What is this Mall hiding up his sleeve -other than his packet of smokes that is?
Level: 17?
Start: Gaspar Simenon, Inn, Madame de Pompadour
Introduction
The Grand Boulevard leaves the center of Pompadour with pomp and circumstance. The cobblestoned thruway travels graciously alongside the virtual Grand Canal under the eloquent auspices of patinated streetlights. Bustling citizenry, who call the city home criss-cross and overtake the throngs of tourists that the cultural center of Ross 154 attracts in droves. The slumbering bar district has just begun to wake. Groggy waitstaff sweep the sidewalks outside their establishments with absentminded brooms. The evening segments of Pompadour flicker on, like so many fireflies.
You stroll past a Mall with an enormous paunch dressed in skintight, crushed, red velvet. He juggles five bright green balls. The man is unshaven and whiskers swirl around his mouth like black waves breaking on soft rocks. A desperate cigarette dangles from wet lips -a feat of juggling in of itself.
Gaspar Simenon: Share a credit and I'll share a tip.
My God! It talks.
That may very well be the most original, enticing, well-crafted, beautiful and poignantly delivered proposition you have ever come across.
How could you possibly pass it up?
- Pass it up.
Whatever intrigue may have been hiding behind his riddles will need to wait for another day.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
His voice is higher than you’d have imagined -shrill. He draws out his vowels, and punctuates his appeal with a phlegm-filled cough. Three balls fall to the cobblestones and make their escape.
Hopefully it’s not fashion tips he’s pawning.
You have given 1.00 credit.
Me: Here you go -what's the scoop?
He’s as surprised as you are that you’ve spared a credit on him. He straightens himself, letting the other two balls drop, and takes a long drag from his cigarette.
Gaspar Simenon: Much obliged. There’s mystery down at the GIMIC mines. Intrigue! Disappearances! Magical….
He breaks off into a coughing frenzy, chipping the subtle veneer of his pitch.
Gaspar Simenon: Sorry about that -where was I? Ah yes. Magical beasts with murderous fangs! Fortune….
He takes another drag, delivering his next line with less gusto. Who could blame him? The moment has passed.
Gaspar Simenon: Fame…. Infamy…. Adventure.
Fascinating creature, unfortunately there are only so many segments in a day.
Me: So, they’re looking for help down at the Iridium Mines?
Gaspar Simenon: Yeah. Or so I hear. My cousin Marcel is the foreman. If you go down there, tell him Gaspar says that he still owes Josette a half bar of soap. That’s Josette, Claudine’s sister -not, Josette, Emile’s mother, mind. What would that woman do with soap?
He lets out a spittle-filled laugh that instantly pirlouette’s into a high-pitched coughing fit.
Me: What's the gimmick?
Your interlocutor and their cigarette look perplexed. They retort with an informed …
Gaspar Simenon: Huh?
Me: You said, "the gimmick mines".
Realization sweeps over the man -and it's not happy about it. There are cleaner individuals to sweep over.
Gaspar Simenon: Ah -I see where you went astray. My cousin Etienne made the same mistake. Mind you -he's not an educated individual such as yourself, but it goes to show you -to err is human. To forgive, now, that is the providence of the Gods. If only Etienne's wife were more forgiving, then perhaps his children would see their father more than once a cycle. Speaking of human nature, it's understandable, no? Everyone strays.
His cigarette has gone out -he searches instinctively for another.
Gaspar Simenon: Where was I?
You've taken about as much of this colorful Mall as you can take. You give him a series of polite nods, and small smiles, and slowly back away.
Whatever intrigue may have been hiding behind his riddles will need to wait for another day.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Me: Gimmicks -we were discussing gimmicks. Your cousin…
He is confused again, but his giant paws have retrieved a cigarette from a packet up his shirt sleeve. A self-satisfied grin yawns across his face. An easily satisfied individual. How nice.
Gaspar Simenon: Huh?
He is looking for a light.
Gaspar Simenon: My cousin. Yes, of course. Which one? I have thirty-three first cousins. Thirty-four actually, but no one is allowed to mention Fernand's name. My grandmother has disowned him. You wouldn't happen to have a light by any chance? Matches are harder to come by than cigarettes.
He doesn't wait for an answer to his question.
- Don't give up. Find out what he's talking about.
- Check your CORETECHS for info on GIMIC.
- Cut the conversation short.
Me: Your cousin, Etienne …
You are a horrifyingly, perfectly, patient person.
Gaspar Simenon: Ah. Yes. Etienne, he always thought there was some gimmick afoot, but it's "gimic" G-I-M-I-C. It's an acronym you see. That's a fancy word for lots of words that share one word. Sort of the way that my nieces all share one bed. Would you believe Sophie and Alban fit all six of those girls in one double bed? Mind you, it's from the Old World that beast, none of this faux wood business. Still -six in a bed. Spare a light?
Gaspar flags down a passing android, who politely obliges with the heated tip of its finger. The Mall takes a hearty, long drag. The blue smoke plumes up into the air.
Gaspar Simenon: Much obliged. Much obliged. Now, you know those fellows?
He points a hairy finger at the parting android.
- Be curt. Cut the conversation short.
- Be cheeky. Acknowledge that you know what a droid is.
- Be specific. Ask what he's talking about.
Me: Yes, I'm familiar with androids, So, they’re looking for help down at the Iridium Mines?
Gaspar Simenon: Yeah. Or so I hear. My cousin Marcel is the foreman. If you go down there, tell him Gaspar says that he still owes Josette a half bar of soap. That’s Josette, Claudine’s sister -not, Josette, Emile’s mother, mind. What would that woman do with soap?
He lets out a spittle-filled laugh that instantly pirlouette’s into a high-pitched coughing fit.
With the speed and efficiency you've come to expect from Benevolent Dynamics, your CORETECHS brings up information on GIMIC.
G.I.M.I.C. Galactic Iridium Mining Investment Corporation operates across several systems. Headquartered on Tau Station. CEO: Jasper Mavrickson. GIMIC specializes in the location, extraction and refinement of Iridium and Osmium -rare metals used in a variety of industries, but especially as superconductors.
Subscribe for more content and get access to MUM! More Unlimited Mesh. Packages start at only 75 credits a month. Fees, taxes and other made up nonsense apply. See restrictions. Please note: restrictions only available with MUM!
Me: There's work down at the GIMIC mines then I take it? That's the tip?
The Mall frowns.
Gaspar Simenon: Well, if you put it that way…. I suppose it doesn't sound all that enticing. It's all in the way you look at things isn't it? If you want your darned credit back you can have it! I don't need anyone saying that I'm hocking flimsy leads. No Ser! No thank you! You wouldn't happen to have a light would you?
You don't have time to ask for your credit back. Gaspar flags down a passing android, who politely lights the cigarette with the heated tip of its finger. The Mall takes a hearty, long drag. The blue smoke plumes up into the air.
Gaspar Simenon: Much obliged. Much obliged. Now, you know those fellows?
He points a hairy finger at the parting android.
- Be curt. Cut the conversation short.
- Be cheeky. Acknowledge that you know what a droid is.
- Be specific. Ask what he's talking about.
Me: Yes, I'm familiar with androids, robots and mechanoids endowed with simulated intelligence. Or, as you put it, "Those fellows."
Gaspar Simenon: I figured that someone such as your self would. There's some people though, who don't like those artificial fellows. My cousins say the most deplorable things about them -most uncalled for sort of things. It's best not to be a robot around those two, mind. Me, I like droids -wouldn't mind one of their lighter fingers either.
Me: Yes, I'm familiar with androids, robots and mechanoids endowed with simulated intelligence. What about them?
Gaspar Simenon: There's some people who don't like those artificial fellows. My cousins say the most deplorable things about them -most uncalled for sort of things. It's best not to be a robot around those two, mind. Me, I like droids -wouldn't mind one of their lighter fingers either.
Either choice continues:
He slaps the side of his head with his giant hand.
Gaspar Simenon: There it goes. My CORETECHS is always on the fritz. Nothing a good smack to the head won't fix.
Gaspar Simenon: Wow. Is that the time? Here we are, yapping, yapping, yapping like my Aunt Hortense, and the segments click away.
He hunts down his green balls.
Gaspar Simenon: Care for a drink? My cousin Julienne is the bartender at "Le Bon Vin".
Me: Alright. I've got a few segments to kill. Lead the way.
The giant is pleased. He offers up his great hand.
Gaspar Simenon: Gaspar Simenon. A veritable pleasure to make your acquaintance.
You return the firm handshake.
Me: Pleasure to make yours. I'm <name>.
- Keep pace with Gaspar.
Gaspar's legs sail through the evening throngs like great logs down a river.
Gaspar Simenon: One should always keep an open mind. That's what I always tell Geddy and Gunther, my cousins. When things are closed, it's hard to get in. Geddy, Gunther, and Gaspar. The 3Gs they'd call us. They're the ones who aren't too fond of those fellows. Take Le Bon Vin to illustrate my example: if the tavern is closed when we arrive, there's less chance of us getting absolutely, rip-roaringly drunk. Am I right?
