“Does ‘bear’ mean something?” Sissix asked. The Ensk word stuck out awkwardly in Klip, especially with Sissix’s accent. “What’s a bear?”
Ashby started walking. He nodded down toward the hulking, hairy man crushing their mech tech in his massive arms. “That’s a bear.”
“Welcome to Cricket!” Bear called out, giving them a wave. He was friendly, at least.
Ashby extended his hand once he cleared the stairs. “Hi there. Ashby Santoso.”
“Ah, the captain!” Bear shook Ashby’s hand. Ashby tried not to stare at his other arm, the one with the wires and scars. “Kizzy speaks very highly of you.”
Kizzy blushed. “Shh,” she said. “He’ll think I asked you to butter him up.”
“You must be Sissix,” Bear said, reaching out to shake her claws. “It’s nice to meet you.” He stared at her, holding her hand a little too long. He gave his head a shake, as if waking himself up. “I’m really sorry,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I don’t get off-world much, and we don’t get a lot of other species out here.”
“That’s all right,” said Sissix, looking a little confused. She probably hadn’t even noticed that the handshake was too long.
“And…” Bear thought for a moment. “Rosie? Is that right?”
“Rosemary,” she said with a smile, shaking his hand.
“Rosemary. Got it. Hey, did I see you walk away from the AI just a little bit ago?”
“Yeah. Sure isn’t cheap to dock here.”
Bear shook his head. “I’ll get that credited back to you. This jokester named Mikey set that thing up just to make some quick creds from offworlders who don’t know better. It’s a total scam. I’ll tell him you guys are family. It’s close enough to the truth.”
“Aww,” said Kizzy, giving him a squeeze.
“Alright, everybody pile in,” Bear said. “I hope you don’t mind getting a bit cozy.” The skiff was not built for five passengers (especially one with a tail), but with a bit of wiggling and rearranging, they managed to cram themselves into the dirty, dented vehicle. “Kizzy, travel music, if you would.” Bear directed her to a makeshift sound system that consisted of a hacked scrib and three small speakers held down with industrial bolts. The size of the speakers was deceptive. Everybody jumped as the first violent strains of some charthump band emerged with a roar. The three techs gave one another a satisfied nod, and the skiff tore off.
Between the throbbing music and the air rushing past, there wasn’t much room in the skiff for conversation. Ashby watched the world go by from his cramped seat. He had thought upon arrival that perhaps a proper colony might be hiding somewhere behind one of the towering cliffs, but no, Cricket was an empty moon. Craggy expanses of dust and rock stretched on and on, punctuated by the occasional bunker-like homestead. Stubborn succulents peeked out here and there, but Ashby saw no signs of farming—nor water sources, for that matter. There had to be water somewhere. Agreeable gravity and a tolerable atmosphere wasn’t enough to warrant a colony, not unless you had the means to import water from off-world. From the little he had seen, he didn’t think the people of Cricket were quite that well-to-do.
Off in the distance, something scurried into a crack in the ground. The skiff was moving too quickly for Ashby to get a good look, but whatever it was had been big, about the size of a large dog. Perhaps Bear’s rocket launcher wasn’t just for show.
The skiff followed a curving road up one of the cliffs. The road was wide enough for the skiff, but barely. Ashby glanced over the edge, and immediately regretted it. Like many lifelong spacers, Ashby didn’t care much for heights on land. Looking down at a planet from orbit was no problem, because out there, falling meant floating. If you took a long fall inside a ship—say, down the engine shaft on a big homesteader—you’d have enough time to shout the word “falling!” This would prompt the local AI to turn off the adjacent artigrav net. Your descent would abruptly end, and you’d be free to drift over to the nearest railing. You’d piss off anyone in the vicinity who’d been drinking mek or working with small tech parts, but it was a fair price to pay for staying alive (the “falling” safety was also popularly exploited by kids, who found the sudden reversal in gravity within a crowded walkway or a classroom to be the height of hilarity). But planetside, there was no artigrav net. Even a drop of a dozen feet could mean death, if you landed wrong. Ashby didn’t care much for gravity that couldn’t be turned off.
As they rounded a corner, a homestead appeared, built on a flat outcrop. A tall sheet metal fence surrounded all but the overhang, protecting the building within. The skiff passed through an automated gate, and the homestead came fully into view. It had been constructed, in part, from a small cargo ship, grounded forever. A drab dwelling was conjoined at its side, like a bulbous sprout unfolding from an ugly seed. A receiver dish was stuck atop the roof, alongside a blinking light meant to shoo away flying vehicles. A safe distance from the homestead, two delivery drones rested on their launch pad. There was an industrial, fortress-like quality to the place, but there was something endearing about the all-too-Human workmanship.
“Home sweet home,” Bear said, parking beside a second skiff. “Let’s get inside. Oh, you can take your masks off out here. There’s a shield covering everything within the fence, and we fill the pocket inside with breathable air.” He slipped the mask from his face. “Ahh. That’s better.”
Ashby unfolded himself from the back seat. Sissix groaned. “My tail’s asleep,” she said, wincing as she flicked it from side to side.
They followed Bear to the front door of the homestead. Ashby noticed a huge trash bin beside the building, so full that the lid was bulging open. He squinted. Atop the mechanical junk was a piece of some sort of organic husk, brittle and translucent. It reminded him of the insect casings he’d seen in Dr. Chef’s kitchen trash. Only bigger. A lot bigger.
“Wow,” said Rosemary, looking up at the homestead walls. “Did you build this place yourself?” Ashby doubted that she’d ever seen a modder community firsthand. In some ways, he found it sweet that the galaxy was so new to her. Sweet, and a little sad. He was glad he hadn’t grown up that sheltered.
“Most of it, no,” Bear said. He pressed his mechanical palm into a panel on the wall. The entry door slid open with a thunk. “My brother and I—knock off your boots, please—bought this place about five years back. That’s what, uh… about three standards? Or something? Never can remember GC time. Anyway, it belonged to an old comp tech who decided—oh, you can hang your masks on the rack here—she decided to go live closer to her grandkids. Since there was already a workshop and lots of storage space here, wasn’t much we needed to add, just the launch pads and the receiver dish, a few comforts here and there—”
“Hello!” Another man entered the room. His uncanny resemblance to Bear made it unlikely that he was anyone but the aforementioned brother. His skin was likewise covered in dermal ports and tattoos, but his hair was tied back, his beard neatly combed. He wore a tasteful buttoned shirt over his creased pants. An optical plate covered his right eye socket. The surface of the scanner embedded within it glistened, like the inside of a shell. He, too, was armed, but his weapons were more subtle: twin energy pistols, holstered in a vest. He carried a scrib as well, held close to his side as if he had just stood up from reading. There was a distinctly academic air to the man. Ashby could tell right away that he was one of the more bookish modders, the sort who reveled in knowing obscure data and the history of invention.
“Nib!” Kizzy cheered, running in for a hug. “Oh my stars, how are you?”