“Too bad about those two skimmers, hey?” The tall, muscular figure expressed unashamed concern for the missing. “Man, I wouldn’t want to be stuck out there in the damn varzea. I don’t care how much experience you’ve got. The Viisiiviisii eats people.”
The mechanic who had been painting new circuitry in an open compartment in the side of the cargo skimmer switched off his firing lenses, pushed them back up on his head, and wiped sweat from his brow.
“Me, I’d sooner shoot myself now than get stuck out there.” He nodded in the direction of the hangar portal and the mist-shrouded rain-swept forest beyond. “They say if you lie in one place for more than thirty minutes, some fungus or mold will find a way to enter your body even through the toughest envirosuit.” He bent to check his equipment. “Natty’s Pub is about as close to the real Viisiiviisii as I want to get.”
The other man laughed. “Good place, Natty’s. Best baked spud suds on Fluva. Somebody told me he brews his beer using local hops—or the native variant thereof.”
“Just as soon you hadn’t told me that.” The painter was making adjustments to his sprayer, fine-tuning the application settings. “Now I’ve got to wonder if maybe some night the beer won’t start to drink me.” He was waiting for his most recent application to dry, so the synaptic connections would set properly. “How about you? Spent much time out there?” For the second time he waved in the forest’s direction.
His visitor shrugged. “I get out now and again. All part of the job.” Turning, the taller man gazed toward the rain-soaked varzea. “Wouldn’t be any hassling going on now if that idiot prospector Hasselemoga hadn’t managed to go and lose himself. And then the rescue team they send out goes and vanishes while looking for him. That’s what happens when you send a couple of locals to do a human’s job. It’s still weird, though.”