Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about gas giants was that an individual with a basic understanding of the human psyche could gauge another's moral disposition depending on their opinion about their awesome gargantuan forms. As far as Clay was concerned, gas giants existed in two distinct forms depending on the eye of the beholder.

On a planet orbiting one, some felt safe thanks to their superior gravitational field that protected their solar system from space debris and the odd Maliwan search drone. These people were usually privileged types who spent their livelihoods working and dying, living sweet and colorful lives of glorified human farms deceitfully named 'corporations.'

But in space, the colorful, noble gas giant became a great, dangerous hindrance for anyone unprepared for its wack gravitational pull because out in space, they were the space debris, too. After all, a giant planet wasn't sentient, and your chemical makeup didn't matter as you were crushed under millions of atmospheres of atmospheric pressure or torn to pieces in a superstorm. This view was that of a survivor, a homeless nomad who saw the world for what it was and knew how to avoid it.

Supposedly, there was another reason why staring at the planet out of the spaceship cockpit made Clay twist his thumbs together in anxiety. His aunt used to say that the old Jakobs' ships were so sturdy they flew straight through Eden, only to crash into its seven children on the other side.

For those reasons, Clay claimed to be one of the latter, more fearful beholders of gas giants.
The nail-biting approach to Eden 6 always took anywhere from one to three hours (depending on the mood of the current quarantine chief). With it came the nagging feeling that one got from existing in a purgatory where your soul was both a family member and a disease-ridden wretch prime for incineration.

There was a backlog of twenty or so ships waiting to touch ground. All that ground control shared was that a confused foreigner had yet to fully declare his ship's inventory. Jakobs' family priority, they said, with no regard to the non-Jakobs, or in Clay's case, legally dubious little folk floating in orbit.

Clay tapped his fingers impatiently at the side of the control panel, idly checking the cargo status on one of the many screens littering the side of the logistics module. Beside him, Old Captain May tensed at his fidgeting. She squinted sideways at the younger smuggler, the wrinkles around her eyes growing deeper.

She didn't say anything, instead opting to return to her knitting project that looked like a long brown sack, her needles repeatedly clicking over the rhythmic hum of the engine.
The first three weeks of the cargo run had gone fine, as they usually did, even when picking up something that not one soul on the crew was supposed to see or know of its contents. However, there was always the rising tension from being cooped up in close quarters with eight other people, especially when they were only mere moments away from freedom and a sweet payout.

Now, each member of the Futrus 7 was confined to a separate corner of the ship with the skeleton crew waiting for the 'big update' as they called it. No one mentioned how close they were to cutting it with the monsoon season right around the corner. It was hard to trade illegal wares with everyone hiding inside and even harder to do it with someone who hadn't even revealed their name.

Someone coughed on the other side of the room; Clay jumped at the sudden noise, immediately cringing at himself in embarrassment.
Old May put her needles down with a loud clack. "Will you quit it, you scaredy boy? We'll be gettin' down sooner or later. Think about your mam or somethin."
''Can I think of his mam instead?'' Shouted Yate from the gallery. The rest of the crew erupted into hoots of laughter. Clay tried not to bristle too much at the jest. Yate was known for being a dick.

The crew was strong people, the kind of people that spat directly in the face of authority and walked backward into the arms of the chaos of Borderlands space. Clay's eyes scanned the horizon as he wished that he was as brave as May or as much of an ass as Yate.

The mood was briefly lifted until a shrill beep of a proximity sensor interrupted everyone, one member going silent after another in solemn acknowledgment.
''Clay, get that for us, child,'' May commanded, giving Yate a shivering glare. She swung her chair around to face the intercom.

Thanks to still being a junior, Clay could get away with a bit more compared to the older members of the crew. However, that didn't stop him from bracing his shaking hands as he activated the command module.

The intercom gave a cheery sound to the crew before a gruff voice came from the speakers. The crew all subtly leaned in to listen. ''Futrus 7, this is commandant Tobfinny of Founder's Port minor imports division. Is the connection clear?''
''Clear.'' Answered May as soon as he was done speaking. ''You got an update for us, Sir Tobfinny?''
There was a sound of shuffling and a mild grunt (or fart) on the other side. The whole ship had gone quiet, some feigning ignorance by staring off into space, some hanging on to the edges of their seats.

''There we are. Why do we fuckin' print these off every time?'' More shuffling. ''Futrus 7, you are clear for landing.''
The whole cockpit whooped and hollered for just a second until May held her hand up in warning, and the ship fell silent.
''Wanna tell us which landing bay to set down our wares? Don't wanna keep the Jakobs waitin'.'' She put her hand back down, never looking up from the screen. Someone snickered at the blatant lie. None of the secretive 'goods' were going to make it to the upper echelons of the company. They had their own and undoubtedly, higher-quality suppliers for that, even ones that hid in the shadows.

Clay's hand hovered over the input box, ready to plot a new course.
There was a crackle over the intercom ''Yuuu…. Far out from the a-a-a-a-a-a.'' The voice sounded as if it was being stretched out over longer sound waves. ''Seeeeevvveee-''
May grumbled and tapped the screen, which did nothing to improve the sound quality. ''Ground control?''
Low whispers filled the cockpit, full of people talking and simultaneously hushing each other as the static died to nothing.
There was a sudden hiss through the intercom, and everyone went silent again "-ompromised… you are no longer clear to land. Please follow protocol 26 - that is, all ships are to vacate lower orbit.''

The cockpit grew louder, and those who knew of protocol 26 and those who had only heard of it tried to make sense of the order. Clay was at first too distracted to notice the other message box pop up on the screen—the automatic collision diagnostic had jumped into tune with the garbled sounds with its own shrill staccato.

Within a moment, everyone heard it, too. The crew moved suddenly like scuttling insects, all earlier mirth forgotten. Within a blink of an eye, the crew members were at their posts, Clay flanking two other navigators on both sides.

''What is it?''

They must have been discovered; they were being sniped right out of the sky, probably. Clay thought back to the mystery cargo. When was the last time they were not allowed to know what they were transporting?

''A missile, I think.''

''It's big. It's another ship!'' Someone to Clay's right was panicking, their hands scrambling at the control panel, trying to reset the diagnostics program.
The collision diagnostic was locked on a trajectory, and the alarm increased in tempo. Each time, the screen flashed with a different message.

Missile incoming - collision imminent, Foreign object incoming - collision imminent, unidentified spacecraft incoming - collision imminent, Object, Missile, Object.

He punched in the first thing he could think of; the return coordinates from the last destination.

A clank behind him cut through the commotion. The pilot was jerking the steering control with such vigor that the weathered plastic casing snapped in several places. ''I can't move it!''
Someone stepped in to help her, shattering the controls further.

Their freighter was several decades old and, therefore, slow to start. Clay prayed her engines were still hot. As if answering his prayer before them, the half-circle of the horizon was beginning to shift; they were moving.

But something else was moving, too. In the distance, there was a twinkle, like sun rays bursting forth from behind Eden-6.

May grabbed Clay's arm, her fingers stiff and bony and cold. ''We need to get the fuck out of here.'' She hissed in his ear and jerked him off the seat, throwing him towards the back exit.
Clay stumbled over his legs; the crew was still trying to move the ship behind him.

The pilot from before was staring at the window, her stance relaxed in childlike wonder.
Clay could see it now; a pinprick of light outlined against the rolling backdrop of Eden. It was coming in fast, faster than he had ever seen anything from so far away. Or was it? Maybe it was only the glow that was intensifying.

He vaguely acknowledged the ship's engines rumbling the cockpit to life, shaking his brain back into focus.
They were moving faster now—retreating, but not fast enough. Diagnostics flared angry colors on every control panel, calling for immediate evasive maneuvers Futrus 7 was too leaden to complete.

They all knew it was coming, looking for something. They were all sitting ducks, ants under a looking glass, or amphibians being boiled alive.
Over the crews' panicked scramble, ground control gave one last statement: ''-no longer safe—heed the light.' before shutting off completely. The light was close now. They were alone.

As soon as the engines reared, they went dead. Eden-6 was now closer - Clay realised they were moving towards it at increasing speed.
May's claws dug into his arm. 'Move, son, now.''
He stumbled after her - eyes fixed on the light creeping in through the hold and the hull as if permeating from the outside.

Everyone's faces were blanketed in white light, so bright only the black pinpricks of their eyes and screaming mouths remained.
Clay cringed at the sight. Vertigo took over as they fell, hurtling faster and faster. The light was loud in his head. He didn't understand what it wanted.
The crew swarmed over each other, following them as May rounded the corner and threw Clay into an open escape pod.

With a grunt, he bounced against the cheap, hard seat, twisting his wrist at an unnatural angle. The door shut with a hiss behind him, and suddenly, all he heard was his own breathing and the light. He closed his eyes. It pounded against his eyelids, trying to get in.
A loud thunk sounded at the door.
Through the perspex, Clay saw an unidentified hand lit up by a light so bright the bones and veins were clearly visible, like the inner workings of a puppet. A distorted face pressed against the glass next—Yate—grinning and giving him a thumbs up.

''Y-O-U W-I-L-L B-E O-K,'' He mouthed, eyes glassy. Clay gave a thumbs-up back, his wrist numb.
He remembered Yate as the last person from his crew as he stared toward Eden-6. The light was behind him - and he didn't dare look back unless it took anything else.
Soon, he forgot he was not supposed to look back, so he did, to see nothing but the light. That was a mistake, sort of, like a curse to his very soul. It penetrated his mind, leaving nothing but a single echoing note, like the one Nan used to sing.

Bright and sharp, it looked at him, and he felt it compel him to go; survive, it sang. So Clay closed his eyes and tried to survive to the best of his ability.
Sometime later, when Clay was hungry and scared, he awoke to the tree canopy rising to meet him and vaguely recalled why he was afraid; he was crashing. He then remembered a flash of the trees, the bog, and then nothing.

The next moment he awoke, chest heavy from the rising smoke Clay felt like he should be mourning something, but he also had to survive. Old May once said that it was the ones who gave up on living died first; as long as he tried, he would be 'O-K-A-Y.' Her voice rang in his head as he orientated himself and kicked at the release button of the pod door.

The moment the door hissed open, Clay picked a direction and started walking. The life of Eden-6 sang around him, but all he could hear was the light.

Chapter Text

Alistair Hammerlock arrived at the Eden planetary system a good deal later than previously anticipated. It was getting there that was mostly the issue; with only a single port on the moon’s southern hemisphere, Alistair’s ship had to drift in orbit until his turn to touch the ground was called through by an incredibly irate operator, which startled him from his dozing state at the control console. 

On top of his cephalalgy, he was still nauseous and dry-mouthed from the feverish cocktail of vaccines administered to him by a Jakobs-approved medical professional only a week prior. The man in question had the audacity to ask for an astronomically high 'compensation fee’ before Alistair could be considered safe enough to set foot on Eden 6. 

Supplementally, in his boredom, Alistair had read and re-read all the literature available on the fauna of the region to the point of being able to recite it from memory. Even this did not placate the hunter within him, eager as he was to escape the tiny confines of vessel. 

To compensate, he had emptied out the liquor cabinet of Aurelia’s remaining mini bottles, causing a short term of forgetfulness and a much longer term of self-inflicted vulnerability.

A sagacious and formidable woman he met on Pandora once called it ‘hangxiety’, a perfectly descriptive term for the feeling, to be sure.

Alistair’s first mistake was avoidable; he could not find his official landing code in the pile of unsorted messages on his borrowed echo device, making Eden 6 ground control get increasingly frustrated to the point of screaming.


After several strict checks of his cargo, which he had also forgotten to declare, a resulting dressing-down, and a small amount of groveling on his part, Alistair was clear to land. 

As the greenery and brown swamp waters got closer and closer through the viewing window of his meager vessel, he felt a rising sense of dread. If the rumors were true, he was bound to stay on the planet for a while; Eden-6 was notorious for not letting people in or out, for that matter. It was best to not dwell on minutiae matters of such nature; entrusting the autopilot to land his ship, Alistair took one last inventory of his cargo. 

Weapons, his favorite rifle’s trigger, busted from the last excursion. 

Surveying equipment; nothing amiss. However, how his preferred tracking navigator didn’t get digested in a Skag’s gullet was a mystery within itself.

Clothing; active, semi-active, and formal. The latter was the most recent addition to Alistair’s belongings, shoved into his possession along with the ship by Aurelia. 

Usually, he scoffed at fine clothing and luxury amenities, which only served as additional weight. However, due to the current circumstances, this sojourn was not exactly one of his classic adventures, which Alistair usually used as an excuse to avoid the nagging of his extended family. In fact, his family was one of the reasons, despite his own agreement, why he was currently within the bounds of his new contract of employment to Montgomery Jakobs himself. 

As he guided the vessel through the atmospheric breach, the muddy brown of the haze surrounding the planet gave way to a no less appealing vomit green, like a lime that had been rotting for a hundred years. 

Earlier anxiety forgotten, Alistair examined the scene through the window as flocks of airborne creatures took flight at the sound of his approach.  He had seen great amounts of scenery before, but never so sprawling or so untamed. It lifted his hopes for the first time in what felt like an age. He could only imagine what undocumented wonders resided within the woods, ensconced by the Jakobs family for generations.

The sun flashed off a great ocean, momentarily blinding him until he was taken over by a sprawling forest below. It seemed that the great delta of Eden welcomed him with closed arms. The trees never thinned out, yet he could see small clusters and nods towards civilization: a road obscured by trees here or a drilling platform off into the distance.

Upon landing the air was humid and heavy with the smell of ozone and biofuel, the little Alistair could see of the sky gave him no clue of the local time. The port was much smaller than the one he departed from, with only several tawdry bays designated for private vessels such as his own. The rest was entirely dominated by freighters so grand he had to crane his neck to try and catch their peaks. Beyond the port there thick jungle started, uninhibited and untouched.

People scurried and slunk in between the wooden paths and terrain technicals, most paying the newcomer little mind as he stumbled around in an endeavor to make out any signs or indicators to guide himself out. He didn’t have to wait long as a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Mr Hammerlock?” Said a gruff voice far too close to his ear. 

“Ah!” He responded in a wholly dignified manner, spinning around violently to face his assailant. 

She was a short woman clothed in golds,reds and tans with close-bobbed hair held tight under a needlessly pompous derby hat which seemed utterly inappropriate for the weather. She gave him an earnest grin, holding out a hand for him to shake. A golden badge attached to her lapel proudly declared her as 'Head Of House'. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you there sir, it’s awful nice to be finally meetin’ye, name’s Miss Dontrecki. We spoke a few days back.” Her voice was familiar but her drawl was so heavy Alistair could barely make out what was being said, like a foolish school child attending the wrong linguistics class. 

Miss Dontrecki regarded him as if the two seconds it took him to respond was two seconds too long and jabbed him in the chest with a stout finger. It felt like a gut punch. Her gloves were embroidered lace ones, matching her hat. 

Taking it all in jest, Alistair shook her hand. “It’s lovely to put a face to the name, Miss Dontrecki.”

Miss Dontrecki walked straight past him to regard his ship instead. It wasn’t much but a heap of junk his sister claimed would give him an impression of being a ‘penniless scrounging vagrant.’ Personally, Alistair preferred ‘rough-hewn vagabond’ as a more fitting term.

“You landed the furthest away from the entrance, and are four hours late. S’pose we wanna get goin as soon as possible dearie, wouldn’t want you to get in late and missin’ out on all the grog drinkin’.” Miss Dontrecki turned back to head over to the entrance of Alistair’s ship, where a few porthands were starting to mill about, now more interested in the commotion. 

“The boys’ n girls have been kickin’ it off every night before monsoon season, and we outta join them since they all promised to stay up to the crack of ass dawn waiting for you.” She slapped the control panel to the main airlock, which simply fell off the wall with a thunk, the pile of scrap it was. “We should be gettin’ you nice and acclimated in no time, luggage and all your first water gear.”

Alistair swallowed back bile at the mention of alcohol. “I do hope you do not take my comment as an insult, my lady, but I would rather abstain for the time being.” He explained, following her up the steps. Alistair didn’t miss her guffaw of laughter (and doubted anyone in a ten-mile radius did, too). “I must admit the journey here was tiresome. Hence, I indulged in what was left of my supply on the way here if you are kind enough to catch my meaning.”

“Aye, space travel is as boring as watchin’ your uncle lay wood planks over peat. I’m not sure how you had the fortitude to suffer it alone.” She called over her shoulder.. "And don’t fret now. I am sure we can get a few in you once the technical rattles your bones a little,” she clasped her hands so loudly so loudly everyone, including Alistair, jumped. “Now, let’s get you packed before the locals eat you alive.”

Miss Dontrecki was true to her word about the trip being shaky. The uneven ground dipped, hardened, and softened, making it feel more like a boat than a terrain vehicle. The endless trees didn't help, with roots and swooping branches that slapped against the sides of the technical as if trying to push them back from their destination. The gas giant Eden was the main thing lighting up the sky by the time they rolled into a small town Miss Dontercki referred to only as ‘Town.’ The entrance of the Town sported a ramshackle sign stating the name ‘Reliance.’

The Town was silent and still in the night, with a few patrons and locals milling around the porches and shops of the main road. Groups of threes and fours of ladies and gentlemen alike turned their heads to watch them pass, puffing out smoke into the humid air. The ramshackle and improvised architecture gave the impression that they were about to fall over each other like a child’s matchstick project.

They didn’t stop there and carried on bumping and rocking up over rough marshy ground further from civilization and into the wilderness. Eventually, Miss Dontrecki stopped her garrulous chatter about the year’s crop yields, and the radio signal crackled and frizzled over the over-encompassing sound of the wildlife around them. Alistair was glad about that; the music was a cacophony of deplorable dissonance of banjos and whipcracks he wished not to hear again.

Through the darkness, reflective pinpricks of dozens of eyes stared back at them, harnessing the light of Eden. Alistair shuffled closer to the side of the technical without bumping his head against the window to look closer but only succeeding in sighting dark shapes dart out of their way, phantom-like. He had read about the native primate population, of course, and was beyond desirous to see them up close. 

Clearly mistaking his curiosity for discomfort, Miss Dontrecki reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about the Jabbers now, son. They do not come close to vehicles unless scared of their wits.”

His glasses were fogging up, Alistair wiped them before gazing out again. “That is most curious, I have indeed read that they are reportedly territorial. What else, other than our superior fellowman, frightens them so?”

“All sorts of things, ya name it: People, predators and such, the loggin’ does a big one on ’em, but we try our darn best not to displace too many, especially when they have youngins. Smart sons of bitches they are.Ugly as sin too, even the babes.” She spat over the side of the technical. “You will get to know them well with your stay round here. The old gameskeep was nice ’nough to make peace with ’em, so you will have an easier time winning them over. Still, I don’t envy your new job, Mr Hammerlock. Don’t envy it at all.”

Alistair didn’t reply, making a mental note to entrust more time to further study of the local Jabber population. As the faraway lights of Jakobs Estate started to flicker through the drooping tree branches he felt his heart skip in his chest a little. This was it/ 

Through the inner gate, a night watchman gave them a bored once-over before waving them on. Sooner than Alistair wanted, the dark shape of the Manor loomed above them, looking less whimsical up close. In the dusk, it appeared as a series of pointed shapes of sloping roofs and blocky extensions that became outlined in the half-gloom of the night. The next moment they pulled up to a cheery lit-up porch that proudly depicted the company name displayed with a diode lit-up buzzing sign covered in equally buzzing insects. 

The air was somehow wetter up here, and as Alistair got out of the technical, his feet squelched heavily in the trodden mud. He briefly wondered what it was doing to the joints of his prosthetic limbs but opted to worry about the frizziness of his facial hair for the time being. He didn’t want to discount his sister’s advice but admitted that his presentation mattered more than the usual hunting trip. 

With the thought of his sister, the bitterness in his mouth returned; Miss Dontrecki had been correct; he could use that drink, after all. The woman in question groaned as she stepped out of the vehicle, popping bones in an exaggerated manner. 

As Alistair reached out to grab a bag from the back of the vehicle Miss Dontrecki slapped his hand away. “None of that!” She chided, she reached into her pocket, producing a small round object which she pressed repeatedly producing a series of small echoing clicks. Alistair watched on, having never seen a canine (or a human clicker, perhaps?) utilized in such a way.
The front doors groaned open, spewing forth half a trio of house staff, all dressed in smart gold and tan getups composed of lace frills and tawny leather. Two girls and a boy, all three looked too young to be considered adults. 

Before he could open his mouth to counter-object, the technical was swiftly mounted and driven off into the darkness around the side of the Manor. The girl hanging on the back waved at them as they went.

Miss Dontrecki nodded in approval. “We have you covered here, Mr Hammerlock. All your needs will be provided for as long as you reside in my care. Your belongings will all be taken to quarters. I will personally escort you there shortly. It’s late and all but I still expect the staff and by that extension, myself to give you the full Jakob’s welcome.” She smiled at him in a homely sort of way, like a lady off a Box of Pancake Mix.

The girl next to her nodded solemnly along. Alistair hadn’t realized she had peeled off from the previous group prior due to how her worn leathers disguised her in the dark.

Alistair glanced at her wearily before turning back to the Head Of House. “Thank you, Miss Dontrecki.”

“Think nothing of it.” She pulled out a cigarette and held it out to the scrawny girl, who lit it for her with a flourish. “Would you care for one? Master Jakobs does not allow any smokin’ in the Manor or the smokin’ room.”

“No, thank you, Miss Dontrecki. I have been planning on quitting for some time now.”

“Good man.” She praised, taking a long pull. 

“Can I have one, ‘mam?” Asked the girl in the thickest Eden-6 accent that Alistair had heard thus far.

“No. You will deliver Sir Hammerlock to the lounge mindin’ his presence. Sir Hammerlock, please go with Beatrice. I will meet up with the both of you shortly.” With that, she stubbed out her cigarette into the soft earth beneath her heel and headed in the opposite direction. 

“Be gentle with him now. He ain’t from here, if you catch my meaning.”

The girl saluted, “Yes, mam!” before dragging Alistair by the arm into the glow of the parlour. He didn’t get to see much of it to his disappointment, all except for a great golden plaque hung above the inner atrium entrance:

‘Eyes forever fixed on the endless horizon’ It read.

Without Miss Dontrecki’s vigilance, Beatrice became increasingly talkative as she pulled Alistair through the elaborate receiving room and into a nondescript door, which she eagerly informed him was the entrance to a service corridor. 

“You won’t have to be using them when in the Manor, sir; these are for waiting and cleaning staff only, but they are safer to take at night, with blackouts that can happen and such. You will get to see the Manor when it’s bright, sir. Once you read your rules and know where to go, it’s so much prettier that way, I promise you.”

Alistair followed her through the spartan corridor, at times tugged along by the girl’s arm intertwined with his own like a vice. Twice, they stopped as if waiting for something. Beatrice would go quiet and listen like a common ratch, before moving on without a comment.

The corridor gave nothing away except for the ominous hum of the plumbing. By the second time it happened Alistair hoped they weren’t lost; he didn’t fancy perishing in the walls. (Like the aforementioned ratch which Alistair did, at one point, get stuck in the wall of his rented apartment above Moxxi's place during his last venture. It stank to high heaven once it eventually passed. He had to send another ratch to consume it's remains, which continued the vicious cycle. Moxxi admitted it wasn't his best work. )

 “We don’t get many staff changes these days, sir. I am the most recent, only been appointed last season; Mr.Baldrin, Mr Jakob’s butler, has been workin’ here since he were in diapers. The old gamekeep was not here for a long while, but you will undoubtedly find his things of most help to you, sir.”
“My mam and pa worked here too, but they moved out of Town, you see; said the work was best left for the juniors.” Her constant talking and the now deep-set, tired ache of travel in Alistair’s bones sent him into a form fugue state. 

A few beats of silence passed and he remembered they had been engaged in conversation. “And what is your role here, Beatrice?” 

He almost missed the answer, vaguely confused, he recognized a particular flickering light lining the spartan white-washed wall of the corridor.
It occurred to him that they must have looped around four times (or five?) Beatrice must have thought this once was enough and stopped abruptly. Or perhaps, she had noticed that he had noticed.
“I am the Manor’s official varnisher.” She answered with a severe look in her eye and pressed a panel on the wall above which a ‘Servant’s Lounge’ sign was engraved in a worn brass plaque.
“I, Sir Hammerlock, varnish it all: the wood in the Manor: furniture, stocks, floors, you name it!”

“Huh” Alistair replied, not being able to think of a sufficient retort. 

The door split open, and he was ushered into a homely living space with dark patterned wood walls and a low ceiling. Of the dozens of seats, only a small number were occupied, with a few patrons conversing in hushed tones. The oldest-looking gramophone Alistair had ever seen stood against the wall, crooning a quiet tune.

 “You hungry? I could eat.” Beatrice sat Alistair down more or less in the center of the room, where the manor staff gathered around him with muted interest. He shook a few hands, trying to place names against faces, which had never been his strong suit.
Miss Dontrecki eventually appeared to join them, her presence repelling a few more timid, greasy-faced teens away. 

A smiling older man (The Cook) graced him with a steaming bowl of brown stew full of soft white crustacean and a pint glass full of grog so strong a whiff of it drew up memories of his last visit to the Gentleman’s Hunting Lodge. The spice of the food brought tears to his eyes, but he choked it down anyway. The house staff watched him intently the entire time, making polite, non-intrusive conversation.

The three days of meager rations had caught up to him, and before he knew it, he had finished off two helpings with a good helping of the lager, which caused him to be hotter and clammier than he already was. 

He thanked the stars when Miss Dontrecki abruptly pushed her chair back and instructed them to disperse and rest for the day ahead. There were preparations to be done, she said, in anticipation of the rain.

Some patrons gave Alistair a few solemn nods with the occasional clap on the back as they left. “Being the Gamekeep is not the most popular job; with Old Montgomery’s love for the hunt and all, he has a habit of chasing them away in the first month if they are lucky.”
Explained Beatrice as she mopped up the rest of her Gumbo with a slice of white bread. “That and that night howler giving them the old heebie jeebies. Old Monty got the last lad to stake it out during the floods; poor fella was never seen again.”  

Miss Dontrecki clicked her tongue at her, and Beatrice shrank a little at the noise but not before giving Alistair a cheeky wink. “Well, I ‘spposed he already knew about it. Being a big family name game hunter an’ all.” She picked up her empty bowl and slunk away through the staff door. “Goodnight Sir Hammerlock.”

Alistair waited until her departure before asking: “The night howler?”

Miss Dontrecki let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, the ‘night howler’ or 'howler' or the 'Beast' as some call it. It’s nothing but a rumor, really dear, just a saurian in heat or moody jabber that got the last gamekeep goin’ on hell knows where. That or rumor has it that he got taken to the Big Anvil. Some say that he said or did something that didn’t sit right with Monty’s lad, didn’t follow the rules, y’know?” She rubbed her hands over her arms, her eyes distant. 

Alistair was not one for gossip, so he had to force the following words out. “It would surely be odd for a servitor as mundane as a gamekeeper to get on to the bad side of the entire Jakobs family.”

Miss Dontrecki shrugged as she led him out into the darkness of the garden through a separate glass entrance behind a velvet curtain. “People disappear every rainy season. It’s the dark, the predators, the weather. No one likes being cooped up for so long people go explorin’ outside and never return. Truth is that no one knows what comes out during monsoon season, so I would stay on paths well trodden during that time if I were you Sir Hammerlock. Especially alone.” They walked back outside onto the Manor’s grounds, the air wetter than before as a night chill set in.

The lit-up path they followed would have almost been described as romantic if not for Miss Dontrecki’s warning. Something rustled in the nearby trimmed shrubbery, and Alistair felt a strong feeling of being watched. “You are an esteemed guest here with your family name ‘n all so they way I see it, you don’t have to be taking up postings meant for regular folks. I’m sure Mr Jakobs would have let you stay for as long as you helped him bag a fat saurian every now and again. Stars help us; him and his boy both need good company.”

Alistair smiled. “It’s simply a… if I may be self-flagetory, a pedantic interest of mine. I do not wish to brag, but I will be composing a written work based on my findings in the mirifical paradise you have here. Additionally, I will be helping with a little problem, whatever that may be.” He didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the alcohol that made him add, “The job was a happy middle ground, if I was to say so, I did not wish to a free-loader, but still, Montgomery Jakobs was incredibly adamant that I stay at the Manor once I requested a visit to study the wildlife.”

Miss Dontrecki smiled knowingly at him. “Hm… I’m sure he was. Well, I sure like you, Sir Hammerlock. You stay on his good side now.”

In the dark, the gamekeeper’s grounds house was just another shack-like structure amongst the creeping foliage. Behind it stood the archway to the menagerie, marked by a stone arch leading into unlit darkness. 

They stopped before the door, where Miss Dontrecki handed him an old-fashioned key. “This is you. Word of wisdom: Don’t leave the window grates open; Jabbers will get in. Don’t forget to look for the rule book, someone should have left it out for you. I say read them as soon as possible.”

Alistair took the key. He had not used a mechanical key in decades and the thing felt strange and clunky in his robotic hand. “I see… thank you, Miss Dontrecki.”

“Don’t mention it. We will see you tomorrow. Mr Jakobs has requested you meet him for breakfast.” She tipped the rim of her hat and left. Alistair thought of her earlier speech about being alone but quickly assumed they mostly applied to newbies like himself.

The inside of the little house was quaint and simple; a bedroom and bathroom were connected to one living room, which was covered in stuffed and mounted animal paraphernalia, as well as his luggage, which had been deposited in the corner.

 Too tired to care, Alistair gave everything a once over and store a whole two paces into the bedroom. There, he fell back on the bed and breathed out a great sigh. The over-designed ceiling pattern swam above him. It looked like crabs dancing with seaweed, or crabs eating seaweed, he wasn’t sure. 

In the distance he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot over the orchestra of the jungle. A non-echoing sound, followed by another, and another. A shotgun, possibly close by. Considering this was the home of gunsmiths, someone must have been practising their draw late into the night. 

The covers smelled far less swampy, which was a fact Alistair was not terribly fond of. It was too much like home in that specific way in which ‘home’ should be classed as a good memory, which in his case was the exact opposite. With the vague reminder of his family and his mission, Alistair pulled out his forgotten echo device and ran a diagnostic scan from a faceless application. He breathed a sigh of relief when the screen gave a cheerful notification: ‘No Tracking Devices found’

One less thing to worry about. One of many things to worry about.

