A small, shy holographic projection outside of the Government Center flashes "Help Wanted in Criminal Investigation". Vague and intriguing. Want to give it a shot?
Level: 16?
Start: Reginald Smythe, Government Center, LeGuin Stronghold
Introduction
You poke your head through the open blast doors. If Space had seasons and LeGuin had weather, this would feel like a calm, brisk autumn morning. But none of that exists, so it must just be your mood. The solitary LeGuin official is the only person in sight.
Is it LeGuinians? Or LeGuiners. Both kinds work. You should probably ask someone.
The investigation will need to proceed without you. And at any rate, you want to check out the zero gravity at the port. Maybe they'll have a popcorn machine on this station. You whistle as you walk towards the spokes that connect the torus to the port, the thought of popcorn, floating unincumbered throughout the loading docks makes you smile.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Lost Boy I" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Reginald Smythe is tidily, tidying a tidy desk.
He looks up at you sullenly, almost forlorn from behind the immaculate desktop. Defeat has painted this man a color all its own.
Reginald Smythe: Welcome to the LeGuin Center for Civic and Administrative Affairs. Have you come concerning the call posted for investigators? Or is there something else I can assist you with.
Me: What's the job?
Reginald Smythe: Straight to the point, I see. Fine. Efficiency is to be admired. An unknown individual has been vandalizing property, some public, some private, some of significant economic import here on our proud Station. The Department of Recruitment for Labor Affairs of the Government of LeGuin Stronghold in the Ross 154 System is prepared to pay you the sum of 200 credits to uncover the identity of this individual.
The level of decorum this strange man has on display for -you scan the room again- no one at all, amuses you somewhat. You decide to test the waters with some absurdity. This is, after all, the Government Center, they must get inundated with all sorts of requests.
Me: Actually, there is something you can help me with. I'm conducting a survey. I've travelled far and wide. In a rare show of solidarity, both the Gaule and the Consortium have funded me to find the answer to this most important of questions.. Could I ask you "the" question?
Smythe stiffens in his chair -he's so upright, he may just crack.
Me: Which came first? The chicken, or the egg?
Smythe sighs.
Reginald Smythe: I see. A charlatan. I'm a busy man. Good day to you.
You can tell this isn't the type of human who'll be taken in by your antics.
Me: My apologies. Just trying to get a laugh. I don't mean anything by it.
Reginald Smythe: Humor. Yes, well. I'll make time in my agenda to have a laugh. Now, if you're quite ready to be serious, here's the job. An unknown individual has been vandalizing property, some public, some private, some of significant economic import here on our proud Station. The Department of Recruitment for Labor Affairs of the Government of LeGuin Stronghold in the Ross 154 System is prepared to pay you the sum of 200 credits to uncover the identity of this individual.
Me: Getting swarms of applicants for the position?
You scan the large foyer. Even pins don't bother being overheard here. The place is large, neat and desolate.
Reginald Smythe: You’d be the first, and I wouldn’t be all that surprised if you were the last. There’s not much interest in public affairs here on LeGuin I’m very sorry to say. And what little administering there is to do, begins and ends with me. Ser Reginald Smythe, pleasure to make your acquaintance.
Being mindful not to disturb the organized desk, you extend a hand and introduce yourself. Ser Reginald indicates a seat and you take it.
Reginald Smythe: Please. Make yourself comfortable.
You nod a cursory, "hello" and plop yourself down on a seat across from Smythe. The aged Harasene's grey brows furrow.
Reginald Smythe: Please. Make yourself comfortable why don't you?
Either choice continues:
He wheels himself out from behind his desk. The Harsene's stern, almost regal demeanor is in no way diminished by the wheelchair he sits in. His white, thinning hair is combed back immaculately from a large, proud brow. The man's left eye twitches inadvertently now and then under grey eyebrows. He has a confidant's air about him, which men that can be trusted carry with ease; stemming in equal parts from his militaristic bearing as it does from his quizzical, disarming eyes.
Reginald Smythe: The lasting effects of prolonged exposure to Zero-Gravity. Not that this chair confines my ability to think, but there’s legwork involved in this one.
He laughs at his turn of phrase. You can’t help but appreciate the ease with which he plays with the words.
- Ask Reginald Smythe about the effects of zero-gravity.
- Appreciate the ease with which Ser Reginald Smythe plays with the words.
You let out a laugh -and follow it up almost immediately with an apology. This man has a feisty sense of humor hidden under the several coats of hardship and pain. He fixes you with a stern stare and asks:
Reginald Smythe: Now, are you here for my scintillating conversation or should we get started?
Me: I'm afraid I'm late for my space manicure.
Interesting as this character is you just don't want to get involved. There were probably more polite ways to decline the job offer, but space manicures were what sprung to mind at that moment.
Reginald Smythe: As humorous as you are courteous, I see. Well, good day to you.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Lost Boy I" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Me: What's the job?
Reginald Smythe: An unknown individual has been vandalizing property, some public, some private, some of significant economic import here on our proud Station. The Department of Recruitment for Labor Affairs of the Government of LeGuin Stronghold in the Ross 154 System is prepared to pay you the sum of 200 credits to uncover the identity of this individual.
This man intrigues you. You feel comfortable enough to ask him to elaborate (and a small part of you knows he'll be thankful for the opportunity).
Me: What are, if you'll forgive my asking, the lasting effects Ser Smythe?
Reginald Smythe: We went through many drafts of Death, here on LeGuin.
He’s fond of that line, salts his sentences generously with it, “here on LeGuin” -as though he needs to remind his interlocutor where they are -afraid they’ll forget.
