Sometimes it's hard to see clearly.
No Good Deed (197.22/12:141 GCT)
So I'm in the Lounge, chatting up a few of the locals, just making conversation, nothing potentially offensive or controversial. I'm exchanging pleasantries with an attractive young fuchsia-haired specimen, and some skinny old guy keeps interrupting us to try to get me to buy him a drink, when there's a very loud >CRASH< to my left. I look up, and see two Mall behemoths with ugly scowls, fists clenched in rage, standing over what used to be a table. One of them shouts something in a language I don't understand, and waves the remains of a broken bottle threateningly. The other is inching his hand towards his belt, whence I can see a blood-stained metallic hilt protruding.
Several patrons begin edging towards the exit, including my erstwhile companion. The intelligent part of me--the part that's done its best to keep me alive over the cycles--casts a vote in favor of joining them as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, however, the stupid part of me always seems to get more votes. So instead of hightailing it out of there like all the sensible folks, I stroll casually over to the pair and gently tap the shoulder of the large gentleman with the shiny knife. He whips around with surprising speed, and a crackling blade is at my throat before I can blink.
"I couldn't help overhearing," I manage, as calmly as I can under the circumstances. "I don't know what I overheard, exactly, but it's clearly something unpleasant. Now, it's a lovely day, and all these charming people"--I gesture around the Lounge, noticing just a shade too late that only a few stragglers remain--"just want to relax. I"m sure that's why you're here, too."
The blade seems to ease away from my throat, almost imperceptibly. I risk a peek at the other Mall; he's still hefting the broken bottle, and he's still scowling, but at least for now he seems to be listening as well. "Sometimes," I continue gamely, "all it takes to settle these little disagreements is a neutral party hearing from both sides. Look, let me buy you a drink, we can all sit down… err, at another table… and you can tell me about what's spoiling your afternoon. I'm a really good listener." I give them my most winning smile.
The two giants exchange suspicious glances, then both of them focus on me. They slowly start lowering their respective weapons. I slowly start breathing again. I think I'm actually going to pull this off.
And that's when some gorram idiot decides to clobber the bottle-wielder from behind with a chair.
He doesn't go down, of course. He's a Mall. Instead he lets out a roar of pain and rage, spins around, and takes a swing at the idiot (who manages to duck in time). The other Mall seizes the opportunity to tackle his opponent from behind, smashing into the back of his knees and sending all three of them to the floor. A flailing limb catches my ankle and I go down as well, cursing. I try to scramble free, but some other good Samaritan decides to liven things up by aiming a few indiscriminate kicks at us, and I catch a boot to the nose. It hurts. A lot. And starts bleeding. A lot.
Which is why Security didn't really buy my protestations of being just a bystander. They scooped up the lot of us, innocent and guilty alike, and dumped us in the Brig.
Note to self: Sometimes it doesn't pay to be social.
Freedom of the Press (197.26/15:864 GCT)
Something is rotten on Taungoo Station.
So this investigative reporter--a full-fledged citizen of the Consortium, mind you--has been nosing around a little too much, making the locals uncomfortable. They file a formal complaint against him. And then, all of a sudden, he disappears. His clone hasn't spawned, so he's not dead, but there's no trace of him.
His daughter and daughter-in-law are frantic. The daughter thinks he's been kidnapped in retaliation for his investigations, and is being held and tortured in the Brig. Consortium Security investigates, but the Brig's records are clean. He's not there.
Then Security begins to suspect that perhaps his disappearance was a little too conveniently timed. Maybe he just didn't want to have to respond to that formal complaint? What exactly was he doing? And then they start wondering whether his daughter might be involved as well, so they begin asking questions…
Which is, of course, when I decide to ignore common sense and emulate the nosy reporter by sticking my own nose in where nobody wants it.
I sidle up to a guard in the Brig, all casual-like, and tell him I know they're holding the reporter. I pretend to be his employer, and insist all I want is for him to return to work, no questions asked. The mook plays dumb--pointing to the empty records--so I slip him a few creds to jog his memory. And while he's considering, I point out that, if they release the reporter, Consortium Security won't have any reason to continue investigating, or to look into the Brig's phony records…
I know I've hit paydirt when the guard--essentially verifying that they do indeed have the reporter in there--steps to one side to contact someone higher up in the food chain. I can tell the voice on the other end is female, but I can't make out a word. The guard nods, disconnects, and levels a flat gaze at me.
"So?"
The guard puts one hand on the butt of his weapon. "Leave, or die."
Right. Nice and subtle, just the way I like it. I actually consider briefly: I don't know whether I could take even one guard, and this guy has lots of friends around, all suddenly paying very close attention to us. "See you around," I say, tipping a non-existent hat to him, then stroll casually away at a somewhat higher speed than usual. ("The better part of valor" and all that, y'know.)
And then I try to find the reporter's daughter to tell her what happened… and she's gone. No trace. Her wife, too. Disappeared. Consortium Security figures all three of them went into hiding. But something tells me that, deep in the bowels of the Brig, there are now two fewer empty cells.
Dammit.
Inside Your Head (197.29/14:827 GCT)
If there's one thing that was hammered into my thick skull at an early age--as early as I can remember, in fact--it's this: Our worst loss from the Catastrophe was knowledge. The thirst for knowledge, I was told, was the reason the ancestors of humanity first crawled out of the primordial sludge. Expanding and building on knowledge led to all human progress. If you have the right knowledge, you can do anything.
It was drilled into me that education is an absolute necessity for life, just behind air, water, food, and shelter (in that order). And I was quite thoroughly indoctrinated. Even though the basic general knowledge injections were expensive, I hoarded every micro-credit until I could afford them. And it was never enough: every scrap of knowledge just prompted further questions and made me hungrier for more learning.
Which, I suppose, explains why I recently found myself standing in a line awaiting a nanite injection for "Introduction to psychology and social skills."
I'll be honest: International Relations was never a field of particular interest to me. Leave that sort of thing to the diplomats, I always figured. But the introductory course was available, and the price was low enough that I could afford it even on my relatively meager salary. And--as a little voice in my head insists on reiterating--knowledge is never wasted. I have my rations, I have my room; education is the next priority.
But I never anticipated how impossibly useful it would turn out to be.
In retrospect, I suppose it should have been more obvious: Much of the average day is spent interacting with others, so it only makes sense that a better understanding of others would be beneficial. But I couldn't possibly have foreseen the extent of its impact. I now breeze through social situations that once confounded me. I've gained an almost instinctive insight into what others need, want, or expect. A subtle change of expression, the merest tilt of a head, even the inflection of a single word is like an open book.
