Pyrat King Homecoming 2 of 3: Bar Crawl
06 Feb 2016Monolith Preacher
Now, when I say we hit the bottle, I mean we hit every bottle we could find in the bubble, and then we went looking for new bottles. And that's not a joke. We've got a drink that you can only get at Kent Station. I say you, but I mean Hammer and I. Don't even bother checking the markets, we brew it ourselves. It's made from sugar, and whilst random traders are lugging that back to make ends meet on a slave run, I'm brewing it into the oldest pyrat drink in the galaxy, and yet one you can no longer find. It's called Rum, and when Hammer and I do a bar crawl, we always cry the same thing when leaving a bar:"Why is the rum gone?"
No-one ever gets the joke.
And now that I think of it, I just mentioned a slave run there, didn't I? I haven't done a slave run since I left for the GIMPP, and that was three months ago. My Walkabout started almost three months before that. When I first got in my Sidey, I dreamed of coming home as a man. Once I got in the Cobra given to me by my rather absent of late Mentor, I dreamed of converting the cosmos. By the time I did my last slave run, I was approaching thirty thousand saved by my hand, not counting those my converts had converted themselves. That would be cheating. But then I became a slave. And now I was a King. Well, almost. Give it a few cycles and I'd go back home for good.
I had to fly under the radar last time I was there. The reason I took my Fer-de-Lance in was Springheel Jack wouldn't go near a civil war unless he had to, and he wouldn't tell the boys I had such hardware in case it inspired them to mutiny. That being said, I knew he had his cabin boys after me, and I was lucky to have missed them last time. I took my Asp out drinking with Hammer, and I've stayed in it for most of the interim. It might have no weapons, but Jack's the only one of us that's got a 'conda. That means no-one's going to be able to out-jump me to the next drink.
So we've spent the majority of the time flitting between systems drowning our sorrows in the evening and trying desperately to figure out what to do about them through Onionhead filled mornings. But never staying in one port more than one night. It's like the old games we used to play when we were avoiding Blix at boot camp, only this time we were helpless to confront him on our doorstep. When you're a kid, you think you're going to "make it" some how. I've noticed already that time just changes your problems, it only solves one to give you another. But it's nothing a few inebriates won't fix, right? And that's enough wallowing in sadness, I did enough of that at the bars on the way.
And that's what you're interested in, really. I'm a preacher, and if this doesn't end up in the wrong hands so are you, and a bit of aqua vitae is good for the soul. So everyone's critic. And Hammer and I are the best. So we started with Two Truck Stoppers at Isherwood Dock before we left. The bar there is made of Gold, as you'd expect, and they only serve that stupid beer with gold flakes in. They say it gets you more drunk, but I've never got plastered from rubbing alcohol on wounds, so I doubt it.
From there, we did the rounds for the drink. So basically we stole Fat Tony and Little Nuk's idea and did loop of all the known rare drinks in the bubble as fast as we could. Suffice to say we did better in our Asps than I did in my Cobra when I tried it, but I didn't enter the time because the leaderboard is basically untouchable in the Asp division. And because we were too drunk to remember to take pictures or record the time or play cat and mouse on the way out the letterbox. Not so much on the way out, but certainly by the end. We took two fingers of the local, then snuck two fingers of rum back on our ships at each stop. Do the math, I'm too drunk to do so. Yes, still. There's more to go.
I could describe every bar we saw, but I really can't be bothered. Most of them are as tacky and one-dimensional as you'd expect. The “authentic original Old Smokey's” is a smoky glass bar. I don't mean it's made of smoky glass, I mean it's made of glass and they've got smoke in the walls. Coloured smoke. Multi. Coloured. Smoke. In a whiskey bar. I wanted to puke before I'd even drunk anything. I'll spare you the details of the rest of them. Trust me, it's for the best. But we did have some good conversations with each other and a lot of random bar folk.
Bartenders seem to be the friendliest sort of bar folk, followed by punters, then CMDRs. We assume it's because bartenders are being paid, punters are spending their hard-earned cash on their one luxury, and CMDRs are getting completely wasted. I don't know if you've checked the price on beer by the bottle recently because we buy in tons, but perhaps you'll realise how much you could drink if you wished to when you're making the kind of money we routinely do. I may be a preacher, I may be a king, and I may be getting ahead of myself a little, but what I'm trying to say is the average man, woman, or alien making an orbit doesn't make the kind of money we do. Heck, the average John doesn't even make enough to make ends meet, let alone make orbit. So we treat everyone when we drink, because drink is cheap to us, but it's still not cheap for everyone. It's also everyone in the systems the Archon owns than elsewhere, but Gcirthi's too backwater for him to care any more than the other powers as far as the political scene is concerned.
I'm sorry if I'm rambling about anything and everything, but that's what we were talking about at the bars to take our minds off the scenery, and the best is yet to come. Because everything started taking a very odd turn around the time we finished the circuit and started trawling random systems to see if they'd clocked our rum recipe. And it was about that time Hammer started talking about some Galnet reports I'd been too busy to see that made our conversation take an odd turn.
Suddenly, we were discussing aliens.
