Tevun-Krus #10 - TKX: Best of 2014

Nick's Nose: Decopunk

Nick's Nose
A decopunk story by @CarolinaC

 

The first thing that you need to know about me is that I don't go out in the field. And when I do, I usually don't do anything dangerous – nothing that would result in a broken nose. Not usually. Except here I am, nursing the broken nose I got on a field trip. I never should have gone out at all.

See, I'm a draftsman; I draw things. Things like bridge abutments, or household rocket gantries, or foundations for fallout shelters. This means I learn a lot of random facts. Our chief designer tells me you need at least thirty centimetres of concrete to protect from gamma radiation. The shelter's got to be away from trees, too, and I make sure I show you just how far away. That's what drawings are for. Don't tell me that nuclear bombs aren't a serious threat; just because nobody's used one yet doesn't mean that they won't, some day. And when they do, you'll be thankful to have a genuine TrelCo Shelterama (All rights reserved). After all, who else is going to give you gently curved, streamlined styling, built-in telecommunications equipment, glass-brick walls, and TrelCo's patented reverse-osmosis water filtration system? Nobody, that's who.

It was one of the shelters that got me in trouble that day. Well, one of the shelters, and a girl. The girl was Marguerite. When she leans over your shoulder, her hair smells like honey. She's a surveyor, and a good one, but she also does sales work, now and then. She's got a fiancé, Tom, so I know I'll never get anywhere with her – but a guy can dream, can't he? Anyhow, when Marguerite came to speak to me last week, she smelled of honey and manipulation. In case you're wondering, manipulation smells like citrus fruit, motor oil and death - a sort of lemony-fresh mechanical destruction.

“Nick?” She asked, batting her eyelashes. She knows I'm a sucker for that. “I don't suppose you can spare a couple of hours for a field trip, can you?”

I wanted to say 'anything for you, Marguerite' while staring into those big, dark eyes. Instead, I said, “I guess so. But why me?”

“Burrows said you were free. Also,” Marguerite leaned over my tilted drafting table and tapped the certificate pinned to the cubicle wall. “TrelCo Staff Picnic Pulse Rifle Competition. First Prize,” she read, smiling. “You do have the pulse rifle handy, right?”

“You figure there'll be some clay pigeons that need shooting?” I offered. I'll admit I was confused. When I'd gone out into the field before, all I'd brought was my satellite watch, an orange vest, and steel-toed boots.

“No! Look, I used to be, um, involved,” she gave a little shrug, “with the landowner, before I met Tom. It wasn't a pretty breakup. He's a robotics entrepreneur, and you know how sensitive those guys can be. I don't expect any trouble, but if we run into some, I need you to, you know, look intimidating. Convincingly intimidating. Also, I need someone to carry the theodolite for me. Come on, I'll even fly the skimmer, okay?”

I sighed. I was incapable of telling her no.

***

When Marguerite gently lowered the skimmer to the ground, we were parked in front of a house - and the house was huge. It looked like one of those fancy hotels the transcontinental railways used to build, back when the transcontinental railways were a going concern. The house was an imposing mass of grey stone - stone, in this day and age! - with turrets and steeply pitched silvery roofs jutting towards the sky in impressive profusion. I only realised that I was staring when Marguerite leaned in the window and said, "Youare going to come with me, right, Nick?"