And let me tell you, with skills like these it is SO much easier to persuade people to trust me!
Hair of the Dog (197.36/11:919 GCT)
I probably should have known better than to set foot in the Bar. But I was new to Spirit of Botswana, and curious to explore everywhere I could reach. Having just purchased a guest room for the night, I decided to poke my head in at the local watering hole. Mistake.
"Ho, traveler!" A boisterous cry greeted me. "Come, come in! Rest your legs! Slake your thirst!" A booming laugh accompanied these words as the speaker--obviously a Colonist--waved me over. She seemed friendly enough, so I approached her table, and she lazily kicked a chair towards me.
"Thank you, umm…" I said. She grinned hugely. "I am Takiyah!" she boomed. "And you are?"
"Shadow," I murmured as I slid into the seat, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the strength of her personality.
"An auspicious name!" Takiyah proclaimed. "And what do you do, in these shadows?"
I blinked. "In the-- No, I-- That is…"
Takiyah laughed heartily. "Come, come! You must allow me my little jest. We do not always choose our own names, eh?" She leaned over, as if conspiratorially… an attitude belied by the sheer volume of her voice. "My name means 'Woman of the Cosmos,' or so they tell me, yet I get spacesick on the briefest of shuttle rides!"
She laughed again, infectiously. "So, Shadow! We have a little tradition here. Newcomers buy the first round. What are we having?"
I hadn't planned to imbibe, so I politely demurred. "Actually, I don't drink much. I was just looking around the station, and--"
"What!?" Takiyah cried, in mock outrage. "You dare insult our fine establishment by declining our wares? What, are we not good enough for you space travelers?" Her eyes twinkled and I could tell she was joking, but still…
"C'mon!" laughed Takiyah, smashing me playfully (if somewhat painfully) on the shoulder. "Have a drink, traveler! Tell you what--forget buying a round. Get yourself a beer, and I'll join you. You can regale me with the latest tales of the Black. And I'll pick up the next round, too!"
"I really don't think--" I began. The Colonist wasn't having it. She gestured at the bar. A frothy beer materialized before me, and another before her. She picked up the mug--looking tiny in her massive grip--and raised it towards me in salute. "Amandla!"
She looked at me expectantly. Clearly amused. So I did what anyone would do in such a situation, and raised my own mug right back at her. "Cheers," I offered.
"That's more like it!" bellowed Takiyah cheerfully. She tipped her head back, and I swear she simply poured the entire beer into her open mouth and straight down her gullet. She slammed down the empty mug, wiping her lips with the back of her hand and heaving a great sigh of satisfaction.
And looked at me expectantly again.
Great. "Bottoms up," I muttered, and lifted the mug to my own lips.
Then…
Well…
Things get a little fuzzy.
No, a lot fuzzy.
There may have been singing.
The next thing I knew, I was lying in a hospital bed in a dimly glowing room, strapped down (though not uncomfortably), head pounding, while a white-coated technician busily fiddled with the dials on some strange beeping machine.
"Back with us now?" she said, noticing my eyes opening. I managed a groan in response. Barely. She smirked. How unprofessional.
"I'm afraid you'll be staying here for some time." she added, matter-of-factly. "Doctor's orders." I could have protested, I guess, except that the little man bashing the inside of my skull with the enormous sledgehammer was taking up most of my attention. "Enjoy your down time. If you need anything…" She paused. "…it can wait until you're out of here.
"See you in a few segments." And she left, without any further niceties, closing the door behind her quite a bit more loudly than I would have liked in my current condition.
Promoting the General Welfare (197.42/15:537 GCT)
Hefting massive metal plates and bolting them onto jagged rents in starship hulls under the watchful eyes of a Port supervisor may not sound all that exciting, but trust me when I say that it's even less exciting than you think. After days of reviewing repair manuals, diagnosing issues, and hauling parts and equipment with nary a critical peep, I figured it was time I moved on to something bigger.
"Let me repair the next one, Charlie," I offered. Generously. I certainly wasn't begging, if that's what you thought. Charlie pretended to think about it for all of half a unit before pronouncing me incompetent. "You're not ready, kid," he said, not unkindly.
"'Kid'?" I huffed. Charlie just laughed at me--again, not unkindly. "I'm on my 78th clone, young'un," he grinned. "Between the accidents and the explosions and the dissidents and the clumsy, trigger-happy soldiers around here, it's amazing anyone lasts more than a couple of cycles. You're all right, but you need a little more experience."
"Experience." I scoffed. "You've seen my work. When was the last time you had to step in to keep me from doing something stupid?"
"It's been a while," he admitted.
I pressed my advantage. "And when was the last time someone complained about me doing shoddy work?"
"No one ever has," Charlie said, squinting at me. "You sure about this, kid?"
"Charlie, I did not always know this," I averred, "but I was meant to be a tech from the day I was born."
He shrugged. "If you think so…" He pointed at a little private cargo shuttle that had come in a few segments prior. "Take a crack at The Lagan over there. Owner says she's been sluggish and guzzling fuel like never before."
I refrained from squealing, and contented myself with saying, "I won't let you down, Ser!" I did momentarily consider hugging him, but hastily thought better of it and instead tossed off a quick mock salute and hurried over to my new project.
The Lagan stared at me.
I stared back.
And so I found myself wedged into the guts of one of the Trace Compression Block thrusters, far too close to a Bussard fusion drive for my comfort level, with assorted bruises, scrapes, and a sizable lump on the back of my head attempting to persuade me to choose a different career path. The gorram tri-scanner was on the fritz, little red lights blinking rapidly in no discernible pattern I could see, and that ominous humming coming from… somewhere… was getting noticeably louder.
In frustration, I whacked the scanner against a protruding hunk of metal. Its lights did stop blinking; in fact, the whole thing buzzed loudly, sputtered, and died in a small shower of sparks.
One of which somehow managed to land in exactly the wrong place. The smoldering started instantly, and from the smell I could tell the frelling thing would be catching fire within units. You might think a little fire is bad, but wait until you've seen a fire in a high-oxygen environment. Better yet, don't; you're unlikely to be around for later comparison.
"Goushi, goushi, goushi, GOUSHI!" I snarled, struggling to get myself unwedged and out of there before the argon suppression system kicked in. Sure, it would smother the fire--and me as well. Argon isn't exactly breathable. So maybe I wasn't really looking as carefully as I should have been, and I banged my knee painfully just as my jumpsuit sleeve caught on a sharp jutting edge. I tried to rip it loose, and succeeded only in ripping a nice gash in my arm.
