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RP: 188604 Work for the Restless Wicked

The Baritone Biome Bug Prophecy

"...Special... Kettle?..." The large metal thing absorbed the information patiently, but took several paces to decipher it. They distinctly took a moment away from their work and pivoted on the spot, landing cross-legged with enough force to shake the dirt. "Night? Soil? Man?~"

It wasn't just the metal poisoning that was a problem. The Lament's life support systems were utterly ruined by that fire... But this planet has a life support system, of sorts, doesn't it? The mothership had acres of untapped corridor farmland to exploit, too. The rampant mushroom outbreak within the interior needn't be the only biome.

"Mhhhmmmmmm~" It was a weighty electronic baritone, actually the sound of Truffleclub deciding what they could give in return for more help. It was an odd situation indeed. These rough-around-the-edges shortfolk were not exactly the most obvious business partners... But, perhaps, the tall thing just enjoyed the fascination in their eyes. "If you taking me see these places, is... Truffleclub can also be giving bits..."

Another pivot, back to it's feet. Using the anti-gravity motors so intuitively made the giant just drag around like a marionette on occasion. It was retrieving something from some of the large plastic supply crates on the far side of the pitch, marked in some kind of binary scribblings. Two bent metal cans were retrieved, little but shiny stubs in the rusty creature's formidable hands.

"This one... Hydru-carb-on macheen lubree-cation... Is very useful?... Is Cloudy... is muchly liking?" Nothing like good motor oil. Kids like motor oil, right?... "Second one is... Syn-tet-tic glu-cose jell-iee.... You eat?... Kind of useless, if honest... Just sugar, but... Lasts muchly long time, is?..."

The second can actually really confused Cloudy, now that they had a closer look at it. The animal depicted was just a crude cartoon, but... How could it possibly have a picture of the I'ee on it!?...

Was this some kind of sign?
 
Gut-Stripe's reaction to the little black device amused Corgan, and he laughed. Even Gut-Stripe could be cute, apparently. He noticed the lull in their conversation and decided now was a good time. "I had an idea, mostly cause I hate all this sitting around while everyone else is doing something important. You got your deputies, Ace has his snipe hunt, Cyrus and Raph have their own thing.." He trailed off, having lost his original point somewhere.

The Nepleslian seemed a little nervous, which was out of character. "Anyway, we've got soldiers and ships, but no cavalry to speak of. What I want is to correct that. We've got control of Osman City, but that isn't enough. After you finish building Uso's fleet, I want you to build me some vehicles. I'm going to establish Ragnarok's mechanized cavalry. Shouldn't even need to be heavily armored with the shitty tech here." He said hopefully. The Spacers were supposed to be pacifist so he wasn't sure she would do it. Not to mention he didn't exactly have much to offer her in exchange.
 
Blobjects, Bargains and Justifying Cracky Weaponised Cars:

"There's a physical jack in the bottom." Arccos says rather unhelpfully. The thing has no real shape or form to it beyond a human hand-shaped imprint on it. Whatever part was the top or bottom; probably entirely imagined by Arccos. "You can use a cable, or if you have the right communications protocol you can connect to it wirelessly. It should automatically install its own drivers to whatever you hook it up to, provided you have the right operating system... If you're having problems, get your IT I'ee to get in touch with me."

In reality, Arccos had no idea what sort of system compatibility issues the wasps would have. But some mean part of her felt no real guilt in thinking that she would charge Gut-Stripe in particular for coding a proper communications protocol between what she'd been using, and whatever the I'ee had... She probably wouldn't ask for that much...

And then she got distracted by Corgan. Looking him in the faceplate of his armor in thought for a second.

"You realize of course you're asking Freespacers to make you ground vehicles..." Arccos stopped again. The entire prospect of it seemed to have her mind caught in a web. "I mean, we might have some sort of tech in that department. I'd need to either get my hands on schematics for the things, or link up a polysentience connection to those enclaves some 'spacers set up on terrestrial worlds after Yamatai glassed Freehold..."

She looked around at the junker above her as it finished up the last plate of Gut-Stripe's armor. The things certainly had the equipment needed to put together... What were they called? Cars?

"Until then, we're probably stuck just... I don't know. Uso bought all those cars to strip them of their generators to turn into bombs. We can put in a different power source, then reinforce them? Won't be pretty but I'm sure you can find a way to get it all working."

Mystery Space Can Roulette, and Meet the Pooplord:

The two little'uns seem to perk up at the prospect of making even more profit. By all accounts it seemed that they'd decided that the really big space-man was okay! They both give some sort of unintelligible chattering of agreement and each take a can, one whipping out a little pocket knife and punching a hole in the top of both. One after the other. And then they go on to prove two things: Kids do seem to like engine oil. They also seem to not be that intelligent without the learning vats.

