In the grim dark future of space, there is a ton of war. And behind every intergalactic space soldier fighting a losing battle against the denizens of the New Empire lies someone just as important to the world's stability.

Their accountants.


Artyom cleaned off the counter of the bar with a dirty rag then took to cleaning the leftover mugs from the lunch crowd. Today had been fairly busy, a bunch of the Old Guard had came in to watch a round of boxing on the Cyberscreen. There had been betting going on, and from the betting came arguments when Tzar “Biobreaker” McCree beat Hulk “Cybersluth” Hart out of the coveted championship. The group had broke a chair or two during their roughhousing and while Artyom had made his money back from them compensating with creds, it still sucked cleaning up on the mess. He glanced over at the last remaining guest sitting at the bar; a lanky man in a wrinkled suit staring disinterestedly at a screen being projected into his hand, nodding numbly on occasion at a holographic image of a man decked out in military regalia and a helmet bearing the insignia of the Old Guard.

Artyom felt a sly, sneaky grin cross his face and he hopped down from the stool he stood on to reach across the counter and crept forward towards the man, the child's size obscuring him from the other. When he got closer he realized the man had set the call to private; the words were being internally projected directly into his inner ear. But that didn't stop Artyom; he reached down his sleeve and brought out a small keypad. With a few flicks of his fingers, he deftly hacked into the others device and rounded the corner out of the small bar, sitting down amid the sand that surrounded his little slice of heaven, eager to hear what was kept so private. With a turn of a knob at the side of his device, the image of the military man sparked to life.

“...Anyway, after we destroyed the oversized fire-ant colony living in quadrant Nilis-Five, I get a call. It's from my ex-wife.” He breathed out, his voice distorted from the mask he wore.

“Uh-huh,” the man in the bar replied. Artyom couldn't see him on the jacked-in screen, but his inner ear transmitter and receiver brought his voice to life.

“She tells me I have the kids next Sunday and I'm like 'uh, hello? I'm a Marine, I can't just take the kids off and go to Neo-Disneyland every time she wants to go off for a trip to the casino and nano-narcotic lodges? Can you believe that?”

“I thought you were a Space Soldier,” the patron said.

“Well, I am now. Called myself a Marine out of habit. The Marines lost me after the battle of Eyegouge. It's the one where...”

“Yeah, yeah. The one with the dark priests. That, uh, that did the eye gouging.”

“Yeah. Guess I told you that one already.” He offered a single chuckle through the heavy helm he wore and put an armored hand to his chin. “Classic dark priests. You should hear what they did to a buddy of mine in the Space Force at the battle of Ballsbreak.”

“So what did you do with the kids?” the other quickly asked.

Artyom sighed as he looked at the screen. How did he manage to jack into the one soldier conversation that was as boring as taxes? He rose and pushed back through the saloon doors of the bar and made his way back to the counter, killing off the jacked signal as he did so.

About as he returned to the counter, the patron killed the screen and stood, popping his back. He sauntered over and sat at the bar. When his arm made contact with the wood, Artyom couldn't help but notice the heavy thunk that accomplished the action.

“Boy,” he addressed. “Never get a Space Soldier talking about his kids. He'll never shut up about them.” A pause came to him. “And why are you running the bar? You can't surely be old enough to sell drinks.”

“Am in this quadrant,” he replied, attempting to appear tougher than he was by leaning on the counter and lowering his voice. “Can even sell synth drugs. If that's more your thing.”

“I'm a winner, and winners don't use drugs.” He gave a small wave of his finger and smirked. “It was my hometown's saying back during the reign of the before times. You couldn't boot up a cyber game without seeing it across the screen.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, at least until the town became the system's largest distributor of neo-meth. Huh. Guess that's kind of, uh, kind of ironic.”

“I guess so.”

Knowing that the secret to being a good bartender was keeping the conversation flowing just as quickly as the drinks, he raised his brow to the man.

“So, what brings you to the planet, mister...?”

“Networth. Nick Networth.”

That's a... different name.”

“Dad thought of it while shaving.” He tapped his gloved hands against the bar. And I'm waiting for someone. This is the midpoint between his quadrant and Sengulife.”

“Sengulife?” Artyom repeated. “The Mega Corporation in Mega City in Mega Quadrant Home-Base?”

