Chapter 1 - Post Societal Stress Disorder

 “Rebuilding efforts in the Traziac have steadily continued,” the alarm kicked on. I punched the snooze button over my head, dropping the volume several decibels, but the pretty female voice persisted, “markets are up and running after several weeks of outages. Rebuilding efforts have resumed following yesterday’s riot. Protestors have resumed peaceful demonstration outside of the Council building after Flunch Jairuman authorized military suppression of the increasingly hostile occupiers. The Flunch has announced new diplomatic efforts with Gordman’s Prac following a restoration of land-based trade routes to be completed next timeslice.”

Yes, I know. Using news broadcasts for set establishment, especially as the first few sentences of my narrative, is incredibly cliché. Especially considering the majority of terms in said broadcast are composed of an alien (literally) word-salad to you, and I am not attempting to transcribe them into verbiage you can understand via narration nor am I subtextually translating it in the retelling for simplicity. But, I wanted you to know what you’re dealing with. I could have replaced “Flunch” with “Prime Minister” or “President” or “King” or whatever, but I trust your powers of deduction. I could also have written some ‘fish out of water’ narrative foil to explain things to in third-person. But I have instead chosen to address you, dear reader, directly. I feel cluing you in to the fact that it is in fact I who am recounting my story to you, unfiltered, with the occasional fourth-wall breaking, is probably the easiest way to get through this. Which, again, is also a cliché but hey, what isn’t these days? Also, I like apposition and commas. I’d rather nest information than create a new sentence, so deal with it. Anyway, I’m, digressing.

I ejected my sleeping capsule from the wall. The crane loaded it into the Roomtrack and shot me down to my quarters. I don’t like muzak much, and I knew I’d be listening to music all day, so I had it continue with the news. “Resource Reclamation has announced that Sector 18’s capital city Goolank will be next to receive cleanup crews. Efforts will radiate out incrementally until all of Sector 18 has been reclaimed. Repopulation efforts in Schwarb have stalled following the latest Hutzu Fever outbreak amongst child-bearers. Science officers will be going door to door in and around Schwarb testing for Hutzu Fever’s eponymous Hutzu Virus. If you or your loved ones are experiencing a fever accompanied by iridescent green splotches on the anus and buttocks, please rush them to the nearest medical facility immediately.” After what seemed like forever, my tube finally delivered me to my quarters. I opened the door and entered into a small cubicle. The Roomtrack tube shot off back to Central Sleeping.

I looked at my clock, 0.25%. Tubes must’ve been running slow today. I am a Reclamations Agent, so I pulled the lever on my Clothestrack, which delivered me a fresh Reclamation suit and helmet. I donned the red-zip onesie and cradled the helmet under my arm. I pushed a button on the exit pad and summoned up a Surfacetrack tube. While I waited, I pulled the door open to my mailbox and withdrew the 3 letters from the mail tube and pushed the cartridge back into the Mailtrack: A late notice on my credit bill, a summons to appear in front of the inquiry board, and a coupon for 15% off my next haircut at The Chopshop. “Ooh, haircut,” I stuffed the coupon into a cubby on my desk next to the delivery chute and pitched the other two into the Incinesposal by the desk, because, you know, I’m a working-class cliché as well. Establishment short-hand! I’ve really got to stop doing this.

Anyway, the SurfaceTrack tube finally arrived. I loaded in and took a seat. The news picked up. It’s in my preferences profile. These aren’t your grandpa’s Vacutravel tube carriages, folks. “Kulumbu’s expansion efforts continue as another 12 biologicals died in the vicious Drone War ravaging east Keltsnok after Kargan’s infiltration team was able to breach Kulumbu’s Drone bunker and activate an explosive device. The ensuing cave-in has also breached a nearby water table, flooding the nearby city of Kwu, displacing hundreds. Kulumbu has vowed to drain the city, as well as repair all tube and compartment damage if Kwu pledges allegiance to the Kulumbu cause. Kwu leaders will be holding talks with both Kulumbu and Keltsnok diplomats this afternoon.”

The tube arrived at the surface and the door swung open. I exited onto the subway platform. The tube sucked back down into the Vacutravel system, disappearing into the labyrinthine maze of underground vacuum channels. I joined the crush of people exiting the subway station. “Morning Bert,” a nearby security officer waved at me.