They both take a can and take a swig, resulting in one giving a little squeak of happiness as they tip the can back further to suck more liquid sugar from it. The other gags and spits a black spray of lubricant over the other one. Soon after, they both seem to have devolved into a fit of giggles over it. A little while later, they both look up at Truffleclub.

"I'm Lundy," The one in the cavalryman's cap introduces themself, then the other "An' that's Mizzie. We'll take you!"

The one called Mizzie raises their grubby hand, still spitting out some black gunk onto the sand. Lundy takes Truffleclub by a single finger, and starts tugging the behemoth along with them... Well, they actually in no way had the strength to pull Truffleclub around, but a deal was a deal. Truffleclub gets taken out for a trip through the city, eventually being led towards the inner parts of Former Osman. Not the burnt out slums by the eastern city limits, or the richer parts near the Green Sea's shores.

This was the part of town where people went to work. Much of it had been harshly effected by the invasion, stores abandoned when their owners never returned, markets depopulated... But parts of it were too crucial to sit down. And after a trip where the two urchins share the can of liquid sugar, they finally pull out little handkerchiefs (that are almost certainly pickpocketed) and clutch them to their faces. They lead Truffleclub down an alleyway between two buildings marked as being part of "Wolcroft's Tannery", however the alley itself had the words "Fallon's Night Soil Collection" painted messily on the wall, pointing back between the tanners.

Down inside, the alley has a short line of men smeared in brown stains and leading small carts which haul biological digestive biproducts. Fires burn on mud-brick stoves, with huge numbers of small corroded iron pots and kettles bubbling away on top. Apparently this was somehow the city's alternative to plumbing. A dedicated workforce that dug out outhouses, stables and ditches the city over... But at least they seemed to be recycling everything they could, in their own way. The muck seemed to be sifted through by men with pitchforks, and mixed with algae scraped from the little boilers. In the end it all was added to a huge mound of fertilizer being sold out the back end of the other alley.

They all uneasily shift at the presence of a giant automata, but one man steps out from the office. A haggard old fellow, dressed in a stained apron and long gloves. A dented top-hat perched upon his head.

"Fallon!" Mizzie chirps, "The spacemen wants to talk 'bout greenfeed!"

For Fallon's part, however, he just looked up like a man who had waded through a probably literal ocean of bullshit and come out knowing the universal truth: Everyone poops, thus everyone needs Fallon.

"Spacemen want fertilizer to garden with, eh? Or are you trying to get collections set up?"
 
Astray In Translation

"My name Cloudy Truffleclub. Muchly making aquantunce." A formal introduction, arms crossing. "I do not poop."

Mizzie and Lundy had a lot to teach the automata about language, at least. It was the most informative response they could give.

Leaning inward to avoid damaging the low brickwork archway, a low humming tone notified a certain amount of indecision over what could be done here. A machine with a brain that ran on yee olde magnetic disks was trying to decide how safe this material was around food... Material that was destined not for itself, but for people even less pollution-tolerant than their race of origin. A lot could go wrong.

"When... Grow with... Being safe to eat, is?..." They regarded the rather haggard-looking man with outstretched fingers, through the gestures didn't really add much. "Deal, can make, is... I see you little boiler... I am giving you very big boiler?"

Stage one was to understand exactly how the whole system worked. Stage two was to find a way to automate that system within the ship's hull.... Perhaps simply hiring the man would not be such a bad idea... If they showed the fellow a little space, surely, they would see how pointless and messy planets were?

Use your words, Cloudy.

"I am wanting you be friend, is. I am wanting make deal with you, is. Very good, both, freind Fallon Greenfeed."
 
Fallon's Fertilizer:

The old man in the top hat gives it a little raise over his head, exposing a bald spot for a moment in greeting. As he does, he waves his other hand indicating to his various workers that there is nothing to worry about and that work should continue.

"Safe to eat, hm?" Fallon seems to think on it. It seemed weird that he could almost perfectly understand Truffleclub's stilted speech... Then again, his familiarity with children in the business, and the kind of work somehow indicated that this was likely the unfortunate place where the developmentally challenged wound up making their pay in this city. A shovel didn't need a keen intellect to be used.

"Very few can claim to grow crops anymore. They say in the old legends that when the first men on this world settled, they tried to make the land a paradise of green leaves and sparkling blue water. Then they ballsed it up, and turned the water green, which made it too salt for anything to grow from it. There's even salt in the rain these days."

The haggard king of muck waves Cloudy over behind his little office, nearer the piles of finished greenfeed. On the rear wall, so it is visible to customers, he proves to have what looks like a small garden contained in individual portions. Single potted plants sitting on a rack to keep the bottom of the thing out of a pool of water at the bottom, each contained under a glass dome misted with condensation on interior. Truffleclub could spot that it was a way of purifying salt water, and keeping the plants watered at the same time. Salt water was put in the bottom dish, and the heat from the sun would slowly evaporate it up to condense on the dome, where the pure water would drip down to keep the plants healthy. Salt could then be collected from the bottom dish.