Reginald Smythe: Here on LeGuin, we didn’t get the early rescue other stations got. There’s nothing intrinsically valuable or strategic about human life, Ser. And that’s all we have, here on LeGuin: human lives. We’re a residential station, no phosphorus plants, no mines, no labs, no weapons systems -and not afloat in any quadrant of any particular military significance. No Consortium, Gaule tug-of-war for us.
I've seen more than two hundred cycles come and go -I’m long-lived. When I was younger, some fifty or so cycles ago, the Torus stopped spinning. We couldn’t reactivate the centrifugal motion for over thirty tenspans. You know what it’s like to not have your feet planted on a solid surface for that amount of time?
Me: I'm afraid I don't, but maybe we should get back to the business at hand? What's the job?
Smythe eyes you with a quizzical air. He seems to be sizing you up, wondering why someone would taunt him to tell a story, only to dispel their interest moments later. He pauses, regains his composure (of which not very much had been lost) and addresses your bluntness.
Reginald Smythe: Very well. Back to business. An unknown individual has been vandalizing property, some public, some private, some of significant economic import here on our proud Station. The Department of Recruitment for Labor Affairs of the Government of LeGuin Stronghold in the Ross 154 System is prepared to pay you the sum of 200 credits to uncover the identity of this individual.
Your knowledge of zero gravity is not the issue at hand in this conversation. You politely shake your head, prompting the old Harsne to continue his expose.
Reginald Smythe: Your face swells as the liquids usually found in the lower extremities build towards the brain. You can adjust, but it takes time -and not everyone can. Especially us Harsene. Hallucinations, depression.
Reginald Smythe: A great many people suffered the effects of prolonged exposure from Zero-Gravity. One of the major long term effects of weightlessness is the loss of muscle and bone mass. No gravity. No weight load on the back and leg muscles -they begin to weaken. They shrink. And eventually they atrophy.
He fixes you with a stare, as if waiting for you to retort.
Reginald Smythe: Forgive me. If the head of the Revitalization and Business Outreach Committee heard me I’d get an earful.
Me: Let me guess.
Reginald Smythe: That's right, me as well. I’ll berate myself later. It’ll give me something to put in my agenda for this afternoon. Why don’t we get started? That’s if you’re still interested of course?
Interesting as this Harsene is, you don't feel up to whatever may come next. You politely decline and take your leave. Maybe you'll visit Reginald Smythe another time.
Mission failure
You have failed the "Lost Boy I" mission. You can retake this mission and try again.
Me: Just uncover? Not apprehend.
Reginald Smythe: We have professional service people to enforce the law -unfortunately, they are not contracted -legally, or morally for that matter- to investigate. A glaring loophole in the contract, but I’ll need to take that up with the head of the Legal Oversight Committee one day.
Me: Who’s that?
Reginald Smythe: Me. I’m afraid my legal acumen isn’t quite a match for the lawyers at the Armure or Athena corporations. So, yes, all this Department requires of you is to unmask the culprit.
Me: I'm still listening.
Reginald Smythe: I'm glad to see I still have your undivided attention. Find out who's behind all this… nonsense, and report back to me. Our security detail will take it from there.
Either choice continues:
- Be professional. Confirm politely.
- Be cheeky. Ask if security is up to the job. (if you chose "Ask him to continue")
- Be inquisitive. Ask why the security forces don't investigate. (if you chose "Ask him to continue")
Reginald Smythe seems like a stand-up, play by the rules, sort of guy. Might as well follow suit.
Me: Right. Understood. Investigate the vandalism and report back to you. Let's start with the criminal activity.
Me: Why don't your "security" forces investigate the "nonsense".
Smythe somehow straightens himself further -a straight line straining to be entirely unswerving.
Reginald Smythe: They are not contracted -legally, or morally for that matter- to investigate. A glaring loophole in the contract, but I’ll need to take that up with the head of the Legal Oversight Committee one day.
- Ask about the head of the Oversight Committee.
Me: Who's that?
Reginald Smythe: Me. I’m afraid my legal acumen isn’t quite a match for the lawyers at the Armure or Athena corporations. So, yes, all this Department requires of you is to unmask the culprit. Any questions?
Something about Smythe's stiff demeanor makes you want to ruffle his feathers. You decide to poke him -have some fun with him.
Me: Security forces, huh? Do you think they'll be capable of handling a vandal all on their own.
Smythe senses the sarcasm. It's not difficult -you're laying it on pretty thick.
Reginald Smythe: They're professionals. They can handle themselves, and others. Thank you for your concern.
- Continue being cheeky.
Me: You're very welcome. I always worry about heavily armed thugs. Their well-being is paramount to me.
Smythe fixes you with a stern set of eyes. He may very well be tempted to throw you out for your insolence, but he's obviously short on takers for his investigation.
Reginald Smythe: Yes, well. Very considerate of you. Why don't we get down to it then. Any questions?
- Push your luck. Keep being cheeky.
- Get the facts. Ask what's been vandalized.
- Be cautious. Ask if there's any danger.
You can't seem to take this man, with his fastidious desk and austere manner seriously.
Me: Yes. One question does spring to mind actually.
Reginald Smythe: Please, ask me.
Me: Is it LeGuiners, or LeGuinians?
Smythe stares down his nose at you with all the focused judgement of an aged schoolteacher.
Reginald Smythe: Leguiners.
A segment passes. You wish a pin would drop and break the silence.
Reginald Smythe: Now. Any questions regarding this investigation?
Me: I'm only investigating vandalism right? There's nothing dangerous about any of this, is there?
Smythe's left eye twitches ever so slightly.