“Derek,” I nodded.

“Working the mines today, or are you in the quarries?” he shook the hand not holding a semi-automatic weapon, indicating he wanted my identification card.

“Neither,” I extended the identification badge dangling on my hip. He took it from me, still tethered to the little extender and held it up to a reader on his utility belt. “Still reclaiming Sector 37.”

“Still?” My government profile pulled up on his helmet visor. “Thought that’d be done by now.”

“Nah,” the card snapped back to my hip after he released. “Resource Management had us reclaim Sector 25 first, after the bomb raid.”

“Damn shame, that” Derek shook his head back and forth. “Anyway, you’re clear, as usual. Don’t miss your inquiry tomorrow!”

“Thanks,” I nodded again. “Catch you in the Pit tonight?”

“Yep,” he pointed the muzzle of his gun to the ceiling and waved goodbye with it as I walked away.

I pulled my helmet on and clipped it into my Reclamation suit. The subtle whir of the air filter kicked in as the visor pulled up my HUD. “News,” I said out loud.

“In domestic news,” the pretty voice picked up where it left off, “Goortman Luk will be seeking a third term as Goortman after the Flougin approved the lifting of term limits. ‘I’m truly honored that my people’s will has finally been spoken,’ Luk said in a prepared speech. ‘I have dutifully served my country for the last 50 timelongs, I’m glad that I will be considered for another 25.’”

The status bar of my helmet alerted me to several missed voice message and an email. “Messages,” I said out loud.

The newscast paused, “Bert, this is Marry. I had a really great time last night, but I don’t think tonight works. Or tomorrow. Or next timeshort. Sorry!”

“Delete,” I said with a sigh.

“Hey Bert, gimme a call, it’s about your inquiry tomorrow. We need…”

“Delete,” I said out loud, again.
“Hello…Bart. Have you thought about joining…”

“Spam,” I interrupted.

“I’m calling for Bert in regard to the credit balance. This is a debt collector, please return our mess…”

“Delete,” I interrupted, again.

“Dad. Call me. Mom’s at it again.”

“Save; Mark as new,” I said out loud and sighed again. “Email.” The inbox pulled up in ghostly blue transposed on my helmet visor. Your current bank balance is… “Delete,” outloud again.

It was my turn to enter the airlock, so I stepped in. The enclosure was about as big as a Surfacetrack tube. It closed on one side. A rush of air blasted over me and then the other side opened to the Outdoors. I followed the crush of people down the long grey sidewalk. It was surrounded by clean, scoured-grey slabs of concrete that once served as foundations for buildings. We had already reclaimed this sector. At the end of the sidewalk, the crush and I boarded the bus that would transport us to the jobsite. “News,” I said outloud.

“Reclamation will resume in Sector 6 after military forces were able to push back insurgents. Flunkhorn-Hooliport-Gruskin Incorporated has chosen Sector 116 for its next major reclamation project. Goortman Luk has stated that total post-war reclamation efforts are still on schedule to be completed by the end of the Fifth Era, well ahead of all other colonies in the Scramp. Ahead of talks discussing Klorhoginen’s future with Luk, Scramp Chairman Vliss Vlorsik has not released any formal plans on redevelopment, stating, ‘our current social development system does not seem to need much in the way of change. Our diplomatic and academic resource should be allocated toward peace agreements, economic development, and tribal unification. Goortman Luk’s push for surface redevelopment seems tone-deaf in the face of other’s needs. The resources Mr. Luk's proposal would consume could be put to much better use expanding Klorhoginen’s current housing developments to help ease the hundreds of thousands of displaced refugees burdening the asylum system.’ The two are expected to discuss trade policy, military development, and social rules in addition to redevelopment and immigration in today’s meeting ahead of next timemedium’s Scramp Flougin. Surface weather will be sunny and warm, with a high of 101 tempunits. Rock storms are expected in Sectors 48 through 241. The time is 2.1%, you’re listening to World Service News.”