This was not going well.
The sound of a tiny explosion from behind me indicated that the fire was now more than a minor annoyance. I figured I had about three units to free myself and get out before I either burned or suffocated. Or both. So yes, I was probably a bit desperate when I started kicking blindly at the metal walls pressing in on me. And maybe screaming. Just a little.
And then the panel gave way and I crashed to the Port floor… where Charlie stood above me, chomping on his ever-present unlit cigar and calmly spraying suppressant foam on the thruster. And on me.
It was over in mere units. I gazed up at him, picturing how I must look: bruised, battered, bleeding, and bedraggled. And it was at that particular moment that the agonizing shriek of torn metal anounced the thruster's decision to separate from its mount entirely and smash down on the floor beside me.
Charlie just looked at me.
One eyebrow slightly raised.
Not saying a word.
"Experience. Right. More experience. I'll get right on that, boss!" I coughed, and dragged my pathetic self off to Sick Bay for a segment or three.
With that as background, I admit to being rather anxious when, only two successful "supervised" repairs later, including cleaning up the mess I'd made of The Lagan--turned out the real problem was just the owner using the wrong fuel--Charlie called me into his office.
"I know, I'm fired," I predicted morosely, before he could spring the news on me. "One lousy mistake…"
"One!?" Charlie barked. He began ticking off on his fingers: "Erroneous diagnosis. Disregard for safety protocols. Improper handling of potentially dangerous materials. Failure to deploy auto-insulation when near power sources. Negligent destruction of company assets. Failure to consider the safety of nearby personnel and bystanders. Panic in the face of emergency. Damage to client property. Potential fines to station security. Blood on one of my jumpsuits." He ran out of fingers, and took a breath. "Shall I go on?"
"No," I said, hanging my head, shamefaced. I'd really let him down. Worse, I'd let myself down. "I'll pack up my things and get out of your hair." I couldn't even look him in the eye.
Which is why it took me a unit or two to realize that Charlie wasn't barking at me in anger. Actually, I wasn't entirely sure what that hoarse, rumbling sort of noise he was making meant. So I cautiously looked up.
He was laughing.
"C'mon, kid," Charlie said, still chuckling at my expression. "So you screwed up. It's not the end of the 'verse!" He leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Someday I might tell you about my first solo repair. Believe me, mine was worse. But for now…" He flicked at something on his desk, sending it skittering towards me.
A promotion.
After all that, Charlie was promoting me. I stared at him, mouth open, unable to process it completely. "All right, knock it off, kid," he said gruffly. "You're makin' me nervous. Get out of here and go work on Mistral. She just came in with her main engine sputtering. Think you can handle it?" He winked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and hightailed it out of there. And as I approached Mistral, I realized, with some astonishment, that I suddenly knew exactly what to do.
It was as if the mere fact of my promotion had somehow granted me higher knowledge.
Funny, that.
First Blood (197.63/20:958 GCT)
"I don't want to hurt you!"
That's what I said out loud, anyway. Inside, it was more like, "I don't want to be here!"
Not to brag, but I've always been pretty good at puzzles and games and such. So when that weird old guy at the Inn offered me a chance to play his new game and maybe earn a valuable prize, it sounded good to me. Little did I know that his "game" had life-or-death consequences…
After jumping through a few potentially lethal hoops, I found myself here, in a makeshift arena somewhere in the Ruins, facing a would-be gladiator who styled herself "Grunka the Gorgeous," I kid you not. She was tall, broad, hugely muscled, and grinning like the proverbial cat with a mouthful of yellow feathers as she casually flipped a solid-looking metallic club I wasn't sure I'd've been able to lift, let alone wield.
Which is why when Shane--that weird old guy from the Inn--gave us the signal to begin, I ever so graciously offered Grunka a face-saving way out of fighting. She didn't need to know that it was my own face I was trying to save (not to mention keep relatively intact), any more than she needed to know that, despite the armored suit I wear and the array of weapons at my belt, I've had virtually no actual combat experience. Well, not unless you count nanite injections, which, believe me, don't provide nearly the adrenaline boost that reality does.
Unfortunately, Grunka was apparently as brave as she appeared strong. She laughed cheerfully at my suggestion that I might hurt her, proclaiming, "Only the gods know what will happen." Or something like that. I wasn't really listening; I was too busy focusing on her flexing musculature, her gleaming armor, the numerous patches of dried blood on the ground… I was really beginning to understand that whole "Fight or Flight" business everyone always talks about.
Worse, I realized that I had made a serious error in judgment: I was tired and weakened from playing Shane's stupid game, and I really, really should have had a nice rest before I charged headlong into the Ruins. So not only was I about to go up against a frakking giant, but I was going to have to do it already partially exhausted.
Grunka hefted her weapon and prepared to clobber me. So I did what any self-respecting combatant would do: I shot her, before she could get anywhere near me.
Or tried to, anyway. I at least winged her a bit. She definitely winced. Definitely. I think. Anyway, I took that as a good sign. My feet, on the other hand--which are apparently smarter than I am--tried to take advantage of her momentary hesitation to depart the vicinity as hastily as possible. I swear, it was like I had no control over them: they just started fleeing without consulting my brain in any way.
Well, I didn't get too far before I realized I was never going to be able to outrun Grunka, who had recovered and was lumbering towards me far more quickly than someone her size should have been able to move. That hardly seemed fair. So I shot her again. This time Grunka definitely noticed. I'd guess it was the blood dripping from the new little hole in her right bicep. She lowered her weapon, narrowed her gaze, and then--wonder of wonders!—she fled from me!
Naturally I gave chase and insisted on engaging in some very dramatic hand-to-hand combat… Yeah, right. No, I just stood there and let Grunka reach the edge of the arena, whence she turned around and formally conceded, without a hint of rancor. She probably said, "Well fought, worthy foe!" or something traditionally ceremonial like that. I may even have mumbled some response. But really I was paying absolutely no attention to her. I'd won the game. I had plans now. Big plans.
I was going back to the Inn to introduce Shane's face to the nearest wall.
Star Struck (197.90/08:947 GCT)
I'll admit it: I'm as susceptible to celebrity as the next sentient being. When I first arrived on Tau Station and learned that the captain of the Amethyst was one of the very first clones awakened there post-Catastrophe, I was intrigued. And when I checked my CORETECHS and found he'd begun a blog--again, the first to do so--I just had to follow it. And him. Clearly this Ovid was destined for great things.
