“Captain, I implore you to exercise utmost caution with that blade. I discern a tachyon disturbance enveloping its edge.”

I was not expecting such a cultured voice from the woman held in my arms. “How the fuck can you see the edge?”

“Both of my eyes incorporate a fusion of cyberware, bionics, and bioware, facilitating discernment with ease. The subdued azure luminescence emanating from the activated knife’s edge gracefully envelops the anterior of my physique.”

“Oh,” probably not the most intelligent thing I ever said to a woman in my arms.

“Captain, you may release your hold on me. I pose no imminent danger to your well-being.”

“And how do I know that?”

“I delved into an extensive examination of your background prior to reaching out to you. You never responded to my inquiries. Might I propose a change in our current locale? I would prefer to engage in this conversation within more refined surroundings, devoid of the unsavory elements and malodorous atmosphere prevalent in this alley strewn with refuse.”

Now that she mentions it, standing in a dead-end alley that stinks of piss and shit is not a great place to be.

“Hey, old man, this is our territory. You can’t jack someone on our turf without paying us for the privilege.” This new voice cuts across even the dull thumping sound of the music in the pleasure house.

Spinning and putting the woman at my back, I easily catch the alloy baton with my left hand before it hits my head. Since my dura-alloy claws are already out, I shred the baton while shoving the youth street ganger back.

“Fuck you, old man,” he says. His face has so many tattoos and piercings; it is hard to discern what his face might have looked like before. Dropping the shredded baton, he pulls out a large knife with jagged serrated edges.

“Yeah, Jer, fuck him up,” one of his three companions yells.

In a fluid dance of blades, I skillfully sidestep the ganger’s clumsy knife thrust, effortlessly parrying with my blade. My knife glides seamlessly through the air, meeting the opposing weapon with almost imperceptible resistance. With a swift and precise motion, my blade makes contact not with the ganger’s weapon but with the hand that tightly clutches it.

The consequences of my counterattack unfold in a macabre symphony. The unstoppable force of my MME knife cleanly sliced the ganger’s knife hand through, and the hand grasping it is severed with surgical precision.

A gruesome rain of severed fingers and a portion of the maimed hand splatters onto the unforgiving ground. The metallic tang of blood mingles with the acrid scent of violence, the aftermath of a clash where my blade, an extension of my honed skill, asserts its dominance with chilling efficiency.

The remnants of the ganger’s weaponry and anatomy bear witness to the lethal grace of my defensive maneuver, leaving an indelible mark on the darkened alley where this deadly encounter unfolds.

As he stands there, transfixed by the grotesque sight of his severed fingers and the mangled remains of his hand, I seize the opportunity presented by his horrified distraction. Swiftly, I unleash a calculated strike using my left arm, directing the force of my punch with precision. The blow finds its mark on his vulnerable knee, and the atmosphere is pierced by the sickening sound of bone yielding to the impact.

In an instant, the once-intact kneecap shatters into a gruesome mosaic of splintered bone and crimson flesh. The satisfying crunch reverberates through the alley, drowning out any feeble attempts at resistance from my assailant. The pain-induced shock registers on his face, now contorted with agony, as the effectiveness of my strategic maneuver becomes clear.

The dark alley witnesses the brutal symphony of my retaliation—a dance of violence where calculated strikes replace the chaotic frenzy of the initial attack. With each decisive move, I assert not only my survival but the dominance of skill over brute force in this gritty urban battleground.

Ignoring the sobbing ganger rolling on the ground, I look for his three companions. I am surprised to see all three of them lying motionless in the alley. Looking at the woman, I am surprised to see her holding a steel gray medium-sized needler in a professional two-handed grip. Combat tunnel vision caused me not to realize that she had taken out the other three gang members.

“Fear not, my dear Captain; they are not deceased, merely in a state of temporary repose. My understanding of your character, as gleaned from my research, indicates a reluctance to resort to lethal measures unless under dire circumstances. Consequently, I discerned no justification for the termination of these misguided youths. The utilization of this non-lethal needler, I must say, proved remarkably efficacious in achieving the desired outcome.”