You see, when I heard about these unknown artefacts, I was already a step or two ahead of the game. My mentor gave me knowledge of the history of the Monolith, including that of the First Space Preacher. When he went out on forage, he met an alien race believed to be the Thargoids of lore. The books say he perished against them, on the very mission that was to get him his ELITE status. Back in those days, you only got it once. Sure, apologists will tell you that they helped us out however many centuries ago and that makes everything better, but whomever they helped was no preacher of the glorious Monolith. And it was no pyrat I've ever heard of either. So the way I see it, we don't owe them anything beyond esoteric warfare if they return. These artefacts are obviously false Monoliths, and the barnacles that have been popping up in the black recently have been reacting to them according to a crazy jedi CMDR I know who basically lives out there.
Oh, yeah. I bumped into a few CMDRs I know on the bar crawl. It's funny who you bump into when you're drinking. I'm not one to kiss and tell, but I've met a few people since I left Kent Station, and whilst I've not managed to entice any of them into my wing, there's still a loose net of contacts I keep in touch with I don't care to divulge to you. If they're not on any databases, it's their concern. But that doesn't stop me from mentioning our exploits once in a while, right? And I was talking to them about aliens. Of course I was. I was using it as a pick up line the whole way.
Anyway, it was about here that I began to lose my train of thought and my brain smashed itself head-on against a wall of “go home before you melt”. Hammer, finally out-drinking me by one beer and two snake gin I swear had no place being in the bar we were drinking at, carried me to my ship and dumped me at the entryway.
“You find your own door!” he said. I think I got the reference.
As I lay there mumbling to myself about the tracking qualities of sentient barnacle alloys in Obsidian Oribtal, I smelt a faint whiff of ozone, and a well-turned heel appeared at my eye-level, which is to say halfway down the access ramp to the entrance of my Asp. Red leather boots were rather audacious, but at least the leather trousers kept the colour going. I couldn't make out the rest as she spoke, but her voice sounded like a thousand cigarettes mixed with honey vodka. She lit a cigarette before she spoke, so I guess I can't be far off.
“Sounds like you...” she stopped to exhale, giving a moment of anticipation I would've appreciated if my back wasn't starting to realise how awkward of a position it was in. “...need a hand up.”
She was right, really. I had no clue what I was going to do, both in regards to my homecoming and my current predicament. I wasn't sure I could feel my legs, but I knew I could feel a sudden need to visit the smallest room. And as we all know, when drunk, you're fine until you're not. So I took her up on the offer and invited her in.
Strangest thing. I was too drunk to go through the whole educational process on the way in, but she didn't mention the Monolith once during her whole stay at my craft. I don't mention this to boast of virility as much as to remind you to always check if you've turned on your Enlightenment Machines before you leave your craft and enter it. I can't for the life of me work out whether they were on or off when she walked in the door. She did at least give me her name on the way through. Scarlet. Of course it was.
Anyway, we were talking theories about aliens all night, and by the morning I'd realised my little bender had lasted longer than I had initially expected. I was due to buy my Hounds in two days, and after that I had to be ready to go home with all guns blazing. As I turned from the clock to face her, I was in finally sober enough to take in her outfit. Red leather from tip to toe, like a thin I-No. I couldn't help but remark that if she wasn't Scarlet she'd have to be Alice. I was tired of people not getting my references, but she laughed at every one. Not often someone knows enough about ancient culture to understand my jokes. Not often you find someone with naturally heterochromic eyes either, even nowadays. If it wasn't for my vows, well...I'm glad I'm not allowed to settle down and only had a ritual weekend to waste. But I digress. She was perceptive, and as quickly as I'd noticed the date and furrowed my brow she caught my intention.
“As I was saying when we met, you need a hand, and I think I might be able to help you.”
Suddenly, I was on edge. What did she know, and why did she know it? Even I didn't know what I thought I knew.
“You've got problems at home. That's your business. You've got debts you think you can pay but you can't, and I've made that my business.”
That hurt my pride. I might not be rolling in it like Hammer, but I'd not once in my life been in the red. “Speak plainly, Scarlet. We've been talking for days and I know naught but your name. If you did not merely help a poor preacher for the sake of sanctuary, then why are you here?”
She returned a bored glance and spoke languidly.
“Your Python is gone, and the Cobra MK IV pyrats loyal to your cause purchased as a homecoming present has also been liquidated. By Springheel Jack. As a gesture of your loyalty to the Empire to fund the Fer-de-Lance you would otherwise have been given as a coronation gift.”
I laughed whole-heartedly.
“I don't know who you're trying to kid, sister, but I've got deckers that's make your skin crawl. If anyone accessed my funds behind my back, I'd know about it.”
Her gaze didn't shift back to me, neither did her tone falter.
“Sheng is an idiot. He only knows hardware. If you knew anything about coding you'd see him for the script kiddie he really is. Where was he when you were at the core? He was doing work for LYR, and I was watching you on the Hutton feeds. Where was he when your coronation bash happened? Doing work for LYR, whilst I was hacking doors shut to seal the airlocks that stopped poor Hilary from almost dying during his escape. Don't talk to me about Sheng, he can't keep an eye beyond his hairstyle.”
For once in my life, I had been talked down. There was only one thing I could ask.
“Who are you?”
She smiled.
“Who stalks the stalkers?”
By the time this cycle rolled round, we had a plan.