Reginald Smythe: I can't imagine there's any danger at all. Not much happens, here on LeGuin.
Me: So, what's been vandalized exactly? Let's start there.
Smythe's left eye flinches momentarily. He strokes the end of his mustache, catalogues his response, and speaks.
Reginald Smythe: Thus far there have been three areas affected by our culprit. The reflective mirrors. The docking bays. And the Inn. What makes these acts of vandalism rather interesting is that they all contain -how should I put this? They all contain an artistic flair -in my opinion.
Me: What do you mean exactly? Artistic? How?
Smythe shrugs.
Reginald Smythe: I haven't seen anything first hand, mind you, but from the reports I've received -how shall I phrase this? The vandal leaves a signature of sorts. There's no doubt in my mind that it's all the work, however misguided, of one mind.
Me: Tell me about the mirrors please, Ser Reginald.
Reginald Smythe: The torus is fed sunlight through a series of reflective mirrors accessible through this center alone. As I’m certain you know, the light emanating from Ross 154 is weak and reflective measures were originally installed to amplify its effects on the station. The mirrors run parallel to the torus along its outer edge. Someone has managed to scratch images into several of them.
Me: And which of the Docking Bays are you referring to Ser Smythe?
Smythe looks at you, attentive, almost protectively.
Reginald Smythe: Ah. excellent question. I really should have specified. The Ice Docks. Seems that several blocks of ice have been jettisoned into orbit around the station.
Me: So, what's transpired at the Inn? Which inn is this exactly?
Reginald Smythe: Sarananda Xon keeps the Visitor's Dwelling. It's a three storied log structure about a kilometer down the torus westward. You can't miss it. She's told me the place has been plagued by rodents. Probably best you hear it directly from her.
If you haven't seen the other three branches:
If you have:
- Let's start with the mirrors.
Me: The mirrors. You said, "scratches"? How do you mean?
Reginald Smythe: I'm not entirely certain, to be honest. I haven't seen the damage first hand. All I know is that the mirrors have been branded, scratched -damaged.
Once you've seen all four branches:
- Ask to view the mirrors.
Me: Are they easily accessible?
Reginald Smythe: They're designed to be accessible, for maintenance purposes. In fact, the portal to the rim is right here in this building. Let me show you the way.
Follow Reginald Smythe to the transport tubes.
You head down a corridor to an area where several strange spacesuits with a variety of unusual gadgets lie waiting -you can almost hear them calling out, “Pick me! Pick me!” You put one on and get instructions to enter one of the three "transport tubes" waiting silently to your left. Doing so, you're grappled by magnetic clamps and immediately launched upwards into a bizarre array of huge mirrors. There is no gravity.
“Buy a gal a drink first guys,” you think to yourself. A menu appears on your CORETECHS screen with instructions on how to clean the mirrors. You politely decline the proposed drudgery and focus on the task at hand.
The long row of mirrors, used to reflect and amplify the dim light of Ross 154, have been branded with the image of a rat in a spacesuit. The effort is actually impressive. The Torus’ diameter is over a kilometer and a half and the secondary deflector mirrors run uninterrupted around the entire tube.
You will need to get closer to one of the branded mirrors to have a better look.
Getting closer to the mirrors requires a careful balancing act of staying attached to the grappling arms, but pushing yourself away from it to get a closer look. The suits were designed to clean, not inspect minutiae. It takes you a couple of attempts, but you eventually manage to stabilize yourself in front of an image long enough to inspect it.
Failure
Attempting to access and use the controls in zero gravity is difficult and you end up beside, above or just below the image you are trying to inspect. Keep trying.
Success
You bring back the menu on your CORETECHS screen and hack the controls of the magnetic clamps. Using the grabbling arms, you start to move yourself closer. The suits were designed for simple cleaning services, not mobility. It takes you a couple of attempts, but you eventually manage to place yourself in front of an image long enough to inspect it.
Either success continues:
The design is beautifully executed. A winking rat, in an ancient cosmonaut suit has been lasered into the mirror. The word "RAT" is evenly neatly inscribed at the bottom of the image. With a methodology uncharacteristic of vandalism, the “Spacerat” has been branded on a mirror every five hundred meters. The final effect is as mathematically impressive as it is visually stunning: a strong shadow of the image being reflected into the torus below across entire neighborhoods.
This, you tell yourself, is no common vandal.
- Leave the mirrors and return to Smythe
You've garnered everything there is to garner up above the spinning torus. You give the dim red star at last look and head back down to the government center. Smythe is waiting for you.
Me: Certainly is beautiful up there.
The glimpse of a memory escapes Smythe's somber bearing in the form of a small smile.
Reginald Smythe: It certainly is. It's been a long while since I've been up there.
Me: Well, you're right about one thing: that's one artistic vandal we're dealing with. I saw cameras covering the mirrors.
- Inquire about the cameras.
Me: Surely something has been captured on the surveillance systems?
Reginald Smythe: Surveillance.
Smythe sighs at the mention of the word and his left eye twitches ever so slightly.
Reginald Smythe: Yes, of course. Everything is captured and stored on the surveillance system. Everything, that is, but substance.
The strange line hangs in mid-air as Smythe walks back to his terminal and logs into the security footage. He beckons you over.
Reginald Smythe: There's not much to gleam, I'm afraid…
Scrolling back to the date of the attack on the mirrors you can clearly see a tall, slender individual accessing the outer ring of mirrors, but when the mysterious entity turns towards the cameras their face and features are concealed by their orange spacesuit. You run a CORETECHS scan for that particular date and location.