I watched Ovid's blog avidly, hoping for another update, recycling my CORETECHS every few segments lest I miss one. And recycled it again… and again… Days passed, but Ovid never said another word, preferring to remain a man of mystery. I rationalized it, reasoning that if he wanted to avenge himself on whoever set him up, he'd want to avoid leaving obvious clues in the mesh.
I never truly expected to meet Ovid in person, but even the thought of a virtual legend walking the same Tau Station corridors I did, drinking the same beer, scavenging the same ruins, was enough for me. So I was more than a little astonished when my CORETECHS flickered and identified the Baseline male coming towards me as Ovid himself! I was about to meet this legend!
Not wanting to go full "fanboy" on him, I focused on trying to appear casual. Which is why I was totally unprepared when, without a single word, Ovid whipped a nasty-looking shiv from his belt and lunged at me. I managed to sidestep his strike--barely--and automatically drew the tarnished sword hanging at my hip, shifting my stance and counterattacking almost instinctively. (Bless you, Combat nanites!)
Ovid seemed to lose his taste for fighting as soon as he was facing someone ready to fight back. (Either that, or he didn't want to risk security finding him.) He disappeared almost as quickly as he appeared, still without a word of explanation, leaving me adrenalized and thoroughly bewildered.
I'm a lot more cautious since then. Stations seem less welcoming now. I spend most of my time in a hotel room, venturing out only for specific purposes. Whenever I'm out, I try to keep close tabs on everyone else in the area with me, always wary, always poised to defend at a unit's notice.
Thank you, Ovid, for opening my eyes to the true nature of the 'verse.
Invasion of the Body Stabbers (198.11/84:386 GCT)
I guess I've grown comfortable with the relatively small number of interstellar travelers I've seen at the stations lately. For one thing, it's nice not feeling as if I have to walk around with my neck permanently craned to look over my shoulder. (Thanks again, Ovid!) It's easy to get around; hotels are never sold out; and there's never a wait for a shuttle.
Until yesterday.
Suddenly it seems as if Tau Station is crawling with newcomers, eager to prove themselves however they can. A lot of them have been polite, even respectful, occasionally soliciting advice from those with more experience. Others prefer to stumble around on their own, making their own mistakes and learning from them, just as I did. A few went straight to a hotel room, holed up, and haven't been seen since.
And then there are the ones who seem to believe the free application of violence is the best way to carve out a reputation. Oh, joy.
I encountered one of these while I was trying to enjoy a quiet unit in the Lounge. A Baseline lad who looked barely old enough to shave strode right up to me, slammed his hand theatrically on the table, and demanded to know whether I was "the infamous Shadow." I admitted to the appellation, though not the infamy.
"Excellent!" he boomed. "My name is Ogier! You and I have business."
"Do we, now?" I inquired mildly, eyebrow raised.
"Indeed!" he responded. "My business is with your skin, and yours is with my blade!"
Ah. "I don't actually know you, do I?" I mused aloud. "I mean, I didn't accidentally murder your mother ten cycles ago or anything like that?"
Ogier stared at me for a unit. Then: "No, Shadow. I have no quarrel with you. I merely seek to prove my own worth by besting a notable veteran."
I sighed. "Very well. You wish to duel me. I accept."
"Excellent!" Ogier boomed again. "When shall we cross swords?"
I shot him.
Maybe when he gets out of Sick Bay he'll be a little wiser.
Bored now. (198.27/03:975 GCT)
In case you've ever wondered whether having a team of incompetent port technicians drop a heavy hull plate right on your head hurts: Yes. Yes, it does. Rather a lot, actually.
And so I find myself confined to Sick Bay yet again. And man, are they strict! "You need rest," they say. "Focus on your healing," they say. "You'll be out of here before you know it," they say.
They lie.
Heaven forbid I should pick up a slate and try to doodle a sketch for a new ship design. Anywhere else I could do it, but in here, an alarm sounds and a throng of white-coated demons instantly surrounds me. "Now, now," they say, snatching it right out of my hands. "Doctor's orders." Try to read a book? Oh, no. That, too, is verboten. Maybe I could talk to another patient? Or just review an old repair manual? What about a little physical therapy? How about I just close my eyes and rest, pretend I'm back in my hotel room? No, no, no, and no.
I swear, they'd probably dig my CORETECHS out of my skull during recuperation if they could figure out a safe way to do it. I'm pushing my luck right now, I suspect, even composing this entry internally, moving nothing but my eyes. They'll push some button or turn some dial and flood my system with enough sedat#@&/#@&#/%%%%% «< TRANSMISSION TERMINATES »>
Carnage (198.40/87:006 GCT)
Things have definitely changed. The 'Verse is a good deal more hostile. Just the other day I ventured forth from my hotel room briefly, hoping to do a little Ruins rummaging. Instead, I was treated to a double murder right in front of me. Totally unprovoked, from what I could tell: one moment two guys were hanging out in front of the concierge, probably getting ready to buy a room, and the next moment there were two corpses bleeding all over the carpet and a mysterious black-clad figure dashing for the station passage. Medics carted the victims off to Sick Bay long before any guards ever showed; the whole thing couldn't have taken more than a dozen units.
I slipped into a shortcut I found some time ago, which typically enables me to get to the Ruins without being accosted en route. (And no, I'm not telling you where it is. Find your own.) Now, I'm used to a bit of violence in the Ruins--who isn't?--but this was far more than the quiet mugging of tourists or the occasional inter-gang sniping. It might as well have been an old Consortium-Gaule war zone. Everywhere I looked people of all genotypes were locked in mortal combat, shooting at each other, dodging, swinging improvised weapons, bellowing in pain, screaming, dying… The medics could barely keep up with the carnage, and there was no sign of Security (which has seemingly decided to chuck in the proverbial towel).
I'm not ashamed to admit it: I elected to forego my rummaging and scurry back to the safety of my hotel room before someone decided I looked like a promising target. Next up: back to the University for more combat courses. Sigh.
Bloody Murder (198.59/02:968 GCT)
You can hear echoes of it throughout the mesh.
You can practically smell it in the stale recycled air.
Someone--or something--is murdering its way across the 'verse, leaving only corpses in its wake.
It moves from station to station, from system to system, seemingly at random, slaughtering everyone it encounters.
It preys on high and low alike, rich and poor, young and old, the novice and the experienced.
Fear governs the masses. Few dare step outside the safety of their rooms or their ships nowadays for even half a segment.
Some victims try to flee, and it laughs. It enjoys the chase.
