"Shall I schedule an appointment to continue our discussions, Mr. Kogui?" the Guide asks, suppressing her elation and gratification after what she has considered a most successful tour of the archives.
"Thank you," Mason Kogui replies, bowing lightly. "We will certainly be very glad to meet with your directors soon to discuss future business with Royal Technonautics. We are very glad for associates of your caliber in this region."
The pair step out into the alley, the door of their waiting shuttle opening to welcome them. Behind them, timeworn robotic sensors detect their entering the shuttle, while the master control unit scans the datafield radiating from the shuttle's internal system. As the shuttle departs, it continues to run through a probability matrix, seeking to confirm internal suspicions.
Otto has never heard of Royal Technonautics.
"Yes, that would be acceptable," Abbadonando answers, pouring another splash of syrup for himself, thick and dark, congealing with lumps in the glass.
Oscuro downs his own shot.
"When do we begin, Miss Miyako?"
The Lady slides a folded paper across the table, bowing her head to the two as she rises to take her leave.
Probing eyes scan the leaking ceiling, soft bending under damp weight. Rusted metal and broken consoles. Equipment fizzles and sparks and collects dust, seemingly unused, if not unwanted. Were it not for the scratching in the walls defying expectations of abandonment, one would expect it had all been left to rot, but, unseen, the whole building is a hub of constant activity.
"Not quite what you would expect, is it?" queries the Guide.
"We have no expectations," replies Mason, distracted by a survey of the archive director's seat. He plucks out a sheet of paper from the pile, flicking it once to shake the damp.
"Despite appearances, Rodentia is a--"
"Do no mind the shadows," Mason reads aloud from the paper, a musing smile. "Going forward, your data goes through us."
"I", the Guide continues, betraying an inferior positioning within her organization, "don't see how that relates to your reasons for asking for this tour."
"What were our reasons?" asks Mason after a pause, cooly returning the letter to the top of the pile, face down.
"To evaluate the value of the operations, with an eye to future investment and collaboration— I had thought," the Guide answers, growing more uneasy, wondering if she ought to be talking at all outside her prespecified lines.
An ancient robot tinkering in the office corner defocuses from its labours, blue metal probes scanning the two intruders of its domain.
"They are absolutely invaluable."
Moonlight shines down through a gap in the roofing.
"We know of you," Miyako begins, pushing the weighted paperbag across the table. "We're interested to know what you can offer us."
Abbadonando smiles, black teeth hung in peeling red gums. Heavy set eyes gaze dead ahead, void of any light but not vacant of mind. "We were told that you can offer us something we dearly crave," he replies.
Oscuro sits, inhaling deeply the scent of this new party, feeling the change she brings to the air on his skin. Tremors of pleasure run through his whole, shivering in the ether.
"The question was what it is you can offer me," Miyako continues. "There has been so little word from below, and so much movement above."
"We can do both. All we require is purpose. Aimlessness poisons our kind."
"Not just any purpose," Oscuro adds, leaning forward to run his hands over the bag. "Though perhaps you know that."
A young woman, a bob of yellow hair and plain ash suit, mousy and out of place next to her more polished gentleman companion, steps out of their shuttle into the narrow alleyway. Mason steps out after her, taking in the rusting facade of what could be mistaken for an abandoned warehouse were it not for the hum of security, hidden but palpably electric.
"Welcome to the archival laboratory," the woman begins, offering herself to the elevated scanner outside the main entry. "I apologize again that your contact could not join us, but he does have a very busy schedule. I hope that my own tour will be satisfactory."
"I have no doubt it will."
The scanner responds slowly, producing a high-pitched squeal of metal grinding before it manages to raise out the door. A dank, moldy smell, a haze of memories and associations carried on spores.
"The archival director's office is right through here. We can see the whole floor from there. I would take you out onto the floor itself, but, as you'll see, it is very cramped and designed for smaller bodies to sort through."
"Lead on," Mason smiles, his right palm up to the scanner.
The Kid snorts and spits into a heavy chemical puddle, grinning at the way it melts and broils into strange shapes. One of only a few ways to waste an evening in the toxic morass of these industrial zones.
"Yeah, we has people everywhere," he says, snorting and spitballing again.
"You can arrange a meeting with her tonight?"
"She camp out in the East usual, but not lately," the Kid carries on, never looking up to see his inquisitor. "Who Jonny can get a line in if you need it now quick. He been out, roughing up in the Mills."
Casimir Spencer offers the Kid a weighted paperbag; it is greedily snapped up, opened, contents scanned over.
