Chapter Seventeen - Shit Bureaucracy

Chapter Seventeen - Shit Bureaucracy

New Montral is an interesting city for many reasons, one of which is its government. Originally a city in Quebec, after the Great Split, Montral declared itself a city-state and was rechristened New Montral.

Its fledgling government discovered an immediate issue when its mixed-language groups both started to wrestle for power within the city. The end result is a municipal government thats nearly entirely French, serving a population thats nearly entirely English, while in actuality being run by an upper-crust that is entirely non-Canadian.

--Excerpt from the Guide Touristique du Nouveau Montral, dition, 2049

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I figure we walk on in and just go straight to them, I said with a gesture to the Oasis entrance. Wed wasted enough time asking questions and trying to get to the bottom of things, but the Sewer Dragons seemed about as organized as my kittens halfway into a pillow fight. There was some semblance of a hierarchy, maybe, but there wasnt a boss, and no one quite knew what the others were thinking except that they were all thinking along the same chaotic lines.

Gomorrah nodded. Might as well. Either well find someone to help us or well find the people were looking for. Do you think we need anything special to head in?

I guess well need masks and things able to keep us alive in there. Does your armour cover you entirely?

Did you think I was nude under my robes? Gomorrah asked.

I raised my arms in surrender. I wasnt even thinking it. I thought you had some sort of underarmour on. But... now that Im imagining it, its not a bad mental image.

Gomorrahs hand snapped back and she smacked my arm with the back of her hand. Pervert, she said.

Are you always this horny? Franny asked.

I grinned. Your Delilahs the one that started it... this time. But, before we start talking too much, we really do need a gear check. Myalis, we going to be okay in there?

If by we you mean you and I, then yes. Your underarmour is intact, reading at 99% integrity. It should prevent most chemical or radiological contaminants from touching your skin. Your Lions Manes structural integrity is still replicator-perfect. Your helmets filtration system should allow you to breathe in nearly any environment, and with the stored air, you could survive in a vacuum for up to a quarter of an hour.

So, no dying from fart air. Nice, I said.

A disgusting way to put it, Gomorrah said. But not entirely wrong. Im ready as well, although... I think I might need to disrobe.

I blinked. Huh?

Gomorrah tugged at the front of her black robes. These wont be great in what might be a wet environment.

Made sense. Gomorrah and I looked for a place for her to change, and we ended up sneaking into an alley between two small maintenance buildings off to the side of the Oasis. I stood by the entrance, making sure no one was around, then I looked back in.

Gomorrah shifted her shoulders, then carefully reached up and tugged at the edge of her collar. It loosened and she tugged down the outer hood of her habit. She had a tighter, white hood beneath, one stuck to the sides of a helmet that looked about as high-tech as my own. Well, it has little glowy bits and was made of metal, so I was guessing.

She placed a leg forwards, then bent down and swept the robes off in a single, languid motion, the cloth riding up along her legs and back and revealing the Gomorrah underneath until she straightened, a bundle of cloth in her hands. She started to casually fold the robes while I stared.

I thought my armour was a bit... feminine, but Gomorrahs was on another level. Tight, fitting to her calves and thighs and butt, with armoured plates and some sort of blacker-than-black weave over the parts that needed any flexibility. Her back-mounted flamethrowers rested below her shoulders like a pair of folded wings, and there was a cross-shaped cut out under her bust.

I dont think the whole dont shit where you eat thing applies down here, I said as I minimized the map back to a square in the corner of my vision.

Raccoon giggled, and I heard her feet patting against... what was likely the front seat in the Fury. Gomorrah groaned. And now you went from disturbing to disgusting.

I do that, I said.

No one stopped us--or at least Gomorrah, who was the only one visible--from entering the facility. I was expecting a sewer. Like, a large tunnel half-filled with shit water. Instead, it was all cinderblock walls and a cement floor, lights hung from the ceiling, most of them functional enough to brighten the place up.

Crates were pressed against one wall, some shipping containers against another, and on either end was a long tunnel that curved around.

A few metal doors at the far end seemed to open up into some offices, of all things.

Not what I expected, I said.

This is an access area, Gomorrah said. The map... isnt terribly clear.

Hey, miss, whatcha doing here? someone asked.

It was a rotund man, with a ketchup-stained button-up and slacks. He had a helmet on, like a large glass bubble with the bottom half over his mouth covered in filters, but otherwise he could have been any mid-level factory foreman. At least, I figured he was a foreman; thats what the tag on his shirt said.

Hello, Gomorrah said. Im... who are you?

Im Bob, he said. Whore you?

Im Gomorrah. Im looking for access to... this area.

Bob frowned the frown of someone who had both been interrupted--there was some sauce on his patchy moustache--and of someone whod been sent a pile of data that they didnt want. Thats a ways from here. Do you have permission to be down here, miss?

Gomorrah gestured to some of the others in the large room. Sewer Dragons, with their long coats and metallic limbs. Some were looking our way, others were fiddling with tablets or pushing crates along or just minding their own business. Do they? she asked.

Yes, he said. They do. Theyre all commission-based, temp-contract workers for the city of STE New Montreal.

STE? I muttered.

The department in charge of the citys sewerage: Socit de transport des gouts du Nouveau Montral.

Oh, fuck me, I said.

Bureaucrats.

Id rather have my legs eaten by an alien than deal with that kind of shit.

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