Your hunch pays off, the station’s data sweep indicates that a certain Edward Estlin’s CORETECHS was active at the exact time that the mirrors were damaged. The CORETECHS ping also places that individual on the outer mirror ring.
Me: CORETECHS triangulation identifies the vandal. It's a certain Edward Estlin.
Reginald Smythe: Yes, I caught that myself.
You turn from the terminal and look over at Smythe.
Me: So, have the mercenaries apprehend him.
Reginald Smythe: I'm afraid that's impossible. Edward Estlin has been dead for nearly twenty cycles.
Me: Are you certain?
Reginald Smythe: As the only priest on LeGuin authorized to perform funeral rites, I'm absolutely positive. I jettisoned him into the Black myself.
- Ask Smythe about the other acts of vandalism.
Me: So, where to next?
Reginald Smythe: The inn, I suppose. Up to you really.
Reginald Smythe: I've only been told about the incidents at the ice bot docking station second hand, you see. So, I'm not inclined to speculate on events I've not personally been privy to. You'll need to check those out yourself I'm afraid. Ask for Cameron Paj. He too, you can't miss.
Head over to the Inn.
Next area: Inn, LeGuin Stronghold
- Keep going, you're almost there.
The LeGuin Stronghold is a marvel of human engineering. You walk west through the giant rotating torus towards the Visitor's Dwelling. The streets are sparse, almost deserted. Up above you the red light from Ross 154 falls in soft, red, quiet blankets from the blackness of space. Ahead of you, reflected down from the mirrors a "Spacerat" shadow coats the roadway.
You come to the three-storied log structure described by Smythe; LeGuin is fond of its faux woods.
A small neon sign blinks on and off reading, "Closed".
- Leave the Inn.
The Inn is closed. You'l need to check back later.
Head over to the Port.
Next area: Port, LeGuin Stronghold
- Head towards the spoke with the shuttle.
One of the several spokes leading from the Torus to the Port, and its adjoining docks, is operated by a small shuttle ferry bearing the insignia “Hub-a-Hub-a”. The wittiness is not lost on you -although you desperately wish it would be. You step onto the orange, blue and white cylinder; the shuttle is entirely empty save for robot-driver, decked out with a blue pilot’s uniform and cap.
Merobot: Welcome onboard. Hub-a-Hub-a wishes you a pleasant two minute journey from one hub to the other.
You do your best to ignore that this little welcome is not entirely factual. You’re actually traveling from an outer rim to a hub, but when did science ever get in the way of inspired branding?
Merobot: I am your SOAPBOT. (Shuttle Operating Automated Pilot Robot), but you can call me Darren.
It keeps talking. Maybe you should have taken the scenic route and walked.
The shuttle reaches the Port in under two minutes. You exit the shuttle into a decompression chamber. Three large sealed doors lead to different areas of the port. A sign flashes red: “Low Gravity Beyond This Point".
You hear muffled sounds from behind a sealed door to your left.
Head to the Docks!
Next area: Docks, LeGuin Stronghold
- Investigate the sounds behind the door to your left.
The door to your left reads, "Receiving Bay". A small porthole allows you to see into the chamber.
- Look through the door.
You peer through the circular porthole. An individual in a spacesuit is desperately holding onto a tethering strap as a half-opened duct threatens to suck them out into space.
He appears to be yelling something.
Man in Spacesuit: Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void!
It takes you seconds to realize that there's no time to get help. It's now, or never. It's you, or no one.
There's no time to lose. You don one of the spacesuits hanging near the docking door as quickly as you can, tether your suit securely to an adjoining handle, and press the large red button on the doorway to open it.
From behind the door you can hear a man's voice calling out.
Man in Spacesuit: Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void!
You hit the red release button again, this time with your fist -the door won't open. It's jammed.
You'll need to pry it open.
You pull the emergency override handle down and pull on the edges of the door to slide it open. The act saps your strength.
Control panel:
(Intelligence check)
Using your CORETECHS link-up, you swiftly scan the Docks mainframe and locate the porthole. Accessing the override controls, you divert a burst of emergency power, to force the door open.
Either success continues:
Failure
The door is open, but the man's hand dangles desperately, just out of reach. Stretch!
The man continues to holler.
Man in Spacesuit: Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void!
Success
Me: Take my hand!
The man's hand is almost touching yours. You feel the tips of his fingers, only to lose contact as the tether throws the man's body back and forth in the chamber. You make one last lunge as he comes towards you. You clench his hand firmly in yours.
The man is young, has large, wild eyes. He looks up at you. A frightening smile spills across his face.
Man in Spacesuit: You can't avoid the Void.
His strange words still rolling around in your mind, you pull him out of the chamber.
From the open doorway you can see that the duct separating you and the man from the ever expanding depths of space has an override switch next to it.
If you can reach the switch, then the duct should close and there won't be any danger of anyone being sucked out of the station.
The switch is well over ten meters away, and it's closer to the vastness of space than you'd like to be, but you determine to give it a go.
As you propel yourself towards the duct you can hear the man in the spacesuit hollering.
Man in Spacesuit: Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void!
- Flip the override switch near the open duct.
(Agility check)
You launch yourself off a nearby wall, doing the best to navigate a trajectory that won't send you off-station. You breath in, push off and make a beeline for the override switch. You hit it directly and flip the switch The duct shuts with a hiss and pressure is restored.
You rush to the man and take him out of the room.
You decide to jump into the Dock and help the man out of the room. Making sure that the door is open and that you are safely tethered you enter.
The force generated on you both from the open duct is immense. The man is panicking and difficult to restrain. He free arm lashes out in frantic bursts, making it hard to reach him.