Right on schedule, the work bus dropped us off at the jobsite. My headset clicked over to the work frequency automatically, piping in very pleasant instrumental music. “FHG thanks you for your service,” a pleasant male voice came into my helmet. “Reclamation efforts are currently at 81%. We are currently 3 timeshorts over schedule.” The crush and I walked past a giant metal box, the foreman's office, sleek in design, but beat up from its time on the jobsite. We scanned our badge IDs across the clock-in. “Thank you Bert. You currently have 141% toward your timeshort’s workbudget with 3 timeslices remaining in the current timeshort. Note: all values over 100% will be counted as overtime. Note: It is against KH134.8, Section 1, to work more than 200% in a timeshort,” the alert read in my visor. “FHG thanks you for your work, Bert,” the voice said in my helmet. “It has been noted that you will be working on debris collection in Sector 37 today. Note: all compensation accrued will be deposited into your personal accounts in Scramp Universal Credits at the end of the timeshort. Note: Classical music has been shown to increase work efficiency by 18%, so please enjoy Naoikon’s 3rd Holick Concerto in F major. Note: All radio channels will be locked to FHG frequencies to keep you updated. Thank you for choosing FHG as your worksite.”

After the annoyingly pleasant man’s voice left, a list of objectives appeared on my visor. “0/25 (required) cartloads collected. 5% (required) breaktime unused. 0/1 (required) meeting with Foreman Rob. 0/100 (required) large weightunits of metal sorted. 0/10 (optional) mineral ore sorted. 0/100 (optional) square medium distanceunits of ground resurfaced.” At this point, it feels a bit pedantic to take you, moment by moment, through my workday. Suffice to say, I pretty much did the bare minimum needed, and spent the rest of the time sifting for mineral ore. There’s a fairly heated debate in the Reclamation community on which has the highest ROI over time invested. Cartloads are very high-value, but require a lot of physical investment. Scraping is good if you’re a metalworker, and resurfacing can yield the occasional small valuable. I’m a lousy fabricator and I don’t have the patience to dig through dirt for jewelry and weapons, and I’m definitely not the beefiest of guys. But, I have good eyes and am a fast sifter. I found 14 chunks of valuable minerals, so I was able to pocket 4 today. My meeting with Foreman Rob was mostly uneventful.

“Hey, will you be in tomorrow?” he asked.

“Probably, why do you ask?” I responded without making eye contact. He was a Yellow-dot Eyes, a people whom I find quite intimidating.

“Your inquiry?” He gnashed his foodbone at me. Yellow-dot Eyes’ foodbone had a bit of serration to the thinpoints at the entrance to the mouth, a vestige from their carnivorous history, even though no one ate anyone anymore.

“Oh, right.” I continued to look down in the middle distance.

“You were planning on going, right?” His voice implored me to look at him.

“Well, I mean…” I made eye contact with him briefly. There was genuine compassion on his face. His visage was still intimidating, though.

“Bert,” he closed the inhalation stoma under his left eye and emptied the oxygenation part of his two-chambered lungs out of the exhalation stoma under his right eye. It made a flarping sound as the relaxed sphincter flapped. “It’s important you go.”

“I know,” I looked him in the eyes again. The two oblong, symmetric resonance holes between his nose flared wide, slightly revealing the diaphragm and vocalization tendon that vibrated the air like a speaker behind it, a deeply intimate act displaying his concern.

“Look, I can’t let you on the jobsite tomorrow.” “Eyes” is actually a bit of a misnomer for Yellow-dot Eyes, as they don’t really resemble what you would call an eye. The “Yellow dots” of their namesake didn’t actually collect light for visual processing, but instead emitted short wavelength light. Their actual “eye” was the ovate, dish-shaped recess on their forehead that collected the reflected light. He shimmered his Yellow-dots at me, indicating his distress.

“Why not?” I plead to him.

“Security probably won’t even let you out of the airlock, Bert,” his dots shimmered again.

“Look, I know one of the security guards, Derek. He’ll let me pass. Why can’t you just let me work? I really need the money, Rob” I met his gaze again.

“I know,” he puckered the tight stoma that covered his foodbone and rocked his wide, scaly tongue back and forth slowly, making a rhythmic whistling sound indicating his condolence, “but my hands are tied. The system won’t even acknowledge you if the government has your time blocked out.”

“Sigh,” I sighed, “Thanks for talking, Rob.”

