Episode 9: Gathering Information

Dawson walks through the tavern district, holding a bag containing suspicious eggs.

Eventually, he reaches the farthest edge of the tavern district, where the boundary wall of a sector stands.

At this point, there are no shops resembling stores, only narrow alleys extending ahead.

Yet along these narrow paths, numerous pirates lie sprawled, their vitality spent.

"Uuuu～～～" "Aaaa～～～"

People who moan, lacking even the faintest trace of will to move.

Their bodies vary—some partially mechanized, some in space suits, some in civilian clothes, some male, some female. All share the same feature: purple discoloration along the neck, from injected ampoules.

In short, the final state of complete desensitization after drowning in chemical pleasure.

Dawson narrowed his brows inside the mask as he stepped carefully past them. He did not want to be here. But the person he wished to meet lived here. That was unavoidable.

As he walked, his foot was suddenly seized.

Not a firm grip. The hand holding it exerted no strength. Just slightly more pressure than a touch.

Dawson looked down. A half-naked woman stared up with a pale face and a forced smile.

"Brother... one time? Just one pill. It’s fine."

Her voice was strained. Her body worn thin. A prostitute offering herself.

Dawson’s reply was fixed.

"Let go, idiot! Do you think I look like someone who buys sex or drugs?!"

The hand gripping Dawson’s foot withdrew. The woman flinched, her smile faltering as she stepped back.

Dawson walked on the side path, indifferent to everyone but the target, his expression grim.

He reached the concealed alleyway behind the tavern district. A thick pipe ran vertically through the area.

At the base of the pipe sat an old man wrapped completely in a blanket. This was the person Dawson had come to see.

"Hey, old man. Still alive?"

The man slowly raised his face from within the blanket, a slow smile spreading across his lips. His mouth contained a set of metallic implant teeth.

Dawson untied the paper bag and removed a mottled rainbow-colored egg, placing it before the old man.

"Swallow this. Get sharp. I need information."

Dawson dropped the egg into the old man’s mouth. The old man grinned widely and crushed the egg with his teeth. From the shell flowed a liquid, emerald green with flecks of crystalline shimmer.

The old man smeared the clearly harmful-looking liquid across his entire tongue and the inside of his upper jaw. By the time his tongue turned green, the old man’s expression changed.

The vague smile sharpened into sudden, unnatural vigor. He tore the blanket from his body with arms like withered branches. He exposed his mechanized torso from neck to shoulders. From his mouth came strong words.

“Hah-hah! Not the Black Jaw Mask! Still after some stale information today, are we!”

Dawson nodded at the old man, whose voice echoed down the alleyway.

"All cargo transport vessels navigating the Star Arm Nebula Main Route. I require their transit data."

"Sure thing—sure thing! Other pirates don’t care about such stale info, so three eggs will do!"

"The noodle shop owner said two were enough."

"Idiot. Do you think a man like me, an egg junkie, would be satisfied with just two? Three. Three eggs, or I won’t do it!"

"Understood. I’ll give you four. Make sure the information is accurate."

"Ho ho—four eggs? Then I’ll have to work hard on this one!"

The old man reached up to his mechanized neck and pulled out a reel cable. He connected the end of the cable to an unauthorized port improvised on a nearby thick pipe.

Ah, spreading, spreading. The world spreads outward. I am god. Here, I can be god. Without an egg, it wouldn’t fit. But here, it can!

The old man’s eyes darted left and right. He let out a chuckle every now and then—gehige-hi—and drooled a greenish liquid from the corner of his mouth. His hands and feet twitched as he searched for something only he could see.

Dawson had nothing to do while the work finished. He leaned his back against the wall of the narrow path and waited.

After the old man’s strange behavior settled, it seemed Dawson’s requested task was complete.

“Hand over the recording terminal.”

“An electronic stick will do.”

Dawson tossed a black rectangular prism the size of a thumbnail. The old man grabbed it and inserted it into the device at his neck. Within a minute, he returned the prism.

Four eggs, you said you’d pay for four. I gave you a little extra information. Details on ships scheduled to use the Star Arm Nebula over the next sixty days, gathered from the Hamano Onna network.

Just the cargo transport data would have sufficed. Still, I’ll take it. Appreciate the offer.

Good. Now then—eggs. Send them over.

Here. Inside this bag. Check for yourself.

Dawson extended the paper bag. The old man shoved his face into the open end and peered inside. Then, still in that position, he began to laugh.

Gehihihihii! Eggs! Four eggs!

The sound of the old man chewing eggs one after another could be heard from inside the bag.

Dawson hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was safe for him to eat all four. Then he reconsidered. He had no right, no obligation to care. He turned and left the scene.

Taking the exit route along the side passage, Dawson placed his hand on the visor of his space suit and initiated communication with the *Mandible*.

"Oine. I have the information. There is additional data as well, so I will need you to review it."

"That’s no trouble at all. Did I find an old man still alive? If he’s near death, I’ll locate another data broker illegally connected to the Hamano Onna database?"

"Ah… I don’t know. He ate four cultured eggs laced with narcotics. He might be dead. But I can’t picture the old man dying."

"Hmm. Then I’ll look for a new data broker just in case. One that’s only useful when nearly dead—no worries if you cut off its tail."

"An honest broker had too much data. Information about ship movements in the Star Arm Nebula? Other pirates don’t care. Yet they looked down on me because I’m new."

There's nothing to be done. This is a pirate stronghold. Legitimate trade can't survive here.

Illegal, unregulated ships—those are the norm. And attackers too.

At the point where the side path ended, two pirates stood blocking Dawson's way. Both in space suits—new recruits.

They opened their mouths to speak, weapons trained on Dawson.

Dawson saw they lacked the resolve to fire. He drew his own blaster from the holster at his waist.

Pash, pash. A quiet sound. Heat beams struck, destroying both pirates' weapons.

"Nuah! Ah!" "Gah! My hand!"

One of the pirates had only his weapon melt away, but the other's hand caught fire along with the weapon. The suit should prevent skin exposure, but the burned suit will require repair.

Dawson reholstered his blaster. He walked toward the two pirates, both trembling and paralyzed with fear, and struck them both unconscious with a single blow.

"Oine. Handle their inquiry."

"Affirmative. Hmm, seems they were mercenaries defeated in a prior engagement, their ship destroyed, and barely escaped. Perhaps they heard Dawson was operating a vessel independently and decided to attack for it?"

"Unlikely to be carrying significant loot. No choice then. Toss them into the side passage."

Dawson dragged the two back to the side passage and discarded them there.

If fortunate, they will wake soon and survive.

If not, they will be stripped bare by the end of their strength. Lose their current space suit, and unless they buy a new one, these two will never return to their pirate vessel. Their final destination will be joining the others on this side passage.

Dawson speaks to himself. He must work harder at piracy to avoid that fate.

Dawson exits the side passage and steps into the alley lined with food stalls in the tavern district.