Moving within the maelstrom is extremely difficult and the man keeps yelling. You have trouble making out exactly what he's saying.
Man In Spacesuit: We're all for the VOID! We're all for the VOID!
Getting close to him may not be as easy as you thought. His rambling aren't making the situation pleasant either.
Man in Spacesuit: Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void!
You move closer.
- Calm the man.
(Social check)
Failure
You make it over to the man. He is clearly hysterical and making very little sense at all. You look for the right words to calm him, but your pleas are carried off into space. Search your mind and your soul for a way to calm the man.
- Calm the man.
Succcess
Making your way to the man proves to be only half the task. You push off a nearby wall and reach him. Grabbing him with both arms you prepare to head back to the doorway.
Me: I've got you! Let go of the tether!
Man in Spacesuit: Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void! Avoid the Void!
The man is hysterical. You think quickly on your toes.
Before you and your toes are sucked out into space.
Me: The void is in all of us.
Me: It's in me too.
Me: It'll be okay.
The man is young, has large, wild eyes. Your line calms him, the panic subsides; he ceases his hollering.
You grab him and push off to the door, careening straight through it together.
All successes continue:
- Close the door.
Making certain that you're both safely out of the chamber you smash the emergency "close" button with your fist. Better safe than sorry.
The door slides shut and you and the man in the spacesuit crumble to the ground.
Me: Well, that's about as much action as I need for a day.
You lock eyes with the man in the spacesuit. His face is young and gaunt, with large, owl-like eyes, storming with fear and surprise.
Before you've time to react the man gets to his feet and barrels down one of the pedestrian spokes headed towards the torus.
You rise to your feet and take off after him in hot pursuit.
You make it no more than two meters when the tether you'd securely fastened snaps you back and onto the floor. You land with a thud.
You've had all the action you can handle right now. It's after all, no concern of yours, if some people have absolutely no manners whatsoever.
Me: You're welcome!
Either choice continues:
A small, triangular piece of metal no larger than your palm, with holes cut throughout it, is lying on the ground beside you.
- Pick up the metallic piece.
You turn the strange object over in your hand. There are no markings on it.
You can see that one of the holes cut into the metallic triangle contains a small red button. The other holes appear to be hollow.
You get out of the spacesuit and place it back on its rack. How come no one is ever around when you do something right?
You're not exactly certain what it is, but you're taking the strange slice of metal with you. If the ingrate you saved wants it back, he'll need to come and find you.
You want nothing to do with the ingrate whose live you saved, or any odd chunks of metals he's leaving in his wake. You leave the triangle where you found it, and head to the ice docks.
Either choice continues:
- Look around the Docks.
You regain your composure and look around the Docks. What were you here for again? That's right - Cameron Paj. A door off to your right reads, "Ice Docks".
- Enter the Ice Docks.
You go through the door to the ice docks and take in the view from the safety of a decompressed room. This particular docking station, a large cylindrical chamber, is bustling with Icebots returning from asteroid mining. Several workers are busy unloading the bots and clamping the ice into place for storage and subsequent travel down to the Torus. The workers all don light space suits and are securely tethered to the walls to avoid being sucked into space. Wise decision.
Cameron Paj: Looking for work?
The dark skinned Belter addressing you in a booming voice is massive. Cameron Paj stares down at you from on high, one eye a soft, clean plastic orb. He is a sight to behold, made all the more terrifying by the fact that he is licking an ice pop whilst floating in midair.
Me: Tomorrow we won’t have to look for work, and it won’t have to look for us.
Cameron Paj: Very drole. I like it. Who said that?
Me: I’ve no idea - I read it on the back of a rations pack. They're always printing witty aphorisms on those things. Food for thought I suppose, since those rations are hardly food.
Cameron lets out a boisterous roar laugh.
Me: I’m looking into the vandalism that’s been going on.
Cameron Paj: It’s not vandalism. Sure, some cargo was technically jettisoned, but the only real act of vandalism in my opinion was destroying those works of art. Now, I’ve got the palette of a Wreck runner and only one eye, but I know Art when I see it.
Me: What’s the cargo that’s been jettisoned exactly?
Cameron Paj: Well, the ice of course. What are you talking about? Technically it’s cargo because it goes through docking, but it’s not as though there’s not an entire armada of Icebots harvesting that nearby asteroid for it. And the way he carves and sculpts them, well, for something that cold -it warms the heart.
- Ask Cameron what he means by "art". (if you haven't already asked)
- Continue your queries.
Me: Wait a segment, what do you mean by art?
The giant takes another lick of his ice pop. He looks frighteningly comical floating in mid air, his giant mitts wrapped around the small icy cone.
Cameron Paj: Sure I can't interest you in one? We've got loads.
You figure it's rude to refuse twice and those ice pops are delicious.
Me: Don't mind if I do. Thank you.
Cameron hands you an ice pop and you both float there for a moment, licking the pops.
Me: No thanks, I'm trying to quit.
Cameron shrugs his gargantuan shoulders and takes another lick.
Either choice continues:
Me: You were saying, you know art when you see it…
Cameron Paj: Well, whoever made those sculptures sure knew what they were doing. Yeah, they were using ice for purposes other than consumption, but if they're breaking the law, they're doing it beautifully.
- Ask about the jettisoned cargo. (if you haven't already asked)
- Continue your queries. (if you have)
Me: Someone’s been using the harvested cubes of ice to sculpt?
Cameron Paj: See for yourself. I saved the security footage to my CORETECHS. Whoever’s doing it is in a spacesuit and you can’t see their face, but look at how wonderful what they make is:
He fiddles with his fingers in front of his one good eye for a minute, then swipes the file he’s been looking for to you.