“Good luck Bert. Don’t miss your inquiry.” He tightened all of his stomas and gnashed his foodbone, a stern, challenging sign.

“I will,” I waved at him as I left the metal office.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Hey, Bert, if Yellow-dot Eyes look like that, what do you look like?” The answer to which is: tallish, brown hair, bit of a pudgy gut, medium complexion, and brown eyes. So, probably a lot like you. Convergent evolution. The Cosmos are weird. There are some significant anatomical differences internally, but externally? Not particularly different than you. Anyway, getting off track with exposition, again. After my shift, I hopped back on the bus. Once my radio unlocked, I tuned into the news, again. Yes, I’m a bit of a current events junkie.

“Markets closed lower today,” the husky male voice came over, “dragged down by plummeting generic integrated circuit prices. Here with more is Firk Plurm of the Klognoggin Financial consulting firm. Firk, take us through the day.”

“Thanks Glez,” the droning hum in the background indicating that the woman was a Buzztongue. “As you said, generic integrated circuits took a steep plunge yet again, dropping from 14,000 credits per pallet to 12,000 credits, the lowest it’s been in 17 timelongs. This down from the rolling-timelong high of 26,000 credits.” Her accent was barely noticeable, very commendable for a Buzztongue, who’s ethnic language contains barely any phonemes in common with businessvoice. “A lot of pressure had built during the outage and analysts, myself included, say that GICs will slip even further, bottoming out at roughly 8,000 credits per pallet by the end of the timelong.”

“That’s a pretty grim forecast, Firk,” the man interjected.

“It is, Glez,” the Buzztongue replied. “Flornt Inc, that’s ticker FLI, and their new hypercircuits are storming the technology world. Using the newly discovered Non-Quantum Multi-State Transistor technology, often abbreviated NQMST or ‘Nocmust,’ Flornt can create an integrated circuit using up to a tenth of the current necessary, while still quadrupling processing power. With trade routes reestablishing to Gordman next timeslice, and the Flornt fabrication process reaching maximum efficiency, our firm is predicting a near 200% surge in generic hypercircuit demand by the end of the timelong. With troubles still plaguing Traziac, expect to see warehouses stockpile huge caches of GHCs as a result of the uncertainty, driving both Flornt stock up, as well as making commodity prices for GHCs spike.”

“Thanks Firk,” Glez responded.

The bus dropped me off at the subway airlock. I followed the horde of people also getting off shift through the hall and down to the Surfacetrack tubes. I took the next in line, and entered my coordinates. It whisked me away as I removed my helmet. The news picked back up.

“In other news, the Scramp Central Bank said they’d be holding loan interest rates at an all-time low. SCB Chairman Klurghoogen Tomsmoogen has said that weak development in global economies is a direct result of tight borrowing restrictions. Quote, ‘I hope that looser capital restrictions will encourage small global economies to invest in resource reclamation and physical-wealth expansion. Consumer spending and the military-industrial complex cannot sustain healthy growth. Only a strong growth in real capital can usher in peace.’ Mr. Tomsmoogen, I think we can all agree, might be on to something. The Global Track Index fell 20 points to 880, about 2%. The SuperExchange Index fell 1200 points, or 1.8%, and the Commodities Index fell a whopping 500 points, or 12%, on the back of the GICs loss. I’m Glez, and this has been Econowatch for the World News Service.”

The Surfacetrack dropped me off at my dorm. I entered my room and stripped off my used suit, dropping it down the Incinesposal.

“You have mail,” a pleasant female voice said as I entered the room. “You have a package,” it continued. “You have missed 3 calls,” it carried on. “You have an appointment with the Inquiry Board, tomorrow at 5%. “

“Who called?” I said aloud. I put the helmet in the empty Clothestrack and pulled a lever. I then entered a few keys on a pad and pulled the lever again, a set of khaki slacks and a white oxford shot up.

“Missed call: Identification – Aaron Blake, solicitor. Missed call: Business – Terry’s Minerals. Missed call: Anonymous, profile blocked,” the machine read out to me in a crisp, accent-free voice. If you listened really carefully, you could tell what was a pre-recorded phrase and what was pieced together, but honestly the only reason I could tell was that I once worked at a call center that used similar technology.