"You know the stall bar across from the Locust Club? One hour, this doubles. Two, it stands."
"Up-town. Real story that no one running out of the 'fax, huh?"
"No one you need to worry about," answer the figures in the shadows.
"Don't want to worry neither," the Kid shoots back, running off.
"We've always appreciated insects as great survivors, not only as chroniclers, but as mutating intelligences, hyper-adaptative."
"We agree, but what they miss is the nuance, the hairy details of the now that are certainly calculated and stored by others, but never truly appreciated for the potential depth that exists inside them. The nut containing the seed, protected, cultivated. That is what we offer, which no other organization in the Scrapyards or, one dares to say, anywhere, can do so well. We would be happy to have you, or one of your own representatives, given a tour of our local archival laboratory to confirm just that."
Mason loosens his skinny black tie, nodding. Perfectly aligned teeth for a played smile, his Asiatic features tight and fixed just to maintain the look of plutocratic place.
"We think that would be very prudent. Could it be done this evening?"
The representative of Rodent Industries holds up one finger, placing the call to arrangement an immediate tour.
"You didn't need to pulp his face like that," Casimir croaks, catching his breath. "They'll remember that."
"They ought to remember their manners and their place in the broader scheme of things, as you ought to," Abbadonando replies, vainly blotting at the blood on his shirt with a wet rag.
"You do work with some dangerous people, Mr. Spencer," Oscuro claps his heavy hands down on Casimir's shoulders. "It's good that you have friends like us to help you along."
"The Phoenician is ever returning," Casimir answers.
"If he knows the way," Oscuro whispers.
"You still needn't to have done that to him. They have a hard time keeping themselves together as it is."
"Your party is waiting at the table just over here, sir," the host ushers a young man, not quite thirty, through a maze of closed booths and coloured paper ornamentation. The Locust Club is as close to opulence as you could demand from the Scrapyard, but even it was gaudy and inferior compared to the stories of the Great Space City.
An older man, white whiskers and shaggy hair, dines alone, swallowing up small chunks of fatty white meat with gulps of black draught.
"Good evening," the young man takes his place across from the elder, running his fingertips through the scanner port offered. It pings and flashes, making an old-time racket.
"Mason Kogui, sub-director to Sir August Loin of Royal Technonautics," the elder reads back the younger's credentials. "So glad you could make it."
"Thank you for the invitation. Our diligence is very nearly complete, as noted in the briefing packet just posted."
The elder slurps down another slug of meat, nodding.
"Didn't you used to work for Lenisker, Mr. Kogui?"
"I cannot say that I have, sir," Mason replies.
The party continues on, as it always will, the candles burning, the wine flowing. The Gentlemen cheer jovially as Casimir Spencer, drunk sick, stumbles forward into their merry company, glasses raised and salutations prepared, but it all quickly turns and falls to a hush as he is followed in by darker faces.
"Your kind are not allowed," snarls one of the Gentlemen, his jowls quaking, the last cracks of white in his eyes filling with red. His fellows are likewise unwelcoming, immediately rising up from their places, taking up their bottles, cases, hats, and coats to quickly make their escape out the side doors, deigning not to even speak.
"I agree, and we wouldn't be if it weren't for the kind invitations of a mutual friend," Abbadonando answers, speaking loudly over the shuffling of feet against hardwood grain, the creaking and slamming of doors.
"We have nothing for you," the Gentleman spits, feeling about the table for his own hat, eager to join his fellows in leaving.
"You have a name," Oscuro slides into focus behind the Gentleman.
"And a name is all we need," Abbadonando snaps his fingers.
"Miyako," the Gentleman answers, kicking his chair out roughly to one side, turning to glare into Oscuro. Blood drips from the corners of his eyes.
"Now kindly fuck off, you wicked shits. You sully the very aires with your presence."
"Royal Technonautics," Ujuor reads back from the monitoring interface, checking his voice modulation. "Mason Kogui."
"Are you certain this is what you want me to say to them?" the Lady asks.
"One need never be certain if they proceed with certainty," Ujuor answers, doing up his black tie into a simple half-Windsor, an old custom to go with the modern Scrapyard chic of his light tan suit.
Reaching behind his neck, Ujuor touches a small peel of skin, his face twitching as he does. A current jolts from the top of his spine forward and down through his whole body, highlighting the thin layer of plastiskin pulled over it, tightening in places, adding shades of weight in others.
"Royal Technonautics, Mason Kogui," Ujuor says again, this time looking the part.
"It is a beautiful night in the Scrapyard, isn't it?"