- Accept the file Cameron Paj has sent to you CORETECHS.
A playback of surveillance footage loads to your CORETECHS.
A crystal clear image of the ice docking bay appears before your eyes. A solitary figure floats in the middle of the dock around a large block of ice. The person is nimble, graceful and almost seems to be dancing in mid air around the frozen cube. Tethered to the wall by a security harness they sculpt the block of ice using little zaps of lasers from a handheld device, Little by little, strike by strike, the ice cube turns into a stunning multi-pointed star.
Finished, the artist steps back to admire their work. Floating around it, seemingly without a care, they add one final touch: a small image of a rat in a spacesuit followed by three letters, RAT - and, unleashing the icicle starburst from its tether, send it careening through the open duct into space.
An orange spacesuit, identical to the one in the Government Center security footage hides their face and features. You run a CORETECHS scan of the incident. A familiar -and very dead- name pops up again: "Edward Estlin".
Me: Not you again.
Cameron Paj: Say what?
Me: Nothing. Just talking to myself. Thank you for your time.
Cameron Paj: For someone like you, my time is anytime. We're closing up operations here for this segment. Anything else I can help you with?
You thank the gentle giant again and take your leave. The Inn must be open by now.
Head back to the Inn.
Next area: Inn, LeGuin Stronghold
- Check to see if the Visitor's Dwelling is open.
After a pleasant stroll down one of the pedestrian spokes you rejoin the Torus and head back towards the inn. The desolation on LeGuin is odd. The station is clean, but empty. The few people you do encounter regard you with suspicion and are quick to make themselves scarce, ducking back into a house, or turning down a street away from you.
You reach the Visitor's Dwelling. The neon sign blinks a red and happy "Open".
Voices talking over one another can be heard through the open, faux-oak doorway.
- Head towards the voices.
The Visitor's Dwelling, by LeGuin standards, is bustling: six people are there.
Playing cards around a table in the back corner a trio of mercenaries barely register your entrance. An agitated woman in a wheelchair, bursting with energy, her gray hair tied neatly back in a ponytail is giving a plump man sat at the bar what's what. Your CORETECHS identifies a younger woman tending bar, with straight, black hair and a half shaved head as the innkeeper, Sarananda Xon.
Gerald Blackleg -the plump target of the woman's wrath- is not entirely unlikable, despite being a pink, plump, pudgy-cheeked, beady-eyed coward. He is eager to get back to his card game with the two Athena Guards -he’s also laboring under the deluded impression that he stands a chance with either of them. The mesmerizing older woman is monopolizing his attention.
Gerald Blackleg: Now, now Mother T. -It’s not the first time he’s gone missing. I’m certain he’ll show up any moment.
Mother Tiberius: Gerald! Don’t you try and placate me young man! If you and these thugs did your jobs and cleaned up the school yards there’d be nowhere to hide and nothing to worry about. What do we have now? Children missing and hired goons playing cards and drinking in bars.
Gerald throws a worried glance in the direction of the “hired goons” but the mercenary security detail couldn’t care less what is (or isn't) being said about them -their skin is thicker than that and covered with laser proof webbing.
- Look over at the mercenaries.
Sure enough, the trio of hired mercenaries seem completely uninterested in the proceedings.
You turn your attention back to the bar.
Gerald Blackleg: That’s Associate Blackleg, if you don’t mind Mother T. Unfortunately -how can I put this? Finding missing children isn’t exactly in their job description. You should take this up with Sheriff Smythe, no?
The associate's quiet "no?" has all the feel and physicality of a "please", but Gerald's concealed plea goes unheeded. Mother Tiberius barrels forward over Blackleg's tepid stance.
Mother Tiberius: Reginald Smythe -and you know this full well- is over-worked, underappreciated, hardly paid and always stressed. And if all LeGuin has to offer its citizens are bodyguards for tourists then I suppose I’ll need to take matters into my own hands.
She pauses for effect, but no one takes the bait. She slowly looks around the room and her gaze, settles, on you.
Mother Tiberius: You! Stranger! Will you help me?
- Look at Mother Tiberius.
You are no longer just taking in the scene. You’ve been cast in the play. The old woman is talking to you, but just to be certain -and for a certain dramatic effect- you look over your shoulder, turn back to her and point to your chest.
Me: Are you talking to me?
Mother Tiberius: To you -yes! To anyone who will listen!
You walk closer to the bar and pull up a seat next to Mother Tiberius.
Me: Let's start at the beginning. Who's missing exactly?
Mother Tiberius: My boy Ryan has been missing for a tenspan and none of these lazabouts will raise a finger. Even in this low gravity.
Sarananda Xon voice is soft, yet piercing. She addresses Mother Tiberius, but her tone captivates the room. Even one of the mercenaies looks up from their cards.
Sarananda Xon: I know you’re worried, but Ryan's gone missing before -he’ll show up. There’s no need to get the entire station involved. What about the scoundrel who’s been vandalizing this station for half a cycle now! It’s affecting morale and what’s worse, it’s affecting business. No one wants to have a drink at the Inn with that rat scattering about everywhere!
Mother Tiberius: How dare you Sarananda!
The women lock eyes. Gerald Blackleg moves his chair back a few inches.
Mother Tiberius: You’d never dare utter such nonsense if Archibald were here. Comparing scribbles on mirrors and the nuisance of a mechanical rodent to the disappearance of a child!
Sarananda Xon: He’s hardly a child Rita! The “child” is sixty cycles old. At that age his brother already had a career off station!