This level of Cartesian philosophy is difficult to argue with.
Me: Your logic is hard to argue with. So, I'll keep an open mind and I won't.
Gaspar Simenon: I knew I liked you!
This level of Cartesian philosophy is difficult to argue with. You do so anyhow.
Me: Sometimes it's best to leave locked doors locked. Can't just indulge in our every whim.
Gaspar Simenon: I knew I liked you! You're the sort of person who'll yell, "NO!" as easily as they'll whisper, "Yes."
Either choice continues:
Another coughing fit brings you down a narrow, cobblestoned street, barely large enough to contain the verbose Mall. An intricate, carved wooden sign above a small red door boasts, "Le Bon Vin". Gaspar notices you reading it. It reads, "Le Bon Vin -CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS".
Gaspar Simenon:" Le Bon Vin" -it means, "the good wine". Trust me, the wine is good -after about ten glasses!
The fact that Gaspar is oblivious to the place being closed amuses you.
Me: Well, I hope you've got something other than smokes and balls up your sleeve. The place is closed.
You don't wish to dash Gaspar's hopes, but it's time to leave the theoretical and point out the obvious.
Me: The place is closed.
Either choice continues:
You point at the sign hanging on the red door which reads: "CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS". Gaspar's strong shoulders slump.
Gaspar Simenon: Renovations. There must have been another brawl. Damn. I missed it.
Another slight cough.
Gaspar Simenon: Listen. Listen. I like you. Go down to the mines. Ask for my cousin Marcel. He could use someone like you. If you go down there, tell him Gaspar says that he still owes Josette a half bar of soap. That’s Josette, Claudine’s sister -not, Josette, Emile’s mother, mind. What would that woman do with soap?
He lets out a spittle-filled laugh that instantly pirlouette’s into a high-pitched coughing fit.
All paths continue:
There is so much to see in beautiful, thriving, cultivated Pompadour; and one should always stop and smell the artificial roses. You decide to walk.
The further from the center one gets, the less flamboyant and self-important the Grand Boulevard becomes, until the shy suburbs swallow the cobblestones whole and the great avenue becomes an honest road quietly referring to itself as, “La Rue Des Environs”.
No one much calls it that though, for the majority of travelers that frequent this part of the station are headed to, or coming from, the Iridium Mine. It's on the Southern Edge of the giant asteroid, some five kilometers from the central crater. Those unfortunate souls have named the gray, chalky roadway that slithers out of the city to the industrial zone as Mine Way; a misnomer, to say the least, for the path is anything but theirs.
You follow Mine Way for several segments, passing vagrants, beggars and the odd peddler. The landscape is dusty, dark and dull. Only the dome, glistening under the stars, reminds you that you're not walking on the raw of the asteroid. A crude path, lit by intermittent lampposts leads to GIMIC.
A sign greets you.
HAZARDOUS AREA. WELCOME!
Hazardous areas have a way of upsetting your stomach -and other body parts. Maybe you should have found another bar with Gaspar. GIMIC and its gimmicks will need to wait for another day.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You're stepping into a world very different than the center of Pompadour, that you've left behind.
Straight to the Iridium Mines:
The mines are located just outside the crater holding the metropolis of Pompandour. Jump on a shuttle and you'll be there in a jiffy. Have your wits about you though, the GIMIC mine is in an unsavory part of the asteroid.
You're off to the Port, my friend.
Next area: Port, Madame de Pompadour
- Catch a magnetic train.
The magnetic railway (MAG-RAIL) network crisscrosses the crater of Pompadour underground. This highly efficient nervous system of trains is nestled smugly between the city proper, above you, and the Catacombs -directly beneath you.
Your CORETECHS informs you that the Iridium Mines is a five minute ride on the MAG-RAIL to "The Little End" -the Southern most stop on the Dock line.
Change shuttles at the Docks.
Next area: Docks, Madame de Pompadour
- Exit the shuttle.
You've arrived. You walk up uneven steps carved straight out of the asteroid.
The station is derelict. Much of the surroundings are unpaved and unfinished -the landscape is dusty, dark and dull. Only the dome, glistening under the stars, reminds you that you're not walking on the raw of the asteroid. A crude path, lit by intermittent lampposts leads to GIMIC.
A sign greets you.
HAZARDOUS AREA. WELCOME!
Both paths continue:
Go to the Mine.
Next area: Decommissioned Area (Mine), Madame de Pompadour
- You've arrived. Look around.
The GIMIC mine is a grotesque jumble of aluminum buildings, ancient moon-brick structures, ducts shooting out in all directions, vents venting, chasms gaping, and conveyor belts jostling rocks and debris, all under the watchful eye of curious searchlights. It is neatly surrounded by a smug chain fence that loops around the whole monstrosity, coming together at a fortified gate, like a belt fastening around a impenetrable buckle.
The compound is bustling. Outside the gated perimeter a large group, probably numbering some fifty, rather dusty individuals, hold picket signs and do their best to hear a woman delivering a fiery speech. There's a strike in progress. A cordon of private security guards stand before the main gate.
- Check out some of the picket signs.
- Mingle with the crowds.
- Head straight for the gates.
- Go no further.
- Listen to the speech.
Mine shafts, picket lines, hazardous environment. Maybe some other time.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
The scene that greets you is gray and gritty. A large group of men and women, mostly Baselines, Belters, and Malls are massed before the Mine Gates. They all have muscular builds, with several of them holding up crudely constructed picket signs. One sign reads:
"MORE FOR MINORS!"
The slight misspelling imparts a significantly different sentiment. Still, who would disagree.
You decide to peruse a few more picket signs. Your foot falls hard on the sharp, black surface of the asteroid. Here, on the outskirts of the metropolis the rock is raw, the people hard.
A sign reads:
“STOP THE DEAD!”
They probably mean, “Stop the Deaths”. Then again, there could be zombie labor concerns.
A woman in gray overalls strains to understand the speaker on the makeshift podium some twenty meters away. Her sign proclaims:
“GIVE ME SOME CREDIT!”
If that sign is intentional, it’s ingenious and hilarious.
There's a level of artistry on display here -intentional or not-that needs to be enjoyed to the last syllable. You mind your own business and keep reading theirs.
A stocky, balding man in union-gray overalls pokes the recycled air with his picket, it reads:
“GIMIC GO HOME?”
The art of punctuation. In any case, good question. The next sign you come to takes the space cake.
“YOUR MINE IS MINE!”
As aggressive as it is confusing. The next signs declares:
"MINE KAMPF!"
Not touching that one.
You're in no hurry. You walk among the strikers and take in the scene. Grime-ridden faces, haggard looks; the plight of the over-worked and the under-paid is carved in deep wrinkles on their persons. A few heads turn as you approach; eyes light up like fear-filled headlights. You sidestep scowls and mistrust; across the field, on a makeshift podium, a woman is speaking to the assembled.
A woman -possibly a Belter- stands on a makeshift podium constructed of palettes. Her fervor is captivating. Long, white hair, clenched tight in a bun, runs close along her sharp skull. An angular jaw growls under dull, blue eyes, frames the harsh mouth and lashing words. She dons a union gray jumpsuit with pride, beats it with a fiery fist. Over and over the tensed, pale hand drums her chest. Her voice is powerful, captivating.
Agnes Simenon: This is what our blood and toil has paid for. Here are the pockets that your tax credits line. The guns you paid for -they point at you! And behind their barrels, behind the cowardice and badges, stream lines of exploited dullards, misbegotten scabs. Men and women, not unlike you, imported by our government to supplant and replace you! When we form an Interstellar Parliament, our voice will sound across systems. But what we say, we craft here! But what we say, we craft now. And we say: You be you. And I’ll be me. That way we’re together, but distinct.
Applause and cheers roar from the assembled crowd.
For all the vitriol spewed in their direction, the armed “cowards” appear to empathize with the general sentiment espoused in the speech. A few nod their heads in agreement -no guns point at the crowd.
- Look out over at the crowd.
- Look back at Agnes Simenon. (if you've already seen the crowd)
The mass of gray overalls moves as one. A few pickets pierce the sky, exclaiming in crudely scrawled words what angers their hearts. The strikers echo back their leader’s line: Together, but distinct!
- Glance over at the cordon of security guards.
- Check out some of the picket signs.
- Look back at Agnes Simenon. (if you've already seen the security guards)
The woman is somber; if the excitement and jubiliantion in the crowd affects her, she shows no sign of it. The solemnity of her eyes, the white and aging, furrowed brow gives her a tired, almost resigned look. She means the words she speaks; this is no charlatan, no petty demagogue. She carries in her eyes the weight of her passion -this is a dangerous person.
You've barely finished the thought when a shadow descends upon you. Two large Malls look down on you.
Gunther Grunter: Whad ur you lukin ut?
The words, if you can classify them as that, have been directed at you.
The two Malls in matching, gray overalls hover over you. Your CORETECHS identifies them for you.
How kind of it. Always nice to know who's about to mail your ass to you.
The Malls are named Gunther and Geddy Grunter. Employees of GIMIC. They are tall, very tall. Gunther and Geddy are so tall they may attract satellites of their very own up there. They both have lazy left eyes, and busy beards, closely-matted, curly hair rises even further above their heads -they look like disheveled, tropical trees.