“Call back Terry’s Minerals,” I announced clearly. The technology was sophisticated enough to process natural language almost flawlessly, but I’ve had it slip up a few times.

“Bert?” the voice came over after a short time. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“Any time Terry,” I could tell it was Terry and not an apprentice by the Buzztongue drone behind his voice. “What’s up?”
“Have a client looking for a handful of impact diamonds, you happen to have any?” His accent was much heavier than the Buzztongue on the news. You couldn’t tell in the transcription, but when he said “diamonds,” it almost sounded like “tooahboods.”

I picked up a wadded, sheet-sized piece of plastic on my desk and smoothed out the wrinkles. I held my finger on the upper-left corner and the Comslate kicked on. It registered my print and took me to my home screen. I selected a little spreadsheet icon and it opened up my inventory screen. “I don’t have any impact diamonds, it looks like,” I said to him. “I have about 30 microunits of industrial diamond in a concretion I recovered a few days ago, and I have a 5 microunit-sized chunk of jewelry-grade diamond I recovered from a meteor, but it’s a natural diamond, not an impact diamond.”

“Ah Christ,” he replied, “I was hoping you had one. I have a Flareskin looking for 3 2-microunit impact diamonds. Making an anniversary gift for his Skinmate, said it has to be impact diamond. Was willing to pay full market price. I’ll just send him to the Bazaar. Thanks for checking, Bert.”

“Sorry Terry,” I said back, “I’ll update my inventory and mail it over to you.”

“Thanks Bert, good luck at the inquiry tomorrow,” a beep played indicating he had terminated the call.

I looked over my spreadsheet and updated a few values to reflect the minerals I found today: 2 gemstone ores, a few meteorites in a concretion, and some huge chunks of amethyst I could barely harvest. I closed my spreadsheet and opened up my Storagemate application. It verified that my finds for today had been placed in my storage cubicle and that I was currently at 77% capacity. I then pulled up my Bazaar application and checked the minerals market. Top Gainers were Jewelry-grade impact diamond, Precious asteroid ores (assorted), and Semi-precious celestial gemstones. Top Losers were Jewelry-grade natural diamond, Natural iron, and Semi-precious natural gemstones (assorted.) “Great,” I said out loud to myself. “Of course,” I slapped a palm against my forehead. “Impact day. Duh.” Next timeshort was the Impact Day celebration. People were snatching up materials to make celebratory gifts. I checked the industrial markets. Iron was falling, industrial diamond was falling, and Desert Glass was rising. Not just rising, but shooting up dramatically. I checked my inventory. I still had a megaunit of Desert Glass from Sector 25 cleanup.

“Call Steve,” I said out loud.

“This is Steve, what’s up Bert,” The crisp businessvoice was completely accent-less. I still didn’t know what species Steve was. He might not even be biological.

“I want to move a megaunit of Desert Glass on the Industrial,” I said as I pulled up my spreadsheet and Storagemate to ensure it was still there.

“Alright Bert,” he paused for a long time, “It looks like Wagyi Nompson is aggregating a sale. They can give you 15 on the unit.”

“15? I just saw the market sheet and it says it's trading at 18-5 a unit,” I shriveled my nose up.

“Hmm,” Steve paused for a long while again. “Ok, here’s what I can do: Bolocorp is buying and has a slot for a quarter megaunit at 18. Blooks and Boolks is buying a half-megaunit at 17-5 and Veraniscis is buying a quarter at 16-8. That’s the best I can muster.”

“It’s actually broken down into 8’s if that makes it any easier?” I replied as I leafed through my inventory screen.

“Yes and no,” Steve took a while to respond. “BnB only wants a solid half, so they’re out. Bolocorp is still in for two 8’s. I have some micro-buys aggregated and I can move the other 6 8’s for what averages out to 17-7 per unit.”

“Fees?” I winked an eye closed and held it.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “The micro-buys are all flat, but the BnB order would be a perc-Oh!” he interrupted himself, “I just got a private listing for a mega of 16’s at 19 a unit. Let me place a hold on this and see if they’ll take 8’s.”

“Oh baby. If they can’t take 8’s, tell them I can have 16’s by tomorrow evening,” I set my pad down and rubbed my hands together. “Privates are a flat fee, right?”