“You’re fuckin’ lucky that they were not jacked up on some street shit, or had bioware to resist the needles and were not even wearing body armor. And what the fuck do you mean your Captain?”

“It would be prudent for us to vacate this vicinity promptly, my dear Captain, lest we find ourselves in the presence of the local authorities.”

“You don’t have to worry about the Blues coming into Slagville. As long as there are not too many bodies, and the fighting does not become a ginormous riot, the Blues will stay in their cushy precinct building. Since none of these sacks of shit have any money or political influence, it’s highly unlikely the Blues will come out.”

“Despite that consideration, dear Captain, I suggest we expedite our departure with utmost haste. Would you happen to be acquainted with a venue where we might convene to discuss an offer I wish to present? I find myself somewhat disoriented in these surroundings.”

I extend my right arm, a silent invitation for her to accompany me. With a knowing nod, I guide the enigmatic woman towards a nearby Indonesian takeout haven. The tantalizing aroma of exotic spices wafts through the air, embracing us as we walk closer to the cozy establishment.

In the dimly lit ambiance of the eatery's entrance, I sense a subtle curiosity in her gaze. As a gesture of goodwill, I extend my left arm, suggesting that she precede me into the eatery. Forgetting that I had not yet retracted my claws. My arm malfunctions again with only half of my claws retracting.

However, the intricate mechanisms within my cybernetic limb require a moment of synchronization. After a couple of attempts, and banging my arm on the wall, a slight mechanical whir accompanies the not quite smooth retraction of my dura-alloy claws, revealing the human-like hand beneath.

With the transformation complete, I manage a wry smile, acknowledging the peculiarity of the interaction. The mysterious woman, unfazed by the somewhat faulty cybernetic intricacies, accepts the offer and enters the eatery.

A conversation is set to take place that promises revelations and intrigue against the backdrop of this quaint Indonesian enclave in the heart of Slagville, the largest of Eros' bustling slums.

Stepping into the cozy, well-lit Indonesian eatery, the fragrant aroma of spices and sizzling dishes envelops me. The bell above the door announces our entrance, drawing the attention of the proprietor. Dwi Mega, a robust man with a welcoming demeanor, stands behind the counter adorned with colorful Indonesian artifacts.

“Hello, Dwi. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Too long, Captain. Too long. Find yourself a seat wherever you like. It’s good to have you back. Been a long time since you ate with a friend.”

The friend still keeps her shroud on, so I do not know what she looks like, but her voice is very cultured, with a faint husky accent I cannot place.

The rhythmic sizzle of ingredients in the woks provides a melodic backdrop to the lively chatter of the family as they take orders. When an order was ready, a drone selected itself from a large bank of delivery drones hovering near the roof. The drones loaded themselves with food and screamed through the roof drone portal.

Being the sole patrons, the woman and I opted for a table nestled in the back, snug against the wall. My inclination is to have a clear view of the main entrance, anticipating any potential pursuers who might decide to grace us with their presence.

“Expecting trouble,” she asks, turning and looking at the front door.

Vibrant batik tablecloths adorn the sturdy, heavily scarred polychrys tables. Settling into the worn but comfortable chair, I stretch my legs out.

The ambiance of the eatery is a tapestry of cultural richness—from the lively Indonesian music playing softly in the background to the vivid paintings depicting scenes from the archipelago.

She looks at several of the pictures. “We share the commonality of our Earthly origins. My understanding is that you hail from the Northern Nuclear Protectorate, situated in the prefecture the ancients knew as New Brunswick, Canada. Were you afforded the opportunity for extensive travel before embarking on your journey?”

“Nope. My family are mostly farmers on large contract robo farms. I hated being a farmer and joined the EC at 16, graduating from the Academy at 18. But I am sure you knew all of that already.”

She makes a noncommittal hum. “I was aware of your origin, and your academic records are accessible to the public. However, the revelation that you were once engaged in farming was not part of my prior knowledge. Your demeanor does not align with the stereotypical image of a farmer. Have you ever revisited Earth since your departure?”

“No, there is nothing for me there anymore. Where are you from?”

“I will tell you later.” We lapse into companionable silence.