Gunther Grunter: Where do you sink you're going?
EDITORIAL NOTE: Yes, dear reader, this is not a misspelling, but what Gunther actually thinks (not sinks) the phrase reads like in his mind. It is not for us to edit the grammatical or semantic understanding the individuals in the Tau universe possess, but rather, to represent them as accurately as possible. So, to that end, you have heard "think" as a player, but have read "sink" as a reader. I leave it to you to untangle this Gordian editorial knot -or not.
- Be clever. Mention you know their cousin. (only if you went to have a drink with Gaspar)
- Be polite. Explain yourself.
- Be aggressive.
- Get to the gates.
How many Gunthers and Geddys could there be on Pompadour? These two must be Gaspar's cousins.
Me: Gentlemen. Please. we're family. Gaspar sent me. I have a message for Marcel.
The light dawns slowly, like the sun breaking through the last defiant storm clouds of a dark night. Gunther grunts a surprised,
Gunther Grunter: Oh. Gaspar? My cousin? Rught. Rught. Go on.
Obviously not a conversationalist on the level of his cousin. You make your way, unharmed and unencumbered, to the gates.
You set about explaining yourself politely. After all, you're all civilized human beings.
Me: Gentlemen. I am in no way trying to break your picket line, interrupt your protest, usurp your positions, or in any way cause you, or your fellows any harm, either directly or indirectly. I merely wish to attain the gates, and inquire after an individual therein who is awaiting, unbeknownst to them, my assistance, in a matter -that I believe- is, in part or in its entirety, unrelated, in any way, to the manifestations and protestations that you and your estimable colleagues are currently engaged in.
Their eyes seem to cross even further, and in sync no less, which adds a certain charm to the absurdity of the situation. They both respond with a sagacious:
Gunther Grunter: Huh? Ulrught.
Obviously not a conversationalist on the level of his cousin. You make your way, unharmed and unencumbered, to the gates.
Me: You're not about to be intimidated by these two planks of woods. And you're sure as hell not answering any of their monosyllabic questions. Not that they'd understand the answers were you to grace their cauliflower ears with them.
You've travelled too far, seen too much, built yourself up for these types of moments too oft, to back down from a confrontation with two idiots who'd be runner ups to boulders in a spelling bee. You bark at them with a conviction even you find impressive.
Me: Do you two think I have the time to deal with your bovine ineptitude? What am I saying? Did I just ask you both to think? My apologies for asking the impossible. Now get out of my way. Now!
Wow. You're even a little frightened of yourself. And "bovine ineptitude" -good one. Must use that one again sometime. The twins, their giant shoulders slumped, move aside and let you pass. They are probably as confused as they are shaken.
You're not putting up with any of this.
Me: Move aside or you'll regret it.
Gunther Grunter attacked you.
SHORT-RANGE COMBAT
Statistics: Str 20, Agi 10, Sta 10, Int 10
Equipment: Basic Club
Victory:
The altercation has taught Gunther a valuable lesson. Unfortunately, he's still dazed and not quite certain what that lesson is. The assembled crowd looks on, scowls follow your steps, as you make your wary way to the gates.
Considering the words coming out of the monolith barely qualify as language you decide to let your legs do the talking.
You don't bother with subtleties like speech or basic articulation. You sidestep the giants and dash past them making it to the gates and the security cordon before they notice you're missing.
You decide to utilize your smarts. No need to run away from anyone, when a perfectly banal distraction tactic will do the trick. The more you ponder the situation, the more you realize this won't be a very fair fight, but such is life at the End of the World and among the stars. You point over Gunther's shoulder and utter the magic words:
Me: What's that?
- Point to the stars.
The twins follow your finger up to the stars and stare into the expanse with an even more bewildered look than before -something, we should note, that science had previously thought an impossibility. You walk slowly around them and up to the security cordon at the gates.
Strikers are none of your concern. You're here for the mystery and intrigue -those elements lie beyond the GIMIC gates apparently.
You weave a careful line through the gray-clad union workers towards the security detail amassed before the gates. A striker or two throw you questioning glances. In the distance the word "scab" rises above the clamor of the crowd and the firebrand speech.
The word may, or may not have been directed at you, but you're no scab, and you'll damn well make it known.
Me: Who said that?
Your curiosity is promptly satisfied when two large Malls in matching, gray overalls step in front of you. Your CORETECHS identifies them for you.
How kind of it. Always nice to know who's about to mail your ass to you.
The Malls are named Gunther and Geddy Grunter. Employees of GIMIC. They are tall, very tall. Gunther and Geddy are so tall they may attract satellites of their very own up there. They both have lazy left eyes, and bushy beards, closely-matted, curly hair rises even further above their heads -they look like disheveled, tropical trees.
Gunther Grunter: I sud dat.
You are on the verge of inquiring after a translator, but your cognitive abilities indicate to you that these monoliths towering before you are the individuals you were asking about.
- Be clever. Mention you know their cousin. (only if you went to have a drink with Gaspar)
- Be polite. Explain yourself.
- Be aggressive.
- Get to the gates.
The word may have been directed at you -that is still no concern of yours. You're no scab and it's no one's business why you're here. In any case, starting a quarrel with an anonymous voice in an impassioned throng of miners is probably not the wisest course of action.
You've almost made it to the security detail when two large Malls in matching, gray overalls step in front of you. Your CORETECHS identifies them for you.
How kind of it. Always nice to know who's about to mail your ass to you.
The Malls are named Gunther and Geddy Grunter. Employees of GIMIC. They are tall, very tall. Gunther and Geddy are so tall they may attract satellites of their very own up there. They both have lazy left eyes, and bushy beards, closely-matted, curly hair rises even further above their heads -they look like disheveled, tropical trees.
Gunther Grunter: Where do you sink you're going?
EDITORIAL NOTE: Yes, dear reader, this is not a misspelling, but what Gunther actually thinks (not sinks) the phrase reads like in his mind. It is not for us to edit the grammatical or semantic understanding the individuals in the Tau universe possess, but rather, to represent them as accurately as possible. So, to that end, you have heard "think" as a player, but have read "sink" as a reader. I leave it to you to untangle this Gordian editorial knot -or not.
- Be clever. Mention you know their cousin. (only if you went to have a drink with Gaspar)
- Be polite. Explain yourself.
- Be aggressive.
- Get to the gates.
All paths continue:
- Speak with the head of the security detail.
A uniformed security guard asks you what your business is. You inform him that you're here to see Marcel, and without as much as asking for your name the guard orders the gates opened and points you to a small, aluminum building bearing an exhausted sign that reads, "Office".
The GIMIC site is pieced together with parts of the past and bits of the present. Behind a row of beige and boring corrugated, aluminum cubicles, the crippled splendor of an ancient Pompadourian mansion stretches towards the stars. Structures like these had been commonplace before the Catastrophe on the Gaulic station, and many of the edifices that grace the center of the metropolis were restored to their former glory.
Others, like the Maison De Guillaume which now houses the Iridium processing center, were repurposed. The four storied chateau, constructed of solid, moon-brick slabs and copper-lined, stained glass windows was a sight to behold in its day. Some of the windows remain intact, and most of the brick-red roof has been restored, albeit hastily and mismatched, in order to further protect the processing facility.
Other windows though can only dream of the masterpieces they housed -now conveyor belts carrying in raw minerals, or spitting out disposable by-products jut at odd angles from most of them. Steam rises from the old chimneys, but no fires burn in the hearths below. The guts of the grand, old house have been wrenched out, and sterile, aluminum siding coats the once-wallpapered walls.
To the South and East of the Maison de Guillaume three shafts leading down to the rich belly of the mine pockmark the surface, encircled by chain-fencing and accompanying floodlights. All manner of machinery: pulleys, belts, and elevators gurgle in and out of the three holes, named "Tom", "Dick" and "Harry".
You walk into the office. The exterior of the building is nothing more than a corrugated rectangle. The interior is an entirely different matter all together.
Good God that’s a lot of pink. Even for an Iridium Mine.
The walls are pink, and every square centimeter of them is crammed. Gilded frames square off against each other, caging paintings, portraits -even news clippings. A neon sign blinks the word “CIRCUS” frantically, casts a red shadow across the office floor. An antiquated viewer screen loops a video of trapeze artists in mid-flight, right beside it a giant family photo with at least a hundred individuals jostling for a pose, hangs fixed in time.
A giant poster with the words “SPACE CLOWN ESCAPADES” in bulbous yellow sprawled across it is pinned opposite the doorway. Two men in polka-dotted spacesuits, with pies plastered to the front of their helmets are illustrated in a Toulouse Lautrec style, beneath the words.
EDITORIAL NOTE: Toulouse Lautrec may or may not be the artist you have in mind. For all you nitpickers out there, Ser Toulouse Lautrec is also a seven-foot tall Mall currently residing on Pompadour with a fondness for illustrating space clowns in a variety of settings.
Somehow there's still more to look at. You continue to take in the uniqueness that surrounds you.