All in all, the little greenhouses seemed to be very good growing conditions for lemons.

"Most of it is flowers, Osman Indigo. Worth a pretty profit on the dye market." Fallon explains, shuffling over to lift a larger dome up from one platter which had a different plant on it. A short, almost bonsai-grown thorny bush covered in little purple-black berries, Fallon kneels down with an uncomfortable groan and offers Lundy and Mizzie a pick at it.

"These, however... Are safe to eat. You'll want to wash them first if they grow too close to the ground, but that's normal. So Greenfeed is safe. I'm not so sure on a boiler though. We had a big one years ago, but it rusted through since we work with salt water. Smaller ones are easier to replace when they corrode out. But if you have some sort of way around that I'm listening."
 
"I see.", Gut-Stripe responded, placing the object to one side so that she could begin re-equipping her now-repaired armour. "Thank you for fixing my armour. I shall return this device to our engineers and see what we can make of it. I trust I can return to you for assistance if we need it?" The I'ee warrior worked quickly, and was soon bedecked in her golden armour once more, fitting the helmet in place and taking the small device in hand once more. After getting a reply from Arccos, Gut-Stripe simply nodded to her and Corgan, then took her leave, heading out through the door and out into the sun.
 
Negotiations Sans Mindware

Truffleclub followed the old man ponderously through the workshop, absorbing information wordlessly, even through they had to clamber on all fours on occasion. Arccos had told them these little rock formation 'walls' were actually built on purpose, so it was probably for the best if the giant stopped walking through them like so many houses of cards.

Watching Lundy and Mizzle eat the berries was a pretty good proof of concept. On top of that, the little violet-leaved plants were captivating. The giant lifted one of the miniature kettles from a cleaning hanger, brushing their fingers along the material for a moment, before coming to the conclusion that the weight and pitted nature suggested it was simple cast iron.

"...Flow-ers?..." Half trying to remember the word, half showing that they were paying attention. They liked talking to people, but Fallon was a lot better at it than they were. "I can give you titanium vessel, is no rust, not breaking..."

What could they even offer this man, in the long run, through? Stainless steel? That couldn't even be welded, otherwise it would rust anyway? Wrought iron could work. But these people did not seem like the sort of folk who knew what rolled metal and riveted sheets were... The simple blunt end of the matter had only just began to strike the robot's dull mind. These people had nothing.

Worse than that, any hunk of space-tech they dumped on the situation could mean putting half of these folks out of the job, if they weren't careful. Or somebody else could decide they needed it more.

"Mister Fallon, is? You want come look? You want, telling this one, how build big place?" Truffleclub put one finger on the bud of a flower, but it only seemed to reaffirm how soft and delicate the wispy little thing was. "I pay you big, big boiler... You no like, you say no deal, is... But still get boiler? Then only little boiler trade."

This was a better way to help. They didn't have mindware, that was the problem. So the automata could just expose them to the ideas, at least. They had let the children walk them over in order to get a better look at the situation, but flying with an adult could cut the time into nothing, too.
 
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Fallon's Input:

"If you can make a big boiler that don't rust, it sounds like a good deal to me. But I'm not so sure what you mean by build a big place." Fallon inquired, seemingly with a lot more patience than a harsh trenchmaster might be expected to have. He replaces the little glass bubble over the little berry bush, replacing it on his shelves with the others in the sun.

"I can provide you with enough greenfeed to do what you need to do. Once 'pon the time we provided the local Nobles with greenfeed for their greenhouses." He sets to working while he talks, taking a couple of his larger pots out and starting to take cuttings from his Osman Indigos. "They'd grow mountain flowers, and keep little blood trees. Grow them into sculptures. Time was that the most beautiful thing on this world was those gardens. 'Course half those folks are dead now. Rest have fled. The glass houses are smashed and full of sand too."

Fallon's cuttings are delicate and swift. It wouldn't be immediately obvious looking at him, but he seemed to have a real green thumb when it came to these things. Before long, he'd arranged another pot, topping it with a mixture of greenfeed and some of the harsh dirt from the mountains. In time it would turn into more fertile soil as the bacteria did its work with the salt-reduced Algaeia...

The old man turned and offered up his prepared pot. Portions of little blue flowers cut from one bush, and grafted into the soil of this harsh world. Flowers growing from filth and hardship... "Here. A gift."
 
Corgan replied, "I still have to finalize the details with Cyrus. I haven't exactly asked his permission yet. After all, I will probably need some of his men to help me out. Can't exactly pacify the planet by myself. Uso seems to be too busy fighting the MMX right now to do much about the rebels and bandits. I got a substantial payment from Uso already so, I plan on ordering some salvage from second chance salvage. Hopefully, I will get enough pieces to assemble a vehicle for myself, but I don't exactly have the skills for that kind of thing."

