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Alien Bet & Invasion of the Lake Puppets | Ch. 6 - The Tavern
🕑 Added 2024-09-11 18:11:31 +0000 UTCJoey woke up with a pounding headache. He barely remembered making it to bed last night, only recalling Marie’s worried face as he came home exhausted and confused. His body felt heavy, as if he had been run over. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 10 AM—time to get back to work.
The house was silent, a sure sign Molly wasn’t home or was still asleep. There was rarely quiet with her around. Joey’s stomach growled as he made his way to the kitchen. The snacks Marie had made for him yesterday were gone long before the day ended, and Joey never ate anything unless he or Marie prepared it.
Marie sat at the kitchen table, her eyes on the newspaper, unaware of him. For a moment, he admired her calm, the way her brown curls rested over her shoulders. She had this natural stillness about her, like a flowing river.
His eyes drifted to a covered plate on the table—his breakfast. Clearing his throat softly, he stepped forward, not wanting to startle her.
Marie looked up, the worry instantly returning to her face. "Morning," she said.
"Morning. Where’s Molly?"
"I sent her with Abigail to the zoo. I thought it would soften the blow."
Joey felt his cheeks burn. "I’m sorry, Marie. I know you and Molly were disappointed. Thank you for arranging that."
"She was pretty upset." The unspoken "we" hung in the air.
"I know. I’m sorry. But no one could have seen what happened coming."
"I can’t stay mad at you, even if I want to." She set the newspaper down and met his eyes. "But you’ll need to take her to the zoo once this storm blows over, alright?"
He nodded, guilt stirring inside him.
"You scared me yesterday, Joey," Marie said, her voice quieter now. "The look on your face when you rushed out..."
"Yeah, it was a crazy day."
Marie’s eyes flicked to the newspaper. "Should I be worried?"
"There’s no need to panic," Joey said, forcing calm into his voice. "Things should go back to normal soon."
"Does anyone know why this happened?"
"Not yet. They’re still looking into it."
Marie bit her lip. "People are saying it could be like the Whale Wars."
Joey shook his head. "No, nothing like that. The animals aren’t going extinct. It’s just a localized disaster."
"That reminds me... Isn’t there still a herd of dugongs on your estate? Shouldn’t you check on them?"
Joey’s chest tightened at the thought. His father had cared for some of those dugongs. He knew he had to go, but he hated the idea of going back to the place where his father had been murdered.
"I know it’s hard for you, dear. Do you want me to go?"
"No, I’ll make the time," Joey said, his voice firmer than he felt.
Marie nodded, sensing his reluctance but not pushing further.
"Guess who I ran into yesterday?" Joey asked, changing the subject.
Marie perked up at the hint of gossip. "Who?"
"Geoffrey."
"Oh, wow. It’s been ages since we saw him. How is he? Still single?" She glanced at Joey’s serious expression and then back at the paper. "Oh... I forgot. He has a ranch now, doesn’t he? Poor thing."
"I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s doing well. A little too well, actually."
"What do you mean?"
Joey’s jaw clenched. "Well, you know how Geoffrey and I go way back."
"Of course. Your dad took him under his wing, right?"
"Yeah, and there was always this light about him like Dad had. But yesterday... something was off. He looked like one of them."
"One of who?"
Joey’s grip tightened. "One of those weasels."
Marie sighed, the familiar conversation sinking in. Joey always blamed the ranchers for his father’s murder, and Marie had long since stopped trying to change his mind. Today, she just squeezed his hand.
"The first thing Geoffrey asked was about Dad’s estate. Wanted to know if the extraction facilities were working. It was almost like he was enjoying the disaster."
"Are you sure?" Marie asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You should’ve seen the creepy smile on his face."
Marie’s sigh made Joey bristle. He pressed on, though. "Then, during the meeting with the mayor and ranchers, he announced his parlor was up and running. Said he’d lease it to other producers—if they gave him ten percent of their herds."
Marie blinked. "What does that mean?"
"He’s taking advantage of the situation! Bleeding the producers dry."
"Are you sure that’s what’s happening?"
"Yes! Ten percent of the animals, Marie. That’s a huge cut."
"Did he explain why?"
"He sugarcoated it, but something’s off. I don’t like it."
Marie’s voice softened. "Honey, we’ve talked about this. You have to be careful not to look at your friends through the eyes of an investigator. Maybe he’s just standing his ground. You know how those ranchers can be. He’s new—maybe this is his way of earning respect."
Joey sighed. "Well... he did donate some oil to the city and offered to help the other ranchers."
"See? Give him the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t he help you when your dad died?"
Joey remembered the funeral, how Geoffrey had been the only one to cry as much as he did, never leaving his side. "You’re right. Maybe I’m overthinking it. He must be under a lot of stress, too."