Alistair lay there for a moment, reevaluating his life trajectory for what felt like the seventh time in the past few hours. There was nothing else for him to do. It was what it was. The anticipation was at its peak now, and the grog roiled with the anxiety that made him feel like he should be bouncing off the walls. His body, on the other hand, felt heavy and loose, with the tell-tale phantom pain of his missing arm beginning to creep into the mixture of unpleasant sensations which had manifested throughout the day. 

He tried to focus on the gunshots, counting the seconds in between each shot. Willing the pain gone, Alistair picked up his discarded echo device again and flicked open the screen, swiping his thumb to ignore the missed call notifications from Aurelia. The interface told him he only had less than six hours to sleep before he was to begin his posting as Gamekeeper. 

The thought made Alistair feel a little better; he needed to stick to his own plan. Write his compendium, get his family what they wanted, and most importantly, get out.

From the bedside table, a black folder labelled ‘rules’ in golden embossed font demanded his attention. Alistair hovered his hand over it for a moment before having a different idea; he slid off the bed with a new purpose, finding himself in the living space again. The cabin albeit cluttered had a sizable selection of media to his disposal he spied earlier. He ran his hand over the small movie selection surrounding the echo screen.

After short deliberation he picked up ‘Monty Gets A Butler’ with the assumption that it was going to provide both entertainment and important information on the fauna of Eden-6, including the Jakobs family.
The glossy cover sported a fat man being accosted by a Jabber in the self-described butler uniform. 

Inside the worn plastic case he found a birthday card with an illustrated wizard conjuring a cake. In extensive cursive writing, it read, ‘Happy Birthday to our special little boy—Mom & Dad.’ 

About 15 minutes into the motion picture the titular Jabber butler was already throwing his own feces. Alistair thought back to Aurelia and the rules and decided that it would be in his best interest to keep watching.

That morning, Alistair was sharply awoken by Beatrice wrapping at his door. He had found himself slumped into a crumpled half-slouch with ‘Monty Gets a Butler’ still playing in the background.
The movie must had replayed an unknown amount of times during the night and he was once again witnessing the turd-throwing scene from earlier. Being a man who believed in commitment and endurance above all Alistair promised himself to finish it later. 

The moment he opened the front door, the sound of the estate assaulted his senses with the noise of wildlife and chittering insects. Beatrice was waiting for him outside with a bucket of what he assumed contained some form of wood varnishing supplies. “Trust you had a good night?” She asked with a shit-eating grin.

Alistair touched the top of his head, suddenly feeling exposed without his hat and in an inadequate state of undress. “I sure did, the couch was sufficiently comfortable.” He turned around to dig through his untouched luggage.

Beatrice followed him, giving a low whistle in the interior as if  seeing something impressive. Alistair wasn’t sure why, then again he had little idea of the amenities provided to the rest of the staff of the manor. “Why not sleep in the bed?” She asked; before Alistair could stop her, she wandered further into the living space to wipe down the low coffee table in the centre of the living room with a varnishing rag. 

Alistair glanced at the screen where Jabber butler was up to no good by trying to impersonate a personal chef. “I fell asleep doing research.”

The girl slapped her knee in good humour. “Good one, mister!” Having done her job, she left him digging through his clothing. “Don’t be tardy now! Wouldn’t want to keep Mr Jakobs waitin’.” 

Beatrice was right to say that the estate looked different in the daylight; it was more sprawling and industrial on the outside compared to the fancy inner decorations he spied in the entrance the other night. 

Miss Dontrecki was waiting for them in the staff lounge. “You read the rules?” she asked as soon as she scolded them for being late.

Alistair said nothing, suddenly remembering the black folder he had left untouched back in the ground’s house. 

The older woman tutted at him. “Oh why do I even bother?” A server boy, one of the trio who took his luggage away the previous night, giggled at her outburst as he walked by. 

Her scowl melted into a kind smile. “Aw I can’t stay mad, bless your soul, I guess you can last for a few more days.” She looked deep in thought for a second “I can as well bet that the most of us have. The ignorant ones don’t last long.”

Alistair didn’t know how to answer, but he could now admit that the unassuming black folder had piqued more of his interest. “I can assure you I am far from ignorant, miss.”

A couple of the staff around him grumbled in approval as Beatrice announced it was time for take him to meet the Jakobs family. 

Beatrice led Alistair (less forcefully this time) through an opulent great dining hall lined with fine art and out onto a sunny terracotta-tiled terrace. 

There, a obese bearded man in a tophat towered over a table leaden with a breakfast spread so plentiful that Alistair didn’t need to ponder hard on the mystery of his robust stature. He instantly put the name to the (younger) face on the cover of Monty Gets A Butler. 

Upon Alistair's entrance he sprang up with a great amount of dexterity, making the table shake precariously. “Sir Hammerlock!” He boomed, meeting Alistair halfway. He enveloped his hand into a huge palm and pulled him in shoulder to shoulder, as if meeting an old friend. “I sure have been itchin’ to see you! Trust your journey gave you no hassle?”

Alistair was having a tough time both breathing and forming words with his face pressed into the other man’s bulk. Like a pathogen getting swallowed by a hungry amoeba. “Good Morning Mr Jakobs. It had, in fact, gone incredibly well, smooth sailing as they say.” He lied once they detached.

Mr Jakobs pulled him back at arms length, his grin white and dazzling. “Now that is some swell news to hear, and please, Sir Hammerlock, Mr Jakobs was my father, call me Montgomery.” He turned back to the table. “Take a seat now, Wainwright should be arriving soon, if he does as I asked of him for once. Beatrice, would you care to join us?”

Beatrice, who was hanging back by the great glass doors awkwardly watching the exchange shook her head, “No, thank you, sir. I can’t fit another morsel in me.” She turned to Alistair, “I will see you outside,’ she said and disappeared with a squeak of hinges. 

Alistair turned back to Montgomery, who was pulling out a chair.

“There are some real plans for this monsoon season I wish to discuss with you that I simply can't, and by can’t I mean, simply, absolutely, indubitably cannot, be dealin’ with keeping privy any second longer.” He said as he poured tar-black coffee into a mug for Alistair first, and then for himself. 

“We got some real nuts to crack for you to be getting on here, and let’s not beat the Devil around the stump with the nature of the work, son. Mighty great heaps of it if you go about askin’ the likes of me; those damn jabbers have been stickin’ their hands in through my window panes." 

“Not to mention the Saurian that has been creeping ’round stalking all the staff making them shit their birches something awful; I wish we could do it like the good ol’ days and get ’em between the eyes from the front porch. The wretched things are too smart these days. The vile lizard only comes out at night. That and the awful beast. I'm sure you had heard of it.”

Alistair gave a good-natured chuckle. “I’m sure we can get some adequate solutions in place. I do not mean to toot my own horn here, but wrangling common quarries will not be much of a challenge. I have gotten good wind of the rumour on the ECHONet of larger game deeper in these woods.” He took a sip of his mug, which turned his mouth dry with its bitter grit. There should have never been a reason that a liquid made one more thirsty, even in a place where water was plentiful.

“That is what I wanted to hear!” Montgomery announced, pouring teaspoons of sugar into his coffee and imploring Alistair to do the same. “Glad to have a man of your caliber on board, son. A real hunter, not like some of these boys the exec keeps pickin’ for us. All family ties this and company favours that. Utter crabapples. From a good breeding like yours I can undoubtedly tell that even you and Wainwright will get along.”

Alistair had completely forgotten about the son. “I am sure we will Mr-Montgomery.”

The terrace doors behind them squeaked open. 

“Speakin’ of the man, here he is now. Come sit, Wainwright, took you long enough!”

Wainwright Jakobs was starkly different from his father yet somehow the same, his structure composed of sharp edges and straight lines rather than circles and curves. His mouth was set in a serious line adorned with serious groomed whiskers and matching the serious suit he donned. He was a handsome man, handsome in a way an enraged bull skag is handsome.

“I thought this was a business meeting.” He drawled,voice low and smooth. He didn’t move past the shadow of the manor wall. 

He eyed Alistair with an unreadable expression. His mouth opened and closed as if to say more, he sighed heavily, running a hand through a mess of silver hair. Alistair got the fair impression he was not pleased to see him. 

Montgomery clasped his hands together, unbothered by his son’s belligerence. “Alistair, this is my son, Wainwright. Wainwright, this is Sir Alistair Hammerlock, he will be taking over the late gamekeeper’s post for a time.” 

He motioned for Alistair to stand which he did, holding his hand out in greeting. “Of course since this is in actual fact, a business venture, I suggest we have a bit of time to enjoy each other’s company before our dear guest takes on the gruelling task of keeping our estate, this includin’ every little AND ungrateful thang in it, safe from anything that aint got self-awareness.”

Fingers in his belt loops, Wainwright sauntered over to him with indifferent slowness, not at all encouraged by his father’s words. 

Alistair had the distinct feeling that this was the pivoting moment when the man would decide if he was to be accepted into his thrall. 

Wainwright stood before him for a long second, sizing Alisrair up before taking the offered hand. “Why, It’s awful nice to meet you, Alistair. I’m sure our Estate will be agreeable with you.” His voice was saccharine. 

His handshake was warm and dry compared to Alistair’s clammy one. His smile was cold. “I hope you get your worth of whatever brings you here.”

“Sir Hammerlock is a renowned biologist and an accomplished hunter.” Provided Montgomery helpfully, piling fried rashers onto his plate. “His endeavour with us here is to study our wonderful fauna after his journey from, and please pardon my ignorance, which exact part of the endless ‘n dark did you drop out of?”

Alistair took a moment to clear his throat. “Pandora.”

The younger Jakobs remained stoic. “Pandora, how truly exotic. I pray that Eden 6 has welcomed you better so far.”

“Thank you, it’s a beautiful place you have here. I cannot wait to get started. The fauna of Eden 6 has interested many. It is truly a privilege to be allowed to base my research here.” Alistair was aware he was floundering but couldn’t stop himself.

 “Do you know that the last fully published compendium of the known species of this region was composed six decades ago? This is a true opportunity for a scholar such as myself and the wider community of biological sciences. Publicly, that is, I am not the kind to follow myths and riddles but could not be any less intrigued by the whispers in the hunter’s guilds. There is the known rumor of the Jakobs company archives, of course, but I am sure you are far more knowledgeable than me on that particular matter.”

Wainwright’s easy smile turned mocking, like he knew what Alistair was here for, but that couldn’t be possible, could it?Then again, not many knew how the internal structure of Jakobs Corp worked or to what extent of power they wielded in the far-out expanse of their shadowy empire.

There were stories, of course, of the office trapdoors and the shadowy happenings in the connected colonies of their worlds, where armies fell to unknown forces with no return in sight. Surely, if the man he was shaking hands with was aware of his true intentions, Alistair was more than a 100% sure he would no longer be participating in the jovial activity known as living. 

Having run out of words to say, the hunter fixated on the golden beads of Wainwright’s bolo tie. They were little drooping flowers. The kind that grew first before nature returned to flourish in cold climates. 

“You are correct. I s’ppose you would want to make use of the archives. It should prevent you from dying to whatever cursed expedition pops decides to send you on.” Wainwright commented, pulling his hand out of Alistair’s grasp who hadn’t realised he was still holding it.
If Wainwright Jakobs was offended at the faux pas, he didn’t show it, “All information provided will be within reason, of course; the late gamekeeper’s research history should still be untouched.”

“That would be most helpful to my current assignment ; you have my thanks, Mr Jakobs.” With that, the tension between them evaporated, by a margin, enough for Alistair to feel comfortable turning his back to the heir. 

Wainwright nodded and gestured for him to sit. “Please call me Wainwright; Mr Jakobs is my father.”

The rest of the breakfast was spent in polite company. Montgomery mostly filling up the silence with his regaling of the last lacklustre hunting trip a supplier’s marketing agent had taken him on.
Alistair mentally started preparing for how he was going to remove the troublesome grog and curb the Estate’s Jabber population.

Chapter Text

Wainwright slumped in his chair the moment Sir Hammerlock disappeared back through the cursed creaking terrace doors. Undoubtedly cutting the path to plot the overtake and fall of the Jakobs' cooperation while living under their roof. 

He scowled into his omelette. He wasn’t in the best of moods and not just because of Sir Hammerlock, the light outside was particularly bright today making it hard to focus. “And, pray tell me, what exactly was the supposed outcome of that, father?”

Father probably had the same reaction he always did whenever challenged; smug satisfaction. Not that Wainwright could tell, on account of father being situated in his blind spot and on the additional account of Wainwright being too pissed off to turn his head to look.  

Wainwright knew what was going on. And father knew that he knew. Did Sir Hammerlock know? The younger Jakobs doubted it, but then again he had met a fair share of gold diggers and manipulators that were amazingly skilled at tugging at the heartstrings of lonely men with too much money.

The hunter probably knew which side he slept on at night and how he liked his eggs done every morning.  

Wainwright heard his father shuffle, uncomfortably, he hoped. “Well?” Father asked, ignoring his previous question.

Here it was, another terribly executed attempt at playing matchmaker. “Well what?”

“What do you think of Sir Hammerlock?”

Wainwright felt a headache coming on. “There is squat to think, Pop. So far, I have known Sir Hammerlock for just under an hour. If I had known him for another I doubt we would be gettin’ married.”

Montgomery chuckled a fatherly sort of chuckle he employed when trying to get on his son’s good side. “Well, you would be damned to not take him to dinner first.” There was a click of a lighter as Montgomery lit a cigar, it was followed by the fragrant smell of burning tabacco. “Which reminds me; I expect you to accommodate our guest which will include you being social and having dinner with the family again, none of that office skulkin’ nonsense. You are turnin’ into your mother.”

Wainwright gave up on his omelette and pushed the plate away, the smoke was making him nauseous. “Mother was busy running the defence department while you got drunk on the front porch.”

“Well son, maybe you should try n’ paint your nose on the front porch with me sometime; you could relax a tad. Before it gets real wet out there if you catch my meanin’. And the trip I got planned? Whoo boy is it going to be a real swingin’ hootenanny. That blasted howlin’s been keeping me awake since she got up and left for whatever secret kabal she had going on.”

“If ma had something to do with it we would’ve all been dead already.” Wainwright didn’t believe his own words, but it was a sin to ever admit that father was right. “The rain will come and go Pa, and so will the screamin’ there is no use making a huge deal out of it. Or tryin’ to force random strangers on me for your entertainment.”

“I wouldn’t be a good father if I didn’t try to introduce you to a nice man of a good background. It makes me sad watchin’ you all by your lonesome. Besides, Sir Hammerlock is here to help us get rid of our little problem, so we will be killin’ two grogs with one shot so to say. His family was already so accommodating to send him down as soon as I as much as mentioned the posting.” Montgomery took a loud pull of the cigar before continuing. “At least give him a chance, he gives a good first impression, don’t go pushing him into the grog pit the first chance you get.”

Wainwright crossed his arms, knowing he must look petulant. “The Hammerlocks are known schemers.”

“So are we.”

Wainwright nodded along, content to finish the conversation on an agreement. “That is true.”

The parlour door swung open again. Both men turned, expecting one of the house staff only to find a Jakobs company clerk shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight.

“Gentlemen” She stated, sounding out of breath as if she had run there. “I am sorry to interrupt, we have a Scenario 26 on our hands.”

The centre of general command was a flurry of activity once Wainwright and Father made it there. The dark room, while air conditioned, was now swelting thanks to every echo console operating in unison. 

Wainwright pulled at his collar, suddenly anxious, he had never seen the command centre so busy. His executive company acquisition review in the afternoon seemed dwarfed by whatever was going on here. 

The clerk from earlier lead them through the crowd of Jakob’s employees who jumped and slid out their way. Wainwright recognized some of their faces; reconnaissance, national security, environmental engineering and most dreadfully; the pointed side-caps of battle intelligence. 

The latter was worn by General Senior-David, a man so large he dwarfed Wainwright in height and Montgomery Jakobs in width. 

“Monty!” He greeted, pulling them both into a hug which was entirely inappropriate. “And son.” He added with a wink.

“Fancy seeing your ugly mug in here, trust it ain’t good news.”

“Thank you kindly sir, and no, this is no good news.” He turned to the holographic display behind him which displayed the Eden satellite system in all its glory. “Well I ain’t the kind of man to beat around the bush so to say sir, so I will give it to you straight.”

“We got half a dozen ships knocked out of the sky, two freighters, rest private. Ground forces have already been dispatched to pick the heavy hitters apart before impact. The larger or lesser ones have already been burnt up in the atmosphere, sir, no survivors on board.”

He walked around the table and prodded at an intern who zoomed into Eden-6’s southern hemisphere. A red area was highlighted pointing out the impact risk, swallowing up a large patch of swampland just north of their current location. 

Wainwright stared at it confused. “Well that’s very important work you doin here generally but falling ships hardly count as a Scenario 26.”

General Senior-David clicked his fingers. “Just gettin to that son.” He nodded to the intern again, who changed the hologram to a map of the outer orbit “Bout’ an hour ago ground control started picking up a strange signal around the third eye of Eden. We thought it was a meteorite at first, with it being so heavy n’ all. Then the distress calls started coming in, all around orbit communications were cutting out and it was like nothin’ we’d ever seen before.” 

“Well, we never stopped watching it, sir. The thing is giving out a frequency we can’t tune in to, we are still trying now, but communications can’t find squat. The thing is giving out an insane amount of lumens on a level where any old meteorite can’t get from our sun. It stopped a few minutes ago, now its moving along orbital velocity, just hoverin’ up there.” The general gazed at the ceiling, as if he could see the sky. Everybody followed suit until they realised they were acting like idiots. He then turned to them, his face grave. “The thing is artificially made, sir, that much is clear. No make that can be matched by any of our intelligence.Could be Eridian.”

Murmurs of excitement filled the war room at the last statement.

Montgomery Jakobs leaned over the hologram with a grunt. “You know damn well what’s the next thing I’m going to ask.”

“Shootin’ it is not an option sir, as much as we’re all itching to put our ballistic missile system to use we don’t know what that thing’s gonna do.”

“Well, that's a great big ball of jabber shite we don’t need right now.”

“Agreed sir.”

“What are we gonna do about the ships? The imports n’ exports and such?”

Wainwright had to concentrate to not roll his eyes at his father’s steadfast instinct to put the company first. He elbowed himself to the edge of the table before asking: “Can anyone that hasn’t crashed tell us anything?”

“That’s what we are getting to sir.” Logistics, a round, beet-faced woman piped-up. “Communications have been reinstated a few hours ago. We are fast-tracking ships through quarantine, interviewing every last passenger. We will provide you with a full report once ready sir.”

“Splendid.”

General Senior-David cleared his throat which sounded like a boulder avalanche. Everyone’s attention turned back to him. “Monty, I believe we need to discuss some additional contingency measures if you would spare some more of your time.”

Wainwright didn’t miss the cryptic glint in his eye. Something else was afoot, that for whatever reason, he was not allowed to know about. Yet.

Montgomery nodded solemnly and turned to him. “You go on back and contain the populus. I know you are in tight with the Propaganda fella. I will stay here and mind the situation with Sir David.” 

Wainwright wanted nothing more than to get out of the hot stifling room, but was not a fan of being dismissed like he was still in diapers. “I would much prefer to stay.” 

Montgomery took a long intake of breath, before firing off his own retort. “Son, I may be your only father but I have over thirty billion children just in this one little system I need to be looking out for. The least you can do is go out there and do your job in keeping everyone nice n’ mellow until we can figure out what to do. Who knows? Maybe this thing will absquatulate to whatever shiny ass hell it came from.” 

There was no arguing with Father when he got like this. Wainwright tried not to allow for the annoyance to creep into his voice as all eyes were on them. “Fine. What do you want me to say?”

Montgomery Jakobs smiled brightly, grabbing his son by the shoulders. “Anything you want boy” He straightened out Wainwright’s collar. “anything you want them to hear.”

He turned then, following Sir David into the depths of the room. “I will see you at dinner.”

Wainwright didn’t end up cancelling the executive review to upkeep the air of normalcy after re-assuring the top board of executives that the situation was being handled. By the time he was finished with his last call the sun had crawled across the sky to indicate the approaching afternoon and the dreaded dinner. 

Without the sun in the way the unknown object could be seen now too. From his office window he observed a cold white streak hang in the sky. It had a tail - like a comet, with a brighter head that ever-so subtly flickered in intensity. Fixating on it burnt his eyes and gave him a faint skin-crawling feeling of being watched so he got up from his desk to draw the heavy blinds closed. 

The position of his study’s window gave him a good view of the eastern grounds just above the solarium. Through a gap in the trees he spotted Beatrice and Sir Hammerlock conversing under a mossy willow over a projected map of the manor grounds. 

The hunter pointed at the workshop and back at the manor, obviously asking a question. 

Whatever he said made the girl laugh and slap him across the back with a sure hand. The man wobbled but remained upright, a formidable task. Before they left another member of the Family approached - a maintenance clerk. The two women shared a greeting of the Founding Stock. 

Sir Hammerlock seemed blissfully unaware of what it implied, obviously not having read the rules. 

If Beatrice invited him over to the lodge Wainwright quietly promised himself to intervene, losing another gamekeeper would be a waste. Especially if the man in question was some form of aristocrat (or so his name implied).

Staff members and visitors tended to be off limits but Beatrice was an especially dedicated member, a sentiment passed on from her own mother who Wainwright had the displeasure of dealing with on a personal basis whenever his own mother hosted a dinner party for the members of their little club.

The pair walked away and Wainwright closed the curtains with a little but too much force than strictly necessary. Something about the situation was fishy; Sir Hammerlock and now the thing in the sky. Wainwright doubted that whatever caused it to appear had anything to do with Sir Hammerlock, but stranger things had happened. 

Hopefully the rest of the house staff would keep an eye on him, Wainwright took a note to discuss the issue with Miss Dontrecki. 

There was a possibility that the foreign object was of Eridian descent (unlikely) or a spy satellite sent by a competitor (more likely). Whichever way it was, it was obvious what the thing was: a goldmine. 

With whatever technology it held, Wainwright could almost smell the profits Jakobs Corp could generate if they managed to get the thing out of the sky in one piece. If he could achieve such a feat, he would without doubt be able to coast on that success for the rest of his life. 

Wainwright would have to employ some help, perhaps pull a few strings here and there with more loyal members of the upper exec before Father monopolised the entire situation. Time was of the essence, if the interaction in the war room meant anything his father was already up to something. 

The older Jakobs may have cast him out of the war room but he could not fully control what Wainwright was up to at all times of the day. Such was the nature of their relationship; and would remain that way until one of them croaked their last breath.

Eager to get to the archives before his father-aligned staff hid anything of worth he took the secret entrance in the smoking room. The corridor was cool and dark, just like he had last left it.

When he was a young lad he and his cousins used to play Dungeon Crawlers there when the weather outside got too wet. There had been many more built as the manor expanded, but only the oldest members of the Family knew how many there actually were, and how to open them.

The archives were quiet, which was pleasant after the noise of the day but didn’t give him much from the obvious searches. There were hundreds of comets in the Eden system, but none of them matched the description of the one that they were dealing with. Sir David was correct that nothing could be pulled from intelligence intel eider.

He thought back to the situation at hand; if he couldn’t get to the satellite, perhaps the things closest to it would suffice. But in order to do so, he was going to have to hide it from the entirety of the Jakobs militia. Thankfully he knew a man just for that.

New plan in mind, he put himself in contact with the Propaganda department. The head of Propaganda, Mr Turning, was an avid reader like himself and a member of their executive book club.  They first met during a lengthy team bonding trip to Eden 2 when they both refused to get up from their deckchairs for more than another drink while everyone else was forced to go white water rafting. 

Back in his study, after checking that the corridor wasn’t full of eavesdroppers Wainwright gave him a call. 

Mr Turning answered the call on the first ring. “Mr Jakobs.”

“I need you to do something for me, across lots.”

“Sure thing partner, I must say, however, we are a little tightly pressed right now.There is a big glowing ball in the sky making the ground yokels go crazy.” Despite his words, Mr Turning didn’t sound pressed, then again, the man was as excitable as a tree. 

“That's the sun ya troglodyte.”

Mr Turning barked a laugh. “You know what I am talkin’ about. Mudsills aint easy to calm, especially when it looks like a hostile takeover.” 

“Duly noted, good job on that by the way. ‘Don’t look at it.’ True literary art right there. Out-and-outer.” Wainwright couldn’t help feeling a bit better talking to someone he could trust. 

That elicited another laugh. “Thanks boss. So…what can I do for you?”

“I need you to go through the footage of that thing. I want to know the whereabouts of the first ship that knocked out the sky that ground control didn’t take out. If there are any. If there isn’t, tell me where it’s pieces are. I also want to know what father is up to in the basement with that lumbering idiot.”

“Sir David, great guy, anything else?”

“I want you to make it so that it never existed. No video footage, no radar scans, no comms logs, nothing. I want this all transferred to me, by which I mean keep it away from father.”

“You know I love a deep-state operation.”

“You know how it is.” 

“All done just for you, you owe me a drink after this.You are working us to death.”

“I’ll get you a whole brewery openin’ in your name if you don’t spill a peep about this.” 

“You know our motto.” There was a smile in Mr Turning’s voice. "We see it so that you don’t have to.”

Mr Turning never turned away from a good deal, the greedy beast he was, and a loyal one. Wainwright poured himself a drink in celebration. “I will be seein’ you at the book club if that thing don’t drop on us.”

“Pray that the creek don’t rise.” Said Mr.Turning and disconnected the call.

Wainwright felt so roused by the prospect of eridian tech he decided to treat himself to a rare delicacy: A game of Champions of Swordship and Sorcery. 

His usual opponents were not online, but he quickly found someone willing to play. 

Whoever it was was awful, just awful. The use of first level units and his under-developed kingdom proved no match for what Wainwright had to offer. He had mopped the floor with them in under half an hour, which was dreadfully premature for his tastes. 

He decided to share his disappointment with them over the private chat, starting off with a fellow sportsman's greeting.

If I played like this I would fucking kill myself you absolute fucknut. What a fucking waste of time. Learn how to take better turns, idiot. 

He logged off before the other player could write a reply. He had no idea why he did that so to distract from the random outburst of ungentlemanly anger he left the study to get ready for dinner. 

Father and Sir David were waiting in the southern dining room when he arrived, already looking like they had polished off his scotch and were starting on a second one. Baldrin, his father’s butler, was laying out the cutlery with meticulous exactness. He acknowledged Wainwright with a curt nod before going back to his work.

“Wainwright!” Montgomery greeted when his son snatched a whiskey bottle from the table.

“Farther.” Unlike his father, Wainwright was not a fan of entertaining dinner guests, especially ones as rowdy as Sir David. Thankfully the man in question was also good at monopolising the conversation so Wainwright got to tune him out while he waited for the food to be served. 

He couldn’t help to think that whatever father knew, was in some way connected with the thing in the sky. But if it was known, why the confusion earlier today? If both Sir David and Father knew, who else in the Family did? A predictable threat would have been swiftly covered up, or ignored and in that case his own sources would have known about it before everyone else. The real question was why it was a secret in the first place. 

While prone to hiding more unsavoury parts of the business from his son earlier in their lives Montgomery Jakobs had shared all he could have with his son. Wainwright was brought out of his musing by Father.

“-ainwright?” Both Father and Sir David were giving him the ‘we are concerned for you look’. 

“Huh?” 

Baldrin had appeared by his side, holding something out to him with infinite patience. “I think before we start you should take this.”

It was a long lightwood box, no insignia, just a blood-red ribbon tied around the lid in a corner-cross pattern. Wainwright knew that it most probably contained a rifle of some kind.

“It’s a little gift for our new guest, s’oppose you should be handing it to him. Since I expect you to be friends an’all.” Montgomery told him knocking back the rest of his bourbon. 

Sir Hammerlock, of course, after the events the day Wainwright had regrettably forgotten the hunter would be joining them for dinner. That and Father’s ill timed attempt at setting him up with another possible corporate spy, or worse, a pompous airhead.

So far Sir Hammerlock didn’t seem like eider type, the man’s particular disposition had so far been pleasant, albeit a bit pretentious. It still didn’t take away Sir Hammerlock’s sheer preternatural presence at the Jakob’s Estate, almost as if it was premeditated. 

Wainwright supposed that he could always play into the game (whosoever game it was) as a distraction from his little project. If Father wanted him to be distracted, therefore, Wainwright decided, distracted he would be. 

He took the box with a smile. “Wouldn't have it any other way, pop.”

Chapter Text

The success of finding the ‘patient zero’ of the stellar encounter seemed slim, yet the mission succeeded by what could be described as a miracle. Mr.Turnig wasn’t a superstitious man and, with a sound mind, could dissect the exact number of events that led to the final result:

1. The ancient rig they sought didn’t have a tracking system. The miniature blip on the satellite map could only be distinguished by a singular comms log between the spaceship and ground control right before the appearance of the celestial visitor.

2. The new hire in charge of converting operations was trying too hard and single-handedly sorted through every quarantine log in the past month.

3. The ship was not an officially documented vessel. This meant that it was potentially full of unsavory folk. Folk that no one cared about. Good riddance. 

4. The old coot running ground control was in a position so far below Jakobs Corporate that Mr.Turning barely even considered it a win. Keeping him quiet was nothing more than an afterthought he entrusted to a random employee he caught stealing sugar packets by the coffee machine.

5.The scout sent en route was a part-time trapper. Their lineage lay in the solid bloodlines of the original colonies; hence, they knew a displaced branch of a Mega Sequoia when they saw one. 

6. The crashed ship was reported to still be intact, having fallen early enough to not get blown to smithereens by the ground forces.

The Promotional Resources & Outreach Planning Authority for Galactic Affairs and National Department of Advertising (Propaganda) headquarters was no more than a stone’s throw from the grounds of The Estate. Mr.Turning had no intention of ever coming over there and rubbing shoulders with the smarmy and grimy ‘hands-on’ hardasses that hung out at the Center of General Command. 

Besides, he didn’t need to. Propaganda was naturally always a step ahead. By the time Mr.Jakobs called with his ‘request,’ Mr.Turning had already dispatched recon scouts.

The aim was to catch up with the ground militia to document their use of the new and improved Mulch’N’Meat Masher Transport Units in search of survivors.

This was, of course, to cover up the use of the much more profitable single-shot Enforcer turrets, which the R&D team has been frothing to test before sending them halfway across the galaxy to some feudal shithole or another.  

Now, thanks to their efforts, the news was full of emergency crews sorting through debris with determined looks on their muddy faces. The public ate that shit up. 

