Tevun-Krus #10 - TKX: Best of 2014

Nick's Nose: Decopunk

I shook myself out of my reverie and unbuckled my safety harness. Boosting myself out of the seat and over the side of the skimmer, I said, "You didn't tell me that your ex was a billionaire. Who ever heard of a robotics engineer with money like this?"

Marguerite snorted, hanging her tripod over one shoulder, and tucking her levelling rod under her arm. "I said he was a robotics entrepreneur. A successful entrepreneur."

"Successful is an understatement!" I gave a low whistle to punctuate my comment. Marguerite rolled her eyes.

"Get moving, Nicky. I need you to carry the theodolite. Remember, if you drop it, Burrows will have your head," she announced cheerfully.

I grimaced, and slung the pulse rifle behind my back, and hauled the theodolite to the door.

If the house had looked large when I was sitting in the skimmer, it was humongous up close. The central portion of the building soared six stories – you could fit a jetliner in there. The door that opened, however, wasn't in that central area; instead, a small door opened in a side wing.

A portly man with sandy brown hair poked his head out. “Yes?”

Marguerite immediately turned on that thousand watt smile of hers.

“Well, fancy that!” she exclaimed, “Is that you, James Wilson? Imagine meeting you out here!”

The man blinked twice, and then a smile spread across his face. “Marguerite! What are you doing here?”

“Didn't anyone tell you, Jimmy? I work for TrelCo, now. We're here about the bomb shelter.”

When she said 'we', Marguerite gestured in my general direction. I would have waved, but then I'd probably have dropped the theodolite. So I nodded. James Wilson glared at me.

“Don't frown at Nicky, Jim!” Marguerite cautioned. “He's from the office. Now then, about that fallout shelter?”

“Yes, of course. Right this way.”

Wilson ushered us in through the door. I was slightly depressed to find myself in what looked to be an ordinary house – an open-concept sort of place with a den that opened onto a kitchen. At the far end was a shiny chrome-and-glass staircase up, and a plain concrete staircase down. To the right was a door, propped open with a chair and leading outside. That was it; this wing didn't even appear to connect to the big, centre section of the building.

“I've made some notes,” Wilson was saying as he led us through the cool, dimly-lit rooms.

“Notes? What did you have in mind, Jimmy?” Marguerite asked. Her tone was soothing, almost sweet.

“Sketches, ideas. The usual.” Wilson led us to the down staircase. At the bottom was a metal, trapdoor-style exit. The metal surface was dull and grey; I wondered if it might be some alloy of lead.

Marguerite shrugged, and we followed Wilson down into what a former owner must have used as a wine cellar. It was a fairly small room, solid concrete, with old, wooden shelves. But instead of casks of wine, the shelves bore various pieces of mechanical equipment: gear boxes, spark plugs, even a set of gimbals. In the middle of the room was a desk, covered in papers. At the back of the room was a stack of boxes of potato chips and some flats of pop cans – it seemed our new client liked to snack while he worked.

Ignoring me, Wilson passed Marguerite a sheet of paper. Her eyes grew wide.

“You serious about this, Jimmy?” she asked.

“Serious as anything. Why? You think your new company can't deliver?”

I craned my neck, trying to see around Marguerite's shoulder and get an idea of what was on that piece of paper.