Mother Tiberius: If I still had my legs under me I’d….. Now, I’m not one to swing the Balance too far off kilter, but one needs to say what needs to be said. Will no one help me?
Me: Please. What's "the Balance"?
Mother Tiberius: On LeGuin we believe…
She throws a harsh glance at Blackleg, who has sunk further into his chair, and returns her gaze to you. It’s difficult not to admire the energy this woman generates; seated she dominates the room -even the Athena guard have halted their card game and begun to listen.
Mother Tiberius: On LeGuin we believe, most of us at any rate, that there exists in this great expanse, the edges of which we’ll never see, a symmetry, a mean -a Balance. And that it is the purpose of people to keep that balance.
Gerald Blackleg: Mother T’s husband was a preacher.
The “associate’s” bashful interjection earns him no favors -he is cut short before even completing the sentence.
Mother Tiberius: My husband IS a preacher, Gerald. He’s been gone, but he isn’t gone. And, sometimes I wonder just how influential he was when I see the path you’ve gone down. I can’t stand here yapping all day! Will anyone help me -or shall I try and roll myself down to Maple High myself?
Gerald makes a half hearted attempt to speak, but the green and petty demon at the dilapidated controls of his soul quickly silences the muted, impotent and nobler sirens of his spirit. The Athena guards eye him with disdain, but their judgment of him in no way compels them to heed Mother T’s call. They go back to their card game.
You cannot let this woman's call for help in finding her son go unheeded.
Me: I'll help you find your son. There are just a few more questions I need to ask here at the inn before I can assist you.
Mother T's demeanor softens -a smile makes its gentle way across her face.
Mother Tiberius: Thank you stranger. You are known to me now.
She pauses and takes your hand.
Mother Tiberius: Kindness is the only true bond. I must head back to the hospital now. When you've asked your questions, please, meet me there.
Without looking back at the Sarananda or Gerald she leaves the inn. A silence, heavy and awkward, waits and whistles, in the artificial air.
You don't enjoy being put on the spot -and, in any event, you've been hired to find a vandal, not track down missing children.
Me: No thank you. I'm -uhm- otherwise engaged.
Mother Tiberius: Same as the rest of them. Pay me. Pay me. Pay me. Maybe my boy’s right. Maybe we’re all just vending machines encased in flesh.
She looks around the room, grabbing whatever eyes won't shy away from the fervor in hers. No one meets her gaze.
Mother Tiberius: Fine. If anyone is interested in doing what’s right and redressing the Balance and helping someone in need, Rita Greta Tiberius, mother of Ryan Archibald Tiberius, of the crazy, twirling space station LeGuin is prepared to offer you hospital prepared soup and the 5 credits I have squirreled away. I’ll be in the sick bay mopping up vomit.
She pushes past you leaving the inn, in silence. It's quite an exit.
Either choice continues:
- Speak to Sarananda Xon.
You feel it might be best to address the innkeeper directly at this point.
In any event, Mother T is a tough act to follow.
Me: I'm looking into the acts of vandalism around the station.
> In the back of the room the mercenaries have finished their card game. Leaving the table a disheveled mess, they transfer a couple of credits and leave the inn. Blackleg follows them out, head hunched, the lamentable whimper of a creature that he is.
Me: Smythe sent me.
The mention of Reginald Smythe causes Blackleg to stir uncomfortably in his chair, yet again. In the back of the room the mercenaries have finished their card game. Leaving the table a disheveled mess, they transfer a couple of credits and leave the inn. Blackleg follows them out, head hunched, the lamentable whimper of a creature that he is.
Either choice continues:
Sarananda Xon breaks the silence, folds it neatly and puts it in a drawer under the bar.
Sarananda Xon: You must forgive Rita. She gets very emotional. Understandable really, but Ryan -her son- disappears all the time. He’s been acting up ever since his brother left the station so many cycles ago.
Me: And it seems to take cycles and cycles to get any straight answers.
Xon eyes you quizzically. Is she sizing you up?
She goes over to the table in the back and begins cleaning it.
Xon flips through the deck of cards with long, graceful fingers.
Her stare is cold. Her fingers flipping through the cards is suddenly the only sound on the the station.
Sarananda Xon: If you're in a hurry, you're on the wrong station. Nothing happens here -quickly or otherwise.
Me: Sorry. My tongue gets the better of my mind sometimes.
Sarananda Xon: Ryan’s got a quick wit about him too. Doesn’t seem to mix well with the recycled air of LeGuin.
Me: That’s an ominous thing to say.
Sarananda Xon: I don’t mean anything by it. I’m sure that Ryan Archibald Tiberius is fine.
Me:
Sarananda Xon: Ryan’s been trouble since he was little. Poor Rita, and in her condition…
Me: What happened to Mother Tiberius?
Sarananda Xon: Many of the elders suffered permanent damage when the Torus stopped spinning. No gravity for cycles on end. No weight on the back or leg muscles -only a handful keep full use of their limbs. And caring for those who didn't was hard. Very hard.
She goes over to the table in the back and begins cleaning it.
Sarananda Xon: All I remember hearing was Rita screaming after him, “Ryan Archibald Tiberius stop that!” or “Ryan Archibald Tiberius -don’t you dare!” Like a litany.
Me:
All choices continue:
Something the innkeeper has just said jumbles something loose that's been lodged in your head.
- Proceed delicately: ask her to repeat herself.
Me: Sorry. Tell me again. What did you just say?
Sarananda Xon: I said: I’m sure that Ryan Archibald Tiberius is fine.
The realization crashes over you like a wave. It was obvious, evident, scrawled -literally scrawled- on every act of vandalism. You know who the vandal is!