Anything that the public did regurgitate, such as trees full of corpses and palid nerds walloping at the might of Jakobs firepower, was swiftly wiped off the face of existence. 

Promotional work for Jakobs was always like that; a wild, unpredictable ride. Mr.Turning got to enjoy it all from the corner of his office. His work usually involved making Jakobs look good and sorting through incoming photoshoots. Those ranged from sexy models posing with firearms to clandestine pearl-clutching smiling family units or, sometimes, a mixture of both. 

The last one was a mistake, but it had brought in a chunk of dedicated weirdos, bumping up their share worth by 0.05%—which was a lot. 

In satisfaction, Mr. Turning twirled around in his chair, kicking up his spurred boots at the glazed dark wood countertop. There was always a rush and a comedown after pulling a big favor for The Jakobs Family, especially an impulsive fuck-you-daddy outburst that Wainwright was prone to. After all, It’s what friends were for. And friendship needed cultivation. Friendship was work.

In the case of Wainwright Jakobs, it was the gospel truth; he had to beg his mother to let him go to the company retreat seven times before his charms were noticed by the Heir. It was easy going after that, just like an arranged marriage, Jakobs men were initially distrustful but quick to win over with bourbon and moderate company. 

It was the try-hards that repelled them, not the good ol’ faces of fellow countrymen, familiar and sweet as apple pie or some other wholesome simile.

If it hadn’t been for what happened to the last fellow, Mr.Turning would have even joined Mr.Jakobs in batting for the other team, part-time, so to speak.

He mulled over that thought once more as he scrolled through his echomails, not really reading any of them. Twelve hours after the satellite had flown into the atmosphere, his focus had burned out; now, he was just running on fumes. No wonder he fantasized about being a trophy husband to a man two decades his senior.

Reading and answering messages was not his forte, nor was getting torn apart by grogs in the Grog pit. Besides, he had his sights on a woman of exceptional…everything. 

Speaking of the devil, the Head of Surveillance distracted him from his fantasy, slipping in through the executive entrance behind the fake bookshelf. He installed it to make the place more Jakobsy, like the Estate.

The woman in question towered over the desk menacingly for one ass-clenching moment. Mr.Turning was only a slight man, and her looming demenour and scarred face never failed to bring out a little sniveling child glimpsing a boogyman in the closet. It was probably why he was so attracted to her. 

Without a word, she rooted through the many pockets of trenchcoat and threw an unlabelled echo log onto the table. “It’s the recording you wanted,” she said, turned away, and gravitated towards the minibar. “Old Monty and his friend discussing business.”

Mr Turning set up the recording as she made them both drinks; neat, no ice. 

“Did you have any trouble?” He asked. This was usually only pleasantry, but additional precautions had to be taken when spying on a member of The Jakobs Family. One of such precautions was that it was strictly forbidden and should never be spoken about or mentioned to anybody, ever.

What was happening in his office at the moment would have them both testing out new torture methods with the People’s Internal Social Security department. 

“No. I was already there for the satellite recon.” A smile could be heard on her lips, “Couldn’t help flexing my field expertise, so I got the whole thing down myself. You’re really sticking your neck out on this one. The Son doesn’t have his hand up your ass, you know.”

Mr.Turning ignored her comment but was pleased she was worried. “Anything juicy?”

She shrugged, sitting across from him, tipping her wide-brimmed  hat  effectively shrouding her reptilian eyes in shadow. “Sit yer ass in the bog and see it gets wet, sir.”

“Alright.” Said Mr. Turning, choosing to abstain from pointing out the ‘ass talk.’ People got odd before the rains, especially the quiet ones like Surveillance. 

He made sure the doors were locked before pressing play. His assistant could take care of anything that needed doing for the time being. The sound of the recording poured through. Taking a good swing of rotgut, Mr. Turning turned to listen as Mongomery Jakob’s voice came through loud and clear.

“-hat lad could fall into a pile of tits and come on out suckin’ his own thumb.” The CEO complained.

Sir David quaffed in response. The militia man’s laugh was so loud it made the speakers crackle. “I know, Monty. Another one? Are you sure you’re not tiring the boy out with all this? And sending him away like that will just make him suspicious.”

“It ain’t all that you know?” There was a shuffling on the other side as if Montgomery scooted closer. “The rain a comin? The sign? It’s all connected. I can feel it in my bones. He came at just the perfect time. He’s gonna help us find it. A bit of bait if you will, so to say my friend, and a good one at that. It should smell it on him. It’s up to the fellow if he survives or not.”

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, inviting the Hammerlocks into all this.”

A Hammerlock. Mr. Turning’s upper lip twisted in disgust so far back he tasted mustache wax. 

He could trace his family tree to the first fleet and, as a result, didn’t trust newcomers. Newcomers usually meant bad news: new rumors, unregulated media, and, worst of all, questions.

Questions were exactly the reason for half of the Ol’ Anvil’s population. Perhaps this Mr.Hammerlock, whoever he was, would make a nosedive into the Grog pit.

“Don’t fret now. I got my own ways of keeping an eye on him. ”  Answered Montgomery. “And for the record? This is stayin’ in the hunting party, minus Wainwright, he shouldn’t be worrying ’bout past sins.”

“You got my word, boss. ”  Said General David, followed by a clink of a glass. “Damn me, if I were lying, I wasn’t real lookin’ forward to this trip.”

“Damn straight. ”  

The rest of the recording continued with the boring drivel: contingency actions, multiple requests from Montgomery to shoot the satellite down or at least try to shoot it down, and so on and so forth.

Finally, the recording cut off, and   Mr Turning put his head in his hands. Not because he was upset, but because he knew it made him look brooding, mysterious, and hopefully sexy. 

Surveillance re-filled their glasses in the meantime. Mr. Turning downed his in one go.

“What in the world does the hunt got to do with it?”

“The beast that’s in them woods, Mr.Jakobs is obsessed with it. He thinks it’s a sign of some sort.”

It was a whole load of disjointed information beyond his capacity. Also, he was now tipsy and encroaching on drunk. What did Wainwright want with the ship? What did it have to do with the satellite? Or comet?

Mr. Turning booted up an echomail, in which he wrote, “DEVELOP CATCHY NAME FOR THING IN THE SKY ASAP. ”  He selected Global and pressed SEND. 

“The Hammerlock fellow. ”  Surveillance’s voice cut through his thoughts. 

“What? ”  

“He said somethin’ about the smell, maybe they got a feud? ” She rubbed at her temples, the tresses of bundled hair falling out from under her hat. “I don’t even know, man; the whole situation is as bonkers as it gets. You should have seen the Command Center. The place was in chaos, none of us have seen anything this big since we were kids. Its like that time all those pioneers got up an'all got swept away hell knows where. It gives me the creeps.”

It was a concrete point, making more sense than anything that day. Also, Surveillance had never mentioned she had feelings before. “Sure, we should check it out, as good a lead as any.”

“What are you going to tell the Son? ”  

Mr.Turning cracked his knuckles and peeled himself off the office chair.“Crash coordinates and that Father is taking him on a hunting trip.”

Surveillance smiled at him, and he preened under her attention. Despite being her boss, he felt like he’d done a good job, even if he had technically done nothing. 

“You up for some late dinner? I could cannibalize someone.”

He took a moment to adjust his suit, hoping not to sound too eager.“As good as a reason as any.”

They were the last two out in the pickup bay, most of the facility having gone home. Up in the sky, the mysterious object persistently watched them fumble while making a dinner reservation before they both decided on a takeout joint. 

Mr Turning was not one to be intimidated by the possibility of a floating rock. He forced himself to keep watching: it was just a comet...of sorts. A bright, ominous, mysterious thing in the sky.

As a boy, he was enamored with the night sky and would have shat his pantaloons at the mere sight of it. 

This one seemed…threatening somehow. Its entrance wasn’t natural in any way. Mr. Turning didn’t see himself as an astronomer or even moderately technically minded, but he was sure that those things were supposed to sprout dual tails instead of one.

It was as if it were a disguise, not a very convincing one, but it could fool some plebian who didn’t know how to count. As a master of veneer, Mr Turning held onto that thought. 

It may have fooled others, but whatever that thing was wasn't fooling him.

“Don’t stare at it for too long. It gives you a headache. ” Surveillance told him before the noise of the approaching transport cut her off. Mr.Turning wasn't a superstitious man, but when faced with the facts sometimes you had to look the other way. For propriety's sake. 

Chapter Text

Alistair spent his morning day at the Jakobs Estate trying to heed the company-issued safety warnings blaring from every device hooked up to the echo net. This meant trying not to crane his neck up at the sky, which, due to his insatiable curiosity, he found impossible. There was rumour of something being up there, but other than a mild headache, it proved nothing to a naked eye. 

“Why tell us something’s up there when you don’t want us lookin’ at it?” Asked the groundskeeper as he passed Alistair on his way back to the staff lounge. 

Alistair couldn’t help but agree. 

Dark plumes of smoke darkened the horizon above the gnarled roots and tree canopies. With them came a faint scent of acrid smoke, burning circuitry, and molten heavy compound alloys. There was also an underlying taste in the air, an eclectic pop attributed to ion weaponry. After his stay in Sanctuary, Alistair knew it well. 

Whatever was going on was big, but the staff appeared placid and went about their usual business, content with allowing Jakobs Corp to cradle their lives. After all, nothing could happen to them at the Estate. After the run-in with Hyperion, Alistair had a hard time adopting the same mindset. 

“The warlock says he can see it, Sir; he ain't never been wrong before.” Beatrice told him before disappearing, slipping off to attend to her own duties.

Alistair was incredulous that the application of witchcraft by a self-proclaimed warlock would allow them to see a celestial body, but stranger things have happened.

After Miss Dontrecki showed him around the amenities, he was eventually left to his own devices outside the gamekeeper’s cabin. Inside, his luggage had been put away in the many nooks and crannies lining the walls. The gesture was kind but felt mildly violating; Alistair had to stop himself from re-checking his inventory.

Instead, he took some time examining the many taxidermied and insect pinboard displays he hadn’t noticed the night before. 

A stuffed toilet-shrew caught its eye, it sat on a thick earmarked book he initially mistook for an encyclopaedia. On the first page was a list of dated signatures, the last one dating almost two centuries into the past, signed in flowing cursive. Most recently the book had been owned by a Fitzjames Finny, who had signed their name in block capitals.

Upon a quick leaf-through the book contained notes on the surrounding wildlife, from plants, to animals to fungi. Even people. With how worn the spine and bindings were Alistair opted to leave it where it sat.

As soon as he was done with exploring the cabin he had an urge to leave again. The great outdoors called, and the unappeasable explorer in him yarned to see what he was working with. Still, Alistair forced himself to stay for a moment and study the map of the grounds. The first order of business would be scouting out possible whereabouts and entry points of the grog Montgomery Jakobs had mentioned during breakfast. 

Back outside, the smell of the ion weaponry had moved on and was replaced with fragrant decay and life. Heading for the perimeter where the grog was last spotted, Alistair found himself gliding off the beaten path with a skip in his step. The outer grounds were not the actual Eden-6 sub-tripical jungle but a step below it. As he pulled apart razor-sharp reed grass, Alistair considered using his machete but refuted the thought on account of not disturbing the ecosystem unless it was indispensible

It should have been easy to stay focused on grog hunting, but ultimately, Alistair failed, taking a rest to sketch out a grotesquely bulbous flying insect camouflaging itself in a thorny bushel. 

He was so distracted he missed another one making its way along his back until it was too late. 

He only recalled his studies once the eye-watering pain of the sting reached its apex. St Phia’s Nemphids mated for life. Swallowing a curse, Alistair swatted at it. The insect buzzed away angrily, justified in its chivalrous display of courage.

From the general area of where the saurian had last been spotted he went north, towards a wetter, patchier beginning of an extensive marsh which ran along the perimeter of the grounds. 

There, about a few yards down a depression in the soft earth he spotted it: signs of something significantly capacious having disturbed the thick undergrowth. Broken branches, trampled grasses, and roots with moss having been scraped off them as if whatever had passed had lost its footing.

There were claw marks, too, albeit less visible ones that could not be spotted with a trained eye. 

Alistair followed them deeper into the tree line, where not enough light got through for the ground flora to flourish in the dense clay-like earth. There, as he predicted, began the tracks. Three front toes set harder into the mud than the claw at the back. Saurian tracks. The left was noticeably more pronounced than the right and further off-kilter. Injured saurian tracks. 

Judging by his current approximate weight and depth of his own footprints, Alistair assumed it to be just over three hundred pounds give or take. 

The tracks weren’t exactly fresh, but an injured animal still required additional caution. Alistair dropped lower on the balls of his feet, consciously moving through the foliage. The tracks were becoming deeper and more pronounced, until stopping entirely at the edge of a pool of stagnant water about seven feet in width; it’s murky surface not giving away any secrets.

Not bothering to check its depth, Alistair slid in as smoothly as possible, only shuddering when he sunk all the way to his waist in the lukewarm water. The feeling was...unplesantly musculent.

To his eventual disappointment, there was no trace of the beast on the other side or anywhere in the vicinity of the pond. No trace meant no trail, taking him back to square one.

Defeated and soaked, Alistair sat on a protruding root to pour the water out of his one boot. He didn’t exactly expect to track down the evasive grog on his first day but couldn’t help feeling a tad disappointed. It was as good a time as any to self-flagellate. 

He took his echo out and called his sister. 

Aurelia picked up after the second ring.

“Took you a while, little brother; I assumed one of the yokels mistook you for a new species and mounted your head on the wall of a dysentery-ridden swamp shack.”

“A simple hello would have sufficed.”

“Oh, have some humor. It’s the least you can do to make our conversations less boring.” There was a shuffling on the other end of the call - a pop of a wine cork and the consecutive sound of liquid being poured into a glass. “So how goes it? From your whereabouts, I assume that you are surrounded by animals you haven’t killed. Disappointing.” 

For Auralia the conversation so far could be considered ‘tame’ yet Alistair still felt himself bristling at the comment. There was not one soul in the entire galaxy with such a unique and extraordinary talent at playing with his nerves as his dear sister. 

“I have been here for a day, little time to kill or be killed, unfortunately.” 

Aurelia snorted and coughed in a rare show of emotion. “Well, there is always time for anything. However, your survival is momentarily important to me. Have you located where it might be?” 

“Unfortunately, no. This has been the only waking moment I have been given so far.” Upon saying this, Alistair was struck by the truth of the statement. True to the word, there was no other time when he was not being watched until now. He thought back to Beatrice and the service corridors. 

“I suppose we shouldn’t be talking for too long, we never know who might be listening. Besides, I don’t even know what I am looking for so a little headway would be nice.”

“How astute, remember, that Jakob’s crone must have hidden it somewhere where she had access to.”

Alistair rubbed the bridge of his nose, bemusement growing with every second. “Such as?”

“Mommy always said you were a genius, so I shall let you figure it out.”

“Listen, I was not involved in your dealings with every enslaving, murdering, and possibly thieving warmonger in the galaxy! All I am asking for is…oh, I don’t know, it’s size! How big is it? Aurelia? Can you at least tell me that you rotten limpet?”

“The less you know, the better. It would be awful for the Jakobs to figure out you are a corporate spy, after all. I would just love to see what they would put you through at that prison of theirs. I heard they skinned one guy and made the others wear his skin. Such fun! I wish I had applied for their apprenticeship scheme. Then again, it would be work-”

Alistair evaded the pleasure of hearing the rest as his echo was suddenly snatched from his hands by an orange blur.  

He whipped around to spot a Jabber that whooped and hollered at him from where it stopped to swing on a drooping branch. It was an old, grizzled-looking specimen, a male judging by its pronounced nasal bridge. Alistair inwardly cursed his negligence; in his conversation with Aurelia, he failed to notice he had been surrounded. And robbed.

The jabber blinked at him with its intelligent eyes. “Ook.” He said, shaking the echo as if to show that he did indeed, have it. Miss Dontrecki was right, jabbers really were ugly.

Alistair watched it for signs of aggression such as bared teeth, flattened ears, bristled fur. The simian seemed placid as it pulled itself up on the branch, hopping up and down it threw the echo from one hand to the other.

Considering the most recent studies on jabber intelligence and self-expression, Alistair could have even said that it was mocking him.

The jabber sniffed the echo and put the whole thing in its mouth. “Don’t do that!”

Clearly realizing that the echo was not intended to be eaten, the jabber gave him an offended look as if it was Alistair’s fault. It made a choice number of sounds at him which he was sure were mostly profanities.

Regretfully, they could not understand each other’s language. However, that didn’t stop Alistair from trying: “Give that back!” He reached out his hand.

The jabber copied his movements with its empty hand. “GwaaAaa!” 

The rustling around them indicated that their conversation had attracted a few dozen onlookers, the Jakobs Estate’s jabber denizens. The young and the old, mothers and fathers with infants clinging to their backs, all alike, wide-eyed and inquisitive. 

They were far less pugnacious than bullymongs so far, but Alistair knew to never let his guard down. He was, of course, armed with his usual rifle and hand pistol but had no intention of turning the encounter into a bloodbath. It was best to preserve the alliance the last gamekeeper had cultivated. 

That being said, having lived among humans, these jabbers weren’t exactly ‘wild’ or ‘tame.’ They fell somewhere in between, which was a dangerous and unpredictable middle ground. 

In fact, the old male could have taken anything else, such as his hat or the aforementioned pistol. It knew the echo was vulnerable.

Clever buggers, indeed. 

Calmly, Alistair patted himself down for anything to help him retrieve the echo that was now being used as a back scratcher. Thankfully, he always came prepared, and his left uppermost pocket pouch contained a pack of tea biscuits. They were slightly stale, but he doubted the jabber was a connoisseur.  

“Perhaps an exchange of goods will suffice.”  He held up the packet to the jabber, who hopped closer while the rest shrank back, clearly the leader of the group. “Here.”

The rest of the troupe watched the interaction with open distrust. “A worthy trade, I can assure you, good sir.”

The jabber stared at him and back at the echo before dropping it to scramble for the food. Back on his branch, he dubiously sniffed at it as the rest of the troupe jumped and shrieked around him, waiting their turn for a piece. 

With the long-suffering attitude of an overburdened father at a funfair, the old jabber emptied the packet and counted each piece as if it were a wad of dollar bills. Next, he painstakingly broke apart each biscuit and distributed them to the members of the troupe. 

Alistair grabbed the echo and respectfully stepped back, crouching on the ground. He pretended to groom himself by picking at his sleeve for a few moments, watching the troupe out of the corner of his eye. The jabbers seemed content with that, so he whipped out his notepad, jotting down a few choice thoughts about the show of clear mathematical reasoning he had just witnessed. 

By the time the food was gone it became apparent that the old jabber hadn’t counted himself in. He hopped back to Alistair where he emptied the crumbs from the packet into his open palm, getting the clear point across. The jabber’s dejected expression was so human Alistair wished he had been taking photos this entire time. 

“It’s ok big fellow, I will get you some more. Perhaps something healthier next time, I regretfully have to admit rich tea may not have been the best choice on my part.” He held out the flat of his palms, hoping the jabber would see he had nothing left. 

The old jabber gave him the stink eye but ultimately climbed back up into the canopy above, taking his family with him.

Satisfied that the local simians weren’t going to murder him, Alistair got up to carry on his way. 

The earlier success of finding the grog tracks was short-lived, and as hours wore on Alistair started to form a theory that the creature had simply teleported away. Marking up the locations of the tracks from earlier he set up the one trail camera he brought along in the area, hoping to at least catch some nighttime activity. 

The old jabber followed him the entire time, feigning indifference when Alistair acknowledged his presence. The creature reminded him of his late uncle Barthomelew; a man of a tough exterior who’s only soft spot was his family. It also sported a similar scraggly moustache. After becoming fast acquaintances Alistiar decided to name him Uncle. 

Upon his return to the gamekeeper’s cabin, he found that a note had been slid beneath the door. It read:

‘Sir Hammerlock,

I was supposed to take you to have dinner with the Jakobs. 

SORRY

I got all tied up with something. There iz directions on the back. Sure you can make it by yourself. If you get lost ask anone. Or shout.

YOU

Beatrice

xoxo’

Truth be told, there was a crude map with bullet point directions on the back. 

At the mention of dinner, Alistair felt nothing short of esurient. Besides breakfast, he had utterly missed lunch. 

He still had a good few hours to get ready, which we necessary in his current state of befoulment. His boot, which squelched upon every step, came off first. This was followed by his sodden clothes, where the nemphid sting from earlier caused avoidable suffering. 

Throwing the whole bundle into the laundry basket, Alistair unpacked his formal wear to the background of the evening newscast. 

It mainly was coverage of the satellite, which had allegedly caused a large amount of mayhem after it's subitaneous appearance.

Alistair listened to it as he tried to scrub dirt out of his hair. 

“What is it? Where did it come from? We simply don’t know! But we do know one thing; it sure as damn ain’t leaving!”

“For those easily upset by the concept of unknown phenomena, we have consulted the experts on their advice, which simply boils down to ‘don’t look at it.” Said a cheery newscaster. 

“Well, there you have it, folks! Simple as a bread sandwich!”

“And now, back to our live coverage of SPOONS-”

Charming.

By the time he was marginally dry or moist, there was still an hour left to spare. Alistair flipped absentmindedly through the echo screen menu for something to do besides watching Monty Gets A Butler. He wasn’t ready for it yet.

In between the pre-installed video streaming apps appeared a single game with a retro thumbnail of an angel striking down a dragon with a flaming sword. Beneath it, the title read ‘Champions of Swords and Sorcery.’

Other than the odd mind-numbing flash game, Alistair had never had time for such a trivial hobby during a lifetime of survival. Video games were a royal waste of time as far as he was concerned, which was precisely what he wanted to do at that exact moment.  

He loaded up the application, which greeted him with an 8-bit jingle. 

There was already a logged-in user, an ‘F-J Finny,’ another abandoned memory of the previous gamekeeper. F-J Finny had left a half-finished campaign and joined an online server eloquently named ‘Eden-6 exec slaparoo bonanza fuck you”. 

No more than a second into entering the lobby, a notification requesting a match popped up on the screen. Mildly intrigued, Alistair accepted.

The game itself turned out to be an overly-complicated turn based strategy which involved running a kingdom of mismatched magical creatures. Despite its janky graphics and even jankier mechanics Alistair found himself getting into it…somewhat. 

As soon as the game started, it was over. He didn’t get more than a few turns in until the opposing player mopped the pixilated map with his sorry army. 

Back in the lobby, Alistair received a pleasant sentence full of profanities. Before he could reply, the player had disconnected in an assumed fit of rage at his terrible gameplay.  

Switching the game off, he stared at his reflection in the dark echo screen and sighed.

So much for fellow sportsmanship. Alas, no being has ever felt weak behind the protection of a screen. On the other hand, he did, at times, enjoy using himself as a punishment for others.

Whether he enjoyed it or not the game had done its job and killed exactly 35 minutes. It perfect window to make it to dinner even when following dubious directions by someone who may or may not be inebriated from inhaling wood polish. 

His old scoutmaster had said he had a gift for orienteering. Alistair grabbed his suit jacket and prepared to leave. 

At the door, Alistair caught the sight of a stranger in the tarnished full-length mirror hanging next to the coat rack. The bottle green of his current suit contrasted finely with the muddled cream shirt he hoped matched. The feather in his hat remained unchanged, even though he packed a selection of shades of different avian species for any occasion he wanted to give a more casual first impression. 

Due to not having worn anything more formal than his usual garb for almost a decade, the suit's fabric felt stiff and boxy around his form. Running a hand to smooth out his hair, he tried not to think too hard about the grey slowly starting to streak into it; alas, it was too late for a trim. 

A gunshot popped in the distance. Alistair took that as a cue to head out. 

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Alistar was not as adept at orienteering as he thought.

In what turned out to be a baptism of fire, he found himself inside Jakobs Manor itself with little to nothing to guide his way, but the map, which, while sufficient for someone who knew the layout, was not the best use for a neophyte such as himself.

Every wall was panelled in some form of timber, either dark and reddish or a brackish brown, polished, or completely untreated with no visible grain.There floors were all carpented in polychromatic shades of the sunset; navy, dark mauve and burgundy. The wooden floors beneath them still creaked under the weight of Alistair’s prosthetic foot. 

Some windows were tinted, casting fractals of colored light from the setting sun over the many objects affixed and mounted on the walls and the lavish furniture. There were portraits, weapons, statues, decorative plates, framed documents, and diplomas, pressed dried flowers and paintings, rare pelts and mounted heads, family photos and children’s drawings, autographed posters and signed sports equipment and musical instruments, and much, much more. A whole two hundred years of memories contained within one home. 

Alistair didn’t have time to admire it all because he was sure he was already running late. 

He passed a dozen bedrooms, a game room, a drawing room, and a cabaret. There, the groundskeeper, whose name he didn’t recall, popped out of seemingly nowhere to give him directions. 

“Just mind the rules lad.” He said.

Up, down, left, left, straight ahead past the statue of a naked lady manning a cannon and up the spiral staircase. 

The first spiral staircase took him to a domed ceiling painted with stars and a dead end. The second one led him to a birch-panelled double door with a plaque letting him know it was the ‘Southern Dining Hall.’ 

This was precisely where he wanted to be.

Alistair stopped to catch his breath, not realizing he had jogged up both staircases. The opulently carpeted landing had a chaise, which he sat down on to recuperate, only for a second. 

He could hear some commotion behind the doors. Judging the prominent sound of Montgomery Jakob’s boisterous laughter as a go-ahead, he stood up and pulled on the iron handle. 

The cavernous room on the other side was cast in a low yellow glow of lamps lining the walls; various paintings littered the space among them, most cast in shadow.

The hosts were seated on the far end of a giant oaken table which dominated the room. “-And for pete’s sake smile once in a while!” He caught the end of Montgomery’s words. 

Wainwright was in the center, between his father and a strange man of gargantuan proportions. They were wearing a ridiculous crimson military getup, complete with a dozen gold aiguillettes and a hat with a golden feather so thick and voluminous it dwarfed his own. All three men froze as Alistair made his entrance. The strange man grinned, showing teeth filed to points. Montgomery even more so, as if starring in a competition. 

Wainwright bared his teeth with less charisma, a striking resemblance to the jabbers Alistair met earlier. 

It was like he had trespassed into an insane asylum. Alistair was sure he had interrupted something he was not supposed to interrupt. “Apologies, gentlemen; I hope I have not interrupted anything of importance.” He stated, just to be sure. In case he was interrupting, that was. It occurred to him that he should have knocked.

The Butler, Mr.Baldrin, materialized at his side to urge him to sit. 

“Nonsense, my boy!” Montgomery shouted as if the dining room was eighty times larger. He clasped his son on the back with a bit too much force for it to be merely a fatherly gesture. “How goes your first day on the job?”

“I trust you didn’t feed the animals?” Wainwright followed up. “It’s usually the first thing that people do, y’know. Second hand or first hand if you catch my meaning.”

“Wainwright! You should know better than to cause offense.” 

Alistair laughed at Montgomery’s outburst as he went to sit because he wasn’t offended.

As dinner was served, Alistair told them about the saurian tracks he found, leaving out the jabber encounter.

Dinner consisted of an entry course of sweet bisque and thick biscuits followed by a roast of dark glazed red meat, which fell apart at the touch of a fork.

With it all came greens and harsh roasted polenta, all arranged in a decorative pile on his plate.

After years spent on Pandora and consuming bland canned goods and tough game, it was a welcome change. 

The gentleman in him strived not to let it show, instead trying to remember to place his water opposite the wine. 

Wainwright sat across from him, observing his reunion with the concept of fine dining with muted interest. During breakfast Alistair never noticed that unlike his father, he ate meticulously. Each morsel, composed of equal parts of the contents of the plate, was stacked on the back of the fork. The heir bowed his head, slipping it between his lips without making a mess of his facial hair.

In the past Alistair had been scolded for the uncouth habit of watching other people eat so he averted his eyes to the art pieces lining the walls. 

They were…peculiar, each one differing in both subject nature and style. An abstract dichotomy of color in acrylic hung next to cats in party hats having a tea party in oil on canvas. 

“Wonderful collection of art you have here, Mr Jakobs. Are the pieces commissioned?”

“Thank you.” Both Jakobs men said in unison.

Wainwright continued. “As I was saying, that is very kind of you to say, and no, these are just works our guests have left behind. We receive over a hundred visitors each full season; some create exceptional or even memorable pieces, and the ones they don’t take with them… well… they end up here.”

With a clink of his medals, Sir David pointed towards a delicate miniature frame of a white-clad lady sleeping under a tree canopy. Pastel colors on yellow parchment. “I painted that one.” 

“The estate and surrounding areas inspire us all.” Montgomery gazed up from his food, grease dripping down his chin. “Dear Baldrin painted the southern delta up above the fireplace. It has always been my favorite.” 

The Butler, Mr.Baldrin, who had been quietly milling around the dessert cart, hummed in affirmation. “Thank you Mr.Jakobs, albeit I have been but a lad when I painted it. My artistic skill has since improved.”

“It’s a masterpiece! Don’t be so harsh on yourself. Ain’t nothing better than getting the gift of art.”

“Only because you’re too much of a cheap skit to buy it,” Wainwright interjected.

Montgomery snorted into his wine glass and turned to Alistair. “He’s sore and all ‘cuz if you were to see his paintings, you’d want to pay him to stop.”

Everyone laughed at that and returned to other matters.

Alistair didn’t know what to make of Wainwright Jakobs. The man was an excellent conversationalist, sharp-witted, and comfortingly open and yet reserved, another stark contrast in his deportment to the rest of the company. 

After a dessert of cirtus and custard sweetdough pie he excused himself to return with a gift he presented to Alistair: a beautiful hunting rifle—all dark redwood and galvanised dark wrought barrel. It must have come straight out of the workshop, telling by its stink of iron swarth and gun oil.

“From our family workshop.” Wainwright explained while Alistair tested the sights. The curve of the stock rested comfortably against his shoulder, sleek with polish. “It’s a bespoke job, so you’re gonna have to tell us how it handles.”

“It is a truly generous gift, and I must say I am racking up quite the debt.”

“Nonsense, most you could do to pay all of us back is to kill somethin’ with it.”

The strange man, a military official named General David wanted to know about the upcoming hunting party. 

“I ain’t ever gone after something I’ve never seen before. It would be welcome to have a seasoned hunter join us.” He grumbled, after having taken a shot of ginger aperitif. 

“Indeed, there is a level of excitement about this ‘beast’ you speak of. I must apologize for my own ignorance, for I, too, find myself in a similar conundrum. This beast you speak of, has it ever been seen? I have heard that we may just be chasing an urban legend.”