The kettle’s whistle cut through the tension, hissing like a volcano ready to blow. Marie stood up.
"Your coffee’s ready. I’ll get changed, and you can drop me off at the city market."
Joey sat down and uncovered the plate. Finger sandwiches and fruit. He bit into one—maple syrup and peanut butter. Delicious. He reached for the newspaper and read the headlines. News of the flood had made the front page.
LISBON HERALD
The Flood That Dried the Market
On the night of the 16th, Lake Grassum swelled unexpectedly, its waters surging by over a meter, causing significant damage to the local economy. The flood submerged key facilities used to extract sirenian fat, which is crucial in fuel production. Mayor Eagle, in coordination with local authorities, has begun recovery efforts to mitigate both the economic and environmental impact.
The extraction facilities, especially the delicate vacuum parlors, are highly specialized and could take weeks or even months to repair. Despite this, the mayor assured citizens that the city’s fuel reserves are well-stocked to weather this period of uncertainty.
“Despite the catastrophe,” Mayor Eagle declared in a press conference, “we are prepared to meet market demand without any shortages. We urge calm as we work through these challenges.”
Environmental concerns are also mounting. The flood’s effect on the lake’s salinity could severely disrupt the fragile ecosystem. Wildlife experts are already monitoring the situation, and the mayor’s office confirmed they’ve contacted the Science Academy for further investigation.
Meanwhile, in the markets, sirenian oil prices soared to historic highs. An anonymous buyer cleared out the auction before authorities could intervene, despite city efforts to stabilize prices. Dugong oil barrels fetched an unprecedented 210 crowns at the latest auction.
Joey let out a sigh as he skimmed the rest of the article. The mayor’s office had done an admirable job of spinning the flood story, painting it as a temporary setback. No mention of protests or looting yet—though Joey knew it was just a matter of time.
His fingers absently reached for another sandwich while he leafed through the paper, his thoughts drifting back to yesterday. He still hadn’t fully processed everything that happened—the tension in the city, the meetings, Geoffrey’s strange behavior. But what really nagged at him was the lack of coverage of the police raid.
His eyes finally landed on the article he’d been searching for:
Successful Police Raid on Dark Sciences Lab
In a high-profile operation led by Constable Joseph Jones and Commissioner Fabius, law enforcement raided a secret Dark Sciences lab in the Western District. The police seized a significant cache of illegal materials, including forbidden livestock and fossil fuels.
“Today is a proud day for the force,” Commissioner Fabius stated. “We will not allow these ecological terrorists to jeopardize our natural resources. This operation is just the beginning.”
Among the confiscated items were cows—an illegal commodity due to their high methane emissions. Dr. Barry Brown from the Science Academy weighed in: “Cows, through their methane output, pose a significant threat to our environment. The Academy’s study famously warns, ‘Cow farts can destroy planets.’ Methane is one of the most potent greenhouse gases, and unrestricted breeding could lead to ecological collapse.”
Joey snorted. The headline was buried under news about the flood—such a crucial raid, but nobody cared. The city had other worries, and methane was hardly more alarming than rising water levels and oil prices skyrocketing. He popped another sandwich into his mouth and flipped to the next page.
Science Academy Versus Farmer
A local sunflower oil harvester claims his livelihood has been destroyed after the Science Academy appropriated his land under the Environmental Protection Act. The man, who wished to remain anonymous, said, “My family’s farm has stood for generations, and now they’ve taken it because of a hive of weaverbees. I sent word to the university, thinking I was being a good citizen. Instead, I was robbed.”
The appropriation followed the rediscovery of the weaverbee, a species long thought extinct. The farmer claims the compensation was far below market value, but the Academy insists that conservation efforts are paramount.
A spokesperson for the Science Academy responded: “We understand the hardship this can cause, but environmental preservation is a delicate balance. Valuing land for such purposes is complex, and sometimes expectations don’t align.”
This incident has reignited debate about the Science Academy’s growing power. Many wonder if their unchecked influence is becoming too great.
Joey’s stomach twisted. The Academy’s influence stretched further every year, their authority practically untouchable. To think that he was the one who was going to chaperone their envoy made Joey shudder.
Marie emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a sunny yellow dress. She smiled at him. "Ready, dear?"
Joey stood up, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "Ready."
*
The inn was empty. The air carried the faint scent of sweat and beer, halfheartedly masked by an attempt to clean it away. The fire in the hearth was dying out, but the tavern keeper paid it no mind as he absentmindedly wiped the same glass over and over. Despite the establishment’s worn appearance, every glass gleamed, catching the sunlight through half-closed blinds.