Others try to defend themselves, but always in vain. It is impossibly powerful.
Your only hope is to see it before it sees you. And run immediately. And hide.
It kills entire station populations, and revels in their misery.
It lurks in Sick Bay, waiting for its victims to recover, then murders them again.
It kills without reason.
It kills without purpose.
It kills without mercy.
It kills without conscience.
It kills just because it can.
And it has a name:
Flight Path (198.65/09:542 GCT)
I should have known better. It was late. I was already tired. All I wanted was to crawl into my hotel bed and rest. But I foolishly decided I should venture into the Ruins just one more time, expending the last vestiges of my energy in the forlorn hope of actually uncovering something valuable for a change. Rummaging through piles of dusty, broken regocrete blocks for something worth more than a quarter-credit, I barely noticed when my eyelids started to droop. "Just a few units more," I said to myself…
…Until the next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by the sound of an energy bolt sizzling just past my head, grazing my right ear. "FRELL!" I hollered, scrambling backwards, crablike, stumbling to my feet, wrestling out my own firearm, craning my neck desperately trying to spot my assailant.
Oh, frak.
Oh frak oh frak oh frak oh frakkity-frakking frak.
He found me.
(Okay, technically I didn't know whether Zoffix was a he, a she, an it, or a they. Frankly, I had more pressing concerns than grammar just then.)
Even while scanning furiously for a handy exit--any exit--I automatically returned fire, but it seemed to slide off Zoffix's armor. His next shot, meanwhile, caught me square in the right shoulder, knocking me back and numbing my arm despite the protective suit. He'd probably missed me on purpose the first time; it's no fun if his victims don't know what's coming.
I tried faking a fall, then scrambled desperately to one side, chucking bits of crumbled masonry as far as I could in the other direction. For a unit or two it appeared to work: Zoffix turned to follow the sound, giving me a chance to flee. And flee I did. Ducking into the ruined remains of a doorway, leaping over a still-sparking cable, pushing over a tall pile of debris to collapse behind me, with Zoffix's mocking laughter echoing in my ears.
He caught up with me effortlessly, of course. Zoffix is too gorram fast. I knew he'd gotten close enough when I felt a solid impact in my left side, before I even heard the >zap< of the firearm. Wincing with pain, I fired back blindly, not even looking behind me, just to buy an extra microunit of time. Zoffix sidestepped easily enough, but in that extra instant I spotted something that might just give me a chance. Some sort of floor vent, with the cover slightly askew. I literally dove straight into the narrow opening, scraping myself up something awful, then pulled the cover on and scurried backward into darkness.
I tried my best to stop gasping for breath.
Units passed.
And then I heard the crunch of footsteps outside the shaft. And I also heard--was Zoffix whistling? Sadistic karkhead.
A shadow fell across the grate I'd so hastily tried to lodge back into place. The whistling stopped. So did the crunching. I clutched my shotgun tighter, my finger on the trigger, willing it not to shake (with only moderate success).
Another unit passed.
A deep chuckle sent a shudder down my spine.
A shadowy face appeared at the vent opening.
It grinned.
I fired.
The impact blew Zoffix back, but I wasn't fool enough to think it had killed him. I doubted it would even slow him down much. So I kept my grip on my gun as I kicked my way out of the ventilation shaft… and I was proven right almost immediately. I spotted the pile of black cloth just a couple of meters away when I emerged, and it was already starting to rise. So I shot at it again, and fled.
No more time for subtlely; I just bolted directly for the main station. Maybe, if I actually ran right inside the kriffing Security office, the gorram guards might feel like trying to do something about this murderous lunatic.
I was within sight of the edge of the Ruins when another >zap< announced my latest failure to escape. It missed me--melting a nearby pipe into slag--but at this point I had no idea whether Zoffix had actually missed or was just toying with me again.
I had to do something different.
I drew a deep breath, spun around, and charged directly at Zoffix, screaming at the top of my lungs and squeezing the trigger over and over and over, firing again and again and again. I have no idea whether any of my blasts struck him at all. In my head, I suppose I must have thought Zoffix wasn't used to anyone intentionally heading towards a fight with him. Maybe I imagined him so startled that he'd start running before he even realized he was doing it.
Yeah, right.
Naturally it didn't work out that way. Zoffix shot me almost negligently, point blank, square in the chest as my momentum carried me past him. My supposed battle cry morphed into a whimper of pain… but my armor absorbed the brunt of the energy, and I just kept running full tilt. I zigged and and zagged at random, my mind a blank, unable to think of anything I could do to deter this killing machine without a small army (which I didn't happen to have handy).
It was quite some time before I realized Zoffix was no longer chasing me.
To this day I have no idea why Zoffix allowed me to escape with my life. It certainly wasn't because I posed any sort of threat to him. Maybe he just got tired of chasing me, and decided to look for easier prey.
I try not to dwell on it.
At One's Limits (201.05/90:124 GCT)
The other day I was screening an old vid from Before in which the protagonist gave some very good advice: "A man's got to know his limitations."
I recognize very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.
Several tenspans back I found myself scrounging unsuccessfully in the Ruins--as is so often the case--and debating whether to continue or call it a day. Just one more rummage, I decided, and back to the Hotel. I'd poked around briefly in a half-toppled building earlier, but at the time I hadn't ventured up to the second floor. It seemed like a reasonable place to close out the trip.
The lifts were powerless, of course, and the stairs invisible under a heap of collapsed rubble, but the rubble itself looked climbable and reasonably stable. I got a good grip and hoisted myself up, one broken regocrete slab at a time, until I crawled through the empty space that used to be a wall and found myself in the remains of a second-floor hallway with several closed doors.
I hate closed doors.
I ignored the half-dozen or so that others had already ransacked, identifiable by the space before them being cleared of debris and the doors themselves being obviously battered from the outside rather than from above. A few paces away, however, I saw a more heavily reinforced door, with the same cleared space in front but only faint dents in its surface. Impervium, maybe? SX 5000? I'm no scientist, but I do know one thing: dren that tough is frakking expensive. And what would be behind an expensive door? Something even more expensive! At least I hoped so.
The entry pad on the wall bore similar faint dents and scratches, as if whoever failed to open the door had taken out their frustrations on the lock. Fortunately the pad material appeared to be as tough as the door itself. Which meant that it might still open the door. If it could get power. And I could figure out the code.
