. In fact, one side of his face was drooping as the other winced in pain. Troy tried to run toward him, but his feet wouldn’t move, as if they were welded to the pristine floor. Troy struggled to no avail, immobile as he watched in horror while his father slumped to the ground in slow motion. The lively room now in total silence.
The steel walls of the medical bay room were filled with an empty sterility. Troy’s father was attached to a multitude of tubes and machines, as if a giant squid was coiled around his vacant husk, sucking his life away. The squid let out a slow but steady “Thump, Thump” sound. Troy sat on the side of the bed, his head in his hands, his feet dangling inches above the floor, feeling very scared and alone.
Troy turned slowly to look at his father, and to his surprise the man abruptly catapulted upright in bed. Troy leaned back startled, trying to escape as the man’s hands lashed out to grasp his neck, a possessed look in his cold eyes.
Troy’s father pulled him closer and his grip tightened on Troy’s neck. “TAKE, CARE, OF, THE, BAR!” , the man yelled inches from Troy’s face. “TAKE, CARE, OF, THE, BAR!” , now louder, choking Troy as he struggled to breath. The sound of the thumping squid intensified as the words rang through Troy’s skull.
Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump
“TAKE CARE OF THE BAR!”
Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump
“TAKE CARE OF THE BAR!”
Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump
Troy’s whole body began to shake with each beat. He coughed as his lungs strained to get oxygen to his brain.
…..The thumping of Cory Wright’s boots resonated to a stop in the walls of the stairwell, as his flashlight hit upon a menacing shape up ahead in the darkness.
Cory approached with caution, unsure about whom or what he might find. His flashlight revealed a contorted body slumped in a pile in front of him. It was mumbling something. “D-Da-Dad, Nooo….” Troy’s voice trailed off. Cory crouched down and started to shake him. “Troy, TROY! It’s me Cory, not your dad, Cory! Wake up man!” he exclaimed, as he jostled his disoriented friend harder. Troy, coughed a bit as he started to regain consciousness. “Whaa-Cory, Cory, I can’t, I can’t see!” Troy said, lifting his hand to his face. Cory pointed the light in Troy’s eyes and immediately spotted the cause. Troy had a deep, gruesome looking gash in the side of his skull. His blood had oozed down his face and what hadn’t formed a considerable sized puddle on the ground had coagulated thickly in his eyes. Cory produced an oil stained rag that he had stuffed in his pocked earlier in the day and started wiping the red fluid from Troy’s eye sockets.
Troy’s vision began to clear and Cory handed him the cloth. “Here, press this on your head.” Troy took it abruptly and applied some pressure. “Ouch!” Troy winced. Pressing down on the tear stung his cranium badly enough, but it was the swift movement that caused a deep internal nauseating pain throughout his entire body. After taking a moment to breathe through the feeling, he fought to get to his feet, but lost and landed back on the steel plated floor. “Whoa!” Cory said. “Take it easy!” Then he followed up shortly, “I got tired of waiting around for you, so I decided to come up to the bar instead. Glad I did. So, what the Heck happened to you?” Troy was still fuzzy on the details, “The last thing I remember is getting my foot caught on something a flight up, the rest is a blur, except….” Troy didn’t finish his sentence; instead he put his head down and grimaced.
They sat for a short while in silence, until Troy finally had gathered enough strength to make another attempt to stand. This time Cory grabbed his arm and helped him upright. Struggling for a moment, he regained his balance and slowly walked over to the stairs and glared upwards. He hesitated for a few seconds and then carefully started climbing. Cory and the flashlight followed. As they ascended, Cory scanned each rusted step.
Nearing the top of the flight, Troy spotted something wedged in to the face of the stairs and pointed for Cory to move the light in for a closer look, “Ack!” Cory quickly recoiled. “When you said something caught your foot you weren’t kidding!” He moved the light back for Troy to get a good look. There sticking out from the corner of the step was the unmistakable shape of a severed human hand. The fingers were curled up a bit, except for the middle one, also an unmistakable shape. “Holy Frack! What’s that doing here!?!” Troy bellowed. “I don’t know, but check it out.” Cory said as he grabbed the blood and oil soaked rag from Troy’s hand and scooped up the mangled appendage. “Aw, man, don’t touch that thing!” Troy groaned.
Cory focused the flashlight in and something reflected the beam. There on the ring finger, was a thick gold band. “I wonder how much that would go for?” Cory said, his mind on credits as usual. “Look, there’s something written on it.” Troy squinted a bit trying to get a better look, but his eyes wouldn’t focus in the dim light. Cory pulled the ring off the lifeless hand, holding it up and read aloud, “Et maledictus qui ossa mea movet. Huh, I wonder what that means?” Cory ran his finger over the ring and hit upon something along the inside of the band. “Look there’s more hidden here. ‘5CU111’, must be some kind of code or something.”
Just then, the desolate chamber taunted them with yet another drawn out low pitched groan of metallic flexing. Troy interrupted the moment, starting downward once again. “Let’s go, there’s too many ghosts in here…..”
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