Rescue Project 1
Posted on 13 Feb 2023 @ 4:44am by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Promenade - Timeless Treasure Gallery & Brek’s Office
Timeline: MD09 - Late Afternoon
1607 words - 3.2 OF Standard Post Measure
Brek wasn’t sure what was worse: the lack of customers (only Nyasha was present, but being a holo-assistant, she didn’t count for much), or his bad mood. Sure, he had enjoyed the time he had spent with Moon, but he had been made to feel like an indigent because of his rather common merino suit. He, who had been so proud of the bargain he had found: 5 colorful nehru suits for the price of 3, now regretted that he hadn’t made the effort to buy, at the very least, vicuna wool instead.
“Nyasha, do I look like a tramp who’s just emerged from a pile of cardboard sheets?” He wondered aloud, knowing full well that the holo woman was incapable of saying anything unpleasant to him.
“You look perfectly fine, Mr Brek. You always do.”
She said that with her usual polite smile, and although it looked like she was going to add something to her uninspired comment, he went on: “Some people think the exact opposite. Some people even think I look like a grandfather. A fossil without much taste or resources, naturally.”
Nyasha made another attempt at speaking, but Brek ignored her. “Just imagine wearing this terrible suit for the grand opening of this gallery. I’d have looked like a joke. I must remedy that immediately.” He went to the reception desk, picked up a PADD and checked what tailors were available on O.C. and what they sold. As he went through a gazillion of luxurious items, he had to open the top button of his shirt. Those prices were so high, he was beginning to hyperventilate.
“I had forgotten how much it cost to look presentable...” He mumbled. “Obviously while I was in the Fleet, I didn’t have to bother about my look. The uniform and the pips always worked wonders... Talking of wonders... What are the odds of this Moon having shares in Baezian fiber plants or Fibonan goat wool markets? It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”
Nyasha acquiesced. “Mr Brek, if I may... I have heard Mozart’s ‘Jupiter Symphony’ no less than five times this afternoon. This is, if I recall, the melody that announces important messages on your computer. I couldn’t be of any assistance there, as your office is off limits. I couldn’t call you either, Mr Brek, as my privileges are quite limited...”
“Right,” Brek said, quite relieved he could postpone spending a plenitude of latinum to look the part in a splendid suit. “I guess I’ll have to upgrade your prerogative, Nyasha.”
Brek was comforted by the rich yellowish wood that covered every wall. If it wasn’t for the screens on his desk, you could easily believe that you had stepped back in time, to a period where most civilizations, throughout the universe, fought with pikes and stones. Not a better time, just an era made exotic because he knew next to nothing about it. He sat in his high-back-extra-padded office chair, complete with vibrating massage functions - which he hadn’t taken the time to try yet - and he responded to the last message sent to him.
In stark contrast with the peacefulness that existed in his office, the screen showed a poorly lit alley, grey mud on the ground, heavy downpour making everything look mysterious. He knew the vibes: Ferenginar on a crappy damp day. Kreca, the female artist he had contacted three days ago, appeared on his screen. Her clothes, black and light green, such a stark contrast, were synthetic at best (how, under different circumstances, he could laugh at that!) were covered with grey smudges and so was her face. There were tears in her eyes, and Brek lost all notion of amusement.
“Kreca? What Happened to you?”
“Brek, is that you?” She was sheltered by a red umbrella advertising the lousy menus of a local ChiggerBurger vendor. The most pervasive brand on the planet. When they didn’t promote their food the regular way or via subliminal messages, the rich members of this vast financial empire always managed to grab the headlines to shout something about their fortunes, misfortunes, marriages, divorces and scandals. They truly had it all.
“Looks like it,” he said, not sure what else to add, when it was plain that the artist had suffered a serious shock. “Where are you?”