A two meter tall mannequin stands to attention in the corner. The model has managed to meld austere and vermillion, and added a dash of swashbuckler to the zenith of this fashion expedition. It is dressed in a leather uniform with claps affixed at the shoulders, spanning the chest, and rounding the wrists with large, brass buttons; a matching belt loops around its tight waist. It is an outfit that grew up dreaming of military glory, but settled for marching band obscurity -albeit with a wholop of originality. The material shines, taut and pink. The mannequin is immaculate. The rose fedora atop his head is lined with an exotic plumage bursting with blues and yellows.
A Belter in a contrastingly plain white short sleeve shirt stares into a computer monitor. Your CORETECHS identifies the man as Marcel Simenon.
You're the sort of person who can bypass the superfluous and get straight to the point. After all, life is short and, as the old saying goes, "Clones age too." You head straight for a desk where a Belter in a plain white short sleeve shirt stares into a computer monitor. Your CORETECHS identifies the man as Marcel Simenon.
Both choices continue:
- Be polite. Wait to be seen.
- Be familiar. Tell him Gaspar sent you.
- Introduce yourself.
- Be cheeky. Ask if he always wears that hat indoors. (if you chose "Keep looking about the room")
Marcel Simenon is losing his hair. Perhaps he’s never had all that much of it. Wisps of it, long and brittle and coated in sweat are pasted to the top of his scalp.
Me: Hello. I'm <name>.
Marcel Simenon: Marcel Simenon. How may I help you?
You think it best to mention his cousin.
Me: Hello. My name is <name>. Gaspar said you might be looking for help with a mystery of sorts.
Marcel's face explodes into a large smile at the mention of his cousin's name.
Marcel Simenon: Old Gaspar. Still juggling balls and hocking leads in the city I see. Come to think of it, I think I still owe Claudine a bar of soap.
You wonder whether this is a little test.
Me: I believe it's Claudine's sister, Josette, that the bar of soap is owed to.
He chuckles and rises from his seat.
Marcel Simenon: I like you! I could use someone capable of remembering which cousin is which.
Me: Remembering cousins is difficult work. I suppose GIMIC will make it worth my while?
Marcel Simenon: Provided you turn something up, yes -GIMIC will make it worth your while. But just for the record Dear, other than having met my cousin, what are your qualifications for the job?
- Tell him you're in it for the adventure.
- Tell him it's all about money.
- Tell him you've got experience.
The man makes no indication that he is aware of your presence. You wait patiently.
You are a horrifyingly, perfectly, patient person.
Marcel Simenon is deeply immersed in whatever is happening behind his screen. Has he not noticed you? Is it possible he didn't hear the door creak as you came in? Could he have abstracted your entire person all the time you've been patiently standing here? You probably should have knocked instead of coming straight in.
Now what? He's just there! Not a meter away!
Something's got to give. He'll look up eventually.
Won't he?
Segments pass.
Surely this gentleman can't continue staring straight into his computer terminal indefinitely? Is he ignoring you intentionally? Perhaps you should leave the room, knock, and then come back in.
Two can play at this game. You'll wait in front of this desk politely until this Marcel Simenon acknowledges your presence.
Segments pass.
How is this possible? Perhaps he's dead?
No. His eyes just moved. He's reading. The bastard is reading! There! There's a bead of sweat making it down his furrowed brow. The dead don't sweat -and they definitely don't read!
EDITORIAL NOTE: The Intergalactic Association For Zombie Literacy (AIFZL) would like us to inform our readers that the living are not the only ones enjoying the well-worded, wandering world of Tau Station. The undead read too -whatever anyone's inner monologue might lead you to believe.
You're not going to let this little man get the better of you! No Ser! You stand as still as you can and continue waiting.
Still…. more….. segments….. pass…..
Marcel Simenon yawns. His eyes never leave the screen.
He's got to come up for air at some point. Is his neck stuck at that angle? How long can he possibly stare into that accursed monitor? It's been nearly four segments since you've entered the room. You can tell by the countdown you have going on your CORETECHS!
- Clear your throat.
- Now it's personal. Wait as long as it takes.
- Leave the room
- Run out of the office screaming!
That's it! You've had it! You holler something unintelligible at the top of your lungs and leave the office screaming and ranting.
Marcel looks up after you've left. A faint look of confusion crosses his face.
Marcel Simenon: Is someone there?
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Marcel Simenon has crossed the line. What may have been a mere joke to begin with has become a challenge, a duel -a fight to the death. If he won't look up, you won't budge. You can both be there, in this odd office, fixed in time forever for all you care. Immobile. Unflinching, Never ending.
The day passes. Simenon rises from his desk, puts on his coat and leaves the office.
The night passes uneventfully. A new day dawns. Simenon unlocks the office and hangs up his coat. You have not acknowledged him, and he has made no indication that he even knows you exist.
The man moves about the office. Guards come and go delivering messages, inquiring after this and that. They sidestep you to address the man when he is seated. You stand planted before the desk, stalwart and unmovable. Simenon does not register you. You do not concede to acknowledge in any way that you register him.
The segments turn to tenspans, the tenspans to cycles. Simenon's routine is as unchanging as the artificial orbits of humankind. He ages. You age. His son comes to work one day. In his arms, Simenon's first grandson. The security detail brings in champagne. No one offers you a glass.
Forty cycles have come and gone. All the Iridium has been mined. The mystery of the mines is already lost to time. GIMIC is closing its gates. Simenon unlocks the office door and for the last time hangs up his coat. He takes most of the day to carefully pack up all the memorabilia that have held their quiet vigil, along with you, over this office these many years. He moves the mannequin in its pink leather uniform slowly out the door. You feel at great loss at the model's departure. It was, this dress form, a friend of sorts all these lonely years.
The office is bare. Only the desk remains. Only the desk and the walls, and you.
Simenon puts on his coat and walks behind his desk for the last time.
He looks up at you.
Marcel Simenon: Okay. Okay. You win.
Marcel Simenon: Shall we go now?
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You pretend to cough. Marcel Simenon looks up at you and smiles.
Marcel Simenon: Hello! How long have you been standing there? How can I help you?
- Be familiar. Tell him Gaspar sent you.
- Ask about the strikers.
- Tell him you're here about the job.
- Ask about payment.
- Be cheeky. Ask if he always wears that hat indoors. (if you chose "Keep looking about the room")
You back away slowly from the desk, open the door and quietly leave the room.
You knock three times on the door. A voice comes through it.
"You may enter!"
The tone is not what you'd expect. The voice is flamboyant, theatrical almost. The words come through the door with all the panache of an understudy reading their very first line on stage,
- Enter the office.
You're in the office -again.
Marcel Simenon rises from his chair and greets you warmly.
Marcel Simenon: Hello. How may I help you?
Is this man for real? He genuinely does not appear to have ever seen you before.
- Be familiar. Tell him Gaspar sent you.
- Be cheeky. Ask if he always wears that hat indoors. (if you chose "Keep looking about the room")
You gesture towards the mannequin.
Me: Do you wear that headpiece around the mines?
Marcel Simenon looks up and smiles at you.
Marcel Simenon: Only when I’m stressed Dear. It keeps my mind in my head -where I want it, and not blurting out nonsense all over the place. If you’re looking for work in the mines, I’m afraid we’re closed until further notice.
Marcel's answer amuses you. You can't help but wonder about this man.
Me: And who's this in the corner? Not the standard GIMIC dress code I take it?
He stands and lets out a chuckle. His movements are delicate, graceful. His voice is deep, and his words strike the room with flare.
Marcel Simenon: You’re a cheeky one. No, Darling. I’m afraid that GIMIC goes in for more of a drab, gray and brown -have the dress match the surroundings sort of feel. A misguided attempt at camouflage, if you’d prefer. The good old union grays -unless you fell from the stars you must have walked through a sea of them to get to me.
Me: Did you design that outfit?
Marcel Simenon: If only. You’re sweet. No, I’m deadly with a dagger and needless with a needle. This was designed by an old friend, in a system I haven’t seen in ten-thousand cycles. I do keep it in good shape though, don’t I. The hat is an Ezra Ferrazzi. The plumage though, is mine -from my days with the circus.
Me: All this memorabilia. It's yours? You were with the circus?
Marcel Simenon: I was known as the Delon! Delon the Dancing Dagger. There, see?
He walks over to the wall and takes an ornately framed black and white photograph off the wall. The gold veneer of the frame gives off a faint glow. The photograph shows a much younger -and blindfolded- Marcel throwing knives at a boy tied to a wheel.
Marcel Simenon: You can't tell from the photograph, but the wheel is really spinning. Victor and I were a big hit.
Me: Victor is your son?
Marcel Simenon: Heavens no Darling. None of that for me, but he's dear to me the way a son might be. He came out just fine. Well, a slight scar under his left eye, but otherwise unscathed. He's all grown up now. We performed the knife throwing scene in all sorts of environments. There was even talk of a Zero-G show, but thankfully logic prevailed and that never saw the stage.
Me: Well, thank you for the walk down memory lane. I'm <name>.
Marcel Simenon: Marcel. My Delon the Dagger days are far behind me.