“Yes,” Steve paused. “and they said they only want 16’s, but would give you until tomorrow night to break your 8’s down.”

“For 19 a unit? I’ll have it done,” I snapped my fingers. Turns out I was pacing, and I flopped into my desk chair.

“Great, You’re locked. Pleasure doing business with you,” Steve replied.

“You too, Steve,” the system keyed off the tone of my voice and a beep played, signaling the end of the call.

I walked over to my mail tube. A large parcel was in the mailtrack. I pulled the tube out, removed the parcel, and shot the cartridge back into the track. I cut the box open with a little letter opener that was on my desk, and removed its contents. “Finally!” I exclaimed to myself. “Oh how I have been waiting for you!” I lifted the sleek goggles to my head and held the control pad in my hand. I pushed a button on the bridge of the nose and instantly the world went black.

I ripped the goggles off my head quickly and flopped back down in my chair before returning them to my face. The black was replaced by a 3 dimensional space and floating blue letters reading “Playspace.” I clicked on the control stick and summoned up the user interface. “What shall your username be?” it read first.

“BertrandRussell” I spoke outloud.

“Hello, our system shows that you are Bert Jones of Sector 81, Klorhoginen, and that it is currently 78% of the 58th timeslice, 74 timelong, Fifth Era. You wish other users to see you identified as ‘BertrandRussell.’ Is this accurate?” The screen read.

“Yes,” I spoke out loud.

“Welcome, BertrandRussell,” the new screen said. “Please, put on your headphones. When this is complete, press ‘Start’ on your control module.”

I reached into the box, pulled out a large set of headphones, put them over my ears, and pressed start. I was greeted with a deep Vwoooooom and then a pleasant female voice, “Welcome to the Playspace. Please select the motif of your interaction. Default: Forest.” With that, all of the white in my visual field was replaced with a dense, green, lush jungle. I turned my head and the world tracked with my vision. I was sitting at a desk in a small field facing the dense jungle, an ocean behind me. There was a small brown footpath leading into the jungle. The headset was playing chirping and buzzing sounds of insects and various fauna. It truly felt like I was there. I stood up from the desk and followed the path, using the controller sticks. The path led me like a tunnel through a lush, dense rainforest and to a multi-path fork in the road. One path, marked “Store,” carried on as a rainforest but transitioned into a stone hall with a red carpet before disappearing into blackness. One read “Meetspace,” and led off on a brown footpath into the jungle before going black. The third, “Control,” transitioned into a long metal hallway before disappearing to the dark beyond.

“Thank you, turn off,” I said out loud.

“You’re welcome, BertrandRussell. Logging you out,” the pleasant voice said before everything instantly disappeared and I was again looking through a set of clear-glass goggles.

“Huh,” I said out loud. “I can’t wait to mess around with you. I’ll ask Derek what games I should play. Oh!” I went over to the entrance of my room, summoned up a Citytrack, and instructed it to take me to the Pit.

“In preparation for this timelong’s Impact Day next timemedium,” the newsman came over.

“They always save the fluff for the evening news,” I said out loud to myself again.

“…Higny out in Welselclavia to visit with a colony of ascetic Hubgubbin Buzztongues and their unusual Impact Day celebration.

“The first thing you notice about Welselclavia is the beautiful archway that greets your Nationtrack as it pulls into the grand Welselclavia Nationstation. Hand-carved out of the bedrock in the Second Era by Buzztongue craftsmen, every inch of the archway is meticulously festooned with gemstones, each individual stone tracing its origins back to the First Wave. ‘Each stone is hand-set in the bedrock, a buzztongue mason carving the individual seat to size. It is a true testament to the masonry skills of the Hubgubbin people,' says Jay Meyer, a Buzztongue mason, as he shows me the heavy scaring on each of his 30 fingers and subfingers. ‘My bloodline traces back to the original Buzztongue colony. Everyone in my family has been a mason since we first arrived. That stone there?’ He points to a diamond the size of a Wingball adorning the keystone, ‘my great-grandfather set that stone,” he pulls a small chisel out of his back pocket. ‘This is the chisel that set that stone.’ But, for people of the Hubgubbin faith, life is not as easy. The Hubgubbins were the first Buzztongues to settle on Aeurilopa. Persecuted by their host-planet’s government for their unusual faith, they found refuge on the wilds of the Lestensuzan Strewnfields, eking out a harsh existence harvesting minerals from what is now Sector 51 of Welselclavia…”