“No, but there have been…byproducts of its influence.” Answered Montgomery, poking at his meringue. “There are skeptics out there, always have been. Howsnot, I assure you that there is something undocumented roaming ’round here. Our dear Head of House would tell you so.”

“The poor lady. Would have swapped my place with her any day.” Added General David.

Wainwright stroked his chin in thought. “She ain’t been the same since. Saw her last night, walking ’round the gardens in the little morning hours with a repeater in hand. It’s not the first time ever. There I was last year crawlin’ my way back from Town when she almost took my own ear off!” He turned to Alistair. “Lesson be learned; if you see her, don’t make any sudden movements and such.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Alistair placed the rifle back in its box. Something wasn’t adding up. “Do pardon me once more, but I don’t understand. Miss Dontrecki had stated her disbelief in the beast just yesterday.”

The room went so quiet that he could hear himself blink. All the other three men exchanged a look. 

Montgomery cleared his throat. “Do you know what happened to the gamekeeper before you?”

“The one who disappeared? I mean, Miss Dontrecki was very adamant that his fate was not written in stone…was it?”

“Well, son, the reason I am asking is that Miss Dontrecki should have told you. She was the one who came across what was left of the poor lad.”

Sir David shook his head. “What a tragedy.”

Montgomery barked a laugh. “The real tragedy was the damages we had to pay his family. Didn’t even get a good value out of him.”

Wainwright set his spoon down with a clatter. “Pops, I can assure you, there would not be a better time to not say that.” He crossed his arms. “Considering our guest n’ all.”

Montgomery mirrored his son’s gesture. “It may not be sugar-coated the way you like it, but it doesn’t mean it ain’t true.”

For a moment, both men sat there, staring each other down, their chests puffed up like those of two rival toads. Sir David glanced between them with thorough amusement. Baldrin let out an exasperated sigh. 

Empty words of comfort spilled from Alistair’s mouth before he could muster a second thought. “Its regime of terror shall be over soon, I am sure.” He wasn’t sure.  He didn’t know how to deal with some of the arguably most dangerous men alive being driven up the wall by something as benign as a wild animal. 

The men in the room solemnly nodded along. As if on cue, the clock above a haunting painting of saurians tearing apart a mother and child struck midnight.

Montgomery turned around to squint at its face. “It’s getting late, and I do sincerely apologize for keeping you so long, Sir Hammerlock.” Before Alistair could answer, he turned to Wainwright. “Son, Why don’t you walk our guest back to his lodgings?” 

Alistair didn’t miss the heir’s eyebrow twitch for a fraction of a second.

Despite that, Wainwright stood up from the table and fixed his suit jacket. “Sure, why not?” 

Alistair hastily followed him out of the dining room and down the spiral staircase. This was the first time he was alone with the younger Jakobs, and he wracked his mind for something to say. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; however, Wainwright was barely paying him any attention, seemingly lost in thought.

“I assume from your earlier comments you are not much of a hunter yourself?” He asked as they passed into the main hallway where the burgundy red carpet changed to a copper and grey harlequin. 

“Huh? Oh yes, I mean no, I do not fancy committing myself to something I am no good at. I do not mistake humiliation for humility.”

“Well,” Alistair wasn’t expecting that reply, “I am sure we can get a few rounds of practice before the main event.”

“You would be surprised how little that would help.” Wainwright laughed a bitter laugh. 

When Alistair didn’t reply he added. “I’m literally half blind, no matter how many rounds you have me waste I’m afraid half of those might find you instead. But I suppose you already knew that.” 

Alistair did know that. His dear sister mentioned the ‘ironically hilarious’ handicap prior to his departure. Admitting that he knew would have probably made him seem suspicious. “I’m sorry.” He said instead. 

Wainwright turned to face him, no longer sounding as disconsolate. “It ain’t your fault. Just me being overly vitriolic. Besides, I make do with my shotgun.” He patted his side as if by habit. “But speakin’ of practice, I could use some of your sharpshooting expertise sooner than later.” He said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “S’uppose you could accompany a friend and myself on a short trip to Knotty Peak to visit the family loge. We have some business in the area and wouldn’t mind an extra gun. I would keep it to yourself, however. It’s a…surprise.”

“Why, yes, of course.” Alistair had no idea what he had to keep quiet about. He supposed that agreeing wouldn’t hurt; the closer he could get to eider Jakobs, the better. With some luck, he wasn’t going to end up like the last gamekeeper.

Outside, the air was cloying and heavy with the pollen of blooming night flowers. Sabaceous glowing insects and things Alistair only dreamt about seeing dominated the sky as animals chittered around them. It would appear that Eden 6 never lay to rest. (Alistair held onto that thought for his book.)

They passed under the root bridge of a giant Blood Baobab, where Alistair spied Uncle, watching them from higher ground. 

The simian cocked its maned head at them curiously but didn’t approach.

In the backdrop the breathtaking gaseous nebula the Satellite shone in the sky, it’s celestial form a mystery. Like this, Eden 6 did truly resemble a paradise.

“Where do you think it came from?” Asked Alistair. His eyes couldn’t focus on it, no matter how hard he tried. 

Wainwright appeared to be doing the exact same thing: “That is one thing we need to find out.”

“We?”

“It’s a figure of speech. But I also guess it is somewhat true. I may look and sound stupid, but I know that Pop’s hidin’ something.” Wainwright blinked momentarily and groaned, putting a hand over his eyes. Behind him, Uncle scuttled away at the noise. “Good heavens, I don’t know why I’m even tellin’ you this.”

This was new and unexpected. It was Alistair’s turn to crack a smile. “I’m told that I am trustworthy.”

“And people who are trustworthy tend to trust others.” They stopped at the door of the gamekeeper's cabin. Wainwright turned to face him and Alistair squirmed under his undivided attention. In the dim light his eyes were bright and aerie, almost reflective in nature. 

The Jakobs took one step forward and then another until Alistair’s back touched the damp vines clinging to the wall. Wainwright leaned in until they were a breath apart, an intimidating gesture as any.

Alistair blinked, befuddled, until his new rifle was pressed into his hands. He hadn't noticed Wainwright carrying it this entire time.

Wainwright broke eye contact. “I’m gonna say this because I ain’t the type to let someone get hurt. Watch out for the people here, Alistair; we are worse than any animal and smarter, too.” 

Alistair glanced down at the lacquered box and swallowed back a glob of guilt. “Noted.”

The other man lingered in his personal space for another moment before taking a sure step back. “Have you read the rules?”

“No.”

Wainwright smiled, a nice smile. “Please do. They are an absolute ballache to get through, but they will keep you out of trouble. I wouldn’t want you to miss the by-annual peat fire.”

“What’s a peat fire?”

“It’s a charming little celebration when children build models of spaceships and race them down a hill while the adults get drunk. The fastest ship gets set on fire.”

“So the child gets punished for winning?”

“It builds character.” Wainwright shrugged and turned to leave. “Goodnight, Sir. Hammerlock.”

“Goodnight. Mr Jakobs”

He watched as Wainwright Jakobs walked away until he disappeared behind the shrubbery before slipping back inside. 

Keen to actually sleep in a bed this time but still sufficiently tipsy, Alistair watched another fifteen minutes of Monty Gets A Butler before deciding to call it a day. The Butler had just been hired as the Head of House and had been tasked with throwing a birthday party for Monty himself. 

Just as sleep was about to take him, he heard it.

It sounded mechanical at first, with a low bass vibration in the air. In his ears, then in his bones, behind his eyelids and under his fingernails. Shaking the frame of the bed, the glass panes in the window. It felt like coming down with a fever, having a dream where you are falling. 

The animals outside quietened or may have been quiet for a while. In the silence, a howl sounded in the distance.

It vibrated and rang, deep and guttural like a great bass trombone; within its cry was a resounding sorrow. It seemed to echo for an eternity before going silent; cautiously, the sounds of wildlife resumed. 

And just like that, it was over. 

Acting on instinct Alistair climbed out of bed and found his present where he had left it propped up against the wall. Just like he used to do when a the skag snarls sounded to close on Pandora. The rifle was a heavy and reassuring presence in his bed. Sometimes even the most foreign places felt like home in disarmingly unexpected ways.

Wide awake once again, Alistair decided that now would be a good time to read the rules.

Chapter Text

Official welcome pack and guide for: 

The Jakobs 1st Estate - EDEN 6 - 

Rev: 58.8

Foreword:

“Out here on the wild frontier of the stars, kin ain't just the folks you're born with. Every drifter and wanderer that crosses your path might just become family. So throw open your airlocks and welcome 'em in, 'cause in the vastness of space, a stranger today may as well share your blood by next dawn's break.”
- Singleton Talbot Jakobs (Allegedly) (At some point in the past)

While we no longer live in a crashed spaceship, we here at Jakobs uphold our values which are still based on mutual trust, transparency and tradition.
Wherever you are an honoured guest, a business partner or a new member of our team if you are reading this we are proud to appoint you as a member of our great and expanding family!

>>That being said, just like in every family we have special house rules we like to follow to keep the status quo.

>You will find a list of emergency and non-emergency contacts in the first two pages of this manual.

>In the event of a widespread emergency an alarm will sound via all devices connected to our echonet and tannoid system. The alarm protocol is as follows:

> One tone siren - Stay inside your designated rooms. Stay away from windows. Refrain from making too much noise.




Employees to continue on with business as normal.

>Two tone siren - Immediately muster emergency stations indicated in the back of your assigned rules booklet.




Employees to stop all activity and await further instructions.

>Three tone siren - Immediately move to the main lobby.


Upper Management is responsible for checking all areas have been evacuated before proceeding to the main lobby. 

If you are an employee an additional protocol process can be found in this introduction pack.

0.1 There are no drills at the Estate. All emergencies must be taken seriously.

   2. Unless you are a registered employee, or have special permissions the upper floors of the Manor are closed during the following hours:

6:00 - 22:00 On weekdays

8:00 - 21:00 On weekends
Holidays and Other events can be subject to a more varied timetable. Please check the noticeboard in the lobby for further information.

3.While you are a guest at the manor you must respect its residents. That means no abuse and no noise after the curfew (see rule 4). 

4. If choosing to partake in recreational substances you are expected to share. We are a family. 

5. THE Jakobs family has priority above all. This should not need to be said. Any bismerching or disrespect will have immediate consequences. 

6. As a general rule, please abstain from traversing the grounds at night. If you must assure you do so armed.

7. While most animals are wary of humans the use of firearms is fully permitted and encouraged on Eden 6 and the Estate as is the right of righteous self-defence. It's better to be safe than sorry. 

8. Considering the last point, please abstain from shooting people (unless you absolutely must).

9. The use of elemental weapons is generally frowned upon. Don’t do that. 

10. Littering and damaging the gardens and surrounding grounds is highly forbidden and counts as a punishable offence. Sustainability is valued at Jakobs

11. Do not feed the animals! Some of our local wildlife might be cute but the danger is very real. To a common grog the snack you are holding might end at your elbow, not the palm of your hand.
For a short guide to common wildlife and safety guidelines refer to page 6.

12. Please keep all window grates and doors closed at all times. 

13. Children should always be supervised by an adult. A child-minding service can be arranged upon request. Note point 1.

14. Non-human lifeforms are not permitted within residential buildings.
In the event of a non-human encounter keep a safe distance and follow the relevant protocol on page 5.

15. Not everyone is a faithful employee. Learn how to identify suspicious behaviors on page 17.
Integrity and safety are important values at Jakobs and we would be more than thankful for you to pitch in!

16. The Manor is famous for its unique architecture and is home to hundreds of hidden passageways. Unless confident, please do not make a habit of using them. Not all are safe and some are used on a weekly, monthly or even yearly basis. 

Remember: Curiosity didn’t kill the cat. It died slowly, of exposure (most likely).  

17. In the case of becoming lost try heading up instead of down. The further up the friendlier the faces you are likely to see!

18. The Estate does not have a lower basement. Please abstain from trying to find it. 

19. Underground Lawns are NOT real. Stop asking to see them. 

20. The ladies and gentleman’s clubs are societies accessible by invite only. We understand that making precious memories is important but we would like to kindly ask to not video, record or take photos of the gatherings. If you are lucky enough to be invited please keep a calm and open-minded attitude. Just like the founders intended!

21. Not all invites are given with the best intentions in mind. Pay attention to the hand-signs and phrases spoken by your invitees. Feeling uneasy? You should be. 

Just kidding! Have fun. But do be careful.

22. Our surrounding area is rich with natural beauty. If you feel so inclined to take a hike please do so after consulting our online guide for the best and safest seasonal routes.

23. While not having a real ‘law’ Eden 6, Eden 6 has no law, and therefore it is full of individuals who are not afraid to hold up their own! You have been warned! 

And lastly? RULE 24 (just kidding again Visitor!) Be tootin, be rootin and be shootin! And most of all? Have fun.

Yeehaw! - Miss Olga Dontrecki - 17th Head Of Heritage and Oversight for the United Sovereign Estate

Chapter Text

Miss Dontrecki was heading out to Town one evening to find that the pre-monsoon season fog had rolled in alongside the falling dusk. 

(Sunset was at exactly 21:03, 16 minutes later than the night before.)

Her position as the Head of Heritage and Oversight for the United Sovereign Estate came with its perks; her rooms were placed in the topmost floors of Jakobs Manor, bestowing her with a clear birdseye view of the southern grounds. 

(90.89 feet high.)

Today she could see Mr Hammerlock moseying about, unquestionably carrying out his gamekeeping duties, bottom half completely shrouded in the thick mist. It was late to be out, but she was not the one to judge, being a bit of a veteran resident herself she was not afraid of what lurked in the dark. The hunter had now been with the Family for almost an entire week, proving to be more resilient than she primarily assumed. She silently gave her thanks to whichever gods of bureaucracy saved her from filling out yet another fatal incident report. 

(The past year cycle had yielded 3 fatal incidents, 55 non-fatal incidents, 89 near-misses, and 487 hazards identified. This number added up to a total of 0.000000078% of all total health and safety violations at Jakobs Corporate and its subsidiaries.)

Sir Hammerlock was an odd one. Not as far as gamekeepers went, anyway. Old Monty always had a hand in picking out uniquely colourful characters. The hunter had a lot going for him; he was educated, proactive and competent. All the qualities of a reliant employee. 

He was also leaning a tad on the bony side, an unfortunate affliction Miss Dontrecki had taken upon herself to remedy.

All Family members under her care were required to be, at a minimum, of a healthy weight. Sir Hammerlock was making it difficult, having missed three out of the six lunches he was supposed to attend. Her bet was that Montgomery’s dinners would eventually fill in the gap. 

(Sir Alistair Hammerlock's health records taken during the mandatory Eden-6 entry medical screening showed a BMI of 16.2, which classified him as underweight. An approximate total of 3500 calories per day would be required to maintain a healthy weight gain to the lowest acceptable score.)

His presence lightened the atmosphere up a notch, especially with the metaphorical stormcloud that hung over her head this time of year. (On account of fatal incident No.3.)

Miss Dontrecki had already heard the whispers; he was penniless, a vagabond, disowned by his family. She supposed it was why he was so carefree; people tended to be that way when they had nothing. Then again, she didn't care much for rumors. 

The Peat Fire was just around the corner, and today, the ladies' and gentlemen's lodges would be communing together to make preparations for monsoon season. More excitedly, the selection of eligible candidates for the Company Picnic would come to ahead. 

The hunter was an almost perfect candidate. He was important enough to be a novelty but not enough to warrant an external investigation in case he suddenly went missing.

Wainwright Jakobs himself had warned that Beatrice had an eye on him, the poor man. Miss Dontrecki hoped the girl wouldn't do anything to embarrass herself or her department. She was keen for someone so young and therefore dangerous. Since her parents' departure, she had been set on getting as far up the ladder as possible. 

While the Head of House adored her moxy, her recent outbursts of teenage rebellion have started to become mildly concerning. Of course, one didn't become a full member of the Order of the Founding Stock until they reached maturity. Theoretically, Beatrice's full powers and responsibilities will not be assigned until next year. Theoretically, being the keyword.

There were, of course, loopholes, and there were never enough loopholes at Jakobs Corp.

Miss Dontrecki drew her attention away from Sir Hammerlock and holstered up, keen to nab a good seat at the Lodge before the off-planet riff-raff showed up.

The drive to the Town of Reliance was short and uneventful. By the time Miss Dontrecki arrived, the outside of the lodge was already littered with shiny executive vehicles. She scowled at the opulence; Most of them had certainly been driven for the first and last time only to be exchanged for a flashier model next year. 

Come the by-annual celebrations the same shiny machines would be driven up to the estate to gouge tracks into her neatly kept lawns. The guests would, in turn, pile into the great conservatory, where they would undoubtedly trample the remnants of the Company Picnic into the priceless carpets she had persuaded Montgomery to buy.

A couple dozen of her fellow Lodge members were already milling around. High-ranking Jakobs directors and Reliance's common townsfolk alike, all decked out in leather aprons belonging to the Order. Miss Dontrecki nodded at a couple of the more senior patrons, both production directors who had traveled down to Eden 6 just for the event. Here in the night, their existence was an open secret.

The Lodge itself was a precarious feat of cowboy architecture. Its structural integrity was delicately balanced on rotting, century-old logs held down by the weight of fresher wood above. Nothing hung above the double doors leading inside, betraying the esoteric Lodge as something an everyman wouldn't seek out unless they specifically knew its purpose. If you knew what it was, you were in, if you didn't, you were out. 

Miss Donrecki was in, so she headed inside.

The interior of the Lodge was packed and sweltering like a slaughterhouse and stank like a brewery, there was an underlying energy, as if something was about to happen. The low wooden pews were mostly half-full, the ordinary citizens and swamp folk taking their time to find a seat on account of the lower levels being there for the Town's citizens only. Miss Dontrecki spied most of the manor staff, including Beatrice among the other apprentices.

The round circle balcony above was overstuffed with the company's elite, some in person and some calling in, their holograms casting an eerie blue glow across the slanted ceiling. The turnout this year was the grandest Miss Dontrecki had seen in ages, as if the Satellite had attracted them like flies to a fresh corpse. 

The great council table in the back of the Lodge was similarly filling up with mingling departmental executives, all of them having the same idea to arrive early for the show. 

Just as she grabbed a drink from a passing waiter, the main doors of the Lodge burst open, and Montgomery and Wainwright Jakobs made their grand entrance.  The mostly level hubbub of civilized conversation turned hootenanny-loud as executives rushed past her to greet the founding Family. 

While no one dared to directly hound the chief executive officer and his operational counterpart, the members of the Order surrounded them like moons of Eden, as if the patriarchs' blue blood would rub off on them if they stayed close enough.  

While Wainwright graciously handed out handshakes, Montgomery scanned the crowd and tipped his tophat in her direction, motioning to the back of the room where the council table was almost fully seated. 

She nodded back, understanding the meaning. While her departament was small, Miss Dontrecki still had a rightful spot and role in today’s meetup.

Taking advantage of the commotion the Head of House pushed her way to the table and almost managed to beat Logistics to a stool by the window. Both women wrestled on it for a second before ultimately deciding to share the seat. They shuffled around until both were satisfied that the meagre tepid breeze would provide them with enough oxygen to survive for the next hour. 

"I swear these things get worse every year."

"Tell me about it."

Both women were startled when Sir David of Battle Intelligence loomed out of nowhere.

"Good evenin' sisters." He greeted, tipping his feathered side cap at them. With a sure pull of his arm, he drew out an adjoining chair, currently holding the CTO, and tipped it forward effortlessly. The man fell out with an undignified squeak, and Sir David took his place. 

"That was uncalled for. He deserves that seat more than you." Scolded Logistics as the CTO crawled away, muttering under his breath. Probably planning the buffoon's doom. 

Sir David hummed in fake wonder. "You're right, mayhaps I should have flung him out the window instead? Or would you have offered something to barter in return? What does the rulebook say?" He wriggled his eyebrows at them. 

"How about a demotion?" Miss Dontrecki crossed her arms, careful not to elbow Logistics. While of equal rank at Jakobs, in the throngs of the Order, she outranked the military man by two whole grades. "Heard there are a lot more seats up on the balcony."

(Under clause 2.2, Sir David's insubordination would have warranted a worse outcome if she wished it so.)

Sir David took it on the chin. "Don't be like that, darlin'. I was just hoping to bask in your fine company this evening." He said, slapping a palm across his chest. Still, he marched away, grabbing the fleeing CTO by the shoulder and pushing him back towards the chair. "Apologies there, chap, it seems like excitement has gotten the better of me." 

The CTO, a newly appointed shrimp of the first grade whose name Miss Dontrecki had forgotten to learn, hastily accepted the apology and sat back down, brushing fake dirt off his suit pants.

"Thanks." He whispered as if speaking out loud was banned. 

(It was not, unless one of the Jakobs said so)

"That's clause 3.19 youngin'. You owe me a favour." Miss Dontrecki replied simply. And that was that. 

These were old clauses and older traditions from before the great crash and before Jakobs was Jakobs, and instead a different conglomerate time had long forgotten. While the Jakobs family sat at the head of the council seat, the denizens of Reliance and the extended leaders of Jakobs Corporate had equal input in all decisions made when the Order gathered as a whole.

The room quietened down as the Sheriff or Reliance stood to attention. As soon as Montgomery and Wainwright took their seats, the council meeting began. 

All meetings started off with ultimately boring clerical and business matters. Weather movements and predictions were discussed in excruciating detail, as well as contingencies in case of mudslides, hurricanes, and possible floods in case mud dams broke during the peak of the Monsoons.

(Reliance was just 25m above sea level which allowed for the Town to scrape by with a few reinforced ditches to keep the floodwaters at bay. This year’s chances of landslides were high, considering the increase in logging operations in the north of the basin had drastically reduced the stability of the soil.)

Which regions would require further reinforcement. 

(78 visitors from the Lodge. 10,000 paid national reinforcement workers and 17,000 robot units which didn’t flourish in the swamp as well as humans, but didn’t require a salary. All mobilized early thanks to the Satellite and its resulting fallout.)

Sir David gave a short speech about the Satellite. Specifically it posed no threat and how he was a greater, and far more belligerent threat if anyone dared to refute his point. No one did. 

The new CTO, Mr Kassidy-Jakobs, stood up to mumble about the wonders of technology it could possibly bring while rattling in his boots as if he were coming off Ol'Tiny's Sunshine Pills.

No wonder, Wainwright Jakobs was staring into his soul the entire time. His younger cousin could probably feel the other man’s eyes boring into his skull. It was odd to say the least, the heir usually spared equal polite attention to all attendees.

Lastly, Mr Turning of Propaganda helpfully informed everyone not to look at it.  

The matter was closed, and there were no further questions. 

(Clause 4.23.1: In the instance of closing the matter agreed upon by the unanimous ruling of the council, the matter at hand will no longer be discussed and will be considered out of the investigative freedom of the lower grade members. For control actions, please refer to clause 1.2.1)

Finally, the conversation tuned into more compelling matters. The annual celebration. The Sheriff motioned for Miss Dontrecki to take the stand. Grateful to stretch her legs she took a survey of the audience before beginning her speech.

"Brothers and Sisters, I am proud to announce the commencement of the 314th by-annual peat fire. If you are here, you have received the newsletter and know the drill…" She completely tuned out to her own words; having done this job for so long, the spiel was almost automatic.

"...and read the rules. The curfew will be on your invitation but for those of you who are belligerently illiterate, that time is 11 am. And no public fornication; this is a family event. Recreational substances, and by that I mean drugs, are banned from all cook-off events. Stay safe, and most importantly, have fun."

The crowd applauded, rejoicing, and for a second, Miss Dontrecki almost forgot what she'd been dreading in the rainfall. 

The Sheriff played her off, tapping her glass with the end of a spoon. "Thank you, Miss Dontrecki. And now, onto our by-annual candidate's selection." 

A shudder of anticipation vibrated through the room. This was what everyone had been waiting for. 

Some of the younger executives leaned dangerously over the balcony bannisters, eagerly watching as a projector screen was rolled down across the expanse of the back wall. 

Miss Dontrecki leaned back against the window sill, fumbling with a cigarette. The smoke from the cherry mingled with the thick cloud already hovering above everyone’s heads.

She had already cast her vote among the other executives, as was required of her. This was no more than a count of hands and a play on a certain ritual from long ago, a particular one that she hadn't been able to get on the bandwagon with ever since her inauguration many years ago. 

The Sheriff cleared her throat and flicked to the first slide.The image showed a sunburnt man with the backdrop of a beach, a seeming normal photo.

"Charlie Evenhallow: Age: 55. Middle manager. Has missed yearly targets five years in a row. Caught using the client list to send unsolicited imagery. Would we like to see the evidence?"

Most of the lodge members groaned, covering their eyes. 

"Sakes alive woman! We discussed that last time." 

"Whatever you say, Mr Jakobs. Anyway, can we have a show of hands?" 

Hands immediately shot up and were slowly counted. Miss Dontrecki debated giving the Sheriff her clicker but doubted she'd ever get it back. 

A new slide. This one was of a young woman in an underground parking lot taken from behind a column, seemingly unaware of the photographer.

"I did not miss the ban on the goddamn creepy shots you people keep taking." 

"Wainwright! Please, respect tradition."

The Sheriff ignored them both. "Moug Trawley. Age 26. Caught using an elemental weapon."

There were over a dozen candidates, seemingly randomly chosen, but for the upper echelons of management, it was just a way to dispose of individuals that really and truly pissed you off. Unreliable employees, over-sharers, and relatives of those you wanted to hurt, to name a few.

The crowd got louder with the click of each new slide as arguments sprang up over which traits made them more eligible: age, the brightness of their eyes, the length of their limbs, or 'capability'.

"Triscuit Cassidy. Age 32. Reported to HR over seventeen times. Allegedly due to 'controversial opinions regarding echonet streaming shows.' Whatever that means."

"Triscuit is a horse's name!" Someone hollered from the balcony. A woman in the front row doubled over in laughter. 

"Aye!" 

In moments, the yay's and nay's and general bickering became one continuous riot, making the nightly calls of the Howler pale in comparison. If the entirety of the adult population of Reliance hadn't been in the Lodge at that moment, The Order would not have retained it’s secrecy for long.

In her peripheral vision Miss Dontrecki saw Montgomery Jakobs wriggle his fingers over his holster with open premeditation. Considering her window of time was around 0.06 and 0.02 seconds she was able to cover her ears just in time before the first defining shot overwhelmed the ruckus of the Lodge.

Every living soul dived for cover except for Wainwright Jakobs, who remained stoic. By the time Montgomery emptied the whole six bullets into the hole-riddled ceiling above a deadly hush had fallen over the Lodge. 

The Head of House recalled the time when the CEO was a strapping man in his prime she found the tyranny alluring.

(On average, Montgomery Jakobs tended to dispose of approximately four bullets per every council meeting he attended (based on his attendance record of 76%). This, of course, was due to a statistical outlier. The by-annual peat fire celebration closing and opening meetings counted for 98% of all bullets fired.) 

With an open air of satisfaction Montgomery holstered his revolver with a flourish. "Now now, ladies and gentlemen, there ain't a need to shout. You all better keep civil cuz the next time is my boy's turn."

Wainwright tugged at the strap of his shotgun. "Is it now?" 

(Unlike his father, Wainwright had a track record of 0.25 shots per meeting, most of which didn't usually take place between mixed events.)

Those who were standing sat back down. The rest of the audience laughed nervously. 

The Sheriff emerged from behind the stand, adjusting her hat. "...Moving on. Do we have any local proposals?" 

An envelope was passed down to her hand-to-hand along the long table. 

The Sheriff weighed it in her hand. "Just the one? It better not be me again." She ripped open the wax seal and squinted at the piece of paper. "Sir Alistair Hammerlock? Gamekeeper, appointed his position within the Department of Heritage and Oversight for the United Sovereign Estate. A member of a foreign conglomerate, currently holding employee status and other ties to the Family allows for the three factors required to trigger clause 11.7.5 Identifying candidates of unique interest."

The audience whispered atwixt themselves. Wainwright elbowed his father, who raised his palms up in open confusion. Miss Dontrecki had to brace herself to not slap her palm against her forehead. A few seats away, Mr. Turning of Propaganda, a known flannel-mouthed four-flusher beamed and adjusted his suit as if hiding a hard-on. The cryptid-esque figure of Surveillance loomed behind him and shifted like a restless guard dog. Miss Dontrecki narrowed her eyes at the couple, the usual suspects.  

The Sheriff hummed in thought. "A quizzical proposal indeed. I call for whomever has submitted this here proposal to come forth before the council."

There was a small commotion among the back row, and Beatrice stepped forward. In her simple leathers and unmarked apprentice's apron, she stood out like a grey hatchling among the burgundy and deep oak backdrop of the Lodge. 

"Our little sister, would you please elaborate on what you mean by 'other ties to the Family?'

Before Beatrice could open her mouth she was interrupted by the head of Ritual Sustainability, a geriatric old man who twitched and wheezed into lucidity. "Here here! The girl's got no need to explain herself. It's tradition. After the great armada fell from the sk-." 

Miss Dontrecki felt her annoyance rising at the audacity of the talking corpse. There were rules, goodamit. "And they all gathered 'round the burnin' peat and made jerky out of each other. Yes yes we all fuckin' know. I still ain't letting that happen on MY watch to MY employees who ain't done nothing wrong. He ain't even been here for a week." 

Next to her, Logistics snorted, making their shared stool wobble. "With all due respect ma'am, this is far above your bend. Being a glorified house minder an' all." 

"And you're just a glorified errand girl." 

The crowd 'oooh'd' at the exchange. 

General Senior David set his fist down on the table so hard the joints creaked. Everyone went to dive for their drinks. Beatrice jumped back, regret painting her face. "Visitors are off limits."

Sustainability huffed but kept quiet (or perhaps he had fallen back to sleep, or died having fulfilled his one purpose). His grand-niece, Environmental Negligence, patted him on the shoulder in comfort.  "Our brother is correct. Considering the last gun show 'incident' we should be keeping it within the Family. There are more than enough underachievers in our ranks and stinkin' traitors we can clear out the Anvil." 

"Here here!" The crowd jeered.

"The gamekeeper is technically eligible." The Lodge went silent, and all eyes turned back to Beatrice, who in turn faced the crowd, now even less sure than before. "His sister was an honorary member of the Stock! "She blurted out, voice cracking, stopping for a needlessly dramatic pause. "Before she deserted!"

