Recombinant Bridgehead

Storge

"Drop me off over there," Parker instructed the driver; he had bargained a ride from the sanitation worker in charge of Homestead's latrines. His fee was reasonable but a strain on Parker's tight budget, nonetheless. It was night when he arrived at the recombinant lodge, and he could tell by the obnoxious noise that the whole dozen were inside. The clamour was enough to make Parker want to circle back, but the driver had already pulled out. After swallowing the lump in his throat, Selfridge braved the building.

The house was filled with boisterous activities. Some recoms were playing darts, having custom-made their own set using rifle bullets. Being limited in what goods were available to them brought out their creativity. Their taste in music didn't need to be custom-made, however, and the rock hits from the past played for their pleasure. Selfridge feared getting stomped on as he shoved his way past the sinewy recoms towards the centre, where Warren was regaling a story with Quaritch.

"—slapped me full across the face, shrieking, 'I thought you said you'd treat me like one of the guys.' I'm like, 'B****, have you seen Marines? That was equality.'"

Quaritch burst out laughing when he caught sight of Selfridge from the corner of his eye. "Oh, hey. Lookie here." He sniffed. "You don't often pay us a visit."

Soon, all the devious recombinants gathered too closely around Parker. He fidgeted, trying to give himself space from their fanged smiles and hot breath.

"Hey, little man," sang Fike.

Johnny loomed over his ear. "I can smell your fear."

Parker threw retorts from "cut that out!" to "rude!"

CJ waved Zhâng over. "Hey, Z-Boy, come help Pops up so we can all see him."

Zhâng mischievously rubbed his palms together. "You got it, Z-Dog."

Parker could only hurl protests as he was hoisted above the crowd to be plopped on the island in the centre. Standing on the counter, he was now above their eye level, but he felt far from respected as he hastily tucked his ruffled shirt back under his pants.

"So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" Quaritch asked.

He straightened out his tie before replying. "I got word of your guys' next assignment. You're going to be leaving Bridgehead for a while."

"Where are we going?"

"The Omatikaya's old village—Hometree. The dozers have finally finished clearing a path, and we're ready to mine. From what I've learned, they want you to guard the site till the bucket-wheeler gets there, which will take about two months. So I came to ask if there's anything you need ahead of time."

"Pads!" Walker blurted out from across the room.

"I thought I dealt with that?"

"Things suck at absorbing. It's like they're made of cardboard."

Brown winced. "TMI, Walker."

"Could use some drinks." Warren shrugged, but his commander gave him a look.

"For a mission?"

"I mean, when we come back to celebrate. We have to settle for water," he explained to their overseer.

Parker spotted the glass at his feet, and sure enough, it was filled with the clear liquid. "What's wrong with the beer Bridgehead makes?"

"You wanna drink the brand they send us?" He reached behind the counter and brought up a can for Parker. The unimaginative label simply read "Viperwolf Beer." "Viperwolf Piss, more like," Warren remarked. He tried opening it for Parker, but the recom couldn't work his elephantine fingers under the tab, so he punctured it with his teeth. He then handed it to Selfridge, who was slightly grossed out by the polite gesture.