SG: SERIES' #1 - One Question
mechaman at eyrie.org
Sun Mar 30 10:40:03 PDT 2008
If you were the one, the chosen one
To sacrifice yourself in the moment of danger
Would you have the grace, the courage it takes
To save the life of a stranger?
Ghost in the Mecha, XLtd
S E R I E S '
0 - One Question
*--- Hey There, Mr. Madman
-- July 6th, 2009
Watchamacallit Station had many adjectives associated with it. Most of
them not being anything positive for its outlook. However, it had a few.
Remote. Vital. Sturdy. Well, the last it had some danger of losing soon
if the station's sole inhabitant didn't turn over some
cash quickly. He'd even considered raising his rates to keep up with
interstellar inflation and the collapse of a few free trade agreement
loopholes he'd been using for some supplies.
Part of the problem was location workes both ways. He didn't like too
many people coming around asking too many questions. On the other hand,
without enough questions, no money. No money, no fixing. No fixing,
well. He might have to rent a place. And he hated that. So he found
himself working in the environmental room, trying to scrub scrubbers to
gain another six months out of the seven-over-warranty he'd already
gleaned out of the current set. He knew they were good for that. After
all, he _was_ The Sage. If he applied the elbow grease, that is.
An alarm sounded sharply for a moment, then cut out as quickly as the
airlock door cycled faster than was generally possible. The Sage scowled
and wiped his hands on his coveralls as he went to head for his rooms.
Partially to get on something a bit less messy, but more realistically to
provoke his visitor to appear in front of him before he could. On cue,
the man walked into the engineering section from a side passage, cutting
off the Sage from his rooms. The Sage's scowl deepened in further
annoyance as he looked at the visitor.
"Ohhh, no. Not you, no questions for you. I don't care what you've
got, I don't care what treasure you bring, what money you offer, what
poison you want me to swill." The Sage rubbed his head and scowled all
the more as he felt the grease smudge his the top of his balding head.
The man smiled widely, the twinkle in his eyes shining almost as
brightly as the gold filigree woven into the flowing shirt and sash he
wore. The clothing was as gaudy as a Hawaiian shirt, if seemingly more
expensive by far. It only made hime seem more insufferable to the Sage's
opinion. "Oh, I don't have any poison for you, sir. And are you sure
you'd not take a question from the likes of me? I'd hate to find that the
all knowing Sage would find any question a problem, unless, for example,
he does not know."
A vein pulsed on the balding man's neck, though the flush of blood to
his face helped hide it as he looked angrily at his 'guest'. "A question?
A question I don't know? I. Am. The. Sage. I Know EVERYTHING!" He took
another breath and seemed to calm, a patent and false sense of hospitable
friendliness. The kind practiced by pre-owned vehicular salesmen since
the wheel was put up for barter.
"But if, and I say IF, I would answer such a question, that price would be
a high one. Way above my humble standard rates."
The smiling one's expression didn't change one bit. "Oh, I think I
have a few things to offer. All for one question." He reached into his
pants and pulled out a small golden sphere. It wasn't bigger than a golf
ball with a few stub pencils seemingly stuck through. He held it with
casual grace, as if willing to just let it roll off his fingers.
The Sage blinked a moment, then snatched the item out of the man's hand
angrily. "What the Hell did you think you were doing bring that anywhere?
Especially here!" He cradled the little sphere like a precious gem or egg
as he glared to the man.
"What's a few atoms of Absurdium among friends." The smile didn't
waver at all. The Sage didn't need to speculate that his guest had all
going to plan, damn the luck. "Enough to power this station for oh, half
the life of the universe."
"And half a chance of blowing it and a good bit of the sector to the
end of time instead, if it gets breached!" The Sage snarled. His hands
held fast to the item as he glared. "Damnation, Dustin! That's no
payment, that IS the poison."
Dustin Etranger, so named, didn't bother changing his expression any
more than he did for anything else. "Oh, I had a feeling it wouldn't be
so simple. So perhaps this would be enough?" With another flourish, he
pulled out of thin air a small rack of pink crystal, each slightly smaller
than the last. The Sage's expression brightened as he looked at that,
phantom images of dollar signs blinding him a moment. "Is that a perfect
set of Octavian core crystals?", he asked rhetorically.
"Valued at about half a million galactic credits minimum on the auction
circuit, yes," Dustin confirmed. He held it one-handed, the other end
pointed toward the Sage. "One. Question."
The Sage watched the end of rack, swallowing with difficulty. He could
feel the headache building in the front of his head as the tension of the
moment increased. He moistened his lips, eyes following the case as if it
were a cobra poised to strike at his face. "One. Question."
Still the smile stayed the same, even as the tone of the voice dipped,
cold as the space outside, softer than the hiss of a snake. "Why are you
"Why." The Sage paused, a moment of surprise hitting even as he KNEW
what was being asked. Such is the power of sheer absurdity. As the shock
passed, he scowled and finally broke eyecontact with his coveted prize to
glare. "WHY? BECAUSE, of course! I KNOW EVERYTHING! What else do you
"Ah, well, that is the question I suppose." Etranger admitted amiably,
his voice regaining it's general tone of affability. His hand loosened
its grip on the case as he relaxed, the end of it tipping enough to allow
pseudogravity to take its course with it. The Sage let out an
inarticulate cry and grabbed quickly with his hands, forgetting the small
object within it. He grabbed the rack, cradling it much like he had the
golden orb that now bounced unnoted into the station center.
Etranger, his objective realized, sketched a small salute and turned to
leave. As the airlock klaxon rang again, the Sage uncurled and winced as
the headache didn't abate fully. He regarded his prize a long moment,
then started to walk for the hanger airlock. For all the greed-fueled
glee on his face, something nagged at the back of the Sage's head.
Something he knew he was willfully ignoring.
As he placed the crystal down in the copilot's seat of the overlarge
transtellar shuttle he ownened, he let himself just let that nagging
feeling go. He turned on the transmitter, sending to the obligatory
picket he'd had for over a decade. "This is the Sage, and I'm declarin'
the station's closed. Sage's holiday! See you all in a few planetary
rotations OF your choosing. Choose a long one, I'll be a bit."
There was a small pause before the picket's occupants responded. "Roger
that, Sage. Anything we should worry about while you're gone?"
The Sage smirked as he went to reply. "That would be a good question.
Would you like to contribute fifteen to my coffers to find out?"
"Fifteen? I though you've been charging twenty or more for years..."
"I'm feeling charitable, benevolent, and nostalgic." The Sage declared
arily. "Rate'll be back when I get back. IF you want to capitalize on
"....no, I think we're good. Happy Holiday."
"Hmph." The Sage toggled the comm off and threw the shuttles thrusters
into a lurching move forward before the engines finished tuning their
balance. They never did want his answers when he was in a good mood. But
of course, he knew everything. They knew better than to think it was
everything they wantd to hear. Besides, it'd be horrible if he gave them
the interstellar forecast.
Cold, with 5% chance of the fabric of time and space unravelling five
solar days hence, stellar winds from the galactic core at 3 parsecs/year.
Copyright 2007, James Rinehart. All rights reserved. The Sage created by
Bill Dickson. Opening 'teaser' quote from hidden track of Styx'
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