It was time for the rest of the council to swap gestures of confusion. Miss Dontrecki didn’t miss the fact that she had never met a Hammerlock at the lodge, albeit, the name did strike a cord of familiarity since Sir Hammerlock was put in her care.  

It was Wainwright Jakobs who said what everyone was thinking. “Now, I ain’t calling you a liar but I find myself balled up and therefore here inclined to ask you to please explain; How in the seven worlds would you know ‘bout something as specific as the man’s sister?”

“The records speak true, I assure you mister. And I ain’t allowed to tell you where I gots it from.” Beatrice’s reply was innocent as if she wasn’t talking to a man that could cleave her body in half with shells. 

Human Resources immediately raised their arm."According to clause 17.7, deserters and their immediate family are eligible for selection!" 

Surveillance leaned over and whispered something in Mr. Turning's ear. The man nodded back in turn. "That is true." He announced.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Order gasped, and numerous conversations sprang forth. An approving murmur went through the room. 

"Did she submit a desertion request form?" Blessed Quality Assurance always came to the rescue. The director in question winked over the long table; despite three of her own workers being up in this year's selection, she was still playing fair. Shame that the one voice of reason hardly ever visited the Estate after Montgomery had banned internal audits. Miss Dontrecki released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

The crowd grew in volume. Wordlessly, Wainwright Jakobs reached for the handle of his shotgun, and it went quiet again.

The Lodge's archivist, who had been quietly sitting in the corner, sprang into action. The crowd waited with bated breath as he typed away at a holographic screen for a moment and addressed the crowd, sweat dripping down his brow.

"...no. Miss Hammerlock is still an honorary member of the Order of Founding Stock and its Ladies Lodge. Clause 17.7 is nonapplicable." 

Half of the Lodge groaned in disappointment, the other half cheered. Someone clapped.

Montgomery Jakobs rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Listen. Sir Hammerlock is off-limits unless I say so. Besides, his sudden disappearance during the annual hunt would be hard to swallow for my guests." Only the Estate staff, having actually met Sir Hammerlock, chuckled at the pun. 

Montgomery turned to Beatrice, his voice was crooning and soft, a kind of voice used to make his underlings feel like they had done nothing wrong. "I'm sure you understand, little lady. I do, however, appreciate your initiative. You have played within the rules, and if that ain't admirable, I don't know what is. A bang-up job if you ask me! You will make a fine member of the family one day, but for the time being you outta listen to your elders." 

The rest of the council made some grunts of approval.

Beatrice turned the color of the drapes, and Miss Dontrerki prayed that the girl wouldn't embarrass her any further. It was bad enough having your employees trying to eliminate each other. It wouldn't be the case as she pointedly turned on her heel and made a show of rushing out between the pews, slamming the heavy entrance door behind her.

Montgomery watched her go with an easy smile. "Oh, sweet summer child, what wouldn't I give to be that young again." 

Miss Dontrecki got up from the table. "I'll go get her."

Thankfully, teenagers were predictable, and Beatrice wasn't hard to find. Miss Dontrecki found her weeping under an old willow just around the corner from the Lodge. Hidden enough to not cause a scene but visible enough to be found. 

She hovered awkwardly for a few moments, not sure how to begin, she was bad with kids and Beatrice had never been an agreeable child. 

A lesser woman would have been angry at the theatrics, but in the end, Miss Dontrecki had to lead by example. The dog clicker would not be of much help here. She handed Beatrice a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "You doing alright there, kid?" 

The girl shrank away, and the earlier bravado was gone. "Quit bein' all nice to me. I know you're angry."

"Not angry, just disappointed, which to you should be a whole goddamn worse. But you are still young and real stupid, and I'm worried about you." Miss Dontrecki reached out to brush some dirt off the bottom seam of her apron and sat beside the girl. "What was that back there? And in front of Ol' Monty, of all people, right after he handpicked that gamekeep himself. You know how trigger-happy he gets at these things. Have you got a death wish, girl?"

Beatrice shrugged, playing with one of her frayed cuffs. "I dunno. Maybe I wanna die."

"'C'omon. I know you don't mean a lick of that nonsense." Silence stretched around them in the night. Something somewhere screeched. Miss Dontrecki got that feeling again, like back in the lodge, as if something was on the cusp of dawning. "You know I won't be angry if you let me in on who told you ‘bout all that sister business?"

"I told you all I can't say.". 

Beatrice hugged her knees close to her chest. Miss Dontrecki chose to not push further until they got back to the safety of the Estate. Anyone, including the mystery party, could be listening, and Jakobs had no shortage of praying ears to hear your secrets and willing hands to wrap around your neck. "That's alright, you can tell me when you're ready. Then maybe tell me why? I thought you liked Sir Hammerlock." 

"They said I'll get to go see the underground lawns." 

The Head of House wasn't surprised by the revelation. All of Beatrice's schemes, cultivated by the conspiracy theories of her fellow employees and the echonet, always revolved around two subjects: her parents' legacy and the underground lawns.

 "You can't believe everything that people tell you. And you will get to see the basement next year and the underground lawns if you can stomach it"

“He’s only been here a week. You said it yourself. No one would miss ‘im.”

 "And how do you know that? You know well that upper management’s always trying to scoop ones like you into trouble. This company’s full of chicanery. Next year, scamp." 

"I don't want to wait another year." Beatrice paused for a second, digging her boot into the ground. "I'm sorry I tried to get Sir Hammerlock picked for the company picnic. I know you don't mind him. I actually don’t mind him ary."

Miss Dontrecki found herself smiling at the apology despite how terrible it was. "It's fine. It was a mighty ambitious move on your part. You remind me of myself when I was your age." She reached for her cigarette case despite not really wanting to smoke one. It was just something to do. "You know hurting him won't get your parents back. I don't know what his sister did exactly, but the past needs to be left in the past. If you don’t lead to his demise maybe he has a chance of survival, unlike the last one." 

"I know the beast got 'im."

Miss Dontrecki had to swallow back the bitter emotion. "Yes, that it did." She thought back to the blood. There was so much of it. In her past, Miss Dontrecki had seen death, on Eden 6 it was everywhere. There had been corpses of people who had starved, or eaten by nature, stung to death, or shot. No one could have ever prepared her for finding the old gamekeeper. 

It was the face that got her the most - she never knew that a human body could be reduced to such a state. That skin could stretch and twist like that, or that a skull could collapse like a plastic doll's head and that eyes looked as large as boiled eggwhites when popped. He had been pulverised, as if by sheer rage. And there was something there, that malicious heavy evil that scorched the earth. The message was obvious: whatever that thing was, it fucking hated them. 

He had been wearing the gloves she had brought him, because he kept losing his own. They were made of fine tawny leather that hadn’t had a chance to soften and crack and instead creaked every time he lifted a finger. He used to joke that it scared the animals away. 

That same day Montgomery had her carted off, kicking and screaming, to a retreat for loyal employees who had seen too much but were too valuable for the Grog Pit. It was the only time in her life she had taken her annual leave. There she got to go fishing, and on nature walks and group therapy sessions, all the pleasant distractions humans needed to forget.

She supposed Sir Hammerlock wouldn't get so thoroughly crushed on account of him not being as…malleable. He was older, and more cautious than the last gamekeep. Surely, with more experience, he would have never taken the risk of wandering into the monsoon rains on his lonesome. 

Beatrice shifted beside her. "It wasn't your fault." 

"I know." It was what the girl was supposed to hear. Miss Dontrecki wasn't sure who she cast the blame on or if she even had a say in who was to blame. The old gamekeeper couldn't. It was evident that he had stumbled across something he was not supposed to see, whether it was wild or manmade, it got him.

Both of them looked up at the sky. The Satellite glowed over their heads. "Don't you think its weird that all this stuff is happening at the same time? It appeared the exact same date that mom and dad went away." 

Miss Dontrecki didn't know if she was talking about the Satellite, the Beast, Sir Hammerlock, or some combination of all three. All were equally strange. She decided to have that cigarette after all. "I would sure be lying if I said I didn't."

"Where do you think they all went?"

Miss Dontrecki bumped their shoulders together, only half-registering the question. A stock of unfinished business ran through her mind, jogged by the most recent events.

Let Beatrice keep her secrets for now. 

Root out her new enemy.

Think of a suitable punishment for the girl.
Keep Sir Hammerlock safe. Someone had him in their sights. 

Prepare supplies for the rain season.

Prepare the Estate for the celebration.

Arrange for decor. 

Arrange the menu.

Take Stock of emergency supplies. 

Keep the Estate and Manor safe, dry, and death-free. That and more, much more, a list that was never-ending. Never mind the blasted Satellite, a herald of bad medicine that was turning out to be. The Beast howled in the distance. It sounded far away. It was getting late and Miss Dontrecki realised she hadn't answered Beatrice's question. "No idea. Somewhere nice, hopefully." 

Chapter Text

A frustrating week of setting up snares and perimeter check trackers had passed before Alistair’s faith had started to waver. He had not found the grog tracks again; true to Montgomery’s words, it was indeed evasive. It did, however, provide clues to its presence, such as turned-over refuse containers, which made the Manor’s cook weary of going outside and urine-marked statues as if mocking him.

The first three days brought along nothing but saurian shit. Alistair decided that hopping in a technical and tracing the perimeter of the Estate in search of a possible breach would be the best course of action. The work was hard; each part of the perimeter was dense with thick mud and overgrown to the point he refuted his earlier promise not to get a machete involved. Uncle, who headed out with him every morning, would watch on from the canopy above when he was not attending his own monkey business. 

Alistair spent late nights flicking through the gamekeepers’ compendium, struggling to find any clues to explain the animal’s strange behaviour. There were hundreds of dozens of entries on differing saurian species and tens of dozens on grogs. Some were ridiculously outdated, claiming that some saurians could fart fire and teleport 10 feet in every direction.

All other entries told him something he already knew: grogs were social, meek, diurnal creatures, not lone nocturnal wanderers with an acquired taste for garbage.

Alistair did find a few curious entries by the late Mr. Finny, the last gamekeeper. His final entry, ‘Large animal - Unidentified,’ wasn’t encouraging. 

’Tis not pain I fear and death it be not. A unique death it will be, by the hand of this wretched animal. 
A foolish venture this was, to help such a kind family. Shame of failing them is what I fear. Their misplaced kindness at tasking me with this quarry hangs over their heads in an effigy of benevolent hubris. 
Save me the naysayers, you can’t hide from it, them or lie to yourself. 
It cries in the night with such sorrow, you may close your eyes, put your hands over your ears in denial but I can't. Be it wishing for us to perish or does it yarn to be killed? 
Trust in growing my own knowledge in hopes of seeking its tracks has helped nobody. 
Who’s crimes have wronged nature so that it calls out in anguish of it’s existence? I spare little of my wits I have. Wronged by it, but brave in heart and soul, I must finish my watch. The seed sprouted against its will in a foreign land, eyes forever fixed on the endless horizon. 
The notion seems ridiculous, a small town hick fighting unknown forces. Come my passing, read my first words and then my last.

Alistair was positive he misconstrued the point of the entry. It wasn’t scholarly or informational in any way whatsoever. It was almost poetic, incorporating the Jakobs family motto of all things. It was indubitable that the man must have known his demise was fast approaching.

The man’s first entry didn’t provide any answers. It was about blood slugs and different variations of salt deposits he used to be rid of them. Alistair was sure there was a meaning behind the words. He preferred hands-on puzzles to literary ones, and opted to leave it for later deconstruction.

The Beast wailed every night. Alistair tried to stay awake until it did so, for, true to the poem, its song sent him into spiraling nightmares and uneasy sleep. 

He hadn’t spoken to Miss Dontrecki about the Beast or the gamekeeper’s disappearance; a perfect time hadn’t come yet. The neurotic woman had so far been eschewing one-on-one interactions other than requesting daily updates on his progress.

It was the dawn of the seventh day Alistair stumbled across something of interest whilst chopping his way along the southernmost border. It was a giant broken branch which had seemingly fallen over the Estate’s forcefield perimeter, sixty feet long and six feet wide. Its bulk created a perfect natural bridge connecting the Estate and the jungle beyond. 

Sweaty and miserable as he was, Alistair’s spirits lifted at the sight. Finally, a clue to the grog problem. Sheathing his machete, he approached the tip of the gnarled wood. Uncle swung down lower from the canopy above, chattering quietly.

The saurian tracks here were thick and plentiful, trodden into the mud along with broken twigs and feces, alluding to a larger population than anticipated. All of a different species, much to Alistair’s surprise.

Before heading out further, Alistair pulled out his echo to send a message to the house staff chat, appropriately named ‘Monty’s lil Darlings.’ 

Sir Hammerlock >Salutations! It appears I find myself in a preoccupied state at this time being. Please abstain from locating my whereabouts, for as you know, the hunting game can be dangerous, and I do not wish to put any of you in danger. Henceforth, I may be late for lunch. However, this does not in any way implore that my tardiness is intentional. On the mischance if you are tempted to contact me, I implore you to send a courteous DM instead. Many thanks - Sir Hammerlock

HOH - k

Alistair checked the time. He had approximately five hours until lunch.

He had never been a man decisively keen to play by the rules. He had no issues managing his own life while residing on Pandora, but life at the Jakobs Estate was different.

There were rules, social rules, and The Rules, of course. Scheduled meal times were hard to get used to, and the company of the Jakobs Estate staff even more so. While Alistair could handle small talk and gossip in measured increments, the extent of social interaction had left him more drained than the daily physical demands of his job. 

His attempts to avoid the lunches had started to result in being chased down with a protein shake and a friendly but stern warning from various staff members. 

Come the weekend Alistair was made aware of the mandatory film night, and the consecutive family game night. In his recollection, if they were anything like his family’s own, he wasn’t most keen to participate. Alas, he had never considered himself an introvert but in these higher leagues he had to admit he was not a strong player. 

Regardless of his newfound aversion, Alistair hadn’t dared to avoid Montgomery’s suppers. The guests would change each night, each with a different story or agenda. There had been suppliers, higher executives, and government leaders. Wainwright was the only grounding constant, always providing a buffer between Alistair and his father’s outrageous pomp. Or perhaps Alistair was the buffer. The intricacies of socio-political gatherings frequently eluded him from birth. Alistair started to feel like the man in question was attending the dinners out of a form of duty, the purpose of which was still unknown to him. 

It wasn’t all bad, exactly. After years of his mostly lonely survival on Pandora, it was an unexpected culture shock. Here, friendly faces outnumbered the suspicious ones. Even at Moxxi’s Place, a daily shooting was considered a quiet day.

Mulling over the odds of unanticipated shootings at the Jakobs Estate, Alistair readied his rifle and approached the sloping branch. The hollow beneath it made a perfect place for a potentially dangerous reptilian beast to hide in. His foot noisily crushed an unidentified beer can, and the other crumpled a Mark n’ Reese’s wrapper. The crackle cut through the surrounding ambiance, betraying his location.

“Ah, bugger.”

A deep rumble imitated from beneath the log as if on cue, and an emancipated saurian stumbled into the light. It was definitely not a grog but a medium-sized reaver, standing as tall as Alistair at its full height. Its colorful scales were dulled and chipped in places, and its eyes rolled in primal panic.

Uncle screeched from the canopy. It only had one chance of escape. They both knew it.

“Shoo.” Feeling stupid, he fired a shot into the sky above. Not a great idea, considering the Beast was injured and likely to lash out. Still, the best precaution Alistair could take was to scare it back over the log.

The reaver hissed and stumbled back over its claws. It was indeed injured. Its back leg was a mess of torn flesh with scaly skin hanging off it in ribbons. It briefly glanced back at the perimeter breach and back at Alistair as if considering its options. Finally, it dug its good foot into the ground and bared its teeth with no intention of moving. Whatever was on the other side of the perimeter wasn’t worth the chance. 

Alistair didn’t need to think twice. He readied his rifle, aimed in between the eyes, and pulled the trigger. The poor thing crumbled to the ground, put it out of its misery. There was no thrill in killing a thing that was already dead.

He approached the corpse. Upon closer inspection, it was definitely the saurian that had been bothering the Estate staff. The toes of its right foot were twisted from misuse, matching the tracks he had found earlier. It must have survived for a while with its injury; the flesh of the wound was festering with the rainbow hues of infection. He would have to inspect it later. 

The real mystery was what had injured it. Undoubtedly, a larger predator had injured it, but which one? Eden 6 was teaming with predators. The wound was a series of lacerations; there were no puncture wounds from teeth in sight.

Alistair considered the additional tracks around the lowest end of the log. Possibly tens of saurians appeared to have entered the Estate. Where had they gone? 

Having safely stashed the reaver away in the technical, Alistair returned intending to traverse the log. Uncle watched him from a drooping vine. “Wa.” He warned. 

“Do not fret friend, I’m only going in for a peek.”

The other side of the perimeter was very similar to the inside: dense, overgrown, and moist. 

The furthest end of the bridge revealed a disturbing discovery. The wood had not been broken; it had been hacked to pieces, effectively felling the branch. 

Alistair knelt over and ran his fingers along the deep gauges in the wood. Something heavy with a single tapered edge produced the cuts, similar in width and length to those on the downed reaver. 

More food wrappers littered dirt around it. Bait.

It wasn’t a lucky incident. It was a deliberate choke point. The reaver at the Estate must have been a lucky refugee until he had gotten to it.

Whatever animals visited the Estate would be scared back over the perimeter to the predator lurking on the other side. A trodden-out space at the base of the trunk confirmed Alistair’s suspicions. A fresh sign of a struggle, uprooted plants, and a few drops of blood. A disturbed trail led into the thick undergrowth, where something large had been dragged.  

Whatever his mystery quarry was, it was more than an opportunistic hunter. For the first time, Alistair thought back to the possibility that it might not be an animal he was tracking.

Uncle followed him reluctantly as Alistair traced the trail into the untamed jungle. 

A mile in, the roots started warping over their heads, and smaller plants grew. Trees on trees and trees again—the true Eden-6. The trail remained on the ground, wrapping around the trunk of a giant tree, where it suddenly stopped.

If he had not been paying attention, Alistair would have never distinguished the dead spaceship from the rest of the gargantuan flora surrounding it. Its exoskeleton had since been riddled with roots and blanketed with leaves ten times its size. 

The tracks lead straight up to a doorway in the hull, its hinges long since rusted away. 

Inside, between mossy control panels and a disturbed ratch nest, the trail led to a hatch set into the ground. Unlike everything else within the hull, it was not covered in moss, twigs, or dirt. It had recently been in use. When Alistair nudged it with the tip of his rifle, it swung straight open, revealing rusting steps leading into the darkness below. 

Turning on his rifle’s scope flashlight, Alistair could just about see the bottom. Checking that the stairs supported his footing, he swallowed the creeping dread and slowly ascended down. With every step, he stopped to listen for any movement but was met with nothing but silence. 

The stairs led to the bottom layer of the ship, a narrow corridor where the walls were lined with hatch doors still labeled with their space-era uses in Jakobs on-brand cursive.

The ground was covered with small bones and more food wrappers. The trail continued here, splitting down the center and snaking off to the different doors.  The air smelt stagnant and still. 

Something or someone may have once lived here or perhaps only used the dead hull to pass through toward the lower levels. 

Alistair tried a door labeled ‘laundry,’ which opened to a step ladder leading further into the bowels of the ship. Unfortunately, he had not brought a flashlight powerful enough to explore further (not that he actually wanted to, at that moment), but he recalled having one left back on his ship. His current field of view only extended a few steps below until inky darkness took hold.

The other doors lead to similar tunnels, all equally dark and inaccessible. Some weren’t lined with steel but Eden-6’s wet earth, perhaps having been hollowed out after the ship had crashed. Everyone knew about the fabled Jakobs armada. As Alistair explored, he slowly became aware of something else. 

It was the murmur of conversation, like a group at a gathering. A normally mundane noise. Alistair felt cold sweat run down his back.

“Hello?” 

The conversation didn’t falter, indicating he had not been heard. Alistair crept back the way he came, mindful of the broken twigs and bones. At each door, he stopped to listen, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. 

Towards the end of the tunnel, he came across the realization that the sound was not coming from within the ship but from up above, distorted noises bouncing from the metal walls of the hull. 

Alistair manned himself with courage he didn’t have before making his way back up to the surface with more urgency. The last thing he wanted to be was to be cornered by swamp folk in close quarters.

He poked his head outside the hatch, he briefly paused to eavesdrop and instantly wished he hadn’t. 

There was nothing to eavesdrop on. It was just babble—looping babble. Sounds that sounded like words, words that sounded like sounds. Two chuckles. An exclamation and repeat. 

Whatever was making the noise had successfully lured him outside. 

Alistair breathed out to stay calm and readied his rifle, wishing he had brought the one Wainwright had given him instead. 

He had been tricked. Never the matter, the outer hull was still concealing his position, and Alistair was not set on perishing today. Using the various cockpit contents as cover he made his way to the entrance where he pressed his back against the wall. 

Leaning around the corner, he saw nothing but blinding daylight and the forest, just as he had left it. As if by the click of a switch, the babble instantly stopped, uncovering the matching silence of the jungle. Deadly silent, as if every living thing was holding its breath. In the back of his head, Alistair knew what it meant.

Uncle was sitting right in front of the exit, deathly still. Alistair stepped out into the open to meet him. The jabber had never ventured into his personal space before more less touched the ground. It was nothing short of unnerving. 

“Hello, friend. Did you hear that?”

Uncle didn’t acknowledge him. The jabber’s fur stood on end as if struck by lightning, ears drawn back, the pupils of his feline eyes thread thin and fixed somewhere behind the ship’s entrance.

Alistair turned and saw nothing. The forest looked like, well, a forest. If it wasn’t for the creeping feeling of unease, he would have assumed he had hallucinated the whole thing. 

“Its alright chap, what has you so worked up?”

Uncle barked suddenly, making Alistair jump. He pulled at his pant leg, pointing back the way they came. When Alistair didn’t move right away, he grabbed the barrel of his rifle.  

“Uncle!”

There was no use fighting with a grown jabber. Uncle effortlessly tore the rifle out of Alistair’s hands and scaled up the bark of the nearest root. 

“What in the blinding’s sake is wrong with you?” 

Uncle growled at him. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he cast one last look at the ship and darted off into the woods.

“Give that back, I say!”

Giving chase was useless. Alistair didn’t have a tail to swing from or immensely muscled arms to keep himself aloft in the canopy. He watched the jabber disappear into the trees.

Uncle had made a valid point. He needed to leave. Now. Alistair opted to return with more firepower and turned to march back to the technical. 

The first step in a new sound caught his attention. A clicker of the trail cam. 

Such sound would have been normal. But it wasn't, because the last trail cam he installed was more than two miles north.

He slowed down, trying to gauge where the noise was coming from.

Click. Right behind him. 

Every instinct, every atom in his body, told him not to turn around.  

He picked up his stride, walking faster now. He could feel something moving behind him in the shift of the air. He didn’t know why he wasn’t running. 

It was closer now - right behind him. He could feel its eyes on the back of his head.

“H-el-el-o.” 

Alistair’s blood ran cold. It was not a sound a human could make, let alone an animal. It was a flat, mechanical drone, like a played-back recording. It was unnatural.  So very, outstandingly wrong. 

He bolted, tearing through the woods at full pelter before his mind had a chance to catch up with him. His limbs tangled on vines and snagged on thorns. He didn’t stop running.

Back down the trail, over the perimeter breach, and into his technical. Uncle was already waiting for him, flattened against the passenger seat, trying to look small. Alistair barely acknowledged him; he felt small, too.

Alistair didn’t remember the drive back to the gamekeepers' hut until it was around the corner. He cursed to himself, damning his earlier bout of uncharacteristic self-preservation. Uncle didn’t appear much better for wear, stinking off piss and fear. 

Alistair found himself laughing. It sounded like a squeaky animal to his ears. “I’m afraid we both got spooked back there. Perhaps a bit too much for one day? What do you say?”

Uncle shook his head, hiding his face in his hands. “Eek.”

“I won’t tell nobody if you don’t.”

The jabber lifted his face, scrunched his nose at Alistair, and jumped out the window. 

Alistair was hoping to recuperate in the relative peace of the gamekeeper's cottage for a jiffy before reporting the perimeter breach. Maybe brew a nice cup of tea from one of the few teabags he had carefully rationed away among his belongings. 

Too bad that Wainwright Jakobs himself had set up camp on the front porch, he waved as Alistair approached. He was wearing a different suit today, Alistair hadn't seen him wear the same item twice. This one was tan with a periwinkle ascot. 

He whistled appreciatively as Alistair dragged the dead reaver out of the boot of the technical. “That's quite the catch. Father’s going to make you stuff it and stick it in his study, you know.” 

Something about Alistair’s tight smile must have given something away. “Are you alright?”

”Yes, just a tad shaken is all.”

Wainwright motioned to the reaver. “By a little ankle-biter like that?” 

Alistair knew Wainwright was trying to cheer him up. He felt uncharacteristically dull, like the humor had left him. A kill never brought him satisfaction once he caught the scent of something greater around the corner.

“I know that look.” Wainwright leaned over the porch banister. “It rarely comes out in the day, you know. Did you see it?” He asked tentatively. 

They both knew what he was asking about.

Alistair shook his head and joined Wainwright on the porch, dragging the reaver along to the back of the cottage. “No, I just heard it. Not the best of jollies, really.”

Wainwright shadowed him as he deposited the corpse on a great wooden table next to the back entrance to the larder. The wood cracked under the animal’s dead weight. 

Unsheathing his hunting knife, Alistair began skinning the corpse in short careful motions. Meanwhile, he recounted his adventure to Wainwright, including his encounter with the reaver, the late gamekeeper's queer entry and the Estate perimeter breach he had found.

The run-in with the Beast was hard to explain, but he tried his best anyway. Tripping over his words. It was easier to talk with his hands busy with something familiar.

Wainwright listened from a good distance away, occasionally recoiling at the gore once Alistair ripped the hide off like a wet shirt. Finally, came the head, skinned and de-fanged for later preservation. Alistair left it hanging by a meat hook to dry off its viscous blood, attracting a horde of hungry insects.

At that point, he had run out of words to say but didn’t mind the company. After his time in the wilderness, Wainwright was a welcome reminder of honest human civilization. Alistair supposed the man was feral in his own way, unbound by any rules other than his own. It made his attention special.

When Alistair was done scrubbing his arms up to the elbows by the outside tap, Wainwright reached into the lapels of his fancy jacket and pulled out a flask. Alistair accepted it wordlessly, his organic hand still shaking as he fumbled with the top. 

Wainwright took it back and opened it for him with slow diligence. “I suggest you make a report to the Head of House and take the rest of the day off.” He said, suddenly serious. 

The whiskey tasted like paint thinner. Alistair took another swing of it anyway.

“I’m sure Miss Dontrecki would not be too happy about that.”

“Why? It’s the weekend.”

Alistair checked the echo display on the wall. Wainwright was right. It was a Sunday. He was exhausted.

“The kill still requires cleaning.” Alistair handed the flask back. 

“We can stick it in the cryo chamber.”  Wainwright didn’t appear perturbed by his dour mood. “I’m sure the kitchen wouldn’t mind. Fresh meat and all that.”

“You want to eat that? It's diseased!” 

“On the contrary, we are going to eat it. We gotta make do with what we get. You seemed to enjoy raveger consommé the night before.”

Alistair surprised himself by feeling nauseous at the thought. Then again, he never questioned where any food served had originated from. After ingesting copious unlabelled cans on Pandora, he wrongly assumed he was done with the mystery meat lottery. He didn’t have the heart to tell Wainwright that a sickly reaver would never be allowed within the dining room.

“I appreciate the sentiment of a free afternoon, but I would be much more useful if I didn’t dally around.” 

“I’m sure I can make ‘dallying’ worth your while.” Wainwright took a pull from the flask. Alistair didn’t miss how his lips lingered over the lip. He didn’t count himself lucky enough to believe the gesture was intentional.  

“Help you out with this Beast business, I mean. How about I take you to the archives? I'm already awfully overdue in delivering on that promise.”

The archives. Alistair had almost completely forgotten, preoccupied with the saurian hunt as he was. “Some additional resources could be useful. Are you sure I am not taking up your time?”

Wainwright gave him one of his rare half-smiles. “I just happen to have a day off. It happens sometimes.”

“Ah.” Alistair couldn’t help but ask. “Is that why you were waiting for me?”

“No, the old man sent me. Wants you in his office after lunch.”

“Oh.” 

“...But…” Wainwright span around on his heel. “...I was still planning on visiting the family lodge. The invitation is still open if you’d be so interested.”

The concept of a trip was delightful.“That would be an honor, thank you.”

Wainwright craned his neck behind him and stepped closer. “It’s sort of a covert affair.” he whispered.

Alistair wasn’t sure if he should be whispering too. “So you’ve said. I must ask, why the secrecy?”

“It's a personal project.” Wainwright tipped his chin up at the sky. “Some things need investigating.”

Alistair followed his gaze as if there would be something else in the sky of equal interest to the Satellite. “Do I have to bring anything?”

“Just yourself, and your rifle. We leave in two days. Four AM front of the main front porch. I expect you to make it, as a late riser myself it shall be a...challenge.”

“I must say I am intrigued.”

“Glad to hear it.” Wainwright held a hand out to shake but hesitated, probably noticing the brain remnants under Alistair’s fingernails. “It’s a deal. I’ll catch you later. Enjoy the rest of your day off.” 

He sauntered off with an aura of satisfied confidence. 

Alistair headed inside to think and scrub off the morning’s filth, after which he lounged aimlessly on the couch. Now that he was finally alone he found himself wishing that Wainwright had hung around for longer. After the previous events it had been nice to talk to somebody. 

He checked his echo to find twenty missed calls from Aurelia. His new record. 

The notifications were swiftly deleted. He wasn’t that desperate for conversation. Besides, it had only been a week. There probably wasn't a good reason to why she was pestering him.

He typed up a short report to ‘Monty’s Lil’ darlings.’ The message received a few thumbs up, and a looping animation of a gyrating fat gentleman sat upon a turret. 

An additional ping indicated a personal message from Miss Dontrecki.

HOH >Nice work cowboy. Mr. Jakobs called. You lil Slacker :) I’ll see you later. Eat your lunch.

Alistair assumed she was talking about Wainwright. He found his lunch on the coffee table. He wasn’t really hungry. It was time for a quick brain-numbing game of Champions of Swords and Sorcery. It had proven a worthy distraction from the nightly howling of the Beast.