First things first. One lesson I learned fairly early on in my Ruins scavenging was that lack of power is almost always a problem. So I'd cobbled up a little portable battery pack of sorts. It would last only about two segments, but that was usually more than enough time for me either to accomplish what I was trying to accomplish or to give up on it. I found the entry pad's maintenance port--located a short distance away, as usual--and fumbled around until I was able to pop it open and hook up the battery. I glanced back at the entry pad, and was rewarded with a couple of glowing lights, one orange and one red.
After balancing the portable battery rather precariously on a nearby hunk of twisted metal, I headed back to the entry pad and stared at it for a while. I never had any criminal aspirations, but somehow surviving in the 'verse has made certain skills indispensable. Which is a rather roundabout way of saying "I know how to pick locks." Sort of.
This one was, as I should have expected given the quality of the door, an extremely sophisticated model resistant to all sorts of tampering. Now, security locks come with varying levels of deterrence: some just beep at you unhappily; some sound blaring alarms; some can give you nasty electric shocks, like being smacked with a stun baton (not that I would have any idea what that feels like, no Ser!); and a few rare types will actually use lethal force against the hapless intruder.
I didn't know what kind of security this had, so I had to assume the worst. Failure = death. Especially since I was already pretty exhausted. Always a pleasure working under additional stress.
I won't bore you with the details--which is to say, I won't give away any potentially incriminating techniques--but after almost a full segment of fierce concentration I was able to figure out how to disable the defenses and unlock that gorram door. Whatever's in there better be worth it, I thought, as I keyed in the new one-time override passcode I'd programmed, and crossed my fingers.
The door slid open as smoothly and silently as I could have wished.
Stepping inside, I was able to spot a few things right away:
- This had been a residence of some kind.
- The damage, while severe, all looked to be the result of the Catastrophe--that is, it hadn't been looted (yet).
- Whoever had lived here survived long enough to grab most of their things before they fled to parts unknown. Grozit.
While I was struggling to open what appeared to be a warped closet door, panting with the effort, a soft repeated chime from outside warned me that my battery was about to expire. I didn't relish the thought of being trapped inside wrecked quarters until I spawned into a clone, so it was time to grab and go. I could always return with a fresh-charged battery pack and do it all over again. Maybe at the beginning of the day this time, so I wasn't too worn out to pick through everything.
I stuck my arm through the opening I'd wrestled so far, snatched the first thing my hand fell upon--something long and smooth, maybe a long gun barrel?--and sprinted for the entry door. Making a quick left outside, I snatched up my battery and yanked the wiring free, and the door hissed shut.
I took a deep, relieved breath.
My prize wasn't a firearm after all. I held a beautifully polished and decorated quarterstaff, with shiny metal ferrules (titanium? platinum?) at both ends. I hefted it experimentally; the wood felt solid, heavy, well-balanced. Elated at my fortune, I turned back towards the heap of rubble functioning as stairs…
…which was no longer unimpeded.
An unsmiling Baseline man stood between me and any egress. I cursed myself for letting him get the jump on me; he'd probably been holed up in one of the other rooms nearby. His stance was aggressive, and the nasty-looking pistol in his hand made his intentions even more plain. He extended his free hand toward me, in the universal unspoken language of the Ruins Rat: Give. Give, or die.
Naturally, I chose Door #3.
I hefted the quarterstaff with one arm, and held it out towards him horizontally. As soon as he gripped it, though, I yanked it firmly back towards myself, at the same time whipping out a small blade with my other hand. He instinctively held on, stumbling momentarily, and that was enough: I slashed at his right hand with my left, eliciting a cry of pain and--more importantly--sending his gun arcing through the air.
I'd expected him to go after it, hoping to duck out while he was thus distracted. Instead, he ignored it and used his forward momentum to crash right into me, sending us both sprawling. His hands were around my neck in a unit, squeezing hard enough that I could feel it deep in my carotid artery. Frak. He must've been modified in some way. I didn't bother pondering it, though, since I probably had only a few units before I blacked out. So I did the only thing that occurred to me: I bashed him with the quarterstaff. Hard.
Something damp splattered on my arm. The Mugger's grip disappeared and he rolled to the side, groaning. I didn't wait around to check his condition; I leapt straight for the "stairs," slid down to the ground floor (accumulating some truly delightful lacerations en route), and shot out of there at just below light speed. As I ran, I could hear the sound of an enormous heap of regocrete slowly collapsing behind me, and ruefully realized that I wasn't going to be able to get back up to that second floor any time soon.
Some distance away, I finally slowed and chanced a look over my shoulder. Nothing. No shouts of pursuit, no one visibly chasing me, not so much as a rock flung in my direction. I heaved a sigh of relief, turned back to the station proper, and took one step.
…And I woke up in Sick Bay.
No, no injuries. I even still had the quarterstaff. "Acute exhaustion," they said. It seems between the scavenging, the code-breaking, and the fight, I'd simply used up all my energy. That single step more was all it had taken for me to collapse.
I really should know my limitations.
One Giant Leap (201.29/89:344 GCT)
I've been meaning to record these thoughts for a few cycles now, but I can't seem to come up with adequate words to describe how truly awesome the experience was. Even "awesome"--in its most literal sense, causing awe--is sadly insufficient. My humblest apologies to posterity.
It was on the Sol Jump Gate, in the Port. I had just disembarked from a local shuttle when I couldn't help but notice a great commotion from Interstellar Shuttles: peculiar noises, muffled shouting, flashes of light, the acrid smell of scorched nanowires. Intrigued, I ambled over, engaging in my usual practice of sticking in my nose where it probably didn't belong and wouldn't be welcome.
An astonishing sight greeted me. Beyond the frantic activity, through the heavy plasteel viewports, I could as usual see the Alpha Centauri Jump Gate and her four silent sisters suspended in the Black. Today, however, one was brightly illuminated, surrounded by tiny reconstruction vessels and crawling with even tinier neutronium 'bots. Klono's Claws, I realized, they're opening a Gate!
A raven-haired woman in a sharp Consortium tech uniform oversaw the chaos, barking orders with a surprising air of calm. Her gaze happened to fall on me, and she automatically motioned to a subordinate and instructed him to "Get rid of the civvy"--but then I saw her eyes narrow as she looked more closely. I began to feel somewhat anxious under her scrutiny, until she nodded to herself and called my name.
"Ser Shadow! You've worked tech here before, haven't you." It wasn't really a question. As soon as I heard her voice, though, I recognized her: Kaitlyn Richter, one of the most competent supervisors under whom I'd ever worked. No wonder she seemed so calm: if anyone could pull this off, she could.