As I peruse the holographic menu, my mind drifts momentarily, recalling the first time I stumbled upon this culinary gem in the heart of Eros’ largest bustling slums. It is a sanctuary of flavors amidst the chaos, a place where the diverse inhabitants of the asteroid found common ground over a shared love for authentic Indonesian cuisine.

“The olfactory ambiance within this space is markedly more pleasant,” she remarks. “I find myself unacquainted with Indonesian cuisine. May I seek your refined suggestion on what dish would be most commendable to indulge in?”

“Depends on your diet—are you a vegetarian?”

“I am not.”

“Alrighty then, I suggest either the nasi goring or the bakso. The first is an Indonesian variation on the typical Asian friend rice and the latter is a savory chewy meatball noodle soup. I am having the gado-gado. You should try the tempe as well. It is very good here.”

Dwi approaches, his dark eyes twinkling with a mix of camaraderie and curiosity. “Anything special you’re in the mood for today, Captain? And for your lady friend as well.”

The Captain smirks.

I have heard that the Captain is a connoisseur of both exotic dishes and subtle negotiations.

“Dwi, I’ll take the usual. And let’s make it hot.”

The anticipation of culinary delights mingles with the unspoken intrigue that accompanies the Captain wherever he goes, setting the stage for a meal that might hold more than just savory secrets. I have looked forward to meeting the Captain for some time.

After making my choice based on the Captain’s suggestion, I sit quietly for a moment. “Captain, are you a vegetarian?”

He looks surprised at me. “No, I am not. Didn’t your research reveal my culinary tastes?”

“I didn’t assume as much, yet I observed your choice of the most economical item on the menu, which happens to be vegetarian. Is this a reflection of your current financial circumstances?”

“How the fuck do you know that?” I snarled with more anger than I meant to .

She extends her graceful hands, palms facing me. I observe the elegance of her long, slender fingers adorned with a meticulous manicure. The delicate lightness of her palms contrasts subtly with the light almond hue of her arms, adding to the overall refinement of her appearance.

“Calm yourself, my dear Captain. I was not trying to anger you. I must inquire about your choice of engaging in poker with stakes that appear rather modest. It seems incongruent with the refined tastes and elevated pursuits one would expect from an individual of your standing and, might I add, esteemed reputation.”

“Pretty sure my reputation is anything but esteemed right now. I used to play trying to raise enough credits so that I could get into a game with larger stakes. However, the players in those games all come from wealthy families, or are known as wealthy professional gamblers. Games with smaller stakes are easier to win, and with enough small winnings I can pay my bills.”

Our meal arrives, presented by a young woman with a rich, dark complexion adorned in a beautifully patterned burka. She gracefully places the dishes on the table, accompanied by a carafe of teh manis, the sweet aroma wafting through the air as she completes the service with a polite smile.

With a refined gesture, she elegantly lifts the lower part of her shroud, revealing delicate features—a gentle chin and defined cheekbones. The mystery of her eyes persists, shrouded in a veil of enigma. As we enjoy our meal, a tranquil silence envelops us, broken only by the subtle sounds of dining. Her discerning taste becomes clear as she relishes the bakso she selected, adding to the intriguing layers of our shared moment.

After eating, we share a second carafe of teh manis. “So, lady why were you following me?”

She sighs and then shrugs her shoulders. "I must present a business proposition to you. I attempted to engage with you before you arrived at K-Tin’s establishment.”

“Speaking of which, I still need to go make a payment for this month. And why the fuck do you talk like that?”

“I apologize, my Captain. When I am nervous, my speech defaults to the patterns ingrained during my childhood.”

“Oh, well, it makes you sound like a … like a … um …”

“Like an uppity cunt, as my ex-husband called me?”

“Uh ... well no, I wasn’t thinking that at all. More like you were hard to understand. But I really need to get to K-Tin’s before that slimy bastard adds more penalties and fees for late payment.”

“One of the reasons I was trying to catch you, my Captain, is because you no longer need to go to K-Tin’s.”

“And why the fuck do I not have to go there? And what is this shit about ‘my Captain?’”

“There is much we need to discuss, my dear Captain. All will be made clear, but we should really find someplace more private for that discussion.”