He stroked the growth of facial hair on his chin while he considered the options. "Say, maybe I can get myself some of that fancy Mindware you guys have. Your robot friend there can do that kind of thing, right? Although he seems kind of wonky. Maybe the doctor could supervise just in case someone goes awry." He didn't even seem to notice that Gut-Stripe had left the room. It was clear this was something he had been thinking about for a while.

Since coming to this world he was beginning to feel a little bit useless. Sure, he had the ambassador thing, but he wasn't really interested in that job, to begin with. He just stumbled into it by chance. Now, he actually had a plan and a purpose in mind. "I don't think it would be too hard for Uso to get you some schematics. Cyrus might even be able to help with that. I really just need your manufacturing capabilities. And your company." He said. "You're pretty much the only friend here that I have besides Cyrus and the wasp guy Sammy. And Ragna-dog of course, but he can't talk. Unless you spacers have some tech capable of teaching a dog to talk."

Corgan sounded like he was getting sentimental. He wanted to say more to her but he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Instead, he just sighed and looked out the window. "So what do you need me to do? I have my armor so the radiation shouldn't bother me too much. I guess Truffleclub would be more help than me but I'll do what I can to help. "
 
Corgan Makes Big Decisions:

"Well I found it's better to ask forgiveness than ask for permission when it comes to Cyrus. He did say he wanted everyone to have their own battalion, or something like that... He'd be more pleased as long as you say it's to be a part of Ragnarok." Arccos said, watching Gut-Stripe go with a little smile and a wave. Almost the moment Gut-Stripe left, the smile disappeared completely. Seemed she didn't like that wasp so much.

"Actual mechanics and such, you're best off getting your own. People to work on your stuff, my guys are mine and I'm formally detached from Ragnarok at this point in time. Not a good thing to have two groups be co-dependent."

And then Corgan said something about Mindware. Arccos paused, trying to juggle all sorts of different tasks at once. Gut-stripe was gone, Truffleclub had wandered off... So it was just her, Corgan, the junkers and a bunch of scavengers trading in materials here now. Half of that was being handled by the junker reception.

"I'm about all for mindware, but I have to tell you that it's of pretty limited utility out in these parts." Arccos tapped her head, "Without a stable polysentience connection, or an InterNEP bootstrapper you're stuck with remembering stuff you've seen better, or mentally linking up with me."

Arccos dropped her little datapad on to a workbench, stepping over to Corgan and rising to her full height from the slight slouch she normally walked with. Half leaning against Corgan, she pressed her forehead against his. He'd be able to feel the slight movement of air from her breathing, and the unusually high heat of her skin.

"Question there is if you want my head in yours..." She held the position, looking him straight in the eye... It was almost intimate. "I need you to clean out the reactor. Power armor's got to do it, it's so radioactive that even Truffleclub would get fried."
 
Is It A Crush?

"You're right, I should probably get some of my own guys. I used to know a guy on Nepleslia back when I was in a gang. They probably still want to kill me back there, for what I did to 14k." Corgan replied.

He hadn't actually considered the lack of a reliable connection out this far from civilized space. That was something else he might need to ask Uso about. He almost missed the part about linking up with her mentally. Would she be able to see his thoughts? She might be shocked by what he thought about her. Or maybe shocked that he didn't have purely sexual thoughts about her like other women. He wanted something different out of his interactions with her.

Her sudden proximity was making him nervous. It probably felt much more intimate to him. The feeling was pretty nice, and he was starting to feel very warm suddenly, and not just from her temperature. "I don't think it would be so bad.. You're the only person I would even think about letting in there." He realized he wasn't breathing for some reason and took a deep breath. His heart was racing.

Corgan wanted badly to put his arms around her, but he was worried she would get angry. "Right.. The reactor, uh.. Sure. I can do that for you. Come on, man, just do your job, he told himself. He didn't really want to move at all right now. So he just waited for her to move or to say something.
 
Arccos pulled away. Stepping over towards the corner where her suit of power armor was sitting at rest. Her coat, hat and boots were tossed to a side where a junker snatched them and put them into a nearby footlocker. From there she clambered into the thing and sealed it shut around her torso.

"Well some other people will be hooked up to it sooner or later. Of course there's ways to keep people out, just expect a period of adjustment..." A slight hissing noise as her helmet was sealed over her head, "If you want it done, Truffleclub can do it. It's standard Free State operations profiles. It'll also go to show the locals that we're not about to tear them apart in installing cybernetics in the little clinic over there."

Stomping feet over to the exit.

"We'll be moving the depleted reactor rods out into the quarantined hull. Once we install new rods, we'll have enough power to run the inertialess drives to lift the thing back into space. From there I can use the manufacturing plants on board as well."
 
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