My mouth was half-open to greet her when she steamrolled right over me: "Report to zone three, blue section, on the double. We can use everyone with your skills. Cotner!" she shouted as I turned. "I'm sending over an experienced hand. Put him to use. We've got this!"
A tall, grey-haired Belter (Cotner, I assumed) shoved a datapad in my hand and pointed through the viewport. "See that little yellow-striped ship, ACC-1310? It's working these"--his fingers flew on my screen--"six 'bots. Clear those conduits and get the cold plasma jets working. You can introduce yourself later." He stalked away to yell at some poor smeghead whose labors were sending stray sparks arcing through the oxygen-rich environment (never a great idea).
I closed my mouth and focused on the slate, doing my best to block out the innumerable distractions, and interfaced with the Jump Gate schematics from my CORETECHS. (Good thing I still had those security clearances!) The work was tricky and delicate, and a couple of the 'bots were run-down and less than cooperative. Segments passed. By the time I'd successfully wrestled them into submission and come up for air (figuratively speaking--always an important distinction anywhere in a port), the background hysteria had noticeably diminished. I looked around for Kaitlyn; when I spotted her, she seemed… well, pleased, I think, though that's not a reaction I'd ever tend to associate with her.
"All right, Sers, here we go. This is it," she called, and all activity stopped. "We've got final confirmation. Masters, to your places. Everyone else, back off to a safe distance."
I obligingly backed off, but stayed where I could see the Gate, which was glowing softly. (As if there would be a "safe distance" anywhere on the station if something went wrong with a Jump Gate!) The 'bots had all withdrawn, and the reconstruction ships were moving slowly away. Kaitlyn swiped her fingers through the air--synchronizing with all the Masters' CORETECHS, no doubt--and, with a look of fierce concentration, began unconsciously nodding her head about once per unit. A countdown, I realized.
For roughly forty units, nothing happened.
Then, all across the bay, red lights began to blink simultaneously. Kaitlyn muttered, "Steady… steady…"
One by one, left to right, the indicator lights blinked out. Simultaneously, one by one, going clockwise, blinding beams of light flared to life on the rim of the Jump Gate. Soon there was a blazing circle of illumination surrounded the titanium shielding at the center of the Gate.
Another unit passed. Kaitlyn whispered, "Now."
The entire station vibrated. Somewhere in the distance a klaxon sounded.
A tiny pinpoint of light appeared in the very center of the Gate.
And then, space warped.
The station actually pitched--I could hear the whine of the grav engines struggling to compensate, taxed beyond their limits. I stumbled a bit, but kept my footing; Kaitlyn, of course, remained upright, supremely stable, her gaze locked on the Gate where a maddening riot of impossible colors swirled.
One tech ripped off her earpiece, cursing in pain; we couldn't hear anything from the Jump Gate in here, but the on-site monitors must have been overloaded. A few units later, a brilliant flash from the Gate briefly illuminated the entire system. I braced for another shock wave.
Abruptly, calm.
Wonder.
Awe.
For the first time in cycles, the Jump Gate to Barnard's Star was open.
My God. It's full of stars.
Carry That Weight (201.33/19:884 GCT)
Perhaps trying to move everything I own in one go isn't the wisest decision I've ever made. Still, with Jump Gates opening to new systems seemingly every cycle or so, my storage space at Yards of Gadani is no longer conveniently located--in fact, it's been a couple of tenspans since I visited the Alpha Centauri system at all. I need a more centralized stash.
After pondering a bit, I decide that the Sol Jump Gate would be an ideal location to store all my spare gear. "All roads lead to Sol," as they say… in other words, no matter which system you start in or which system you're heading for, you need to change shuttles at the Sol Gate. I figure I'll be passing through often enough that I'll be able to pick up and drop off equipment as needed without an extensive detour. Sounds like a plan.
Now sure, I could've just had everything shipped to Sol… but University courses haven't been getting any cheaper, so I'm economizing on every credit I can. Because I am Extremely Smart™, I therefore decide that I will move it all manually. So I take the Defatigable through the Jump Gate, park it at the AC end, and hop a public shuttle to the Yards.
Once there, I head to storage and begin loading up. I quickly run out of holsters, scabbards, belt loops, and pockets for my assorted weapons, and even more quickly discover that there is a limit to how many suits, jackets, cloaks, and armor systems I can wear layered on top of one another. By the time I fish out the final Dur-Zip-Zap with the tip of my one remaining pinky, I'm nigh invisible under the mountain of equipment.
I can't see a gorram thing past all this dren I'm hauling around, so I rely on my CORETECHS to guide me back to the local shuttles. It is extraordinarily slow going: the effort of every single step seems enough to wind me. Not anxious to return to Sick Bay, I proceed with agonizing slowness, careful to take deep breaths and to ensure that I can handle each new sluggish step before taking it.
Finally, after at least two full segments, I make it to the shuttle terminal and purchase a ticket back to the AC Gate. As I crawl toward the shuttle boarding area, however, I realize that I have a fairly serious problem…
What are the odds Security will let a ridiculously heavily armed civilian, bristling with weapons and armors of all sorts, aboard a public shuttle?
…Pretty good, as it turns out (to my astonishment). Consy Security couldn't care less, waving me through as if I were carrying nothing more than a couple of wires or a handful of scrap metal. And luckily there's almost no one else on the flight, so I'm able to dump my burden unceremoniously onto a few empty seats and relax my aching muscles for the duration of the trip.
Upon arrival at the AC Jump Gate, I painstakingly reassemble my absurd load and gingerly exit the shuttle. I proceed to the Docks at my now-accustomed Regulan bloodworm's pace, but when I reach the Defatigable, I encounter an unexpected difficulty:
I can't get through the frelling hatch!
Seriously. I try it sideways. I try it backwards. I try wobbling back and forth diagonally. I contort myself into the most bizarre poses I can imagine, coming with a hair's breadth of dropping everything I'm carrying. It's all no use: for whatever reason, I simply cannot get my feet over the threshold with this load.
I fume. So much for saving credits; I'll have to take another public shuttle through the Gate after all. And then take another one back to retrieve the Defatigable. It's still probably cheaper than shipping everything would have been, but it's quite frustrating nonetheless.
It takes a segment to trudge to the Bank and withdraw enough credits for the trip (plus the stupid fee). It takes another segment to trudge back to the Port and head for Interstellar Shuttles. All this time, I'm checking my CORETECHS obsessively, keeping an eye out for any other people coming near me: I'm well aware that this barely ambulatory pile of junk must present a rather tempting target for anyone looking to score a few hundred credits by sending me to Sick Bay. It's not as if I could flee, or dodge, or do anything else to defend myself!