“They burned everything, Brek: my studio, my paintings, my sketches. They are all gone. I’d be too, if I hadn’t managed to escape by the kitchen window. I ran away. It went so fast, I couldn’t even grab a pair of shoes. I’m in the suburb of Ferenginar now. I don’t know what to do...What if those who destroyed my place are looking for me? I’m scared Brek.”
“So am I.'' A pity that he didn’t sound like it. “What about your ‘Swamp Ogogpo’ painting? Is it gone too?” He asked, feeling quite heartbroken that such a fantastic piece of art might be lost. And then the magnitude of her ordeal finally hit him. “Don’t you have a sponsor? Someone who can offer to shelter you for a few days?”
Fresh tears appeared on Kreca’s face. “In our capital city?” She asked. “I don’t have much latinum on me, so there is little chance of being ‘offered’ anything here. Plenty will be taken off me if I’m seen, alone, looking quite lost.” She sniffed loudly in a lame effort to repress more tears. “Next you will be advising me to go to the stupid authorities... Of course I called my sponsor, and...”
“And?” Brek repeated when she didn’t finish her phrase.
“And I’m speaking to him right now, but it doesn’t look like he wants to help...”
“Oh.” Brek, who had been leaning forward, observing what he could see from Kreca’s location (a row of tiny snails on a wall, their shells white as pearls, a blue light behind Kreca’s head), sat back. “I see...”
She sniffed some more. “Just three days ago, you couldn’t wait to help me. And now...”
“I will help you, of course, I will!” He said. He grabbed a PADD and calculated how much he could afford to spend on what he dubbed ‘Rescue Project 1.’ “It will be swift. Where do you want me to transfer the money?”
“I’m a single woman, on Ferenginar. I don’t have access to digital currency Brek. I told you so when we first spoke.”
“Did you?” He scratched his head. It might be silly, but this whole thing felt like your basic scam: contact an unsuspecting mug and ask them to send you real, solid latinum. “I don’t know anyone on Ferenginar...”
Well, his parents lived on the planet, and so did his brother and his family, and he felt sure, countless cousins he knew nothing about; but none of them, as far as he could tell, lived in the capital city. They dwelt in the deep south, in small cozy villages. More importantly, they didn’t give a toss about him.
There was a long silence, one where the drum of the incessant rain turned into a hypnotic music. There was a theme to that tune, and to Brek it seemed to say that they were both useless. Kreca for turning down the offer he had made to her three days ago, and him, for not acting right away to protect an artist whom he wanted to represent - if she wasn’t playing a trick on him... Then again if he was in a dire position, he would want help. And what comes around goes around, doesn’t it?
“Give me your location, and five minutes, too.” Brek finally said, moving to his second screen. He made more calculations, then, using a map of Ferenginar, he used her position to select the nearest hotel: a two stars building called ‘Bee at Home’. He booked her a room, and he sent a taxi to pick her up.
“You’ll be safe there,” he told her once he had explained what he had done. “The room’s entry code is LWP25-M7. The taxi’s been paid. You accept, I take it, to be represented by me? You see, I’m still very much interested in your swamp painting...”
“Anything you want, Brek... Hmmm, within reason,” she added as an afterthought. “I owe you.”
“That’s not something we hear often among our kind.”
“The kind that is seldom kind...” Another silence, rather heavy this time, was about to form, but she added: “Is it the service you used, Brek?” She held her PADD in front of her, to show a white groundcar, looking pretty much like a mighty beetle. On its door, the words ‘Fast Fleet: Don’t Dream About It, Borrow it!” appeared in shimmering colors.
“That’s the one. I’ll call you again in 15 minutes with more help.”
“Are you sure this taxi can be trusted?”
“Don’t worry, I spent enough latinum to cover every eventuality.”
Once Kreca, looking cold and miserable, had vanished into the spacious ’beetle’ car, Brek adopted his best ‘super sad’ face, the one he used for desperate situations. He then called his grandmother. She would no doubt groan and complain and probably be rude, but ultimately, she would accept to help Kreca. He needed her off their homeworld as soon as possible.