While Alistair's turn-based strategy prowess had not improved, he enjoyed cathartic pleasure in milking the ire of more experienced players. 

Such was the case now. His armies almost managed to take an enemy castle, yet once again, a superior opponent outsmarted him. He also couldn’t find it in himself to actually try. An assembly of angry messages was already waiting for him as the match ended. The first one was simple:

Fuck, you’re terrible. I sincerely wish you got picked for the company picnic.

Now, what in the hell did that mean?

Having lost interest in the game, Alistair scarfed down his lunch and headed out to see Montgomery Jakobs.

On the way there he came across the Jakobs’ Chief Technical Officer - Mr. Kassidy, lying face-up in the grass. Alistair had met the man during the previous supper, introduced as Wainwright’s cousin and Montgomery’s nephew by some distant relation. He had come to stay for the monsoon season and its alleged festivities. 

As far as Alistair was concerned, the Jakobs Estate welcomed two types of visitor factions at constant odds with one another. There were Wainwright people, who favored Wainwright, and Montgomery people, who favored Montgomery. Alistair wasn't fond of keeping favorites but had to admit he was starting to lean to the Wainwright side.

Mr. Kassidy was also a Wainwright person with a disposition so awkward that Alistair would not have considered him to be of Jakobs’ lineage if not for the striking physical resemblance. The young man had it all as if painted by the same color palette: Wainwright’s hazel eyes, Montgomery’s auburn hair, and glorious whiskers, of course. 

“Do you think you’re here, right now, for a reason?” He asked wistfully as Alistair wandered past. 

It was unclear if the man was speaking to him. “Pardon?” 

Mr. Kassidy’s pupils were wide and wet like pebbles. Alistair recalled his tendency to ‘microdose’ during times of deep rumination. “Just odd, is all. First that thang, now you.” He pointed up at the sky, where the satellite glowed through the sparse clouds like a second sun. “It’s getting closer, you know. Every day.” He pointed at Alistair. “And you’re getting closer. Every day. Coincidence?”

Alistair was in no mood to entertain executives stewed on nondescript narcotics. “I do not believe in destiny.”

There was a drawn-out pause where Mr Kassidy’s pupils floated in opposite directions. Alistair debated calling in an emergency until the man finally spoke. “Neider am I.” And giggled, curling in on himself. 

Alistair left him to it. 

Montgomery’s office was in his ‘den’ which was the most subterranean section of the house Alistair had been to so far. The door wasn’t wooden, but a sliding triple-layered airlock akin to those of the ship Alistair found in the woods. 

It opened with a woosh of stagnant basement air to reveal an entirely wood-paneled office. If he were a child, Alistiar would have imagined an office like this belonging to a titular ‘big businessman.’ Everything was oversized, designed to make whoever visited feel small. Mounted heads of stuffed animals hung high on the walls, along with bookcases and a liquor cabinet that touched the tall ceiling.

Miss Dontrecki was sitting in the front seat of the grandest office desk Alistair had ever seen, pouring over a game of dominoes. Behind the desk, Montgomery spun around in what could only be described as a throne.

The CEO was currently taking a call, echo in one hand while the other fiddled with a puzzle piece. “Yes, and the children too. Do you want freedom fighters? Cuz that’s how you gets ’em.”

As Alistair entered, he motioned to a free seat. Alistair sat, exchanging a courteous nod with the Head of House. A server boy materialized out of the shadows, handing him a tall glass of ice-filled amber liquid. 

 “.. don’t disappoint me again.” The call was disconnected. Montgomery’s face brightened into a well-schooled grin. “Sir Hammerlock! Congratulations on your first assignment! I can’t wait for the regaling of your adventure.”

Alistair took a sip of the drink. It was iced tea, and it was disgustingly sweet. Unlike his usual self, he didn’t feel like regaling anybody with anything. “Thank you. I warn that it is in no way a riveting tale of any form. The animal had simply…secluded itself. A sad thing, really.” 

“Nonsense, my boy! Any enemy felled should be celebrated! Have you experience in taxidermy?” 

“Naturally. I’ve already started the process.” Alistair took another sip of the tea and then another to cover up the taste of the previous one. 

“Simply splendid! I used to dabble in it myself. One time I thought I’d bring m’wife, bless her soul, a gift after her dear cat passed away. Spent all day n’ night working on that thing. When she saw it, she screamed in fear. Another time-”

“Montgomery.” Miss Dontrecki interrupted. “We ain’t got all day.” 

“Yes, of course.” Montgomery adjusted his suit as if he was about to give a speech. “Sir Hammerlock, so far, your service has been exemplary. In truth, not all employees here come from the same sort of beneficial background as yourself, but alas, we are all family. Or strive to be. I guess what I’m trying and failing to ask you is…” He trailed off.

Miss Dontrecki placed a domino piece down with a click. “Son, I’m going to be completely frank with you. Have you pissed anyone off recently?”

“No? I would imagine I haven’t.” His shenanigans in Champions of Swords and Sorcery immediately came to mind. Alistair would rather wait for the inevitable heat death of the universe than admit that. This is why he didn’t know why he continued speaking. “I may have dabbled in a little online mischief.”

“What kind?” Montgomery leaned over the table.

 “You ain’t a diddler, are you?” Miss Dontrecki followed up.

“Olga, please don’t antagonize your employees.” 

“It’s always the nice ones you need to worry about. He can handle a bit of abuse.”

Alistair actually spluttered. “No! I’ve just had a tad of harmless fun playing a …game.”

“It checks out Monty, someone has been doing an awful job at managing the late gamekeep’s account.”

Montgomery clasped his hands together. “A man of culture, I see.”

“Has anyone you know ever visited Eden-6? A family member, perhaps?” 

“No?” Alistair felt his palms sweating. He needed another shower. “I wouldn’t think so.”

“Has my son been treating you well?” 

“Yes.”

“Anyone look at you funny?”

“No.” Alistair was inclined to say more. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Absolutely nothing of your concern, hun. Just a check-in is all it is.” Miss Dontrecki patted his leg.

“Good job lad. Unless you want to play with us you are free to go.” Montgomery dismissed him as if the interrogation had never happened.

Alistair left the office more confused than he was entering it. The secrecy of the exchange was boggling him. So were those few sips of whiskey from before. He pulled off his glove to feel less clammy and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he walked. Colored lights exploded behind his eyelids. He was so distracted he didn’t see Wainwright until he walked straight into him.

“Woah there, buckaroo!” Wainwright smelled expensive, like cologne and amber.  

Alistair shoved him away, to embarrassed to feel bad. “My sincerest apologies. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 

Wainwright held him at arm’s length. “It’s alright. You just got a gander of my ugly gob up close.”

“I find you to be very handsome, actually.” It was like his mouth had a mind of his own. “And I’m not impartial to your voice…or the smell of you eider.”

Wainwright blinked at him and burst out laughing. “A feast to the senses, am I? Well, I’m flattered.” His eyes searched Alistair’s face for something. Having found it, his smile dropped. “Did father give you something to drink?” 

“Yes.”

“Was it so sweet it had your teeth beggin’ for mercy?”

“Yes?”

Wainwright sighed. “Typical. I wouldn’t speak much for the next hour if I were you. Luckily, the archives aren't a social hub.”

The realization dawned on Alistair. “Have I been drugged?”

“Yes, and ‘troofied’ is the colloquial term. Most people never notice; in hindsight, I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Oh dear.” Alistair squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. He too, wished Wainwright hadn't said anything.

Wainwright slung an arm over his shoulders and led them back up the basement steps. “It’s a mild psychedelic, makes you more…agreeable. Father doesn’t look too kindly at ‘bullshiters’ as he calls ’em, so he had the brilliant idea that a truth serum will increase productivity by decreasing meeting times. Y’know, less bullshit, less talk. Caused a few fistfights at project reviews. Uncovered a mighty load of corporate sniffers too. It will wear off in no time, so don’t worry.”

Alistair was no longer worried.

“How do you know what it tastes like?”

“You think ‘ol Monty is going to make his son an exception? Got a first taste of it on my seventh birthday.”

The mental image of a prepubescent Wainwright being administered narcotics wasn’t a nice one. “That’s simply deplorable.”

“It is what it is.” 

Wainwright led Alistair to a service elevator and brushed his hand over a touchpad in the corner. A little green light flashed above it. 

“Your DNA should have been added to the system already. As for the library card, I’m sure we can procure you one. Hold on to something.”

Nothing could prepare Alistair for the stomach-flipping feeling of the descent before the doors slid open just as quickly as they had closed.

The archives were a library, of a sort, arranged dozens of levels up and dozens levels down which could all be seen in a glass floor in the centre. Glass-protected books and filing cabinets lined the higher levels while a humming server farm sat at the base, blowing warm dry air into the levels above. 

“Some information is too vulnerable to store on a memory drive.” Wainwright explained as they approached an oval desk in the center of the floor.

Alistair craned his neck up at the floors. The potential was endless. “You don’t say.”

 A librarian shot from her seat and stood to attention as soon as Wainwright turned in their direction.

With a few hushed words she scrambled through drawers like their life depended on it, pulling out a pen-shaped cylindrical object. “Hold out your hand.” 

As soon as Alistair held out his hand, she jabbed the pen into his palm. He felt a pinch that turned into an echo of a nemphid sting. “Well, that hurt.”

Now he had been chased in the woods, drugged, and chipped all in one day.

“It’s your library card. We have been playing around with the concept of a non-painful admission, but my great-great uncle believed knowledge should always come at a price. You now have first-level clearance.”

Inspecting the pinprick, Alistair asked. “What’s in the higher level clearances?”

“Things you ain’t allowed to access.” Said the librarian.

“Like the underground lawns?”

“You’re not allowed to ask about those.” Both Wainwright and the librarian said simultaneously. 

“Apologies, I believe I just have.”

Wainwright laughed. “Some say it’s where we cultivate our business.”

“Do you go there often?”

“I do, but mostly, I spend my time here.”

Not wanting to come off as nosy Alistair took the cryptic replies for what they were. Each company had it’s own unique way of handling corporate secrecy. Conspiracy theories aside, hitherto, Alistar had never imagined Jakobs to be so reticent in its existence. 

He had half expected to be abandoned to his own devices but that was not the case. Wainwright graciously showed him around the floor level, talking low over his shoulder as to not disturb the static hush stagnating between the endless isles. Once done, they sat across each other in an alcove, away from the few patrons milling around the place. Wainwright settled down in a worn leather chair with a novella on the subject of Eridian artifacts. Alistair busied himself by logging into the echo console. 

As promised, the holo screen lit up with a saved history of Mr.Finny, the late gamekeeper. There were hundreds of entries accessed, mostly on wildlife and meteorological anomalies on Eden 6. Alistair briefly scanned through it, spoilt for choice.

‘Courting and mating rituals of the lesser-spotted lowland ravager.’

Alistair glanced at Wainwright, who was engrossed in his book. As tempting as the title was, he didn’t want anyone to find out a detailed report on lizard copulation was the first thing he accessed.

To his further interest, not all data accessed concerned animals.

‘Full accounts of exploration expeditions - 18th Edition’ Was a self-explanatory database of most Jakobs pioneer expeditions, dating back decades. 

‘Hamsterdance -  A complete study of effects.’ A detailed essay on the use of what Alistair deduced was a chemical weapon. Too bad around eighty percent of the text was redacted.

‘An incomplete guide to social societies of the Eden System’ A thick tome of conspiracy-theory level information of alleged secret societies. Having never branded himself an anthropologist, Alistair opted to save that one for last.

An hour passed before Wainwright shifted in his chair. “You never mentioned you have a sister.” He remarked casually.

The next few seconds stretched on as Alistair weighed out an appropriate response. Of course, Wainwright would know of Aurelia and probably knew a lot more than he was letting on. 

Alistair pretended to be preoccupied with scrolling through the list of publications on Eden-6’s less-known predators. “No, I haven’t. We are not what one might consider as close.”

He didn’t feel particularly inclined to add anymore personal details. Perhaps the truth serum had already worn off. Or perhaps his contempt for Aurelia was so great even Jakobs’ interrogation pharmaceuticals couldn’t force him to talk about her, much less her scheme.

“I see. What’s her name?”

“Aurelia.”

Wainwright nodded. “Alistair and Aurelia, pretty names.”

“I’m afraid that’s where the similarities end. We don’t tend to see eye to eye on most matters.”

“I hear that the terraforming business is a profitable one.”

“I wouldn’t really know, I’m afraid. I haven’t been involved. Aurelia had always been more business-minded. I was simply a backup plan.”

“Good for you. At least one of us is free from the trappings of inheritance.” 

Alistair didn’t trust himself enough to say anything else, so he just smiled. 

They both lapsed into a comfortable silence with archives’ ambient hum for company.

They ended up staying for so long that the butler, Baldrin, appeared to ask them to retire. It was past midnight when they made their way through the Manor and back into the Estate grounds. Wainwright walked him back to the gamekeeper’s cabin. The satellite’s light guided their way. He didn’t mind the company, but it was undoubtful that the company’s heir was keeping a careful eye on him. 

Before the porch, Wainwright didn't leave. “One more thing.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Would you mind if I cast an eye at Mr. Finny’s entry? I am quite an enthusiast of a good cipher.”

Alistair couldn't say no. “Sure.”

Having The Wainwright Jakobs in the cottage was more odd than having him outside where Beast presently howled. Alistair suppressed a full-body shudder. 

Wainwright didn’t even flinch. Instead, he picked up a preserved amber piece from the mantlepiece. “I ain’t visited here since I was a little tadpole. The gamekeeper back then was a fine lady who brought her son along, so I had another boy to play with. One day I asked my ma if he could come to my birthday party. She was all manner of confused like, ‘Winny dear, you know the lady lives alone.’ Anyway, it turns out I made him up.”

“Children are bound to have bountiful imaginations.”

“They sure as hell do.”

Alistair showed Wainwright to the gamekeeper's ledger, which is still open to Mr. Finnys’ final entry. “Don’t move it. Even the faintest breeze would have it falling apart.”

“Noted.” Wainwright leaned over the compendium and ran his finger over the scribbled lines. Alistair didn’t know what to do with himself, so he peeked outside to check on the saurian skull. To his surprise, insects had almost picked it clean.

Behind him, Wainwright chuckled. “This is an easy one!”

“What is it? A riddle? A cipher?”

“It sure is, and a bad one at that. Again, Mr.Finny was shy of brains as a mole ratch is of fur.” Wainwright pointed at the passage. “The first and last words of each sentence make a message.”

Both of them took a moment of silence to read it together. By the time Alistair finished with the last word he was hyper aware of the man next to him. Was this all a mortal mistake? Aurelia had always called him gullible. 

“Well, as the case may be, Sir Hammerlock, this is indeed a curious find.” Wainwright stepped back, hands crossing over his chest. His eyes were still fixed on the message. “I always knew there was more to it, but not like this.”

Alistair sized him up by a honed instinct alone. They were of a similar height. Moreover, Wainwright was broader. Inasmuch as the implication of his upbringing suggested, he was bound to put up a fight. All corporate leaders were tough, in one way or another. Whatever happened, it was unlikely he was ever going to make it back to his ship. 

Holding the pages with delicate precision Wainwright closed the ledger. “Please don’t take it as a sore insult but I must recommend to not go after that thing alone. This ain’t a one man job, Sir Hammerlock.” 

Whatever Wainwright Jakobs was after, it wasn't his life. “You may call me Alistair.”

“This ain’t a one man job, Alistair.”

Chapter Text

Wainwright was not an early riser. Due to him and Father swapping shifts, he was either up in the afternoon or in the wee hours of the morning. The sun never set on Jakobs Corporate, and the nights were full of whispers (which never shut up). It didn’t bode well for his circadian rhythm, especially now that the nights were more reluctant to step aside to bitter cold mornings.

It, therefore, took a tremendous effort to crawl out beneath his warm covers at the crack of dawn.

Even though Wainwright knew that Father would be cloistered somewhere below ground, he still took the back corridors and the great clock lift to the back of the northern atrium. From there, it was a straight shot through the peeping wall of the music room (where his aunt Petunia was abusing the piano, as she had done every morning since arriving for the festivities) and out into the chilly, humid air of the front porch. 

Mr.Turning was waiting for him, squinting like a hamster that had been dug up from its nest by an impatient child. Wainwright felt no better. Surveillance waved from the rumbling technical. She was awake. “Sir.” She greeted, tipping her hat. Despite their shared years working together, Wainwright had never been able to convince her to go on a first-name basis. Not that anyone knew her name, anyway. 

Wainwright blinked at them blearily. A brief pang of regret at his sudden burst of ambition crossed his mind as he approached the pair. “You got any coffee?”

Mr. Turning passed him a thermal mug. The liquid inside smelled like a heart attack. “Take it as a favor, old man. You could spare some resources for the little people. Especially now that you made me drive here at the ass crack of the goddamn dawn.”

Surveillance scoffed. “Untrue. I drove. He slept the entire way here.”

“That’s more believable.” Wainwright took a sip from the mug. The coffee inside carried the faint flavor of something chemical. The taste was familiar but he couldn’t place it.

Alistair appeared from around the corner of the Manor. “Salutations!” He shouted, with far too much pep, making his way over to the technical with a skip in his step. 

Mr. Turning gave Wainwright a withering stare. “Really? Are we bringing him along? As cannon fodder, I assume?”

“Sir Hammerlock is the best choice if we want to make this ‘trip’ look, how would I say it, authentic.” Wainwright also wanted to show the hunter the lodge, but he would never admit that. Maybe find another moment alone. “So try not to cause any more trouble. He ain’t half bad.”

The short man fluttered his light eyelashes at Wainwright. “As you say, boss.” 

Wainwright didn’t need his human psychology degree to understand that Mr.Turning disagreed. And wanted everyone to know that he didn’t. He would have to let it be for now. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. 

Sir Hammerlock jogged up to the technical, slightly out of breath (more likely in excitement than from excretion). “Fine day for an expedition, ladies and gentlemen!” 

There was a beat of awkward silence as Alistair stared expectantly at them. Mr Turning turned to Wainwright, and Wainwright stared at Alistair. 

Surveillance gave a low whistle, saving them all from social demise. “Nice piece of gear you got there.”

Sir Hammerlock slung a rifle off his shoulder. It was the gun Wainwright had “gifted” to him some time ago.  “Well, my original is busted.”

“It suits you.”

“Oh, I’m uh…. Thank you.” Alistair scratched the back of his head. He looked awkward. Awkwardly-cute. For a moment, Wainwright thought that he wouldn’t mind seeing it again. But then the moment was gone. 

Instead, Wainwright watched as introductions were made. It was always amusing to see his lackeys sniff each other’s butts. For his credit, Alistair remained his easygoing self while Mr. Turning’s eyes flitted from side to side as if he was taking a 3d scan of every detail on the hunter’s person.

“Sir Hammerlock, what a pleasure to finally meet you after having heard so much. I suppose that the horrors of our swamp rock have not chased you away? It must be torture to be confined to the Estate.”

The scamp sounded like a character from a historical drama, the cheaply produced ones that Father liked to watch. Fancy seeing you here, Lord Reginald. 

“To be true, if not for my posting, I would have already explored every nook and cranny within miles of the Estate, Mr. Turning. There aren’t many things that strike fear in me these days.”

“So I have heard. It is right to say you are on the tough side, Sir Hammerlock.” Satisfied, Mr Turning stepped back. “It’s a pleasure to put a face to the name.” He said, the cryptic little shit. 

The rest of the journey went surprisingly well. Sir Hammerlock, having sat in the front, did most of the talking, firing off knowledge like he was filming a nature documentary. Surveillance sat quietly, nodding along as she steered the transport with brutal efficiency guided by god-knew-what navigation (or instinct) in her head. Wainwright tried not to feel jealous of their fast friendship (kinship? Who knew). From all the visitors at the Manor, Alistair seemed to get along with the quiet, stoic types. 

Mr. Turning was equally talkative as he tried to convince Wainwright that they should recruit at least a few doppelgangers just to be safe. Jakobs business. As they tore off the road and deeper into the jungle, he grew quiet, clutching at Wainwright’s arm as the sky disappeared behind the canopy.

Given that his upbringing was even cushier than Wainwright’s, he had been doing well up until that moment. 

The vehicle stopped at an undisclosed location, so deep in the canopy not even a breeze could be felt in the still air. Alistair jumped out in moments, tipping his hat up at the canopy above.

“Simply breathtaking! There has never been an author who had endeavoured to capture the natural beauty of Eden-6’s grand delta.” He announced, with far too much energy. 

Wainwright had read more than a novella’s worth of flowery passages about his homeworld. It’s not that he didn’t believe the man, but perhaps through fresh eyes, there was a beauty to the gnarled branches above. 

In his own experience, not all worlds were equal to the literature singing their praises. Promethea came to mind. As a boy, he had dreamed of visiting what the teen novel described as ‘an electric jungle of perpetual night, where men and women traded love for powdered ambrosia that could make the night turn to day and give you the perception to count the threads of the chromatic fabric in shop windows so expensive only a handful of souls in the galaxy could afford to feel it’s touch upon their skin.’

It sounded like the opposite of Eden-6 and its neighbouring worlds. Wainwright couldn’t sleep the night before departing to accompany his father to his first corporate event. 

The moment they landed, Father had to coax him out of their ship with the promise of leaving early. 

It was the first time Wainwright had learned of the feeling behind the definition of a ‘cold truth.’ The chromatic fabric was artificial, and its touch was coarse static in the most unpleasant way. The fantasy narcotics were nothing more than dregs of their own Eden-6 produce, the kind he would buy from the gardener’s boy at home, cut with bitter chemicals and shards of glass that made him sneeze something awful.

Both the drugs and the fabric were not only affordable, but Wainwright found he could have purchased all the existing supply on Promethea with his own pocket money. 

After receiving a stern ‘I told you so’ from Father, he had to admit that he preferred his own soft clothes and his purer entertainment back home. Not only was it disappointing, but it was disappointing in its droves, tonnes, and gallons. So much disappointment it made him sick. 

Perhaps Eden-6 would not cast Alistair the same fate. So far, it hasn’t appeared that way, with the impossible mission Father had sent him on. Each day was, in a sense, a day closer to his eventual demise or possible victory. Wainwright wasn’t sure why he wanted Alistair to win precisely, but he felt somewhat responsible for his current predicament.

Wainwright turned to current matters and attempted to appreciate the sanctity of nature. 

Surveillance somewhat wrecked the scene, stalking out like a predator in all its horrific majesty. While organic, her steps carried the faint tread of what lay below her long coat. 

As if sensing his thoughts, the woman turned and gave Wainwright a thin coworker smile. Wainwright felt the thin hairs on the back of his neck trying to rise despite the heavy precipitation in the air. “Sir.” She said, stepping aside from what initially just looked like another piece of thick shrubbery. 

The mirage glittered and fell apart, a marvel of peak Jakobs cloaking technology to reveal a rough path winding past densely packed roots.

Wainwright eyed it wearily. “I always loved walking.” 

Surveillance gave a single amused huff. “Great. Off you go.” She said, gesturing towards a pre-trodden trail. “There is a ground crew waiting for you.”

Mr.Turning gasped so hard Wainwright thought he swallowed a bug. “Are you not coming?”

“No.”

The head of propaganda shrank like a kicked puppy. His lower lip even wobbled a little. “But you said you love fieldwork.”

Surveillance didn’t bat an eye at his display. “Yes. Alone.”

She gave Wainwright a ‘say something’ look, so he cleared his throat. “The lady can make sure no one’s clocked on to where we are.”

Surveillance saluted. “Affirmative. You have fun.” She gave Sir Hammerlock one last once-over and sauntered back to the technical. 

Mr.Turning turned to her, then to Wainwright, then to her again, squelching around uncomfortably in place like a restless dog. There was a long moment where it looked like his inimitable horniness was about to win over his corporate ambition, but ultimately, he turned to follow them.

The walk wasn’t long, and the ship wasn’t hard to find. The tracks of the trail had been so worn that the foliage had been trampled into a solid mass so dense it didn’t shift under their weight.

The freighter wasn’t the biggest but still made an impressive sight sprawled in a self-made clearing. Even with the low-key operation requested, the hull was surrounded by great hulking transports and dotted with geometrical cuts and openings. Tens of dozens of people and robots scurried in and out of the hull, lugging pieces of the ship between them like ants picking apart an unattended po’boy. 

Sir Hammerlock adjusted his glasses. “Extraordinary! One would never think it would be so intact.” 

Wainwright didn’t think of it that way. It was unnatural, if anything. 

Their trio was soon joined by a small platoon of rangers or staff disguised as rangers (who knew, who cared?) who were milling about under the broken hull. They jumped up and stood to attention as soon as Wainwright approached. He nodded to them in affirmation.

Hands-on his hips, Mr. Turning looked up at him, beaming with pride. He seemed to have shaken the initial shock of the outside off a bit. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do I get a promotion?”

“Promotion to what?”

“Move me up a grade, just for the fresh shrimp.” 

Not aware of lodge-lingo, Sir Hammerlock gave them a quizzical look. He would suit the lodge, probably, with all his tales and his gung-ho attitude and all that. Men like Alistair were always popular; daring, mysterious, competently eccentric. Not to mention that mustache. That glorious mustache. He would be a hit with the gentlemen...and the ladies, once he stopped being categorized as dinner. 

Wainwright stopped himself from imagining a pampered belle fondling the gamekeeper's whiskers and turned to the current matter. “Sure thing, how do we get inside?” 

To answer his question, a ranger peeled back a tarp covering a sliced-open entrance.

The inside was a mess. The cockpit, or what remained of it, was only reachable by a series of recently set up catwalks. The connected wires swung and creaked under their feet. Inside, the floor was covered in what Wainwright could only describe as ‘gunge.’ It stank. A kind of smell carried by some secret passages back at the manor, or certain testing labs in the underground lawns.

There was no bodies, Wainwright had specifically asked them to keep the bodies. He prodded a discarded steering controller with the toe of his boot. “Where is the crew?”

“Gone.”

“Vaporised?”

Mr.Turning shrugged. “Beats me. There wasn't a log of the crew or nothin'. All undocumented. But a rig of this size must have been sporting a personnel of what?” He whistled. "A dozen of the bastards at least.  

At the far end of the room an engineer, or a sleuth, or…some other Jakobs employee was messing with a broken control panel. They pointedly waved Mr.Turing over, brandishing a pair of headphones like they were made of eridium.

“We have been able to recover some audio from the crash. Care to listen, sir?”

Mr. Turning squelched over to them, almost skipping. “Don’t mind if I do!”

Wainwright would never understand the man’s voyeuristic inclination. He supposed it had something to do with the novelty of the information. 

Either way, he still watched as his slimiest employee got to listen. Mr. Turning lifted his hands over the headphones, giddy as ever.  

Slowly, his smile dropped as seconds ticked past. Professional concern. It wasn’t a good sign. 

Wainwright felt impatient. “What is it?”

Mr. Turning’s face had grown pale, eyes defocused like he was somewhere else altogether.  It was morbidly fascinating, seeing pure horror cross over the face of someone who had people executed on a daily. 

After a few beats, Mr. Turning calmly lifted the headset, set it aside, stood up, took two steps, and promptly vomited behind the broken steering panel. 

“You ever wonder what a tin can full of certain death sounds like?” He asked once he was done. 

“What?” Wainwright didn’t know what else to say. 

A ranger reached over to grab the headset.

Mr. Turning slapped it out of their hands. “Don’t, it ain’t worth it. Keep it for my department.” He doubled over, heaving again. “They were melting.” He wheezed. “They screamed that they were melting.”

Alistair was the first to look down, lifting his boot which squelched in the muck covering the floor.  “Oh dear.” He said. 

Wainwright wanted to laugh. 

In the next moment, everyone was vacating the room in every conceivable way to avoid touching the floor: tip-toing, hopping, jumping. 

Wainwright opted for the timeless walk. His boots were already covered in the stuff anyway.

Mr. Turning was the first to speak. “I knew it was cursed! It ain’t a dang falling star, Wainwright; it ain’t right.” He hopped up on an adjoining catwalk, walking so fast the rest of the party could hardly keep up.  

Wainwright wished that Surveillance was there to wrangle him back into submission. 

“Calm yourself, man!”

“We need to gauge the whole kit, all control panels, books, port, toilet paper, anything you can. We are taking it all with us cause I ain’t spending another goddarn moment here. Good heavens, what did you drag me into?” There was a groan, and in the next moment, the catwalk cable snapped, sending Mr. Turning plummeting with a surprised squeak. Like a hamster in distress.

Alistair caught him in a flash, lifting Mr.Turning by his jacket and depositing him back on the catwalk. 

“Drag you out, morelike.”

The small man landed with feline grace and fixed his hair as if he hadn’t just narrowly avoided death. “Thanks.” He said begrudgingly, letting one of the rangers dust him off. “I suppose I owe you one.”

Alistair clapped him on the back. “Nonsense, my lad!” 

Wainwright was impressed, if not slightly lightheaded from relief. “Good one, Alistair. He knows too much to die.”

Mr. Turing was a friend, after all. But admitting that would mean he would never hear the end of it. 

Mr. Turning placed a hand over his heart, swooning. “So worried about little old me? I am truly touched, Mr. Jakobs, truly touched.”

Wainwright winked at him. 

There was another screech as a door on the far side of the ship opened, and two rangers popped out. One motioned for Wainwright to come closer, which he did more carefully than before. 

“Sir, there is something there.” She whispered when he was within distance, modulated voice crackling through the vocoder.

She was right. There was something there. A vault cargo door had blown open and scattered its contents across the ground. The two squad members stepped back to let him pass. The inside of the cargo hold was as much of a mess as the outside; crates, random foodstuffs, and non-descript parts covered the ground. The smell of rot permeated the air, and Wainwright could feel individual spores passing through his airways. He was not a fan of filth.

He scorned the lack of secured cargo and, taking a fist step forward, instantly slipped on a puddle of spilled ration packets. 

“Blast it!”

“I believe it used to be a green bean casserole.” As if Wainwright’s evident anger wasn’t coldly apparent, she added. “An instant add water version, sir.”

“Thank you for clarifying.” 

The two rangers watched as Wainwright poked around, pretending to know what he was doing. That was until he got that feeling one would get as if something was afoot. As if he was waiting for something to happen.

There was something in the room with him, specifically on the floor between a crushed can of pineapples and an inflatable mattress. What Wainwright at first mistook as a hole in the known fabric of space turned out to be a small object of an unknown number of angles. It was so dark it appeared to absorb all light around it. 