Meg-actly,” Nick agreed. He paused at Artyom's silence. “S-see, it's a pun on 'exactly', because of how many megas—“

“I got the damn joke,” the kid countered. “And who are you waiting for?”

“Business partner. I'm here making a delivery.”

Artyom seemed to spark up just a hair. “You're a delivery man? Like those old virtua-logs about Posting Men? The people our forefathers counted on to deliver urgent messages across the Old World for, risking life and limb and battling vicious feral beasts to make sure packages arrived on time?”

“You make it sound interesting,” the man replied, brushing his brown hair back.

“You have to make everything seem interesting. In case you can't tell, this shithole planet is nothing but sand, the acid mines and a Mega Mart.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping to get my thrusters rotated before I head back. The ship's been wobbling a little...” he gave a tilt of his hand to demonstrate. “So, you know... probably a rotation is what I need. Probably.”

“Or your thrusters aren't getting the same amount of oxygenated fuel. Have you checked your pipelines connecting the Ambrosia core to your rear and side thrusters?”

Nick blinked. “How do you do that? I mean, I know, but I wanted to make sure that... that you know. Know what you're talking about. In case you have to answer someone's questions.”

“How couldn't you know? It's really easy to—“

“I just don't, ok! I don't know a thing about space ships! I once hit my emergency pod button because my brake fluid was low and I thought the ship was malfunctioning!” he blurted out. Artyom looked at him, Nick looked back. They were caught in a staring match for a long, long time before Nick coughed and looked down at the bar in defeat.

“I'll, I'll ask while it's in the shop if that's what it needs,” he finally said.

The bar grew silent again; seeing nothing else to do for the moment, Artyom spoke again.

“So, the business partner... what are you doing? Swapping trade secrets?”

“No, of course not. I'm just an accountant, like they'd share anything real cool with me.”

“Why is an accountant out here?”

Nick brightened up a bit. “Company lotto. When we have a delivery to make, once a month every employee has a chance to win two days paid leave off, if they make the drop.” He pointed both his thumbs at himself. “This guy got the gold.”

“So you're not even a delivery man normally?” Artyom slumped a bit onto the bar. “How dull.”

“Hey, accounting's great. My division is awesome to work with aside from our clients. I swear, if I have to deal with Bronzebeard Hammerthunder one more time about his Neo-W2's I'm going to scream. You figure dwarves of all people would know how to keep track of their money! Not like they don't spend every day of their lives dwarving it out of the rest of us.”

“What do you mean?” the kid asked.

“Nothing, Artyom, nothing.” Nick waved off. “I'm just frustrated. The guy's late, my augmentations are sore, I'm hot and I wish I was in my VR room right now talking with a robot woman. This isn't my idea of fun.”

“I wish I got to have fun. I'm here every day at the bar. Nothing fun ever happens here.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Dad drowned in the acid mines. Mom was attacked by feral dogs.”

“That's horrible.” He looked at the boy. “No other relatives?”

“Well, there's my uncle.”

“Yeah.”

“He got attacked by mutated scorpions.”

“Shit.”

“Or maybe my aunt.” Artyom cocked his head in casual thought. “She got killed by nanomachine powered hornets last week when a denizen of corruption flew by.”

“That sucks.”

“Though I guess there is my other uncle. He's still alive at least.”

“Where's he at?”

“He got attacked by giant mutated scorpions, ran into a pack of feral dogs to kill the scorpions, and then lept into a pit in the acid mines in order to escape the dogs.”

Nick paused. “Is your uncle the Immortal Kaza-Rail, second in command to the Lord-President himself?”

“Guess so, yeah.”

“I had his action figures growing up! What a small world, er, cosmos.”

“Oh, the figure that lets out three different roars when you squeeze his heart?” On Nick's nod, Artyom grinned. “I recorded those yells. They're actually just sound pitches from when he watches his soap operas and is crying.”

“No way.”

“Way. He's really into them, he even had to call off a raid on one of the command centers of the dark lord Gygax because it interfered with the release date of 'as the cosmos burns.'

“Oh, I like that one. Are Raingun Remiel and Saera of the most revered high-blood still a couple?”

“Kinda. The actor for Remiel was kidnapped by spawns of darkblood and had his face melted off. So they wrote him off as being at war until the flesh restoring nanomachines he's been bathing in restore his face. His poor, perpetually screaming face.”