“Well, ok. My flat is not too far from here. Your speech is getting easier to understand.”

“Thank you my Captain, I am starting to feel comfortable with you, and am not nearly so nervous. Having someone grab me suddenly while they threaten to rip my spine out and chop off my head was completely unexpected and rattled me more than I realized.”

“Speaking of which, we probably need to look at your back. I didn’t sink my claws in too deep, but the small punctures should be cleaned.”

“What street hackjobber gave you those claws? You cannot tell me you got those from a reputable cybertech.”

In that precise instant, an involuntary spasm courses through my bionic left arm, its mechanical components reacting in an unforeseen manner. The delicate porcelain cup I hold succumbs to the unintended force, shattering into fragments within my grip.

A sharp exclamation, “Shit!” escapes my lips, a testament to the unexpected disruption in the seamless facade of control I usually maintain.

The juxtaposition of the fractured cup against the advanced technology of my cybernetic limb highlights the constant struggle between the human and the artificial within me.

As I grapple with the aftermath, the shards of porcelain scattered on the table mirror the fragments of normalcy that slip through the gaps in my augmented existence, adding an unforeseen layer to the intricacies of the moment.

The enigmatic woman swiftly seizes my bionic left arm, her fingers deftly navigating the intricacies of its enhanced design. With a precise touch, she locates a discreet point behind my left elbow, triggering a response that renders my once formidable limb inert.

A second press on the concealed spot reinstates a semblance of movement, but the arm, now under her subtle control, acquiesces to a calm and motionless state. The encounter unfolds like a dance of technological mastery, her command over my cybernetic limb revealing an understanding of its inner workings that goes beyond mere casual acquaintance.

In this moment, the intersection of her knowledge and the vulnerability of my augmented self becomes palpable, emphasizing the intricate dance between control and submission in this unexpected encounter.

“Thanks. I appreciate that. How did you know to do that?” She shrugs.

One of Dwi’s diligent sons clears away the aromatic remnants of our meal, the mystery woman leans in, and she engages in a hushed conversation with the young man that my eavesdropping cannot perceive.

Her words, a discreet exchange lost in the ambient hum of the eatery, carry a weight of confidentiality. A subtle exchange transpires as she delicately places a credit chip into the young man’s hand, a clandestine transaction concealed within the folds of familial camaraderie.

The unspoken agreement unfolds, leaving me on the periphery of their shared secret, a silent observer to a transaction that hints at a world of connections and hidden dealings beyond the veneer of the quaint Indonesian eatery.

“You didn’t have to pay for our meal.”

“I did not offend your masculinity, did I?” She holds her hand out to me. “Come, my Captain; let us walk to your apartment. There is still much to discuss.”

We walk arm in arm again to the door of my building. The same street-thug wannabes are lounging around in the entryway.

“Hey look, the old man is going to finally fucking score,” one of them remarks, nudging his friend like it is a great joke. “Been a long time since you brought pussy home,” another remarks.

“How much did she cost you? When you are done clean her up and send her our way," one remarks.

"Honey, we can show you a much better time than this fuckin’ old washed up loser. We got some rocket to party with.”

She feels me tense. “Ignore them, my Captain. Ficar de boa.”

Navigating the labyrinthine ascent of three flights of stairs, I skillfully guide her to the entrance of my flat, successfully shielding her from the prying eyes that often permeate this unrefined environment.

The journey, though not physically demanding, becomes a testament to my ability to shield her from the crass commentary that often echoes through the confined spaces of this dilapidated building.

As we arrive at the threshold of my flat, a temporary haven from the rawness of the outside world, a sense of accomplishment washes over me, a subtle triumph over the baseness that lurks in the shadows of Eros’ slums.

The two throuples in 3C now are furiously fucking based on the screaming and other sounds coming from their apartment.

“Oh my, someone sounds as if she is having a lot of fun,” the woman comments. “Rarely hear a woman curse that much or so creatively during sex, unless she is really enjoying it. Just how many people are in that apartment?”

With a determined twist of the doorknob, I manage to swing the door open, welcoming her into the modest refuge of my apartment. Once she crosses the threshold, I promptly close the door, shutting out the chaotic hum of the slums.