How could you not have seen it before? You take in a deep breath and say nothing. In your mind you speak the words:
Me: Rat! R.A.T. Ryan Archibald Tiberius! The missing boy and the vandal -they're one in the same!
Sarananda Xon eyes you suspiciously.
Sarananda Xon: You think the vandal is Ryan….
You don't have time to answer her. A shrill squeak breaks the silence on cue. A small, mechanical rat, slightly larger than a mall’s fist screeches across the floor of the inn. The creature is fast and its shriek is deafening.
Me: Rat! R.A.T. Ryan Archibald Tiberius! The missing boy and the vandal -they're one in the same!
Sarananda Xon's distant stare evaporates -a glint of surprise, almost innocent, fans across her face.
A shrill squeak breaks the silence on cue. A small, mechanical rat, slightly larger than a mall’s fist screeches across the floor of the inn. The creature is fast and its shriek is deafening.
Either choice continues:
- Track the rat.
The diminutive bot criss-crosses the inn at high speed. It's horrific screeching is painful.
The noise this tiny rodent is emitting is ear-splinting and agonizing. If only you could capture it, there might be a way to silence it.
Sarananda Xon: Not this again! Make it stop!
How does one catch a rat? It seems to fast to stop.
You remember the triangular slice of metal! Is it still in your pocket?
If you didn't take the triangle:
- Track the rat.
You curse the fact that you left the strange, metallic slice behind. It might have provided an answer to this miserable situation.
If you did:
You reach a trembling hand into your pocket. This screeching is mind-bogglingly painful.
The triangular piece is there. You hold it squarely in the palm of your hand. The one red button blinks rapidly on it.
- Press the button.
You depress the small, red button on the triangular slice.
The screeching ceases.
Sarananda Xon: Balance restored!
The small, metallic rodent zips straight into the palm of your outstretched hand, scurries up your arm and comes to rest on your shoulder.
Xon looks over at you and let's out a sigh.
Sarananda Xon: Looks like you've made a friend.
- Inspect the rat.
The small, robotic rat seems to be sleeping -silently- on your shoulder.
Me: I think it likes me.
Sarananda Xon: Thank you. I was about to lose my mind.
The tiny robot's screeching is unbearable.
You draw your weapon and try and take aim at the wizzing rat as it scuttles at breakneck speeds across the floor.
Sarananda Xon: No! Don't shoot. I've tried that -it's too quick. You'll damage the inn.
Part of you feels -no! Part of you believes that you could put one right between the little bugger's eyes, but this isn't your place. Then again, that screeching is driving you crazy.
- Shoot at the rat.
(Agility check)
Ignoring Xon's command -and mustering what you're certain are the dormant genes of snipers past- you focus all your attention on the skittering menace. You realize that the robot is too quick to pinpoint. You take aim, almost instinctively, at the point you believe it will alight and fire! You hit the rat dead on -your blast shredding it to pieces. The hideous screeching ceases.
- Inspect the remains of the rat.
The inn is silent. Sarananda Xon takes her slender hands from her ears and breathes out in relief.
Me: I got lucky. That thing was fast.
You pick up the few pieces of the robotic rat that remain intact. Not much at all is left. You can barely make out a small transmitter -looks like this little bugger was remote controlled.
You hand the pieces over to Xon.
Sarananda Xon: Thank you.
All successes continue:
Me: All in a day's work, I suppose. My pleasure.
Sarananda Xon: If you need a place to crash for a couple of segments, the least I can do is put you up.
Me: I might take you up on that, but right now I'm going to inform Ser Smythe about what I've uncovered.
Xon takes a deep breath.
Sarananda Xon: Ryan's not a bad kid, you know. It's not easy growing up, here on LeGuin.
You nod. You're beginning to understand what she means.
Head back to the Government Center to see Smythe.
- Walk into Smythe's office.
If you captured the rat:
You near the Government Center. The mechanical rat that has been resting quietly on your shoulder springs to life all of a sudden and zips down your arm and onto the sidewalk. In a blink of an eye the tiny robot disappears from sight.
Smythe smiles when he sees you walk in.
Reginald Smythe: You've cracked it -haven't you?
Me: Mother Tiberius is concerned. Says her son is missing.
Smythe straightens in his chairs and sighs, nodding his careful head with an almost confessional feel.
Me: Her son -Ryan Tiberius.
Smythe looks back up at you.
Reginald Smythe: How do you know?
Me:
Either choice continues:
- Be enlightening. Explain.
You smile and pull up a seat.
Me: Rat.
Smythe raises a quizzical eyebrow. His left eye twitches ever so slightly.
Me: Rat. R - A - T. Ryan Archibald Tiberius.
Smythe's mood darkens, he drops his head and stares into his desk.
- Be observant. Ask Smythe if he suspected.
Me: You're not entirely surprised, are you?
Reginald Smythe: No. In fact, not at all. I was hoping that I was wrong.
Smythe straightens in his chairs and sighs, nodding his careful head with an almost confessional feel.
Me: Are you going to tell her? What's the next step?
Reginald Smythe: That's for you and I to decide. It's a delicate situation -believe me.
Smythe looks back up at you and gives you a weak smile. The sheriff logs into his terminal. A transfer of 200 credits registers in your CORETECHS.
Mission success
You have received 200.00 credits.
He opens the door to the fridge, a short breath of cold air escapes the box.
Reginald Smythe: A situation that will require, subtlety, ingenuity -even trust.
He reaches into the fridge.
Reginald Smythe: Care for an ice pop?
Me:
Mission success
You have completed the "Lost Boy I" mission.
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