The last time Alfred felt a headache like this had been after a night out with some Hellenic sailors that had shared a bottle of raki with him. His body fared little better, like his bones and muscles had been pulled off and put together again, and at that by someone who was not particularly delicate of touch.
Alfred opened his eyes and took stock of the room he was in. He lay upon a bed of hay.
A stable? No.
The room had a single wooden door. Torches provided the only source of light.
Alfred passed his hand through his hair and triggered a wave of pain when he touched a spot right above his ear. The memory of a woman in a costume flashed across his memory. She had hit him with something.
To be fair she was holding a knife when I opened my eyes. There were two others as well, a young woman and a boy barely out of his teens.
He thought a bit more about their get-ups.
They must have been a cos-gang.
But cos-gangs don’t go for authenticity and the sword the woman had hit him with looked pretty authentic.
Or at least the part she hit me with had felt authentic.
Alfred then remembered what had happened before his fracas with the cos-gang.
The leak, the station, the foreign object, the mountain.
Where the hell am I then?
Think Alfred… Think. I’m not on a ship. The gravity is too strong, that leaves a satellite or back on Earth. Perhaps I got picked up by someone. But who?
Alfred touched the stone walls, they felt real.
A pleasure satellite?
Alfred had heard about them. The wealthy sometimes rented or retrofitted old stations to create playgrounds for themselves and their cronies. But the cost of transporting something as dense as stone to outer space would have been ridiculous.
There are some synthetic materials that feel like stone. Perhaps this is just one I’m unfamiliar with.
He started to inspect the walls closer and was interrupted by the door opening.
A man entered. Alfred’s stomach twisted, he recognised the same motif as the three cos-gangers that had knocked him out and like those, his looked too authentic, like it truly had been handmade, rather than textile-printed somewhere.
I must be in their hideout then.
But Albert had never heard of cos-gangers owning a satellite. Perhaps this was a themed satellite, those existed as well as far as Albert knew.
The man pulled up a chair that was next to the door and set it next to Alfred.
He gestured towards the chair. “Please,” he said.
Alfred rose up and that is when he noticed his leg had an iron clasp around it; a chain connected it to the wall.
This is not synthetic iron, it’s actual cold iron. How much money do these people actually have?
The bumps and nicks on the iron told of hand-forged crafting as well.
Alfred sat down.
The man moved in front of Alfred.
“Who are you?”, he said.
“Where am I?”, asked Alfred.
“Who are you?”
“I’m not telling you a thing until you tell me where I am. Earth? A pleasure satellite?”
“You will find no pleasure here. Who sent you?”
“You can bugger right off.”
The man had not moved an inch, but Alfred thought for a moment that the man’s lip twitched.
“Who is helping you?”
The man’s voice was hard, but his accent was rather lilting.
Where’s that accent from. Swansea?
“Why were you in the Queen’s gardens?”
“What are you talking about? The old monarchy has been dead for over a 100 years.”
Could he be referring to another Queen? Perhaps from the Rus Kkanate or the Lotus Dynasty? But he’s speaking English.
“Ok, I’ll bite, which Queen are you referring to?”
Whatever little slack the man had in his posture disappeared as he recited.
“Her Majesty Queen Crystyn ap Cadwgan, holder of the Crimson throne, protector of the realm and herald of Danu.”
“Impressive. I still don’t know who that is.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “How can you not know the person you were going to assassinate?”
Alfred bolted up from his chair overturning it.
“Assassinate? Who said anything about assassination? I’m a bloody chemical engineer contracted with Rusalka Corp.”
The man set the chair back, placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder sitting him down without even trying and held him there.
“So you admit it then! Who is this Rusalka Corp? Is he a foreign king? Perhaps in alliance with Bell or the Trollfjord?”
Alfred had to chuckle at that.
“A king? Of course not. They’re a corporation. Based out of Minsk I believe.”
“I’ve never heard of the land of Minsk.”
“Well, that is your problem, innit? Anyway, what’s your authority, are you from a zaibatsu, a collective,” Alfred paused,” A gang alliance?”
The man released Alfred and straightened up a bit.
“I’m lieutenant Cadfan Moon, second in command of the Queen’s Guard.”
The seriousness with which he delivered this made Alfred think that the man really did believe this.
He’s either serious or absolutely mad.
“Right, fine, Lieutenant. Where do we go from here then?”
“You will be going nowhere,” Cadfan smirked, “Except perhaps in front of Her majesty for a quick trial followed by execution.”
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