Pato was curious. Hed always been a curious one, but he had never wandered into a system completely unexplored by any of his friends or relations alone before. Well, apart from that jaunt into the omegas where hed had to smooth talk a Hessian in a bad mood, to keep from sucking space.
Hed looked in the omegas, for those people the rumours called Wilde. The rumours were not entirely specific on the wheres or whys, but Pato had managed to nail a Junker down on Hood with a bottle of twelve year, and had coaxed a story out of him.
Pato, boy. The Junker insisted on calling him boy, even though Pato was nearly seventeen and all. Pato, there are worse things out among those stars-. The Junker waved a gnarled fist at the glimmer outside the grimy port window of Hood. -than humans. There are old maps, crumbling to dust, that had here be monsters scrawled over them, with all manner of illustrations to emphasise the point. But hear this now- Oh. The Junker stopped. His beard trembled. Blast it boy, Ive gone and run out!
Pato dug around inside his canvas rucksack and tugged out another bottle. The amber liquid held air bubbles from the shaking, and they caught the dull light of the cantina. The Junker watched, stupefied, until a measure was poured into his none-too-clean glass, and the bottle placed on the metal table within reach of his hand.
So y were sayin oul man, about monsters n such. Patos lilting accent smoothed out the Junkers apprehensions, and the whisky didnt hurt either.
Listen now, boy. This is all true, you hear? If it isnt, why then my name is not Edgar Livenstein.
Pato looked up with surprise. You do be a Rheinlander?
I am indeed. Or I was, havent paid taxes in decades, so Im not sure if I still count.
Ach, well. I do be sorry fer t interruption, just took me back is all.
Livenstein waved away Patos apology. There are creatures out there that live and breathe in space. If breathe is the right word. Anyway, they are a fine sight. Terrifying, but the way they move is like- The Junker groped for a word, gave up and raised the tumbler with its whisky burden. Like this, cold in the first instance, then blazing with a fury. But always smooth, even as theyre ripping open your hull.
A convoy I was part of was attacked as we moved supplies out to the Omicrons. To my shame, I watched entranced as a friend of mine died. His ship was the first to go, and only two of the five survived. Our escorts were wiped out. This wasnt in Trains either, we were running hardened Borderworld ships. We were toyed with, though, all of us. Theyd swim through our curtains of fire, and without a scratch to speak of theyd strafe alongside one of us, peeling us open like some Gaian fruit. Now, you must remember that these things are organic, or partially organic. They are odd purple creatures, but they have a luminescence, and this light is a dangerous thing. Befuddles you. All this Ive said though, and the last piece of their puzzle cant be prepared for. They speak into your mind, boy. There you are trying to direct your crew and your brains fizzing with images, taunts and a music that isephemeral might be the best way to describe it. You cant work out how it goes, to reproduce it, the more you scrabble for it, the quicker it fades. For all the fear I have of those things, boy, Id like to hear that song once more, before I die.
Pato had left the Junker the rest of the bottle and walked, pensive, to the launch bay. He had not told the old Junker, but he had fought those purple enigmas only the previous day. Hed even brought one to the brink of death, or whatever happens to them, and it had vanished in a violent flurry of light that had half blinded him, as he swung his Werewolf about to face the rest of the swarm. The skirmish had gone downhill from there. It had been an odd fight, too. Four factions happy to slit one anothers throats all on the same side against the purple invaders.
t think, I were so close t fightin the Baf boys rather than t purply things. If only they had sung fer me. The spacious cockpit of his Werewolf did not have a retort. He flicked the comms switch up. This be Pato Dooley, bay tirteen, requestin fer a green light on departure, so.
A tired voice growled out of his speakers. Get yourself gone then, Pato. Departure confirmed.
Thank y Delilah. I shall try not t win so much money off o you next time.
Pato heard a snort of derision and clicked the comms off before she launched on a diatribe. The Werewolf shuddered as the engines came live, before settling to a low rumble. The hatch ahead ground open, unsettling fragments of rust that spun, aimless, in the zero g.
Time t start huntin, said Pato aloud. Those bastarding oul purply things shall show me their song. Patos hand dropped to the accelerator and his Werewolf roared, streaking out of the launch bay. As the ship passed into open space he cut the engine and swung a ninety-eight degree turn, the Werewolf eager to comply. With the cruise engines spooling up to critical energy, he cast his eye down at the map display and prodded at it with his index finger. The view ballooned and showed the Chester jump hole. With the waypoint set and autopilot content to arch hm around the sun, Pato checked the readouts from his earlier scans. There was no doubt those purple creatures that had attacked Leeds originated in Chester. Why had there been no stories of them so close, then? Either there was a jump hole from the Omicrons or omegas, orwell, Pato didnt know what else it could be.
The scanner beeped. There was a luxury liner on the same course as him.
So Chester do be a trade route too? Pato tapped his finger on the side of his scanner as he thought, then swung the Werewolf in behind the stately vessel, hanging close as a remora. Pato sent a placatory hail, but no reply was forthcoming. Pato shrugged expressively. As the Liner reached the event horizon of the Chester jump hole, it dived into the maelstrom of colours and Patos scanner stopped beeping.
My turn, I do suppose.
Pato had hung close to the liner until it had entered the Newcastle jump hole, and then pulled away. He computed the new jump hole into his navigational charts, and then turned his ship to investigate a gas giant they had passed.
It turned out to be both pretty, and pretty boring.
Despairing, Pato threw on the cruise engine and skated the gravity well of the gas giant, slingshotting towards the Newcastle jump hole. It was then that Pato Dooley caught sight of a cloud hanging on the opposite side of the sun. No wonder his instruments hadnt detected anything with all the radiation from that fat ball of plasma in the way. Charting a new course, Pato felt a frisson of excitement.
This frisson was killed cold the moment the Werewolf dived into the nebula. Radiation smothered his instruments and flashes of white light threw stark shadows in his cockpit. The vast artefact that coalesced out of the stardust was horrifying. The angles were wrong, organic. Unlike any space station hed glimpsed or imagined. There were great pillars, and amongst, or connecting them, was a web. As the Werewolf sculled closer, Pato discovered it was not a web but something membranous.
Two dart shaped vessels flickered past his cockpit. Pato stared. The Werewolf groaned as detonations on its starboard side strained the shield. In a moment his cruise engines were spooling up and Pato was laying a sea of countermeasures behind himself. He prayed furiously that he was not the cat, and that curiosity would not kill him. The enigmatic craft did not chase his ship however, and simply melted back into the nebula. Pato drew a sleeve across his forehead as his eyes began to sting, the cloth came back wet and clung to his arm.
He regretted, at that point, giving the Junker both his bottles of whisky.