Me: What's with the picket line outside?
Marcel Simenon: Well, there's always some sort of picket line it seems, but these days I can't help but sympathize. The workers want better pay. They want safer working conditions. The corporation wants to keep costs down. The two factions rarely see eye to eye. I've been on both sides of the line now. Let me tell you, there's no clear right or wrong.
Me: I hear there's a mystery that needs solving.
**Marcel Simenon:Well, aren’t you well-informed? Quite and indeed my dear. The mine is operating on a skeleton crew due to safety concerns. One miner is dead, and recovering nicely I hear in the cloning bays. Another is missing, presumed dead. The apparent cause is a monster.
Me: I hear there's a mystery that needs solving. What's sleuthing pay on Pompadour?
Marcel Simenon: Well, that all depends. Provided you turn something up, GIMIC will make it worth your while. What are your qualifications exactly?
- Tell him you're in it for the adventure.
- Tell him it's all about money.
- Tell him you've got experience.
Me: I've done this sort of work before. I’m not new to the mystery solving business.
Marcel Simenon: What mysteries have you unraveled then?
Me: I’m not going to discuss my other clients business Ser.
Marcel let's out a deep laugh. He may even have scoffed at you.
Marcel Simenon: Fair enough. I'll roll the dice on you. The job pays 500 credits. Provided you turn something up that is.
Me: I’m certain that you’ll appreciate the same level of discretion I give all my clients, when I refuse, in the future, to answer any questions about your business posed to me by prospective employers.
Marcel lets out a deep, booming laugh.
Marcel Simenon: Oh! I knew I liked you. Let's work together then! Yes, let's. The job pays 500 credits. Provided you turn something up that is.
Me: My qualifications? Sounds like an adventure. Mystery. Intrigue. Those are a few of my calling cards. And hell, if there's a pay day at the end of it. So much the better.
Marcel Simenon: How thrilling. A real life adventurer. They're so rare these days. Well, what more could I ask for -you're hired. The job pays 500 credits. Provided you turn something up that is. Shall we get started?
- Ask about the job. (if you haven't already asked)
- Tell him you're not interested. (if you have)
Me: My qualifications? I'll work hard for the credits.
Marcel Simenon: I see. A work ethic. Or, just a hired gun?
He chuckles.
Marcel Simenon: Either way, I'm willing to take you on. The job pays 500 credits. Provided you turn something up that is. Shall we get started?
- Ask about the job. (if you haven't already asked)
- Tell him you're not interested. (if you have)
Me: So, what's this mystery that needs solving?
Marcel Simenon: The mine is operating on a skeleton crew due to safety concerns. One miner is dead, and recovering nicely I hear in the cloning bays. Another is missing, presumed dead. The apparent cause is a monster.
Me: Well. Dying and monsters aren't really in my wheelhouse. I'll pass thanks.
Marcel Simenon: Suit yourself Dear. It was nice not doing business with you.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Me: I suppose GIMIC will make it worth my while?
Marcel Simenon: Provided you turn something up, yes -GIMIC will make it worth your while. What are your qualifications for the job exactly Dear?
- Tell him it's all about money.
- Tell him you're in it for the adventure.
- Tell him you've got experience.
Me: I'm sorry. Did you say, "Monster"?
Marcel chuckles and the laugh comes from deep down within the man, as though this jovial oddity had within himself too, a labyrinth of caverns and mines.
Marcel Simenon: That seems to be the prevailing narrative. And that's what I need you to put to rest. I don't go down into the mines any longer, but I've hollowed out my share of asteroids, and there's no such thing as monsters.
Me: Who's the miner that's missing. Are you sure he's dead?
Marcel Simenon: An old friend from my days in the circus. Ernest Simenon. Yes, also my cousin.
He throws you a sad smile.
Marcel Simenon: Not all cousins are friends. I hope he's dead. I hope it was quick. If he's still alive he must be half starved. It's been five hundred segments since he went missing. You might want to speak with his widow I suppose. Although I don't see what good it would do. The poor woman just stared blankly at me when I let her know. Couldn't believe it.
Me: There's no camera footage?
Marcel Simenon: Not in the mines. The Iridium interferes with all communication. It's a dead zone.
He lets out a sigh.
Marcel Simenon: Figuratively and literally.
Me: There's no way to hail him on his CORETECHS?
Marcel Simenon: Not a chance. Believe me. I tried.
After you've seen both branches:
- Ask if Ernest could have gotten out.
Me: Could he have gotten out of the mines without anyone noticing?
Marcel eyes you with a look that's as surprised as it is suspicious.
Marcel Simenon: Ha. Well, don't you have the inquisitive mind? You're asking if he walked out of here instead of dying? Not a chance. The gates you came through are the only way in or out. It's monitored -especially with the strikes.
Me: So, who died? Let's start there.
Marcel Simenon: Gustav Frank. An exemplary employee. Been with GIMIC as long as I have. He's recuperating nicely in Sick Bay. Clone began gestating the moment he passed. We haven't found his deceased body. It must have fallen down one of the endless shafts.
Me: You said "endless" shafts?
Marcel Simenon: It's a turn of phrase. It's a shaft with an unexplored endpoint. Some go down thousands of meters. Who knows where they end up.
Me: Do all GIMIC employees have clones?
Simenon let's out another volcanic laugh.
Marcel Simenon: T'were this universe as kind and considerate as your mindset Darling. No. Hardly any miners do. Old Gustav pays in a quarter of his salary every month to have one. Most miners just scrape by as it is. It's hard, underpaid work down there, where no one's looking. Only reason Gustav has a clone is that he's got no dependents. If he had kids to feed Dear, he'd not be able to afford the clone. Which is the great irony of the whole thing, no?
Me: Ironic? How so?
Marcel Simenon: You don't see it Darling? The people who really need the clones -the working fathers and mothers, can't afford one. Only old Gustav can set the money aside. And he's got no one to look after but himself.
Me: I'd like to hear his version of events first hand. When can I see him?
Marcel Simenon: I think visiting segments don't start for a while, but he's there.
After you've asked about both the death and the missing miner:
- Confirm what's been said.
Quite a lot of information has been shared. You sum it up out loud, just to be certain it's all clear.
Me: Right, so, just to be clear. One man, Ernest Simenon is missing, presumed dead. I can speak with his widow, Estelle. One man, Gustav Frank is resting in the Sick Bay, having been cloned after dying in the mines.
Marcel Simenon: Correct. And I'm paying 500 credits if you uncover anything worthwhile about what's happened to them both -and most importantly, put to rest this nonsense about a "monster".
Me: I'm sorry Marcel, but all things considered, this isn't for me.
Simenon shrugs his shoulders.
Marcel Simenon: I understand. Monsters and mines. Not as appealing as it sounds over a drink I suppose.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
You're glad to hear that you've understood the basics. A push in the right direction might help too.
Me: Where do you suggest I begin.
Marcel Simenon: Well, considering that you're already here, you can check out the scene of the accident. I'll take you down. After that, it's up to you.
- Head to the mines.
You leave the office and it's vibrant colors and step out, back into a world tinted in sepia, coated in grey. Marcel leads you through a fenced area. The sign above your head reads: "HARRY". You both don special boots -yes, they have them in your size- and a suit not dissimilar to a spacesuit and descend into the asteroid. The rickety, yellow elevator jostles as it plummets, down, down, down. You are breathing through your suit now, and only the helmet atop your head yields any light.
Marcel Simenon seems perfectly at ease. Is he whistling behind his breathing apparatus?
Your chest begins to tighten. You've been into space before, but this experience is entirely different. Down, down, down you continue to go. The elevator jumps. A creaking echoes up and down the shaft. A tension. Your helmet light, on cue, flickers on and off.
The elevator stops.
- Try not to panic.
You are losing your self control. Sweat pours down your brow, you turn a look around frantically. Why has the elevator stopped short like this?
Stay calm:
(Intelligence check)
Either choice continues:
You steady your breathing. You take in a deep breath. Marcel looks you in the eyes.
Marcel Simenon: It's alright. Happens to everyone the first time down. The elevator jamming doesn't help any either.
Again, as if on cue, the elevator jolts and continues its downward journey into the bowels of the asteroid. You reach the mouth of a tunnel. Marcel exits the lift, and you follow him out.
- Enter the tunnel.
The part of the Mine is lit with torches strung along the roof of the tunnel glisten a wet, slippery blue.
Marcel Simenon: Mind your step. It's more slippery than it looks.
Me: Thank you. I'll watch my steps twice now.
Carefully, methodically, you will one foot into place before the other. You travel hundreds of meters at this slow pace and eventually reach a large, cavernous opening.
Me: Really? Looks pretty damn slippery to me as it is.
Marcel Simenon: Rules to live by. No matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.
You'd retort with a snippet of wisdom all your own, but you're too busy focusing on not breaking your neck. Carefully, methodically, you will one foot into place before the other. You travel hundreds of meters at this slow pace and eventually reach a large, cavernous opening.
All choices continue:
- Look at the opening.