There was something hypnotic about how the tavern keeper cleaned the glass long after it had been spotless. Geoffrey wondered if the man was cleansing his mind rather than the glass, falling into a trance-like state where idle tasks gave way to quiet reflection. Perhaps it was a form of therapy or a lesson on how even the simplest jobs could become comforting routines.
Geoffrey resisted the impulse to check his pocket watch—he hadn’t brought it. His ragged jacket patched beyond recognition of its original fabric, and his worn shoes and torn trousers made him look like a beggar or maybe a dockworker down on his luck. Every few minutes, his hand would tap the counter in a seemingly random pattern: thumb and pinky, thumb and ring finger, index and middle, and so on. The rhythm was always the same, easy to dismiss as a nervous tic.
He signaled for a refill, and the tavern keeper slid the mug across the counter with uncanny precision, landing it perfectly in front of him. Geoffrey took a small flask from his pocket and poured a bit of lake water into the cider. Since tasting it two days ago, he hadn’t been able to stop drinking it. It was just water, he reasoned, nothing harmful. Yet each sip left him feeling calm and grounded as if his thoughts and anxieties were being washed away.
The door opened, bringing a gust of fresh air into the room. Geoffrey kept his back to the entrance, resisting the urge to turn around. This was the hardest part—never look back. He forced himself to stay still, sipping his cider as the lake water soothed his nerves once again.
The newcomer took a seat somewhere behind him. The atmosphere thickened, tension rising as Geoffrey sensed the presence without needing to look. The air felt so heavy it was as if a knife could cut through it. Geoffrey had no idea how a simple rhythm of finger taps in this rundown tavern could summon a big shot of New Lisbon’s underworld.
“Geoffrey, Geoffrey,” a voice rasped, low and wheezing, like a whistle hidden beneath its bass. Geoffrey froze. The voice hadn’t come from behind him but from the tavern keeper. The same man who had silently cleaned glasses for hours had known who he was all along.
Legends he’d heard as a street urchin echoed in Geoffrey’s mind: never speak to the tavern keeper unless to order. If the keeper speaks first, the meeting won’t happen. And here they were.
Somehow, the glass cleaner knew. Despite the disguise, he’d been recognized. Still, Geoffrey felt no fear. The hardest part—summoning the pirate lord—was over. The fact they were talking meant he was safe, for now.
“Thank you for seeing me. How did you know who I was?” His question was curious, not accusatory. The tavern keeper glanced at his boss, silently asking permission to explain.
“The signal you used,” the keeper said. “We change the code yearly, but remember all the old ones. Different neighborhoods get different codes, so we know where and when someone’s from.”
Impressive. The pirate network in the slums was more organized than Geoffrey had imagined.
An inviting silence followed. Geoffrey knew the pirate lord was waiting for him to speak first. He tried to catch a glimpse of the man through the reflection in the bottles behind the counter, but the glasses were too clean and transparent. The dark bottles were angled away, hiding whatever lay behind them. Perhaps the tavern keeper’s obsessive glass-cleaning had a different purpose from what Geoffrey had assumed.
“I have three thousand casks of sirenia oil that I want to be sold—discreetly. No trace back to me.”
He had their attention now. The slight raise of the tavern keeper’s brow was the first expression Geoffrey had seen from the man in hours.
Geoffrey had just revealed the secret everyone was after. The city buzzed with rumors about who had cleared the oil storehouses before anyone else could. Even the mayor had tried and failed to uncover the buyer's identity. Oil prices had skyrocketed, and the streets were buzzing with speculation.
“What’s in it for the pirates?”
“Two percent.”
“Ten,” the keeper said, his tone final.
“Three.”
“Eight.”
“Five,” Geoffrey countered. “Or I can take my business to the black merchant.”
Silence. Geoffrey had no idea how to contact the black merchant, the elusive figure who controlled New Lisbon’s underground market. It was a bluff, but he hoped the pirate lord wouldn’t call it.
After a long pause, the pirate lord spoke. “Aye. You have a deal.”
Geoffrey heard a chair scrape behind him, followed by the door opening and closing.
“Finish your cider. Pace yourself,” the tavern keeper said. Geoffrey went back to drinking. A foreign thought entertained his mind. He had liked this pirate lord’s style. He always remained in the shadow, only pulling the strings on his puppets and instructing his minions. Geoffrey couldn’t even be sure if he had just been in the presence of a pirate lieutenant and not the lord himself. Even the tavern keeper could have been the pirate lord.
Ambyssus’ ambition... this was the best type of criminal. One that you can’t even be sure exists—someone who plays the game from the shadows and still wins it every time. By Ambyssus’ eye, this was so much fun.
Geoffrey calmly finished his cider. He then left some money to cover his bill and left.