“What dark times we truly live within,” Nick commented. He reached over and took a bottle of beer from under the counter and popped it open with a pull of his thumb. “To Remiel, may his face not look like an abomination within three to five weeks.”

He took a drink and nearly gagged. “What the hell's in this?”

“I'm a kid, how would I know? It tastes like pee to me,” Artyom answered. The boy paused. “Wait, you grabbed a bottle of olive oil. That explains why I couldn't find it in the kitchen yesterday.”

“Oh.”

The saloon doors opened and in stepped a massive man, his face lined with scars and his eyes looking over the both of them. He approached, spurs jingling with every step he took and his impossibly wide biceps twitching underneath his shirt. He narrowed his brow and let out a low growl.

“Networth? Is that you?” he said, his voice grim and gravely, every syllable seeming to hold threats of violence, of blood at the slightest provocation.

“Clubber,” Nick said, the word coming out almost like an expletive. They stared one-another down for a long, long moment; from behind the counter, Artyom swallowed and crawled his hand towards the small blaster he kept for emergencies and for popping mutant gophers that strayed too close to the bar at night time.

“Hey you old son of a bitch! How goes it?!” Clubber asked, his expression instantly turning jolly and bright as he gave a series of light pokes at Nick's shoulder. Nick flinched, pretending they hurt and laughing.

“Great! Super even, Clubber. Got a couple of days off coming my way and can go home just as soon as a guy I'm waiting for comes in for a trade.”

“Well, I might know your guy!” He cocked his thumbs into his meaty chest. “This guy!”

“Hey!” Nick laughed out, slapping Clubber on the shoulder. “You got that promotion?! Well, hell, congrats! If I had know your dumb face would be the one I saw today I would have waited on eating.”

“I was running late, a bunch of space pirates tried to jack my ship.” His expression hardened just a bit. “I didn't like that.” Then, just like that, it was gone. “But, hey, I mean, that's fine, Blood for the Blood god, am I right or am I right?”

“Right man, right.”

Artyom rubbed at his brow. “You come strutting in here looking ready to kill someone, and you're buddies with him?”

Clubber frowned, his face showing regret. “Oh, sorry. Did I scare you, little guy? Me and Nick go a ways back, was like a brother growing up with this clown; how's your mom, Nick?”

“Fine. Though she's been watching too much Cyberscreen lately.”

“With her eyes?” Clubber let out two tsks, "tell her I said to cut back. She likes me more, she'll listen to me.”

Artyom rolled his eyes. “Why couldn't there be a shoot-out, or, or a monster attack, or anything cool?” He pointed to Clubber. “You could have been a mercenary with a grudge because Nick did you wrong a few years back and you,” he pointed to Nick, “You could have had cool cyber implants and augmentations, but instead you're just a boring accountant.”

Nick blinked. “But I do have augmentations.” he rolled up his sleeve, revealing an ebony black mechanical arm.

Artyom seemed to grow a bit less frustrated and looked at it. “Does it have blades? Can it crush steel? What about guns?”

“It's got a pocket knife in the pinkie. And why would it be able to crush steel? Or have a gun? This is a civilian model; I lost my arm in a wreck when I was a teenager.”

“Why can't it crush steel?”

“Because it feels like a normal hand. Crushing steel would set my pain receptacles on fire. If this thing didn't have physical feedback, I wouldn't know how tight I was gripping something.”

“It's true,” Clubber agreed, sitting down on the bar stool. “I knew a guy that tampered with his, right? First time he goes to take a leak?” He instantly clenched his fist and Nick and Arytom winced. “Like nano-toothpaste coming out of a tube.”

Artyom threw up his hands in frustration. “I give up!” he exclaimed, stomping out into the kitchen.

“Uh, what's the kid's deal?” Clubber asked. Nick waved it off.

“You know how they are. They want everything to be balls-deep every second. They don't realize that in-between the gunfights, somebody has to do the math on how much you need to include for self-defense expenses in next month's fiscal report to the boss.”

Clubber chucked. “Oh kids.” Leaning over the counter, he took a bottle from underneath and popped the top off with his teeth. He held it out to Nick. “To your health and another business venture under my belt.”

Nick clinked bottles with the man and took a deep swig of his then nearly spit it out.

“Oh yeah,” he muttered to himself, remembering that it was olive oil. With a shrug, he took back to drinking it.