A shimmering dome of glittering blue yawns before you. The tunnel has opened into a natural cavern. The ceiling is dotted with stalactites that stare, with sharp conviction, down into the chasm below. The chasm divides the chamber in two, and before you, the remnants of what must of been a bridge leading to the other side dangle from the edge into oblivion.
Marcel Simenon: This is where it happened. There was a faux wood bridge there.
He points to the remains, and you follow his finger as it reaches the void.
Marcel Simenon: Both men must have fallen down into …
You finish the sentence for him.
Me: … into the endless.
Marcel gulps.
Marcel Simenon: Yes. Into the endless.
Marcel walks carefully to the edge of the chasm. He looks down into it, the stalactites dangle above his head like so many swords of Damocles. He finishes his thought.
Marcel Simenon: … into the endless.
You look carefully around the cavernous room. Only a thin piece of metal no wider than five centimeters, probably rebar that held the bridge together, remains fastened to the other side.
Either choice continues:
- Ask if there's any way across.
- Be persistent. Keep looking around. (if you didn't choose "Take a look around")
Me: Is there no way to get across?
Marcel Simenon: In the circus I knew a few who might have been able to walk that thread of rebar, but no. No. Unless you know how to fly, there's no way across.
He lets out a short, deep laugh.
Marcel Simenon: Funny. If anyone could have done it, it would have been Ernest. He was quite the tightrope artist in his time.
You're convinced there must be something other than an endless void in the cavern. You decide to take a closer look at your surroundings.
Both paths continue:
You investigate the sides of the cavernous room. Perhaps a series of footholds could form a way across. Your search though, is in vain. No footholds can be seen, and they'd be too slippery to attempt even if there were.
You approach the ledge and look out over the chasm. Something small, reflective catches your eye on an outcropping of rock a little over a meter below.
You go to the remnants of the bridge and snap off a long scrap of metal. Using it, you reach over the side of the ledge and hook the item. You pull it back up and into your hands.
Failure
The item glitters a few centimeters away from your fingers. You can grasp it. Reach.
Success
You get down on the ground. The Mine floor is cold and wet. You lie flat on your stomach and reach out making certain not to topple over. Your fingers wrap firmly around a small clasp. You grab it and get to your feet.
Either success continues:
Marcel Simenon: What did you find there?
- Look at the clasp.
Me: I'm not quite sure. It was on a ledge. Must have fallen there.
You both inspect the clasp. It appears to be some sort of wristband. A small, green, glass ball dangles from it.
Marcel Simenon: Looks like some sort of wrist band. One of the miners must have lost it. Nothing more to see here. Let's head back up.
You can't quite put your finger on it, but you get the impression that Marcel isn't being entirely candid with you, and this wristband has something to do with it.
- Head back up to the surface.
You've rarely been as relieved as you are when you make it back above ground. As you exit the elevator you come face to face with a tall, lanky young woman wearing a mining suit. Her respirator dangles around her neck.
Marcel Simenon: Ah. Isabelle. I'm glad I caught you before your shift. This is <name>. They're looking into your father's… disappearance.
Isabelle looks at you with large, blue, grime-rimmed eyes. The sadness, painted on her face is mixed with fatigue.
Me: I'll do my best to find out what happened to your father.
Isabelle looks back at you. She nods and without uttering a word disappears behind you into the elevator.
Marcel Simenon: She doesn't say much. Never has. Says less than nothing now. It's a good thing I have her. She's one of a handful that will even set foot down there now.
- Make your way to the gates.
Marcel walks you to the gates. A small group of strikers is still encamped behind a group of security guards. The fiery speeches have ceased, the crowds dispersed.
Marcel Simenon: Here's where I leave you. Keep me informed. You can reach me anytime on my CORETECHS. If you want to look up Estelle, she lives in the Haussman District. A kilometer or so South from here. Might want to head over to the Sick Bay first, what with visiting hours and all. Good luck.
He begins to walk away, then stops and turns.
Marcel Simenon: Word to the wise Darling….
His indicates a trio of strikers beyond the gates with his eyes.
Marcel Simenon: Watch your back with those men. Don't go letting them think you're a scab. They're good people, but they're desperate. Desperate people do desperate things.
You'd love to help, you really would, but you're also exceedingly fond of your spine, spleen and intact bone structure. You tell Marcel that this mystery of his will need to be solved by someone else.
Mission failure
You have failed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Me: Why are they desperate?
Marcel sighs. Glances again at the trio beyond the bars and guns.
Marcel Simenon: Some of them believe they can afford the luxury of having principles. We're all pawns here. Some of us have chosen to stay on the board.
He fixes you with a smile. It's a sad smile. The type of smile one might learn, might have been around in a circus -a performer's sadness, an exaggerated tragedy.
Marcel Simenon: The GIMIC mines were worked by the people from Pompadour. They worked them exclusively. For generations they mined, they carved out the tunnels -they took the risks. They died.
He looks out again at the men huddled together, their eyes steady the mines, beyond the gates.
Marcel Simenon: It's hard work. Dirty work. Dangerous work. And in their time -only they, the Pompadourians, worked the mines. Wages were better then. GIMIC didn't have much choice on who to hire. They even had a union. And for a while, a brief while, there was harmony. GIMIC made money and the miners made a living. It was even a good living -when you compare it to most Post-Cat fates. Sure, people still died, but they left the ones they loved a little. A handful of credits. It meant something to be an Iridium miner.
Me: So, how did it all come to this?
Marcel Simenon: There were many reasons. No tree has one root. One of those roots, was us. When the Great Circus disbanded thousands of workers flocked to Pompadour. A special arrangement had been made through diplomatic channels to allow performers to visit Pompadour on artist visas. Most of the artists, myself included, outstayed their visas. But you don't deport cheap labour. Or at least, you don't do a very good job of deporting them.
Marcel Simenon: We all worked hard mind you. We all risked our lives. We all dug, but some of us dug for a lot cheaper. What could we do? Starve? There's only that many street performers a sidewalk can handle.
He chuckles. A sad, deep laugh.
Marcel Simenon: We can't all be Gaspar now, can we?
Either choice continues:
- Be inquisitive. Ask if he worked for less.
Me: So, you undercut the work force?
He looks up a you, a conflicted mix of shame and defiance takes form amongst his features. His nostrils flare, but his eyes are downcast -they search for the ground.
Marcel Simenon: At the end of the world one does what one needs to do to survive.
Marcel Simenon: Yes. We undercut the Pompadourians. And not by a little. We worked for a fraction of their pay. They waged war. There were strikes, sit-ins, sabotage. But a human effort -however valiant- cannot obstruct the forces of profit for long. And in the end their union was forced to capitulate. In time, their foreman was replaced by our foreman. And, in time a clown -that had thrown daggers to the applause of simpletons- replaced a man who's great grandfather had been mining Iridium before the world ground to a halt.
The sad smile again. That sad Space Clown smile again.
Marcel Simenon: Some of theirs became some of ours; some of ours joined their ranks. In the end, in the end… In the end only GIMIC really won.
- Express your disapproval of his actions.
- Be understanding of his story.
- Tell Marcel you're off to investigate.
Simenon's tale is not an uncommon one -that, in and of itself, is tragic. You feel no ill will towards the man.
Me: We all do what we need to do. There's no shame in that. And speaking of doing what needs doing -I'm off to investigate further,
Marcel Simenon: Remember. Watch your back.
Me:
Me:
You walk through the gates, past the security guards and through the courtyard past the three strikers. They eye you as you pass. Fortunately, or unfortunately you do not recognize any of Gaspar's cousins among the trio. The tallest of the three has a quick look about him. Down his left eye an old scar runs through his eyebrow down to the cheek.
You're not the sort of person to let others intimidate you. And, in any event, if these gentlemen are looking for trouble, here and now is as good a place as any.
You stop dead in your tracks, turn to them and speak:
Me: Can I help you gentlemen?
The tallest of the three moves forward to speak with you face to face.
Victor Vielleville: What's your business in GIMIC?
There doesn't seem to be any point in not continuing the conversation. It might add up to a grand total of two unanswered questions, but it's been polite enough thus far.
There's something about this man. His age is difficult to place, but he has an air about him - a power of sorts. One feels compelled to address him seriously. The scar traversing his left eye, though unpleasant, holds a force, commands respect, warning one not to trifle with the one that bears it.
Your CORETECHS has no information on this man. Either his CORETECHS is off, or muted, or he's not an active participant on the Mesh.
Me: I'm investigating the death and disappearance in the mine.
Victor Vielleville: Funny that. So are we. You find anything out, you let me know. I'll make it worth your while. And in more ways than the measly credits GIMIC is throwing your way. My name is Victor Vassily Vielleville. That's Vielleville meaning "old town" in the ancient tongue. Three V's. Remember. Three V's.
And with that cryptic reminder he leaves you.
Me:
All paths continue:
- Go see Estelle Simenon.
You begin traveling South down Mine Way towards the Haussman District when a CORETECHS call from Marcel Simenon informs you that Gustav Frank awaits your visit at the Sick Bay.
Visiting hours being what they are, it is recommended you head straight there.
Head to the Sick Bay.
Next area: Sick Bay, Madame de Pompadour
- Enter the clinic.