The story cut off as I exited the Citytrack. It had dropped me off at the 15th street station, a block from the Pit. I exited up the subway staircases onto the sidewalk. Inner Sector 81 was laid out much like every other city. Geometric and engineered by planners. I walked down 15th until I hit Main, went up a block to 16th, and then down until I hit the Outer Wall Street. I followed that around the circle until I hit a set of staircases leading you underneath the Parker building. A neon sign blinked “The Pit” with the “i” buzzing between states of illumination. I descended the staircase and swung the door open.

“Bert!” the bartender said from behind a steel counter that swept into an L. “Long time no see.” His accent was very heavy, as were, honestly, most Buzztongues. They were called Buzztongues, as you could clearly see on the bartender, because they did not have a voicebox. Instead, they produced language by buzzing their tongues to make a drone, then controlled the space in their snouts and manipulated the lips at the end it to produce phonetic speech. As a result there, is a very heavy nasal accent to their businessvoice. When the bartender said “Bert,” it sounded more like “boord.”

“It's been less than a timeshort, Clarence,” I waved at him casually as I made my way down the long leg of the L and over to my table.

“Hey, for one of my regulars, even one timeslice is too long, buddy,” he spread two of his arms akimbo and scintillated his fingers and subfingers. The small sub-arms attached to his front pectorals held the beer stien he'd been cleaning.

I turned back to him as I pulled my chair out from my table, “Are you implying that I might have a drinking problem, Clarence?”

He closed his hands back around the stein and continued cleaning, “Hey, I ain't gonna throw stones in a glass house, but I worry about my little family, alright?” One of his dorsal tendrils grabbed a bottle of scotch off the top shelf and handed it down to him. He pulled a rocks glass from the well and poured a large draught, setting it in front of the Flareskin patron to his left.

“Pinkbodies,” the Flareskin shook his head and threw back the draught, draining half of it in a gulp.

“Ahh,” Clarence flopped his hand at the wrist. “Bert's one of the good ones,” he flipped his snout up in Bert's direction.

“Much love, brother,” I shot a finger-gun back at him as I pulled plopped in my chair and bellied up to my table. “Prordorf Light, when you get the chance.”

“So, who's dealing?” Derek said opposite me in his chair nested in the corner. He had a weird thing about always having his back in a corner. Some Ex-soldier shit he never talks about.

“Five-card or flop?” Russel had a deck of cards in his hand and was bridge-shuffling. He did it compulsively. Russel had the distinct black skin of Pinkbody royalty. Why he deigned to shuffle cards with us plebs never really came up.

“Uh, flop? Do we ever play five-card?” Earl worked at a factory in the city and is the scariest card player I've ever met. That's all I know about him.

“We do,” Russel pointed at me and Derek. “You don't play five-card,” he drilled his finger at Earl.

“Just deal the damned cards, asshole,” he was husky and constantly blushing.

Russel shot us all two cards and laid three out on the table. “Big blind is two peanuts,” he took a couple nuts from the pile of shelled nuts under his chin.

“Prordorf Light,” Clarence said as he set a stein of fizzy golden liquid next to my arm, “and your chips,” he said as his other hand plopped down a bowl of unshelled peanuts.

“Thanks, Clarence,” I took a long swig of beer, “I missed you, too” I held the stein up.

“You ready for the big inquiry tomorrow?” Derek flipped the cards up and quickly memorized them. His left eye twitched a little bit. He still didn't know it did that when he had bad cards.

“I just want to play cards and not think about it, Derek,” I said as I flipped my cards up and covered them from the others. I have no idea if I have a tell for good cards, but if I did, two jacks in the hole is bound to have triggered it.

“Fine, fine. Just go. You can't miss it again. They won't postpone it, you know,” Derek threw some peanuts into the pile.

“I know,” I said as I shelled some nuts and threw them in to match. The rest of the night played out in much the same. We didn't say much, drank beer, and played cards. I ran out of nuts second to last. Oddly, though, Derek won.