Hastening to rid the space of its disarray, I gather a multitude of soiled garments strewn across the floor, briskly depositing them into the closet to restore a slight semblance of order to my abode.

The muffled sounds of the outside world fade away, replaced by the hushed tranquility that envelops us within the confined sanctuary of my living space.

“By the Divine Loon, what a sty … I would not put a dog in this … this ordinário …”

As I surveyed my surroundings, a stark realization dawned: I hadn’t noticed how disheveled my flat had become. The grime-laden surfaces, dust-coated pieces of furniture, and neglected corners bear witness to the haphazard state of my living space.

A subtle pang of embarrassment creeps over me as I come face to face with the untidiness that has escaped my notice until now. Determined to rectify the situation, I contemplate the necessary steps to restore a sense of cleanliness and order to my humble abode.

“Fuck, I cannot believe I brought you here.”

“I take it you have not had a woman up here in a while, my dear Captain? And please tell me what is rocket?” She asked while sitting on the bed.

“Haven’t had a woman in here in many, many years."

"I can tell."

"Rocket is the street name for a sweet red liquid mix of artificial caffeine, a fuckton of artificial sweetener and a blend of amphetamines. They sometimes mix it with a spicy cinnamon or chili pepper whisky or vodka for a ‘flaming rocket.’”

As I turn at the subtle sound of rustling fabric, my gaze meets a transformed scene. She gracefully sheds her shroud, revealing a vision of elegance seated on my bed, legs crossed.

Her complexion, a blend of light almond hues, accentuates the delicate features of her face—an arrow-straight, slim nose, hazel eyes gleaming with intelligence, and an angelic countenance framed by thick, midnight-dark hair.

The sheer beauty before me leaves me momentarily breathless, and my mouth inexplicably runs dry. The contrast of her unveiled presence against the backdrop of my unkempt surroundings intensifies the impact, creating a surreal moment suspended in the confines of my dimly lit apartment.

In a choked whisper, I manage to rasp out her name. “Dr. Evelyn Rhys.” The astonishment laces my voice as I grapple with the surreal reality that the stunning, renowned, and fucking exceedingly wealthy Dr. Rhys is elegantly perched on the edge of my dirty, unkempt bed. The weight of her status and the incongruity of our surroundings collide in this unexpected moment, leaving me in a state of bewilderment and disbelief.

“Ah, good. I was not sure if you would recognize me. I, of course, know who you are, Captain Rourke.”

“I have never met you, but everyone has heard of you unless they have been living under a rock worse than Eros. Doc, what the fuck are you doing down here? You should be up there in the arcologies with the rest of the elites, not slumming down here. I have never understood why someone of your standing came to Eros.”

"In utmost confidence, my dear Captain, I sought refuge on Eros to escape the constrictions of contracts that claimed ownership of my creations. My desire was to delve into more philanthropic endeavors. Unfortunately, the consortium on Mars binding my contract restricted me to profit-driven enterprises exclusively. Despite the assumption that my intentions in coming here were somewhat dubious, I aimed for a more noble pursuit. Now, Captain, I implore you to elucidate the reasons behind your arrival on Eros. I've always found myself perplexed by the mystery of your choice to settle in this peculiar place."

“Well Doc, Eros has a reputation as a hell of a place to party. Where no recreational drugs are illegal, prostitution is legal and casual sex viewed in the same light as shaking hands."

"Yes Eros has a rather unsavory reputation."

"Sounded like a good place for a grounded former space squid to blow off some steam. Just went overboard, made some poor decisions and found myself broke, with no friends and no way to get off this miserable rock.”

“We need to talk some more my dear Captain. But right now take your coveralls down around your waist baring your upper body. Then lie face down on your bed, I want to look at that malfunctioning arm of yours.”

With a sense of urgency, I quickly obey, understanding that one does not keep one of the galaxy's top five neurosurgeons, a specialist in cyberware, wetware, and bioware, waiting. As I recline on my bed, a surge of anticipation mingles with a touch of apprehension.