The center is bustling as always. For some reason you keep an eye out for Gaspar, but the giant is no where to be seen.
The clinic hums with the soft, calming blue that carefully lights many of the hospitals and Sick Bays you've had the misfortune to come to. You announce yourself at the reception and are ushered into a private room found nestled away at the end of a series of immaculate criss-crossing hallways. The nurse announces you somewhat formally. An aged man with a great brow and a clean shaved head sits up in his bed and greets you.
Gustav Frank: <name>, it is very kind of you to come. Marcel informed me that you might be paying me a vist.
Gustav has an accent, but you cannot place it. Cheating death has not lost this man his manners. He is exceedingly polite.
Me: Very nice to meet you. Thank you for seeing me. I know you've been through a lot. I hope you'll forgive my asking, but I can't quite place your accent.
Gustav smiles. He has a kind, patient demeanor, and seems appreciative of the company.
Gustav Frank: It is an old Gallic dialect not spoken very much anymore. At a time most of the performers spoke it amongst themselves, but there are fewer and fewer of the old guard left these days -and the circus, well, the circus is long gone now.
Me: Can you tell me everything you remember about the day you…. about the day you died.
The man's demeanor does not change. He begins speaking promptly. The discourse almost feels rehearsed.
Gustav Frank: Of course, I was obliged to complete a report for the Anima Foundation concerning the incident. It is required when spawning into a clone due to a work-related accident. Protocol must be maintained. I'll most gladly tell you what I filled in that report.
Gustav clears his throat and continues.
Gustav Frank: Forgive me. My bodily functions are slowly returning to normal. Dry throat is a common symptom of cloning.
Me: Have you been cloned before?
Gustav Frank: No. Never. I'm baseline. My body. The one that lies broken at the bottom of that shaft, the one I grew up with -the one that grew old with me… That body is the only one I've ever known.
A silence follows.
Me: Please, go on.
Gustav Frank: Yes, of course. My apologies. Ernest and I were just finishing our shifts. We don't -rather, we didn't- work as long as we used to. Age catches the swiftest of us. We were in Tunnel One of Harry. I was crossing back across the chasm in Sector One, headed towards the elevator when the bridge began to collapse under my feet. I managed to lunge and catch hold of the ledge behind me.
He pauses to collect his thoughts.
Gustav Frank: As I was pulling myself back up a great pair of green eyes, brilliant like emeralds of old filled my view. I remember screaming. Perhaps I yelled Ernest's name, perhaps I just screamed. I'm sorry -that I can't recall. Then I saw them. Not a split second later. Great, glistening white fangs! Followed by a roar!
Gustav reaches for a glass of water on his nightstand. He has begun to sweat.
Gustav Frank: I screamed again. And in my fear I let go of the ledge.
He looks blankly ahead.
Gustav Frank: I fell…
Gustav Frank: It felt like I was falling for a very long time.
Me: It must be difficult to speak of one's own end.
The emotion in the man's voice weighs on the room.
Gustav Frank: I don't remember an end. I cannot recall hitting, or landing… or dying.
Then man looks you square in the eyes.
Gustav Frank: When I woke from the darkness. I was here. Please. Forgive me. I'm overwrought. Speaking of it is not the same as filling out a report.
Either choice continues:
The retelling has been an emotional ordeal for the man. You give him a few moments to compose himself.
You try and phrase the question delicately.
Me: And Ernest? Did he …
Gustav understands before you have need to finish forming the question.
Gustav Frank: Did he die? Yes. I can't imagine he'd have survived with that beast beside him. He was stranded you see. The bridge collapsed before either of us could make it to the other side.
Questions are difficult to ask. The truth is never easy to inquire after. It is harder still, to hear the answers. To pose any of it delicately, well -that is an artform.
Me: Are you absolutely certain Gustav, that you saw a beast?
The man has a gentle way about him. He is not offended by your question.
Gustav Frank: Am I certain? Yes. Yes I am certain.
Gustav Frank: I have travelled the systems with some of the most exotic and fantastical creatures the human mind has ever laid eyes on. Once I flew amongst the stars, with talented, young, vibrant people. Our days were filled with excitement -every night we seemed to be headed to some new horizon. All of it was new. I remember the light, I remember the applause -I remember the laughter.
He pauses. Takes a sip of water.
Gustav Frank: The Mines. The Mines are different. The Mines are possibly the most different thing one can imagine from the stars. Those blue walls, those echoing, endless, pointless tunnels -can play tricks on the mind. When we first went down it felt like I was descending into an unending darkness. A starless dark. I thought it would break my soul. But the Mines did not break my soul. And they did not break my mind. I saw what I saw.
After you've seen both branches:
You've taken up enough of this man's time, and he's obviously still distraught from the experience.
Whether he actually saw a beast with glistening fangs and emerald-green eyes is quite beside the point. One thing is certain: Gustav Frank believes he did, and Gustav Frank died.
Me: I'll be going now Ser. Rest up, and thank you for your time.
He gives you a gentle smile and a friendly wave. You make your way down the quiet, blue-hued corridor -not entirely different in composition from the tunnels of Iridium far below you- and nothing like them whatsoever all the same.
There's still ample time to go and see Ernest's widow in the Haussman District.
Head back to the Mines. The Haussman District lies to the South of them.
Next area: Decommissioned Area (Mine), Madame de Pompadour
- Take in the Haussman District.
Two kilometers South of the mines, the District Haussman bubbles over with life -four concentric blocks of regal, stone apartment buildings sternly surround the Park LeClerc, with its faux trees and tired playground. The once elegant residential neighborhood lay abandoned for several cycles after the Catastrophe. Waves of migrant workers now call it home.
The chimney dotted rooftops take in the commotion below with the wisdom distance affords them. Under the zinc-lined roofs, wrinkle-worn faces lean over aching balconies out of small dormer windows -aging referees of the slums, pitching insults, or calling out warnings, down below, to the indifference of the masses.
Children weave knotted lines under swings, down slides and over benches; they kick and pull and scream with amazement; run at one another, then dart away, to conceal their cheeks and giggles, their schemes and mischief behind an unsuspecting tree or an annoyed pillar. Kiosks, their awnings stripped and faded, the zinc of their cornices tarnished and tired, ply smuggled cigarettes and questionable bottles to those daring of heart and short of credits. The whole smells of mushrooms, for that is all anyone can get their dirty, stringy hands on. An elderly, Harsene, with long, graying hair, his thin metallic glasses long asleep, confides with the never setting sun.
The late segments come, the Cafe Gaston spews its drunkards, vagrants, curiosities, misfiring androids, onto the empty park benches, silent under open-armed trees. Stone facades frown under elegant, rusting balconies at the zig-zags of a drunken drone, as the streetlights cast whimsical shadows on the sidewalks, that slide into gutters and down pugnacious, little alleys lined with rubbish bins and discarded mattresses. A Mall, his face painted white, his cheeks adorned with red circles, his brow sweaty, his great, tired shoulders hunched, looks sad-eyed out of a first story arched window at silhouettes playing behind closed curtains across the way.
The metro gives up its exhausted innards, slow, plodding -longing for sleep. The workers of Pompadour, a few credits squirreled away in their CORETECHS, worry creeping like weeds in their minds, head up tall steps for home. You spot a group of strikers assembled around a streetlight.
Your CORETECHS leads you to a slim, elegant moon-stone building. Estelle and Ernest Simenon occupy the small maid's quarters under the zinc-tiled roof.
The door to the foyer is locked. There do not appear to be any doorbells.
- Try locating Estelle Simenon on your CORETECHS.
You speak the name aloud: "Simenon Estelle". Your CORETECHS displays a list of names before your eyes.
It figures, there are thirty-seven : "Estelle Simenons" in the Haussman District alone, along with another twelve spelled "Estel", and an additional twenty-three "E. Simenons".
You inspect the doorway. This may be Old World wood. The door is solid, but the doorframe has seen better days. The lock is surrounded by a gorgeous, brass escutcheon.
Pick the lock:
(Agility check)
The sturdy lock puts up a fight, but in the end it unlocks with a, "click".
Either success continues:
- Enter the building.
You've made it inside. A stone staircase, broken by a checkered tiled landing on every floor weaves it way seven stories up.
You reach the top floor after climbing seven flights. This effort alone should earn you some credits.
Only two doors lead off this landing. A brass name plate which one bore a name has been scratched out and beneath, etched into the wall with some care are the initial's E.E.
You feel a pair of eyes watching you. The feeling is overwhelming and distinct. Turning you are just in time to see the door opposite shut. You catch a glimpse of green eyes. It's a theme on this particular adventure it would seem.
- Take a closer look out of the landing window.
- Knock on the door that just closed behind you.
- Knock on Estelle's door.
The view from this height is beautiful. In the distance the center of Pompadour glitters under the stars. The great dome slumbers vigilantly above the great cater, a safety, a comfort wrought of titanium and glass, separating the twinkling lights of the city from the shimmering celestial orbits far up above it. The Iridium Mine, its cold flood lights pointed down at the cold heart of the rock cast long, sorry shadows. Down below small humans, throngs of miniatures, their day ending at last, jostle one another on the crowded sidewalks as they race home.