As Wainwright approached, he felt compelled to take it, so he did, examining it at point-blank range of his good eye. A misplaced shudder of excitement overtook his person for a moment; he was reminded of his childhood marble collection. It felt cool to the touch and was surprisingly heavy. The feeling was worse now, like something was dawning, a realization or understanding he didn’t know yet. 

It was like waking up from a dream. He was suddenly aware that he had been standing there, and by the crick in his neck, it felt like a while. Whipping around confirmed that he was now alone, with the shadows swaying between the crates ominously. With that, Wainwright noticed the lack of sound; it was eerie, like standing in a vacuum. Everything was becoming sharp and more defined, like they did on the cough medicine he took in his younger days. With that, he was falling for eternity. Something was there with him. Instinctively, Wainwright recognized it as the bane of every monsoon season.

“Do not be afraid.” It said.

Wainwright was afraid. How could he not be? “I don’t think I can help that.” He told it. He wasn’t sure if he opened his mouth to say that. He was still falling. 

“I am not afraid of you.” 

That statement really annoyed Wainwright for some reason. Tit for tat. “What do you want?”

“I want to go home.”

“How?” 

“Mother did it with the key. You have it now. Don’t lose it.”

“How?”

“When the gate runs aground, we can be together again.”

“Can you not, perchance, not talk in riddles? You are wasting my goddamn time.” He didn’t get an answer straight away, so just to be petty, he added. “And quit yer howling. It’s keeping everyone awake.”

The next moment, Wainwright opened his eyes. By the smell of it, he was back outside, and by the dampness seeping into his clothes, he was lying on the ground. A circle of figures stood over him, framing the satellite which shone insistently into his eyes.

Everything hurt. 

The roundest blob instantly gave itself away. “Wainwright.”

Wainwright closed his eyes against the glare. “Aww fuck.” His head was pounding. “Father.”

Montgomery Jakobs knelt down next to him. “Are you hurt?”

Wainwright had to take a moment to assure himself that he wasn’t still passed out. “Maybe? I haven’t been conscious long enough to know. How did you know we were here?” He gingerly sat up, feeling the back of his head. His hand came away bloody. Someone gasped. It had been a while since he had seen his own blood. He sniffed it. It was ketchup. Maybe he had a concussion? That would be a first. “How did I get outside?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. In trying to keep him away from whatever was going on, Father gave away his own agenda. He knew something. Now, Wainwright was not just spurred by petty vengeance but genuine interest. Alas, Father had also arrived too late. Wainwright was sure he had picked up the only thing of interest. And perhaps Father’s legacy was not the main point of interest.

The cold weight of the object pressed into Wainwright’s leg as he shifted. Despite the possible concussion, he allowed himself the feeling of self-satisfaction.

While a dozen hands reached to help Wainwright up, he took Alistair’s cold metal fingers in his.

The man in question beamed down at him as if they hadn’t just trudged through human custard.  “Did you see it?” He asked. It took a moment to gauge what he was talking about.

Wainwright shook his head. “Just heard it.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“I found a box.” Mr. Turning strolled into view, and a few rangers followed him in tow, dragging a crate along the ground. “Came with a mailing address and everythin’, all handwritten, old school stuff.”

“Well done.”

Everyone stared at it. It was indeed a box - a four-by-four Jakobs-stamped unassuming crate. Wainwright vaguely recognized it from the cargo bay. Then again, all the crates looked the same.

Someone jabbed Wainwright with something on his blind side. The ache of his brain injury instantly started to recede. He pretended not to notice it. “Where was it supposed to go?” 

“Originally? It was sent from a stock-port enterprise after being deposited there for almost two decades. “After that, it was passed over to our liquified friends here who were supposed to assure that it was placed into the right hands. Whomever it was was aiming at delivering it to The Jakobs Estate for the attention of Mr. Wainwright Jakobs.”

Montgomery paced around it. “What was in the box?”

Wainwright wrapped his fingers around the object in his pocket. “Nothing.” It hummed under his fingers.

Father narrowed his eyes on him. “Really?”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

Before Father could form a retort, Surveillance loomed from between the trees. 

“I found a child.” 

She trampled over a bush with all the grace of a drunk stalker, dragging what at first Wainwright mistook for a pile of rags. Upon closer inspection, it was a gangly boy covered head to toe in mud and filth. He looked wearily at them through a curtain of overgrown hair.

“Well, fuck me.” Someone said. 

Montgomery pulled at the lapels of his coat. “What’s your name, son?”

The boy, a young man, really, cleared his throat. “Clay. I think.” His voice was gravely from lack of use. “Clayton. Sir.”

“Clay, that is a fine name. How long have you been here, champ?” Montgomery held out his hand for Clay to shake. 

“I-I don’t know.” 

“Well, that’s alright, we can figure that out later. You’re safe now.” Montgomery motioned for a ranger to step forth. “Why don’t you take Clay here back to the Manor. He is our guest until we figure out what’s going on.” He turned to his small party. “What absolute stupidity. We have people for this sort of thing.” Wainwright felt like a child again. “It could’ve been an assassination attempt. Or worse.”

“But it wasn’t.” 

“You don’t know that. This ship and its crew were obviously transporting something with your name on it. This is as suspicious as anythin’ I’ve ever seen; we have put people in the Anvil for less.” 

“He is a child. We don’t imprison children. His whiskers haven’t even grown in.”

“Remember the coup we financed on CP17?”

“Ok, maybe we do sometimes, but it’s for a good reason.”

“Is smuggling a good reason?” 

“No. Clay stays here.” Montgomery said. “He has nowhere else to go.”

Father’s sudden bout of kindness was…curious. Perhaps the satellite really was making people lose their minds. Or perhaps he was drunk already. The truth was that Wainwright didn’t want Clay to be left alone, either. He felt sorry for the kid. And there was a dwindling feeling that he had somehow caused the crash himself.

“Look after him.” He told the ranger. “Make sure he is comfortable.”

The ranger, a girl close to Clayton’s age, nodded once and led the boy away, talking to him quietly. The rest of the squad filtered out until it was just Wainwright and his company left. 

Wainwright inspected himself; he was covered in sludges of various colors and textures. He felt gross. “I need a shower.”

Mr.Turning hummed in agreement, despite not having a hair out of the palace. “We all do.”

Back at the Manor, everyone piled into Wainwright’s study, the only room that Wainwright was totally convinced wasn’t bugged. Wainwright took the cube out of his pocket and placed it in the ashtray as everyone crowded around it.

Sir Hammerlock leaned over the table, examining it. His mechanical eye blinked, and Wainwright wondered what sort of implant it was. If the hunter could see more than any of them had bargained for. 

Mr. Turning slithered in next to him, prodding it with his finger. “What is it?” He asked predictably.

“An object.”

“I know it’s a bliming object.” Mr. Turning twirled a whisker around his finger. “You just had it in your pocket this entire time?”

“Yes, I had an…encounter of some sort back in the ship. Like a vision or a hallucination of somethin’. That beast's Father's after accosted my person and claimed it was a key. Also, Father is not getting his grubby hands on it so keep ya'll traps shut.”

“If there is a key, there is a door.” His cousin said from the chaise from which he hadn’t moved since they had arrived. Wainwright didn’t remember telling him to meet them there. “It means it’s come from somewhere. We are just fortunate that you enjoy picking mysterious shite off the ground.”

“You mean like a vault? You don't tend to find keys to those on the ground.” At least Wainwright didn't think you could. He also ignored the last comment because it was true. He loved picking things off the ground. The ground was underrated and humanity had always lost so much from simply not looking down and finding the many morsels of interest scattered by the universe for them to find. 

“Possibly, we need to keep our eyes peeled. If the satellite appeared at the same exact time that thing was be delivered to you, don’t you think those things are connected?”

Wainwright recalled the familiar creeping feeling of dread. "And that wretched beast, so add that to the mix."

“Can’t we follow it?” Asked Surveillance. It was the first thing she had said since they left the crash site. "It's bound to live somewhere, if it's alive."

“Nobody has seen the darn thing and lived. Wainwright only heard it.”

“Sir Hammerlock has.” 

All eyes turned to the man in question, who was cleaning imaginary dirt from the bore of his rifle. “I heard it, but it is true, we found each other in the forest. A few days ago.”

Mr.Turning got that look he got before dismissing an employee from living. “And yet you survived? Ain’t that interesting.”

If Alistair understood the intonation, he didn’t show it. “I count myself lucky.”

“I suppose then, maybe since you have outlasted your usefulness here, it would be best to let you go on your merry way. Perhaps you will get lucky again.” 

The mood in the room shifted to something cold as heads turned in the hunter’s direction. Even his cousin somehow managed to look intimidating. 

Wainwright supposed it was coming; to everyone in the room, Sir Hammerlock was an outsider. Outsiders stayed outsiders for a while on Eden 6. 

Sir Hammerlock deflated like a sad party balloon animal made by an equally sad and absent clown. A clown Wainwright’s father refused to hire for his 7th birthday party. Asshole. 

“Ah yes, of course. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Not at all. Thank you for your assistance, Sir Hammerlock.” Wainwright kicked himself for not making the statement more flowery. He wished he could say more. 

Surveillance got up to leave. “I am going to go see the kid.”

Mr. Turning gave one last huff and trailed behind her before the door could close. 

With an exaggerated groan, his cousin peeled himself off the chaise. “Hold still.” He said, producing a swab he prodded around the back of Wainwright’s jacket. 

Wainwright recoiled from it. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Taking a sample.”

“Get out of here.”

“Alright.”

With that, the last of the party departed until it was just Wainwright left in his own solitude. 

He couldn’t concentrate on his fiscal reports. His thoughts kept drifting back towards the ship and the voice to the crate. Clayton. The ‘key’ sat on the table. After resolving it for another few moments, Wainwright gave up for the day. 

Mr.Turing was waiting outside the office doors. Wainwright almost tripped on him.

“We should give you a flag or somethin’.”

The short man gave a single bark of laughter. “You should watch your feet. Anyway, I wanted you alone.” He looked up and down the corridor before leaning in. “The Hammerlock guy stinks.”

Wainwright sighed, looking down at the man. Mr. Turning shook a little but remained standing like an antsy lapdog. The first cobblestone of the metaphorical bridge had been reached, and the troll had just reared it's ugly head.

“Is that why you wanted him at the picnic?”

“It was just a bit of fun. I didn’t know you were emotionally attached.”

“I’m not.” Wainwright lied. He wanted to tell him to watch his tone, but Mr.Turning was right. He was getting attached. Jakobs weren’t supposed to get attached; it spelled trouble. “I suppose I should’ve been more careful. Still, you could have gotten the Beatrice girl in a heap of trouble. Our head of the house is making her rearrange the portraits in alphabetical order.” The moment the words left his mouth, the door on the other end of the hall slammed open, and Miss Dontrecki marched into the room.

“Speak of her, and here she is.”

Mr.Turning cowered behind Wainwright. “Oh fuck.” He hissed. “Corporate murder is still illegal here, right?”

Upon spotting them the Head of House turned three shades darker. Like a beet. “You have a lot of balls around here to show your face, young man.” She growled, speed walking towards them in a blur of perfume and embroidery.

Wainwright almost called in a wildlife encounter but doubted that adding Sir Hammerlock to the mix would make it any better.

In a last-ditch effort to save his employee, Wainwright stepped between them. “Please calm yourself, Miss Dontrecki.”

“I was doing my job!” Mr.Turning squeaked behind him.

“You were meddling! Turning my department against each other. People have been down the grog pit for less.”

“It wasn’t me who told her about the Hammerlocks! Someone else did.” 

“Well? Who did?”

“I have absolutely no idea! I don’t personally stalk the entire population of Eden-6! Just the ones I want to bang.”

Miss Dontrecki swiped past Wainwright, catching Mr. Turning by the lapels of his coat. “Pig! Liar! Too bad you are immune to the serum.” She grabbed at his tie with the other hand, trapping Wainwright in an unfortunate corporate sandwich. “I will have to squeeze it out of you.”

“I’m telling the truth! What intention would I have to lie? Quit throwing hands and think, you shit-for-brains housekeeper. I did my research, ok? I know he has a sister; she came here at one point, joined the Order, and did something to piss a bunch of people off.”

Now, Wainwright was interested. “What happened?”

“I don’t know! All the information has been permanently expunged. Way before my time. We are in the dark. But Hammerlock knows something. I am damn sure of it.”

Miss Dontrecki sighed. “Monty had him dosed with the serum. He didn’t know anything.”

“Maybe you didn’t give him enough. He could be a sleeper agent or could have been resistant. You just won’t admit you’ve gotten lazy.”

“Tarnation!” Miss Dontrecki must have pulled at the tie again because the gagging sound Mr. Turning made would never have been voluntary.

“Miss Dontrecki, if you would be so kind as not to strangle Mr.Turning, that would be very much appreciated. I admit that his techniques are questionable at times, but he has our best interests at heart.” 

“That’s the holy truth.” Mr.Turing twisted around, which did nothing but bring them all closer together. The combined scent of their perfumes and colognes tingled Wainwright’s nose. “Something is going on, I know it. If you just let me wire a few rooms, I will leave you alone till the next peat fire.”

“I am not allowing surveillance equipment in my home, you vile little pervert.”

“Mr. Turning, she is right-”

“What? I am an industry professional, and she spends all day trying to pick curtains to match your goddamn pube-”

“-you are a pervert.”

“Excuse me?” Everyone stopped squabbling to turn to Baldrin, the butler, standing in an open doorway with an expression of open, unabashed judgment on his gaunt face. “Once you are done ‘cuddling’,’ please come to the center of command. There is ice cream cake.”

Wainwright eyed the man, not sure how much the butler had overheard. Sometimes, it felt like he and Father shared the same memory. No one ever put the fear of god into him more than old nosey Baldrin. “Thank you, Baldrin.”

Baldrin left.

As if a spell had been broken, everyone disentangled, stepping back in an air of shame. “I still don’t trust him.” Said Mr.Turning. “My tic is off the charts.”

“He’s been nothing but kind to you and everyone at the Manor.”

“Well, he has made enemies among our ranks.”

Wainwright had to agree. “So he has.” He chose his following words carefully, as the implication of drugging Beatrice was...problematic. After what Mother did, Beatrice became somewhat of a special case. Without her parents, Miss Dontrecki had stepped in as a replacement. “What did the girl have to say?”

Miss Dontrecki shuffled uncomfortably. “Nothing, she got the information from an anonymous source. Someone called her. She said it was a woman with a funny accent.”

Wainwright looked at Mr. Turning. Daring him to say anything. Thankfully the man knew when to shut up.

“Good to know. Keep her outta trouble.” Things weren’t adding up. Wainwright played with the object in his pocket. It felt wet. It was actually very stimulating; if it wasn’t for the eridium radiation concern, he would keep it as a fidget toy. “I’m going to see our guest. Hopefully the unfair dismissal didn’t rattle him.”

Mr.Turning clapped him on the shoulder. “Just don’t think with your dick. If you are interested, that is. Remember what happened last time?”

The comment brought up the issue of whether Wainwright was even interested in being interested. He didn’t have the luckiest track record of relationships. Father often joked that the Jakobs family death curse had manifested to his love interests instead. 

Wainwright did remember. The last breakup was particularly…messy. “I’ll try my best.”

With that, Wainwright decided he was interested, so he went to find Sir Alistair Hammerlock. 

On his way there he passed the family living room. A commotion diverted his attention to his father tearing through the bookshelves, obviously looking for something.

“What are you doing?”

“I say, son, you haven’t seen your copy of Monty Gets a Butler anywhere? The one mum and I gave you for your birthday?”

The memory gave Wainwright war flashbacks. “That mindless jabber movie? No?”  

Father didn’t even look up. “Well, tell me if you do.”

“Alright pop.” Wainwright turned to leave, but something stopped him. 

“Pop?”

Montgomery gave a grunt of affirmation.

“Where did ma go that was so secret?”

“It is none of your concern.”

“Do you know what the thing in the sky is?”

This time, his father turned around, huffing in effort. “You’re askin’ too many questions, Wainwright.”

“I can ask whatever questions I want.”

“So can I. What was in the crate, Wainwright?”

“What did the Hammerlocks have to do with us?”

“Why don’t you answer my question?”

“Why don’t you answer mine?” 

They stared each other down. Father looked…sad. And old. 

“Ok, how about we say the truth on one...two...three.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.”

The silence which stretched in between them was thick with disappointing realisation that eider of them were not going to budge. “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Good talk, son.”

The groundskeeper tipped him off on Alistair’s location, so he didn’t take long to find him sitting among stacks of books in the archives. Perfectly poised, as if he was waiting to get his picture taken. 

The hunter was so engrossed he didn’t react until the second time Wainwright cleared his throat.

“Mr.Jakobs.” He greeted. Politely. He was always polite. 

“Mind if I join you?”

“Your company is always a pleasure.” Alistair was a lousy liar. Not that Wainwright was deterred. A good gentleman was always willing to make peace.

Thankfully Wainwright always kept a book of his favourite poetry on hand. 

“You didn’t get to spend any time at the lodge. I have requested to give you permanent access so you may visit on your own accord.”

“Thank you. I have come to believe that the lodge was not the intended reason for the trip. Am I correct?” Alistair didn’t sound angry, which was good. But he didn’t sound happy or especially conversational, which was bad.

Wainwright had forgotten what guilt felt like, so he wasn’t sure if he was feeling it now. “Yes, you are.”

Alistair didn’t say anything anymore and turned back to his book. An atlas of edible tree fungi.

Wainwright tried doing the same but found himself restless. The excitement from earlier was still ebbing in his veins. The back of his head throbbed. He wondered if he had a concussion, which caused him to admit: “I have started reading your book.” 

“Really? How is it?”

Wainwright had to actually think of something to say. It couldn’t be too flattering; he didn’t want to seem desperate or, even worse, creepy. “It’s positively interesting. I am not too sure if it makes me want to visit Pandora or avoid it like the plague.”

Alistair beamed at the praise. He had an infectious smile. “Thank you. It is always pleasant to hear some face-to-face feedback. I have been told it can be a tad wordy.” 

“A talented man such as yourself shouldn’t be concerned with reducing your work to be palatable for those who wouldn’t appreciate it.” 

Alistair opened his mouth as if to say something before thinking better of it. “Well, if you say so.”

“Have you found anything? On the Beast, I mean.”

“No, just conspiracy theories on the echo net. It’s a bit of, one might say, ‘cryptid’ in these parts.”

“We are all considered cryptids in these parts.” Sir Hammerlock laughed at his stupid joke, and the mood brightened somewhat. “There was a man who lived among the jabbers for decades. It wasn’t until he showed up to a local book signing that folks figured out he wasn’t a critter.”

“Ha! You are surely pulling my leg.”

Wainwright leaned back, racking his head for anything of a more entertaining nature. This was ok so far; they could just be friends if Alistair wasn’t devoured by the Beast or by Jakobs Corporate. “Not at all, Alistair, not at all.”

His mother had always said he was a hopeless romantic. Wainwright hadn't liked it back then, but now that he was older he had to gracefully agree. He wished that she was still around so he could tell her that. Maybe she could have answered his questions, unlike Father. Then again, maybe Wainwright didn't have to ask her after all. There was never a shortage of skeletons in the closet, and Mother had a knack of disposing of bodies in the Manor's most remote places. 

Chapter Text

Beatrice cursed under her breath as soft old wood split under her polishing rag. Something sharp and painful pierced the soft underbelly of her pointer finger. Dropping the rag she examined a small black dot on her skin. Even bending her finger hurt. The splinter was in deep. Okenwood was the worst for splinters, but the antique radio receiver needed sprucing before the festivities began. She had no intention of staying up all night to finish the grand hall again. Last time she had almost missed the kickoff of the picnic, which honestly sucked because she fancied herself a solid tracker. 

The old receiver was special to the Family, an apparent relic from times long passed. According to Baldrin, the butler, it got by on using some ancient means to carry sound, way way before the echonet was a thing on Eden-6. Beatrice had never been interested in vintage technology. She recalled a photo from her second-hand history schoolbook depicting a family gathered around a similar device. She also recalled the various dicks scrawled all over them. Not all the books had as many dicks as hers did, which had been a great point of pride at that time. A magical time when dicks were the funniest thing in the world. Now, she wished she had paid more attention to what the book actually said. It would have made the job marginally more interesting. 

The receiver, useless as it was, stood in a musty corner of the grand dining hall. Its front speaker resembled a screaming mouth, and its knobs and dials bulged like frightened eyeballs into the expanse. 

When she was a babe, it haunted her nightmares. It did that to all kids, including Winwright Jakobs, apparently. That is what Miss Dontrecki told her when she first got lost in the winding halls and was traumatized by the sight of it. At the time, she hid behind the curtains, waiting for it to go away. Of course it didn’t, because it was an inanimate object and she had been a stupid toddler. 

Right now, it was just an awkward hindrance and the most hard-to-reach thing that the robots were not trusted to polish. Alas, Montgomery was very proud of it, so it had to be done.

A droning hum filled the air, heralding the approach of a robot maintenance unit. Beatrice was entrusted with two this shift to complete the west wing of the Manor. The robots didn’t need much minding but were sometimes prone to bouts of self-awareness that required human intervention.

“I have sensed DISTRESS. Has an INJURY been sustained?” It garbled in a voice designed to only bring comfort to dysentery-ridden gunsmiths a century ago. Judging by the crackle in its intonation, it was B-77, a knackered and rusty thing which was only intended for the simplest tasks. Monty had a soft spot for it, thus it had evaded scrapping since Beatrice could remember. It was probably older than the Jakobs Estate, or older still.

Beatrice didn’t look up from her work. It’s not like the things had a face to look at anyway. “No, it’s fine; ’tis just a splinter.”

B-77 hovered closer. “Do you require my ASSISTANCE?”

“No, like I said, I’m alright.” 

“It is against my protocol to allow you to suffer INJURIES to your PHYSICAL BODY.”

“As opposed to my spiritual one , which is long dead” the apprentice thought as she sighed in resignation, admonishing once again that robots did not actually care. She finally turned to face the robot. At its full hovering height, they stood eye to eye. “I said I was fine.”

“I will only take a SINGLE look.” B-77 insisted, holding out its arm which squealed something awful. Its bearings needed lubricating. 

Beatrice rolled her eyes to whitewash her fear. She hated splinters, but getting them out was a whole other ordeal. “Fine! Just a look.”

The robot unit gingerly cupped her hand in its terrifying metal claw. Its single eye made a whirling noise, the lens expanding and contracting. A needlessly tense moment passed as it assessed whatever was so important to assess in a single sprinter. 

“This will only HURT a LITTLE.” With a snap the robot’s claw moved so fast it didn't appear to have moved at all. Only a gust of air indicated that the movement could not be perceived by the human eye.

Beatrice blinked twice before she felt the pain set in. She should have seen it coming. “You could have warned me, you useless rut bucket!” She sucked on her finger, which was now bleeding. It only made it burn worse. Okenwood was the worst. 

B-77 hovered in reverse; undeterred by her outburst, it held the splinter out between them. “IT WAS NOT THAT BAD. May I also remind you that I have served the Jakobs family admirably and as of my activation have so far successfully completed over FORTY HUNDRED THOUSAND SEVENTY SEVEN assigned tasks with an additional SEVENTY assigned functions. Therefore your designation of my being as a ‘useless rust bucket’ is not only INACCURATE, but also hurtful. Besides, you would not have accepted my ASSISTANCE without a verbal exchange of DISINFORMATION.”

Beatrice had schooled herself not to feel remorse towards robots because none of the top executives at Jakobs Corporate did. Even Human Resources, allegedly. “Ok, fine. Sorry for shouting, and thanks for getting the splinter out so quick n’ like.”

“Thank you. I admire you for your fleshy charm, BEATRICE. I recommend returning to our task. My sensors are picking up the approach of MR JAKOBS from the NORTH WESTERN WING. My protocol requires us to ‘LOOK BUSY’ and resume ‘SLACKING OFF’ following their departure.”

Just as the robot finished speaking, a faint murmur of conversation echoed through the great open doors of the grand hall.

“Oh shit.” Beatrice dived behind the receiver. It was big enough to hide her twelve times over. She had been avoiding both of the patriarchs since the Lodge incident. Any thought of it made her shrivel up from self-deprecating cringe.

B-77 turned to follow her. “Do you require me to CONCEAL my presence?”

Beatrice shooed them off. “No, just carry on doing what you were doing. Pretend I am not here.” She grabbed her polishing cloth from where she had dropped it, so just in case she got caught, it looked like she was doing something. “Please,” She added as an afterthought. 

B-77 saluted. “ROGER, PARTNER.”

The click-clack of the steel toes of Wainwright Jakob’s boots was unmistakable. With it came another shuffling amble of someone Beatrice was unfamiliar with. Bending down, she glimpsed the bottom of an off-white lab coat from under the radio receiver.

Beyond that, Beatrice discovered her bucket of polishing supplies. She had forgotten all about it in her hurry. 

Fuck. With luck, the two men would disregard it completely. 

“Well, what was it?” The heir was asking. 

“People. People-jelly. All mixed together and the like. Pretty gnarly. Is your advertising peddler ok? The recording messed him up a bit if you don’t mind me sayin’.” The new CTO’s voice was warbly and carried a tenuous off-planet accent that Beatrice couldn’t trace. He was handsome, unmarried, and a Jakobs . If her parents had still been alive, Beatrice would have been a prospective partner for a refined man like that. Alas, that was not the case; she would have to marry some yokel called Cletus, who worshiped The Thing in the Swamp, or worse, become a workaholic spinster like Miss Dontrecki. She turned her attention back to the conversation.

Mr Jakobs snorted. “Mr. Turning is fine. He just aint used to so much excitement, soft as a whisker, that one. Why do you care anyways?”

“Why do you care if I care? Family and all that.” A pause. “I’ve been hearin’ that the logging’s going tough this year.”

“Naturally, it’s the season for unreasonable superstition. Anyone would get jumpy so far out in them woods with all the corral dust going around and such. That and that ornery critter’s around causing a ruckus like it owns the place.”

“It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it? I’ve heard we lost half a camp. Out in the south-west, right above the exact trajectory of the satellite and honestly, just hear me out here-”

“Should you not be teaching jabbers how to talk or somethin?” Mr.Jakobs interrupted.

“I have ears too, here and there, you know. Don’t you want to know what it is? Where does it come from and why? I’m just tryin’ to do my job here cuz and you’re, and to be frank, turin’ out to be a real wet blanket. Where is your human need for emprise?”

“You damn right know I ain’t been born with one. All I want it to do is get a nice n’ efficient way of getting shed of it. It’s been interfering with my… pursuits .”

“Pursuits plural? Ain’t you busy.”

“Naw, I’m just tryin’ to be discrete.” 

Both men chuckled. 

“What about the lil' shaver? What’s his name? Flint?”

“It’s Clay, and he’s in Father’s corner at the time being. The damn old dog has imprinted on the lad like a polyp at the end of a yokel’s scrotum.”

“Do I sense a hint of jealousy? There I was assuming that your pursuit of that weird new gamekeep would distract you from everyone else’s dastardly shenanigans.”

“They are too dastardly to ignore, its rather unfortunate.”

A jingle of an echo sounded out between them. “Looks like I’m in the same boat; see ya later, cuz.”

“Right.”

With that, the CTO walked right back out, leaving Wainwright Jakobs alone. (Or so he thought).

The man sighed and mumbled something unintelligible to himself. 

Beatrice prayed to whichever god was listening for the man to just go away, all the while pretending to examine the exhaust at the back of the receiver. It was chocked full of dust. 

Mr.Jakobs took a step closer. Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut. All she needed to do was stay still, and he wouldn’t notice her. 

Plain, still, and brown. 

“Beatrice?” Mr.Jakobs drawled, his voice taking on a sort of condescending tone like old Monty’s did when he strived to be nice to the little people. If Beatrice’s parents had been around, he would have spoken to her differently, and she wouldn’t have had to clean their stupid wave receiver. “Are you back there?”

Beatrice winced. “Mr.Jakobs, how can I be of service?” She asked, hoping that her sudden appearance was organic enough not to be questioned. Clutching her now dry polishing cloth, she stepped out of her hiding place. 

Mr.Jakobs was donning a ridiculous velvet suit in an orchid-y shade, which made him look like he was about to open a chocolate factory. He was just standing there, like his presence was god's gift to mankind.  

“Wainwright is just fine, Beatrice.” Mr.Jakobs said after a too-long pause, completing their custom exchange. He was dadding. Beatrice hated it when he dadded. “You didn’t happen to hear my conversation with Mr.Kassidy?” 

Beatrice fought the urge to shrug. Professionals didn’t shrug. She forced herself to maintain eye contact when she spoke for the same reason. “Yes, I ‘sposse I did.” she said slowly, “The sound carries mighty well in here, it’s not like I was paying much attention or anythin’ like that. But then again, perhaps I might ‘n have heard a bit bou’t a visitor?” 

“You heard correctly, but I gotta say that you keep quiet about it, yeah?” He reached into his pocket, fiddling with something. “Don’t want Father finding out everyone’s been whispering and getting into a tiff about all this.” 

“Don’t you worry, Mr.Jakobs, I ain’t got no one to tell.” Beatrice copied his movements because that was what her copy of “How to Manipulate Vault Hunters and Profit Massively: A Hyperion Guide to Success” said you did to make someone trust you. Her pockets were full of keys. She jiggled them around, feeling like a cowboy, and added, “Even Monty.”

Wainwright snapped his fingers. “Brilliant, I would hate to put him in a bad mood so close to the Peat Fire. You know how he gets, with the hunting trip and all that.”

“Don’t worry, Mr.Jakobs; I’m sure everything will pull off without a hitch; it always does.”

Wainwright Jakobs and Montgomery Jakobs didn’t always get along. Everyone working for the HOME department knew that. The help always saw everything, even if the Jakobs family liked to pretend that they didn’t. Beatrice was no exception in her experience of seeing Wainwright do everything he could to distance himself from his father, from different-colored socks to preferences for whisky blends. No matter how hard he tried, the Jakobiness was always there, just a rebrand of the original, a different blend, so to say. 

“I’m positive that you will make sure of that, but try not to overwork yourself. Your presence was greatly missed during the last celebration, and I truly do hope to see you this time around. Not that I am ordering you to go; of course, the choice is yours. Considering the time of year, I just wanted to say that I truly empathize with you.” Mr. Jakobs smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners like those of the dad in her history school book, sans the penises. Trust me, the smile said. It made him less trustworthy. “I’m sure that your parents would be proud if they could see you now. It’s a huge shame what happened with the incident, y’know. I just want you to know you are not alone. Many of us lost someone that day.”