I ponder what Dr. Evelyn Rhys, with her unparalleled expertise, intends to do with my arm. The gravity of the situation settles over me, accentuating the unique blend of vulnerability and trust in this unconventional encounter.

“Doc why on my face?”

“Because the anchor points for your left arm are attached to your spine from the base of your skull all the way down to your hips. I see you received a whole left arm replacement from your neck out, including your left clavicle and left scapula. What caused you to lose your arm Captain?”

“A micro-meteor, no larger than a baby's fist, tore through my ship with devastating precision, slicing through my cryosleep pod and severing my left arm. The perilous trajectory missed my neck by a mere five centimeters—a near brush with instant demise. My consciousness flickered back to life in the sterile confines of a recovery room aboard a Mars Republic hospital ship. My ship’s artificial intelligence had judiciously maintained me in cryosleep, diligently seeking the closest facility capable of mending my grievous injuries.”

Doc keeps examining my arm. She finds the secret compartment I store cards in. She also finds the collapsible baton stored in my left arm jammed in its compartment.

“What the hell is this and what did they use modifying your arm–a chisel and hammer?”

“My baton doesn’t always eject like it is supposed to. It worked for a while and was quite handy.”

“Is that what you used to beat up those kids?”

“That was a few years ago. I am surprised you heard about that."

"I volunteer at the local free clinic. I was on the floor when EMS brought those kids in."

"Those kids as you called them were trying to stab me not just trying to rob me. And the fucking baton wouldn’t come out so I just used my left fist.”

“Well this just will not do.” She smacks me on the ass.

“I need you in my lab, so I can repair your arm properly. Come my Captain, I am summoning a ride so we do not walk. We still have much to discuss. Is there anything in this room that you wish to keep? I do not plan for you to come back to this horrid hovel.”

“My favorite chopsticks are in my pocket. I have a small data pad with some old photos I would like to take with me. I’d also like to grab some of my clothes, but otherwise you are looking at everything I own.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes Doc that is it, everything else got stolen or I had to sell it to survive. And what are you talking about, not coming back to my flat?”

“Let’s go,” she insists, forcefully turning the doorknob and swinging the door wide open.

Strolling along the corridor, she wrinkles her nose in distaste at the lingering odor of aged urine, feces and decaying refuse.

Passing apartment 3C, the woman or women are still screaming with what sounds like ecstasy.

“How many people are in that apartment,” Dr. Rhys asks with a whisper.

“Six, four men and two women. A pair of throuples that moved in not long after I did.”

“How do you know who is with whom?”

“Don’t really, as they seem to swap partners. Both ladies appear liking to be the center of attention for the guys.”

“How do you know that,” she asks.

“Been a few times they have screwed in the hallway or outside on the street. They are either fucking like rabbits on speed, or fighting like a bunch of wet cats in a sack. Sometimes they do both at the same time.”

Prior to stepping out, she gracefully lets her shroud cascade down, concealing her identity. To my astonishment, the doorway lacks the usual presence of juvenile wannabe street thugs.

Standing in the street in front of my old flat waiting for our ride, I look at her. She and I are nearly the same height, although in bare feet I may have a few millimeters on her. I stand 1.8 meters tall and guess her height at about 1.5 meters or so. I wonder why she chose me.

“Can you give me a hint of what you want with me?”

I can almost discern the thoughts swirling in the captain's mind. I anticipated encountering a reserved man weathered by life’s hardships. What took me by surprise was discovering someone who could still carry himself with dignity, despite the low depths he had reached. Additionally, I never imagined finding him so alluring.

The touch of gray at his temples, accentuating his sandy brown hair, adds a distinguished allure to his appearance. I must confess, there's an undeniable charm to him, especially when you factor in his well-defined posterior. With a bit of grooming, a proper bath, and a departure from the threadbare ship attire, he could truly present a striking figure.

“I will explain all when we get to my apartment, my Captain.”

I wonder how mad he is going to be when I tell him what my plans are and what I have done. Men, I have learned can be territorial. Life on Eros is a balance between the serenity of the cosmos and the relentless pursuit of progress. Science flourished within the colony’s confines, but so did rivalries and political intrigues. I wonder if the captain is ready for what I am dragging him, willing or not, into.