You give the door a couple of gentle taps. You wait a few moments. No one comes answering the rasping of your knuckles.
You give the door three sharp rasps. These old doors, with their faux wood frames and brass handles are a distinct change from the CORETECHS operated view-screens. On queue your CORETECHS receives an incoming transmission from Estelle Simenon.
Estelle Simenon visualizes in front of your eyes. She is a large woman with dyed black hair rising like a beehive above her pasty, white face.
Estelle Simenon: What do you want?
Me: I'd like to speak with you.
Her retort comes back, sharp and fast.
Estelle Simenon: So talk.
Me: It's concerning your husband's disappearance.
Her tone is bitter.
Estelle Simenon: My husband is dead. Now go away.
- Insist on seeing her.
You begin to formulate a response. It does you little good. The CORETECHS call ends abruptly.
Guess it's back to knocking on the door. Your hand falls with three, harsh thumps on the faux oak.
Me: Mrs. Simenon. I really must speak with you.
No answer.
The neighbor's door is open again. The two green eyes peer out at you against the dark of the apartment.
- Speak to the neighbor.
You turn and face the opposing doorway. The two green eyes recede momentarily, glare at you in a mistrustful, almost violent way.
The Voice: They're home. They never go out anymore. Only the daughter comes and goes. They're hiding from you. Can't trust any of them.
Me: Who's home?
The eyes come closer to the light of the small landing. The green, the envy, the bitterness encased in a wrinkled, aged face,
The Voice: You know. The migrants. The circus people. The dirty clowns. The scabs. Call them what you like. They swarm the place. This was a nice, respectable neighborhood. They come here with their diseases and their noise and their animals. And we let them come -out of the Goodness of our hearts. Now look. None of us left, are there?
Me:
Either choice continues:
- Ask her about the animals.
Me: What do you mean "animals".
The Voice: You're an investigator. You're with the law. You should confiscate it. They've been cited before, but then they just go and break the law all over again. They've got no regard -none! No regard for our customs, no respect for our laws. The husband came back with it just the other day. They're not allowed animals that haven't been quarantined. And you can't have an animal in quarantine on an artist visa. I know the law. My husband was a solicitor. May he rest in peace.
The angry eyes manage an exaggerated sigh.
The Voice: At least he has some peace. There's no peace with me with those savages.
Hate loves a patient ear.
Me: Ernest Simenon is alive? And at home?
The eyes sparkle under raised eyebrows. You can just make out the faintest trace of a smile, wicked and scratched into the face.
The Voice: As alive as you or me. I saw him just the other day on the landing. The daughter smuggled him into their quarters in the dead of night. She thought no one had seen them, but I see them. I see everything they do. He's been hiding out. She's lying to you. I heard her tell you he's dead. They're lying. They all lie.
Me: What kind of animal do the Simenons have in their apartment.
The eyes are alight with mischief.
The Voice: The kind all the circus people have. Cats. They smell. This one in particular is a vicious, little beast. Always hissing and baring its dirty fangs. Tried coming up to me with its curious green eyes -only to scratch me! They used to let it play on the stairs, but I called the authorities. Yes I did. And I didn't give them any warning either. They keep me up all hours with their raucous behavior, their intolerable laughter. Your ears! May they never be besieged by that trumpeting nonsense. They smuggled it off, who knows where, before the inspectors went looking about their quarters.
After you've seen both branches:
- Show her the bracelet.
You take the bracelet you found in the mines and hold it out in front of the eyes. The gleam with vicious joy.
Me: Do you recognize this?
The eyes widen with malice.
The Voice: Yes.
It is more of a hiss than a word.
The Voice: The little beast wears it around its scrawny neck.
Her confidence is interrupted by a sound on the stairs below. Isabelle Simenon is home from the mine. The eyes glare at you for a split moment and recede into the darkness. The sound of a bolt being fastened punctuates the scene.
Instinctively you search the small landing for a place in which to conceal yourself. The top floor of the old building though, offers no such havens.
You meet the young woman at the top of the stairs. She looks up at you. A look of defeat sweeps across her face. She does not appear surprised to see you. A day of scurrying through the mines ends like this then: challenged one last time by the unforgiving flight of stairs, only to find a further hurdle to surmount waiting on her doorstep.
Me: Do you remember me?
Isabelle nods slowly, holds your gaze.
Me: I know your parents are home. They won't answer the door. Would you let me in please? I'd very much like to ask them both some questions.
The resignation leaves her face; her eyes take on a stone's determination. No nod this time. She shakes her head. No.
Perhaps a memento will get her to cooperate. You hold the bracelet up before her.
Me: Have you been looking for this?
She makes no attempt to deny it; she almost looks relieved.
Again, that slow, sad nod.
- Explain to Isabelle how you see things.
You're not quite certain how to handle this mute girl. There's a strange resolve to her.
Me: Not going to say anything? That's alright. I'll do all the talking. You can nod if I'm on the right track.
She stares at you with those hard eyes. Stands there, on the top step. Not giving anything away.
Me: I figure it started as an accident. The kind that happen all the time down there in the mines. Gustav and your dad were finishing a shift. They crossed the bridge in Sector One, and it collapsed. Gustav caught hold of the ledge, thought he saw a monster, but it wasn't a monster he saw, was it?
The girl is statue still.
Me: What was it Gustav really saw?
A silence as deep as the mines.
Me: I think I know. Old Gustav, still dreaming of adventures past didn't see a monster with glistening fangs and emerald green teeth, did he? Or perhaps he did, but perhaps the fangs and the eyes didn't belong to a monster.
Me: He saw your cat didn't he? What's his name?
Isabelle Simenon: Her name. Iridium.
Me:
Me: Please. Go on.
Her voice is calm, soothing, like waves on the morning beach.
Isabelle Simenon: It happened like you said. Papa had taken Iridium into the mines because the witch had ratted us out again. If they'd found her, they'd have confiscated her -or worse. Papa had nothing to do with the accident. I was with them when it happened.
Me: How did Ernest make it out?
She smiles. her yellow teeth are chipped and worn.
Isabelle Simenon: Papa is still very adroit, he crossed on the rebar that was left connecting the two sides of the chasm. He did it with Iridium in his arms too. He snuck out of the compound without anyone seeing. We've gotten good at that -need to be to avoid the picket lines. To avoid the strikers. When I knew he was out. When I knew they were safe, I raised the alarm. There was nothing we could do for poor Gustav. He'd fallen into an endless.
Me: So, why all the subterfuge? Why did Ernest want to fake his death?
She hangs her head, unconscious of doing so, she blushes; then straightens again. A momentary shame redressed by the instinct to survive.
Isabelle Simenon: We don't have back-up clones like Monsieur Gustav….
The neighbor's door opens ever so slightly. The poisonous eyes peer out. Isabelle snaps at the intrusion:
Isabelle Simenon: Be gone! Witch!
The door slams shut. Isabelle composes herself, continues.
Isabelle Simenon: It's just a matter of time before Papa, or I, fall down an endless. There's no funeral you know? No goodbyes. We hardly ever find a body when it's lost. Papa thought I'd get paid more if everyone was too afraid to work. And he was right. And when Monsieur Gustav thought that Iridium was a monster, well…
She smiles again.
Isabelle Simenon: Well, then hardly anyone wanted to work, no matter the pay. I'm making twenty times more than I've ever made. We figured we'd at least make the risk worthwhile. The strikers think we stole their jobs. We do what no one else wants to do.
After you've seen both branches:
- Ask about the one flaw in the plan.
Me: But you lost Iridium's collar.
Isabelle Simenon: We thought it had fallen into the void. It wasn't until I saw it in your hands that….
Isabelle Simenon: Please don't trouble my parents. Papa is old. He can't go to the Brig. Mama would be lost without him. Won't you just tell Monsieur Marcel that you haven't found out anything?
- Be understanding. Tell her you're not here to hurt them.
- Be forceful. Tell her she's in trouble.
- Be ruthless. Exploit the situation.
Me: Don't worry about me. I won't say a thing. You've had a long day. You'd best be getting home.
She smiles, gives you a small nod and passing you, unlocks her door and disappears into the apartment.
You sit down on the top step. It's not only been a long day for Isabelle Simenon. You hail Marcel Simenon on his CORETECHS. He answers immediately.
Me: I'm afraid I've….
Marcel Simenon: Don't say a word, some mysteries are best left unresolved. I think you've probably tied up all the loose ends that need tying up. That only leaves the matter of the collar.
- Ask him if he means bracelet.
Me: Don't you mean bracelet?
A credit transfer is registered in your CORETECHS.
Mission success
You have received 750.00 credits.
Marcel Simenon: Yes, of course. I meant bracelet.
He laughs that sad, stoic laugh of his. It echoes through your mind, like the call of the imaginary beast with green eyes that haunts the nightmare tunnels, which spread with endless abandon far below the cobblestoned streets of Pompadour.
Mission success
You have completed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission.
Me:
Me:
You have completed the "The Eye of Iridium" mission.
<— Return to Missions