Beatrice felt her eyes prickle. She hated it when he brought up her parents. He didn’t have the right to. “If you say so, Mr.Jakobs.”

At least Mr.Jakobs got to meet his mother. Beatrice didn’t get that privilege. Her parents only existed in a few photos and logs, which Jakobs Corporate had permitted her to own. Everything else left of them was somewhere below, in the Underground Lawns. It was weird to think that both she and Mr. Jakobs shared the impact of the same tragedy. Caused by his mother, nonetheless. Everyone knew that, but they were not allowed to say it on account of a certain pitfall trap in Monty’s office. Wherever Wainwright or Montgomery felt any guilt or remorse was a long debated mystery.

“Here.” Mr Jakobs said, motioning to the plate he had been holding. Atop it sat a teacake decorated with fancy candied flowers arranged in a bouquet. The amount of icing made it impossible to see what kind of cake it was. “S’uppose your youthful metabolism could stomach this. I’m afraid that I have reached my daily quota.” He patted his flat stomach. 

Everyone knew Wainwright Jakobs kept himself in shape five times a week for 45 minutes to an hour, depending on the nature of the exercise. Once, when getting some fresh air after a sleepless night, Beatrice had spied him jogging around the Estate. They didn’t talk about that. 

“That’s why you’re my favourite!” She said and curtsied, tucking the polishing cloth under her armpit to grab the plate. She wasn’t a fan of sweets. Her finger throbbed. 

“Damn straight!” Mr.Jakobs chuckled and reached out to rustle her hair. He rustled it three times. 

Rustle. Rustle. Rustle. 

Beatrice swore she heard him count under his breath.

“You take care of yourself now, lil lady.” And just like that, he wandered off. Beatrice heard the soft shuffle of a hidden panel sliding open and closed, and she was alone again. She let out a breath she had been holding and headed in the opposite direction, sucking on her swollen finger. She dismissed herself from polishing for the day. 

Even despite his mother’s sins, Beatrice could never bring herself to like Mr.Jakobs, no matter how kind he was to her. It made her feel bad because he was nice, somewhat abrasive and scary at times, but nice overall. There was something off about him that she could never figure out. More off than the known dubious pet projects and investments he supervised away from the praying eyes of the swamp folk.  

Perhaps it was the way he was always hiding something. His slate was clean, suspiciously clean, as was agreed by the many users of the wider and more esoteric forums on the echonet. Perhaps it was his piercing stare, his crazy hair, or his weird habit of abusing the hidden passages to get around the Estate like some form of bourbon-scented phantom.

Beatrice avoided the route she knew the heir would normally take and squeezed through a gap in the wood paneling to drop down into a less-known passage that ran alongside the kitchen. The small space smelled of deep-fried batter and stinging spice. It was late, and all the kitchen staff were busy at work feeding the Manor’s growing list of inhabitants. 

As soon as she traded in the teacake for a can of lukewarm beer to the head Cook, she made a beeline for the staff quarters. Most of the rooms were still empty, with the rest of the staff probably out doing their business. In the past, before the death of robot-averse Tablot Jakobs, the house staff would lodge together. This was (thankfully) no longer the case. Beatrice saw herself as a private individual.  

Her own room must have been twice the size before she moved in, which was as soon as she outgrew the cot at the foot of Miss Dontrecki’s bed. It had been Wainwright’s cot, and the woman had not wasted any time in instilling the belief that it was some form of honor. Beatrice only believed that until she understood the concept of frugality and its place as Montgomery’s middle name.

The walls of her room were covered in things she found interesting; band posters and magazine cutouts, mostly. The layers formed a second wallpaper on top of the old one, of which colours she didn’t recall. 

Her small desk, squeezed in by a tiny tinted window, was currently cloaked in cracker wrappers and academy brochures she had gathered reluctantly at a recent recruitment fair. Most of them were still unread, some crumpled in frustration. 

Beatrice brushed everything aside and collapsed in her desk chair, activating the holo screen. Seven missed calls greeted her in the chat log. She had been avoiding calling back the anonymous contact since the Lodge meetup. After the embarrassing ordeal, she had successfully hidden in her quarters for a few days before the constant ‘check-ins’ from the ‘well-meaning’ staff had gotten too much. 

“Aww shit me timbers.” She said to herself. It was better to rip the bandaid off sooner than later. The Town drunk once told her that. 

The woman she had met on the ‘Truth About Eden-6’ forum picked up on the first ring.

“Well? How did it go?” The woman had a weird accent. Something about it's inflection was freshly familiar. 

“Bad, they didn’t take the bait.” Beatrice took a jittery breath. She cracked open her beer, getting wood polish all over the tab. She'd never washed her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

The lady on the other end laughed. She had a funny laugh in the sense that didn’t elicit any mirth from those listening. “It is no problem, poppet; you had a good go at it; that’s what’s important. It was as hard to sway the fragile minds of those empty-headed swamp bumkins back then; I can’t imagine what it would be like now. I bet you still got a few of the big hitters recognizing a can-do attitude, no?”

“Yeah…about that.” Beatrice felt stupid asking the question. “I guess I won’t be going to the underground lawns after all. I made a complete idiot of myself; if I got recognized, it was for all the wrong reasons.” The setback at the lodge would mean that she would have to wait an entire year to become a full-fledged family member. 

“Nonsense, I think I can still recall a way or two of taking, let’s say… the back entrance. I do have to warn you, it’s not for the faint of heart but I think a strong young woman such as yourself will make quite the quick work of it.”

Beatrice spluttered her beer all over the screen. The room was now beer-scented. “Really?”

“Really my dear. Your mother would want you to get your hands on her keepsakes before it was too late. We used to be good friends after all.”

“What was she like?”

“Formidable, intelligent and a deadly shot. A woman with enough bloodlust to dispose of her foes but enough grace to make it all look like an accident.”

“Oh wow. How about my dad?”

“Your father? Pretty much a Jakobs staple of a man. A free spirit if you ask me, more of a loner than a leader. Him and your gamekeeper would have gotten along. As much as I detest to say this, he would even made Alistair likable.”

“You knew Sir Hammerlock?”

“I have had the misfortune of knowing him as a little brat. His sister too, however she was a much more agreeable sort.”

“What was he like as a kid?”

“Absolutely useless, dirty, annoying, snotty. Literally all the worst things a child can be. He mostly ate insects and endeavored to break every family heirloom as soon as he learnt how to manipulate the grotesque lump that was his body.”

It was strange imagining Sir Hammerlock as a child, but Beatrice could sort of see it.

”Really?”

“Unfortunately. As soon as he could he would collect jars of vermin in his room. Once they escaped and the butlers took months to find them all. His sister got the blame for not watching the scamp despite being forced to attend sixteen daily hours of classes while he got set free like a sticky-fingered gremlin!” Aurelia laughed again, but she didn't sound happy. She sounded like the mean girls from Beatrice's exam group. “It is fortunate that she has grown into a greatly successful woman, and her brother, well.... her brother still collects vermin! Anyway, back to our little chat. I suppose you know where the servant’s door to the wine cellar is?”

Beatrice scrambled for something to write on. “Oh boy, do I!”

Hours later, Beatrice found herself crawling through a dank ventilation shaft, deeper underground than her non-credentials permitted. It was somehow both wet and dusty in there, littered with old ratch droppings. Thankfully, the helmet of the trooper suit she had ‘borrowed’ sported a built-in ventilator, so whatever was floating around down there was not going to eat her from the inside. Beatrice was fortunate that Jimmy, one of the other three apprentices of the Estate, was sweet on her. She wasn’t sweet on Jimmy; his birthright was below her, but he did have access to the repair and laundry rooms and, thus, access to all sorts of nifty disguises. In a short time, she came to the last bend where a grate faced a steel door. It was guarded by two troopers, both wearing a suit identical to hers. 

The funny-talking woman’s plan directions were straightforward, as long as she remembered all of Sir Hammerlock’s sister’s security passcodes. There was also a backup option - her father’s old handkerchief was stashed away safely in one of her old pockets, in case of a DNA check it would have to suffice. 

Beatrice waited, hoping that the two guards hadn’t heard her shuffling around. Checking her echo showed the time at 00:12, which meant she had about eight minutes until the shift change. The timing was the same all across Jakob’s corp, as it was (conveniently) considered tradition. She used that time to convince herself that this was a good idea. Miss Dontrecki’s words echoed in her head.

“The guards down there shoot on sight, so don’t do anything stupid. No one’s going to miss one less stupid little girl. We gots us plenty of those.”

That is why Beatrice had left a letter back in her room explaining what may have happened. A letter apologizing and explaining that she needed to know, and why. Just to be safe.

A whistle sounded, and the guards nodded at each other before marching away. With her heart in her mouth, Beatrice pushed at the grate, breathing a quick sign of relief when it swung open silently. There was no time to dawdle as she jogged up to the pin pad. It took her two tries with the clumsy gloves of the suit to type in the code correctly. The ‘ding’ of acceptance was a heavenly choir to her ears. 

“MISS AURELIA HAMMERLOCK,” The door confirmed, and, with a couple of tense clicks, started to slip open.

Beatrice squeezed through the gap as soon as it was large enough. Seeing the corridor in front of her as empty, she quickly made it around the next corner.

The suit clanked as she pushed her back against the wall, like all the secret spies did in the movies. Realizing it made her look more suspicious, she quickly rectified her position. Thankfully, the corridor was empty there too. She carried on. 

The underground lawns were creepy and cold as if they were at the peak of monsoon season already. The walls weren’t made of wood but dark gray steel held together by rusting rivets. There were no wall hangings and no windows. The doors were all unmarked and placed a perfect distance apart, as were the lights, which brightened and dimmed as Beatrice walked beneath them. The place was a perfect labyrinth, and soon, she realized why the strange woman’s instruction had been so specific:

Seven doors down, turn left, two doors down right, eight doors down left again, enter the fourth door on the right, and find yourself in hard disposal. 

A few researchers in crisp red coats and various staff wandered the corridors like listless zombies, none of them paying the impostor any attention. It was the graveyard shift, after all. Just as she was about to make the last turn, she was stopped by a shout from behind her. 

“You!”

Beatrice froze in place, cursing her luck. That gut-clenching feeling of being in trouble intensified until she thought the other guard could see her tremble. She turned on her heel, keeping her back straight and hands dutifully at her sides. “Yes?”

The trooper in question was three heads taller than her; his voice was gruff but friendly. “I was hoping you could help me out with something cuz if you ain’t busy and all.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“I need to take a break if you know what I mean," He inclined his head to the side, which must have been a wink." do you mind keeping an eye on a P.O.I? It’s real easy, he ain’t doing much but the Old Man will totally freak if he ain’t being watched.”

Beatrice had no idea what he meant or what a P.O.I was. However, denying the request would definitely seem suspicious. “Well, alright.”

The trooper motioned at Beatrice to follow. They headed through a doorway into another identical corridor. She took a mental note of the twists and turns, trying to keep up with the trooper’s wide footsteps. Devoid as they were of any markings, the corridors seemed ever more befuddling. 

“Sorry to ask, it’s just that I ain’t never met you before. You new?” The guard asked suddenly.

“No, I uh…” Beatrice tried not to move her head as her eyes darted around inside her helmet, trying to jog her brain not to say something too stupid. Her attention landed on a flood drain on the floor. “... I’m a transfer for the night. From the lower levels.”

The guard whistled. “Nice, how’s it going down there?”

“Pretty boring to be honest, top secret stuff through. I’d get processed there if I said a peep ’bout it.” Beatrice chuckled, the adrenaline making her giddy.

They stopped at another non-descript door. The guard turned to her. “Just keep the guy some company before I come back. He’s mighty odd n’ quiet and such. And uh…” He pointed at Beatrice’s helmet. She fought the urge to shrink back. “You’ve darn forgot to turn your visor on.” 

He must have pressed something because all of a sudden, the words “Emergency Containment” materialized above the doorframe in front of them, clear as day.  A similar signage appeared above the door next to that and the one next to that. Beatrice blinked behind her visor, perplexed at the sudden change.  

“Huh.” The world had become a lot brighter.

The guard laughed, none the wiser. “I know, right? You forget to do it after a while after you start rememberin’ whats what down here. Don’t sweat it, I’m doing it all the time.” 

Beatrice hoped all personnel in the Underground Lawns were as gullible as this man. “...Yeah.”

The guard ushered Beatrice through a tight hallway into a blindingly lit space.

Beatrice had but one memory of being hospitalized. When she was seven, she tried sliding down a spiral banister and fell seven levels down to the Manor’s ground floor. She later woke up in a room that looked very similar with its beeping machinery and strange clear tubes. 

A single occupant was in the room, a boy lying in a utilitarian cot covered with a blanket that was far too nice to have been standard issue. He was about Beatrice’s age, long and gangly and creepily skinny, making the IV in his arm look like it was sapping his life force. His attention was focused on an illuminated screen showing a documentary about an animal Beatrice had never seen before. He didn’t acknowledge their entrance or the gullible guard’s departure.

While daunting, the task was simple enough, and Beatrice spent a few minutes watching the screen. It was boring, so she shifted her focus to the boy instead. He didn’t blink a lot, and when he did, he did so slowly, like his eyeballs were chafing.

It was an odd predicament for Beatrice to find herself in. Was it normal for the underground lawns? Then again, this was her first time in the underground lawns. If it was normal, what were they doing to him?

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” The skinny boy asked suddenly, startling her. His throat could really have used a gargle.  

Beatrice considered the TV, the fancy blanket, and the IV. “It doesn’t look like that to me.” She supplied truthfully. People in trouble got boiled alive in Old Anvil. “You would have been dead already if you’d been in trouble.” 

That appeared to shake the boy out of his funk somewhat. 

Beatrice shifted her weight from one foot to the other for a few minutes, acutely aware of her dwindling timeframe. Should she be sneaking away? It then occurred to her that she could ask him anything .

“What happened to you?”

The boy blinked at her. “Like, you mean where I am from? Like, in general?”

“Yeah.”

“I was in an accident. The shipwreck, I don’t remember a whole lot but some lady told me I was a lucky one.”

“Oh, I’m real mighty sorry ’bout that. What’s your name?”

“Clay.”

It was the same name Mr.Jakobs had mentioned that morning. Beatrice almost introduced herself but decided against it. “Did everyone else die? Did you, y’know, get to see a lot of this place when you came here?”

Clay shrugged at her, squinting. Beatrice assumed it was because of her helmet. It must have been weird to be asked personal questions by someone dressed in a monkey suit.  

“You are not supposed to be here, are you?” Clay asked finally.

Something about Clay compelled her to lift the helmet of her head. “Not really. Are you going to rat me out?”

“No nothing like that!” Clay’s eyes lit up mischievously at the revelation. “Will you help me get out? I have friends and uh…” He sat up and rubbed his temples. “.. Family? Do I have a family?”

It was Beatrice’s turn to shrug. “How would I know? Also my hands are sort of like, totally tied here. I’m just a cog in the machine and all that. I’m trying to find some stuff out and that other guy took me here by complete accident. I’m not here to save you, sorry.” 

Clay instantly wilted, sinking into the pillow. “Oh. Well, just so you know I won’t tell anyone you were here.” His wet, needy stare reminded Beatrice of a lapdog. “Promise.”

She groaned. “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” It would have been nice to have someone on the inside. But only if Beatrice could get back inside. Perhaps Clay was getting fattened up for the company picnic? The notion was both an exciting and a disturbing one. Despite how skinny he was, he’d still be a better choice than Sir Hammerlock. 

Clay smiled as if smiling came easily to him. “Really? Thanks, that’s pretty cool of you.”

“Yep.” Defeated, Beatrice put her helmet back over her head. “That’s if they don’t move you first.”

“Move me where?” Clay asked, still smiling. “Where even am I? Is this not like some sort of rich people prison?”  

Beatrice found herself smiling beneath the visor, wondering if he was ignorant or just stupid. “I think it’s best you find out by yourself.”

The gullible guard came back a few moments later, and insisted on taking Beatrice back to the service corridor, much to her relief. During the short walk she learnt that his name was Frank, he had three kids and the upper management was insisting for him to stay underground. For once she was grateful for her job. At least she got to see the sunlight. 

With the advantage of the helmet’s functioning visor, navigating the hallways became a lot less daunting. The doorway to hard disposal clearly illuminated, the room inside was empty safe for a series of small doors built into the wall, each with an identical pin pad on the side. They reminded Beatrice of dumbwaiters. 

Not sure what to do, she opened one up, which revealed a space just large enough for a person. She typed in the pin instructed, Level 13.5, E-6, and watched the ‘Ready’ button light up. “ Please insert material.”

Seeing no other route, Beatrice climbed in, swinging the door closed after herself. 

She waited. Even when accustomed to the claustrophobic passages of the Jakobs Manor the dumbwaiter was a bit much . Its confined space made Beatrice feel like she was in an incinerator. All of the sudden, it sounded like one too. For a split second light erupted behind her eyelids and just like that she was in the darkness again. It was over before she had time to even feel afraid.

The dumbwaiter door chimed and opened, revealing what was definitely not the room she had been in before. Cautiously, she stepped out into a dark space, her visor providing a rudimentary amount of night vision to confirm that she was now in a much filthier part of the Lawns. 

A pang of astonishment seized her. Had she just… teleported? Recalling an echonet imageboard thread of teleportation mishaps, Beatrice hurriedly checked her person. Her body was fully intact, so were her fingers, and she wasn’t missing any teeth. Satisfied, Beatrice took in her surroundings.  

The air was even cooler there. Probably devoid of any life support as if some middle manager decided it wasn’t worth it. While it was in her best interest for the place to be empty Beatrice wondered why it had not been repurposed for something else. 

With the flick of a light switch, yellow light sluggishly flooded the open floorspace for the first time in what must have been years. There was an office with dusty chairs and desks and rotting old stationery still littering the moldy carpet. One side of the wall was loaded with lockers, some swinging open. A great notice board dominated the far back wall above the door labelled with a director’s plaque. “Margaret Jakobs” It read, in golden cursive.

Trying the handle didn’t work. Craining her neck, Beatrice examined the notice board. The barely illuminated letters flickered on a black background, surviving on whatever dredges of backup power the department must have provided.  

SCHEDULED CHECK-IN 775: DELAYED

SCHEDULED CHECK-IN 776: DELAYED

SCHEDULED CHECK-IN 777: DELAYED

SCHEDULED CHECK-IN 778: DELAYED

MESSAGE: TOGETHER AGAIN

SCHEDULED CHECK-IN 779: COMPLETE

PROJECT STATUS UPDATE: FINAL COMPLETION DATE SET

PROJECT COMPLETION ESTIMATE: -24D 7H 45M

Nothing new appeared on the board. Her neck started to protest when the 45 turned into a 44. Feeling mildly spooked, Beatrice turned her attention to the lockers. She noisily took out her ring of keys, debating which end to start on. Pop’s locker key had been lost, but she had her mother’s, which she still kept as a memento.

Dust muffled all movement as Beatrice trailed her hand along the locker doors, following the row until she came across number 78, matching the key. She stood over it for a moment, letting the reality sink in. The locker next to it hung open, its barren insides hinting at cold disappointment.

“Please don’t be empty.” She whispered to the humble metal door as she tried the lock. The key fit and twisted seamlessly. The locker door swung open with an unceremonious creak followed by a waft of stale air. The shelves were over-stacked with paperwork, and several stacks tumbled over onto her head, disintegrating in mid-air like dandruff.

She shook it off. The approaching dawn above ground nagged the back of her mind as she reached for a loose folder. It crumbled between her fingers. So was the case with the next one and the next. Each handful of paper-mache memories dug up the reality that Eden-6 had beaten her to the punch.

Before heading out, Beatrice promised herself she wouldn’t cry no matter what happened. Cry tears of sadness, or happiness, or nostalgia, anything but the hot choking rage she was feeling right now. 

“No, no no no.”

She kicked the locker, the sound startling nobody. A rain of paper poured over her shoulders as she sank to the floor, defeated. There was nothing there, nothing to prove. Not even enough to trigger the nepotism clause. Her future was gone, just like her Family. 

She punched the locker again just because she could. Something hard and heavy bounced against her helmet, landing between her knees. It was a metal lockbox, unlabelled and rusty, much like everything else. Its latch had broken in the fall, depositing a plastic-wrapped package. If she hadn’t been wearing her helmet, she surely would have died, like the old groundskeeper did that one time when a jabber hit him with a plant pot.  

With bated hope Beatrice unwrapped the plastic tarp, breath catching in her throat as she carefully removed the first object: An echo log. Perfectly untouched and mold-free. 

She turned it carefully in her clumsy gloves. The log was labeled with a hand-written sticker: “First words.”

A triumphant laugh slipped from her mouth at the words. She giggled like a maniac, pulling out the next log. “First steps,” Said the faded label on its spine.

The third thing wasn’t an echo log at all but something more pointy. Getting it out the tarp was tricky as the lights above flickered. Beatrice only partially paid attention, examining the device. It was no bigger than an echo, with a fold-out antenna and a confusing nest of cables in the back. The front had two exposed dials and a red switch which she traced with her thumb, debating whatever or not to press it. 

She never got around to that. There was a movement in the corner of her eye, just where her helmet cut off her vision. Beatrice jumped, clutching the device close to her chest. All her excitement drained from her body, replaced by cold fear. Her rationale told her that it could have been a stray hair or one of those black blobs that she could see after pulling all-nighters. Her instinct told her she was right to be afraid.

Turning until she was facing back in the direction of the dumbwaiter-teleporter thingy, Beatrice held her breath. The corridor beyond was just as she had left it; yellow and gross until her eyes focused on an angular shape poking out from behind the corner. It definitely hadn’t been there before. 

It was too far to see its details but she could make out two black pinpricks attached to what looked like bulbous brown root. It wasn’t until it moved, just slightly, that Beatrice realised she was looking at a face. 

“Woo hoo!”

Several things happened at once. The lights went off, plunging the space into darkness. And then something was running towards her, each step akin to the slap of a bare foot on a linoleum floor. Beatrice screamed, tripping and falling onto her back.

The shuffling intensified… closer and closer and closer. Step and step and another step of an uncertain shuffling gait. Beatrice crawled backwards, until her back hit a desk. She was sure that if not for the helmet she would be able to feel it’s hyperventilating, hissing breath against her face.

Something grabbed her ankle, pulling with unprecedented strength. Beatrice kicked at it in a blind frenzy, striking something hard. “Fuck off!” She swung her fist in its general direction with all her strength. Her knuckles made contact with something soft that crumpled like styrofoam under the impact. 

It yowled, somewhere between a person crossed with a cat. Beatrice turned and ran, pushing chairs aside until she dived under a desk. The monster moaned and sobbed somewhere further off. She hoped it hadn’t seen her.  

Beatrice curled up into a fetal position, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom as the suit’s visor did its work. She calculated her chances of survival, dreadfully aware that she was bad at math. There was no telling what that thing was or what its purpose was, for that matter. It definitely wasn’t any form of wildlife that she knew of. 

Whatever it was, it had now begun shuffling around somewhere in the darkness. Looking for her, probably. It sounded excited , babbling and muttering like it was talking to itself as it flipped over furniture. 

Beatrice bided her time until a chair landed not a few feet away from her with a racket. She squeezed her lips together and breathed through her nose to keep calm. She wished she had brought a gun. Or two guns. Something big was thrown against the locker wall, the metallic resounding boom shook the air. Beatrice scowled, clutching her helmet to block out the noise ineffectively. Maybe someone would hear them and come to the rescue?

“Uh, mmmnnn, mnnnn…” The thing babbled like a toddler trying to form words. 

She would have to make a run for it. The thing didn’t seem terribly fast if its clicky shuffling was anything to go by. Beatrice waited until another desk was flipped and ran in the opposite direction of the noise along the barely visible row of lockers.

The door to her mother’s locker was still open. She gave it one last fleeting look and hurried past into the adjoining corridor, which she had yet to explore. There, she crawled under another heavy-duty door, which was propped up by a single crate. She kicked it loose, slamming the heavy steel shut, almost trapping her foot. 

The steel thumped behind her, over and over. The monster’s whines were muffled by the door. With the suit weighing her down, Beatrice breathlessly jogged down the corridor in a panic. 

There was another door ahead; the helmet-vision sign above it spelling ‘Emergency Exit.’ She dashed towards it, squeezing herself in the doorframe, out of eyeshot. The thumping had now changed to the screech of metal, the scampering sound growing louder. 

Beatrice imagined the thing wrenching the door open as she felt around for a handle.

There was a DNA scanner embedded in the wall. With trembling hands, Beatrice dug through the many pockets of her suit, pulling out her father’s handkerchief. She pressed it against the panel, praying. 

“ Signature uncertain .” A red light buzzed above the sign, denying entry. 

“Fuck.” She was NOT going to die here. 

She tried again. “ Signature uncertain .” 

In one last ditch effort, Beatrice pulled off the glove of her suit, mushing her bare palm against the scanner. It slid down the panel with the help of her sweat with a squeak.

“Please work, god please work.” 

The unearthly murmur of her pursuer could barely be heard over the rushing of blood in her ears. 

A green light lit up above the panel with an adjoining ding. “ Signature Accepted .”

The door swung open, leading her to a spiral staircase, which she scaled without much thought. The suit felt heavier the further up she got; she grit her teeth and ignored it, putting one foot in front of the other. The whole frame shook under her step, the metal moaning in complaint until her head hit a hatch in the ceiling. In the near darkness, she felt what must have been a handle and yanked on it with all her strength. It twisted, popping the seal open with a rush of air.  

The staircase shook under her feet with an additional load. 

Beatrice threw her weight against the hatch, feeling it give away until she was crawling out into familiar reddish mud. The hatch slammed closed behind her.

It had a handle on the outside, and after locking it, she crawled on top for good measure. If the thing could figure out how a light switch worked, it could probably use a handle.

Beatrice didn’t know how long she lay there like that, with her ear pressed against the thick steel, until she convinced herself that her pursuer was gone.

Feeling safe, she ripped the fogged-up helmet off her head and gulped in lungfuls of fresh air. The forest around was alive with the familiar sounds of life. After stashing the suit in a dead tree stump nearby she was finally calm enough to take a hold of her bearings.

In the distance, the lights of the Jakobs Estate twinkled merrily. The first rays of the sun were starting to extinguish the stars around them. Beatruce shivered, mourning the suit. It was cold. While she was not completely lost, it was still surprising how far off from the Manor the Lawns had managed to spit her out. To avoid unnecessary questions, she dialed back along the main road to make it seem like she had been visiting Town. She’d set up an alibi later, if necessary.  

No living soul bothered her on the way back, as was usual for early dawn. Even the jabbers were hiding, probably huddling somewhere to avoid the chill.

The man at the gate tipped his hat at her with a knowing smile. Beatrice waved back, knowing she probably looked like she’d slept in her clothes. It wasn’t uncommon for the Manor’s residents to stumble back after a night out.   

Being back in her bedroom felt as surreal as being in the Underground Lawns. Beatrice knew she should have been tired, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. She examined the thing she had snagged from her mother’s locker, turning it between her numb fingers. Up close, one dial was labeled with numbers while the other was labeled with letters. AM, FM, MM, and EM. 

The larger dial was a bit rusty and took a good amount of arm strength but eventually she was able to turn it to ‘FM’. A faint crackle emerged from the speaker. The sound was akin to that of her headphones not functioning properly. 

AM proved the same: useless static.

She twisted to MM. The speaker crackled before a voice came through, clear as day.

“What does it do? What is it picking up?” 

Confused, Beatrice fiddled with the antenna, pointing it away from her. The voice suddenly stopped. She pointed it back at herself.

“... What’s the point of it? ” It took her a moment to recognize the voice as her own. “Do I sound like that? ” Said both her and the device at the same time.

“Woah.” That was…cool.

She pointed it away from herself again, pointing at a different spot on a wall. 

“I ain’t got time to shave or nothin. It’s cold, again, maybe we get to have grits for breakfast? I do like em grits.”

Beatrice giggled at the sound of the bellboy’s voice. The device could work through walls, apparently. 

Beatrice twisted the left knob to EM and heard more static. 

A woman’s voice was barely audible through the interference. The fact that she was whispering didn’t help. “...Too late...Near and the eyes open…final message…heed.closed….love you all.” 

Beatrice frowned at the speaker. It definitely picked up a message of some kind. But who was the intended recipient? It was also not as cool as the mind-reading ray. Nothing could top that. 

She played around with the device for a bit longer, thinking about who to use it on first. The possibilities were endless. The two Jakobs patriarchs were the obvious first choice. Out of the two, Wainwright would probably be the more boring one. Montgomery thought of annihilating civilizations on a daily basis, or at least Beatrice believed he did. If she could know what he was thinking, it would probably be easy to get on his good side, ergo, an early promotion.  

Beatrice briefly considered showing it to him but quickly refuted the idea. Revealing that she had the device meant that she would have to explain where she got it, and how. 

Perhaps the device was one of many knocking around the abandoned office in the underground lawns. There had been more unopened lockers stacked down there.

Beatrice turned to the echo logs. She wasn’t ready for them yet, and the working day was now upon her. It was best to wait until the evening fall. Still, she examined her ma’s writing for a long while, eventually tucking the tapes into the back of her wardrobe with utmost care. Family movies, undoubtedly. The thought made her want to face the Lawns again.

The day seemed brighter as she got ready for her day. She skipped breakfast and went to watch the grounds from the westmost turret.

The last of the dry season sun warmed her face as she listlessly watched the satellite hang, forever suspended. It was quiet enough up there to consider grave robbing the Underground Lawns

She once heard a logger at the tavern in Town say that a dead man’s things were another man’s treasure. The creature down there would prove an issue. She tightened her hand into a fist, recalling the cold feel of the creature’s flesh beneath it. If it could be hurt, it most certainly could be killed. 

Backup was required. Beatrice chewed on the inside of her cheek, watching Mr. Kassidy attempt to climb a tree. It was kind of cute, in a really weird way. His arms flailed like a demented spider trapped in a bathtub. The groundskeeper eventually brought him a ladder, which somewhat fixed the situation. The man had seemed so composed the morning before.

A darker thought materialised in her mind, one which had her knowing the things that people didn’t want her knowing. A world in which she held secrets like stepping stones to a future her parents were supposed to provide her with. Was that what the device was? An heirloom long overdue it’s gifting date? 

Perhaps she could get one of the other apprentices to help. Jimmy and Kyle. And maybe, with luck, the thing in the lawns would eat Jimmy,