Fortunately, I somehow make it to the shuttle without incident, and collapse across a row of seats. I'm asleep before the cabin door whispers shut.
So here I am, finally on the Sol Jump Gate, precariously balancing all this stuff, ready to drop it all into storage and return to moving at a normal pace. But it seems I've forgotten one teensy little detail:
THERE'S NO GORRAM STORAGE ON THE SOL JUMP GATE.
I should've remembered that. Or I should've checked my CORETECHS. I mentally kick myself. Repeatedly. And very, very hard.
Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. I'll have to head to a different station and leave everything there. At least it'll still be in Sol. I painfully maneuver my cumbersome payload back to Local Shuttles, and use the last of my credits to purchase a ticket to the nearest Consortium station.
Man, I cannot wait to stash all this stuff in storage on Taungoo!
Two Sizes Too Small (207.92/07:487 GCT)
I can tell something is wrong the unit I step out of the cramped Defatigable. The lights in the Docks are low--too low. A power glitch? Unlikely, given the reliability of fusion tubes. And wouldn't alarms be sounding or something? Here, everything is eerily silent. No sign of the usual Port officials. No endless throngs of travelers. I glance up: no ever-present Security drones circling overhead.
This is weird.
And rather unsettling.
Gripping my Wasp somewhat more tightly than is perhaps strictly necessary, I cautiously edge my way into the Port proper. More of the same greets me: apart from a few maintenance 'bots engaged in routine tasks, the Port is virtually empty. Not even the giant hologram of Maya von Christova is active. Perhaps that's because she has no one to welcome to the station. I discard that theory almost immediately when it occurs to me that my own presence should have triggered her. Maya is off. And that never happens.
Have you ever been in a virtually empty station? Think of all the little things we take for granted every day. The indistinguishable hum of overlapping conversations. The tiny flashes of light from eyes reflecting CORETECHS signals. The constant whirring of robotic runners shuttling materials, scientific or otherwise. The solid walls of holo-screens bombarding us with advertising images, so ubiquitous we tune them out without even realizing it. The reassuring clicks of monitoring machines making constant micro-adjustments in the environment: atmosphere, temperature, gravity, flare shields.
Now imagine their absence.
Unpleasant fantasies run rampant. Did the pervasive technology of Benevolent Dynamics turn out to be something less than entirely benevolent? Or is this a second Catastrophe, here to finish the job? Maybe it's just a really, really compelling Omni-Reality broadcast? Somehow I doubt it.
A sudden noise from the Shipping Bay startles me. It's a sort of quiet scraping, as of one object brushing against another. Not metallic, so probably not automated machinery or a 'bot. I already wasn't moving around all that energetically, but now I freeze, ears straining, finger edging towards the Wasp's trigger. A few units of silence. And then… do I hear it again? Or is that a muffled whisper? I'm not sure.
It's astonishing how big a completely empty Port seems. All wide open space. No reasonable cover. That's intentional, of course--fewer hiding places for Security threats--but right now all it means is that I'm standing here like a gimboid, fully exposed in the middle of what might as well be a huge shooting range. Frak.
With no other direction looking particularly promising, I drop to the floor (without a loud thump, I hope) and strain my ears. Thirty, maybe forty units pass. Nothing. I start to wonder if it was all just a hallucination from an overactive imagination.
And then there's that sound again. More than one of them this time, I think.
Well, at this point I can either stay here until whatever it is comes out of the Shipping Bay and blasts me, or I can make my way towards it and hope for the element of surprise. (Or, y'know, hightail it back into the Defatigable and get the frell out of here, but of course that brilliant idea doesn't occur to me.) I start to slither forward. Very, very slowly. After a unit or two I realize that my gear is probably making more noise scraping against the metal of the floor, so I rise to a crouch and keep going.
I make it to the wall. Which I hug like a long-lost friend. And I pause to listen again. Now the mysterious scrapes and whispering are more frequent. This does not instill great confidence in me. Nevertheless, I begin slithering towards the entrance to the Shipping Bay. I reach it without incident, and I'm about to peek around the corner when I get a better idea. I fumble for the hilt of my katana, and gingerly ease the blade from its saya. Then, holding the blade almost perpendicular to the floor, I angle just its tip around the entryway, trying to catch a reflection of whatever lurks inside the Bay.
It works. And I just about smack myself in the head out of frustration (before remembering that smacking oneself with an unsheathed katana tends to lead to a quick trip to Sick Bay). The reflection is tiny, but it's enough to see the shapes of several humans of various genotypes, skulking around and poking into the unguarded shipping crates. They're all clad in dark outfits; at least one is wearing my namesake Stealth-Step. I can even make out a sizable pile of the goods they've already filched. Common thieves. I nearly gave myself a brain aneurysm for a bunch of common thieves, taking advantage of the—of whatever's going on here to help themselves to some ill-gotten gains.
Not on my watch!
Wasp in one hand, katana in the other, I let out what I hope is a blood-curdling yell and leap into the darkened Shipping Bay. Element of surprise, remember? And it seems to work: whoever these goits are, they're clearly not used to fighting an armed and trained enemy. (Thank you, nanites!) I'm able to take out three of them with the flat of my blade before the rest have done much more than look up in shock. Then, instead of fighting back, they scramble for the exit. Too bad I'm standing between it and them.
In less than half a segment, it's all over. I run a quick tally: three unconscious, two more bleeding (but nothing Sick Bay can't handle), six writhing and/or groaning in pain. No escapees, no fatalities. I'll admit, I'm feeling pretty proud of myself, and already mentally counting the reward I anticipate from a grateful Security. I crouch down next to one of the semi-conscious perps--the one in the Stealth-Step--and growl as menacingly as I can, "Maybe next time you won't be in such a hurry to steal from the good people of Hopkins' Legacy!"
She turns her head to glare at me with the huge amber pupils of a Harsene. "Steal from--?" she hisses. Is that indignation I detect? "You think we were stealing, you frelling moron!?" Yep, definitely indignation. Not the reaction I was expecting.
"Well, yeah," I reply. "The empty boxes, open crates, and enormous pile of stuff in the middle of the Bay is a bit of a giveaway."
I watch as her indignation morphs into disgust. "You unbelievable kriffing p'takh! Crukking moron! Miserable smegheaded idiotic nerf-herding dren-eating…" She goes on like this for quite a while. I have to admire her creativity, if nothing else.
Eventually she runs out of steam--or insults--and rolls onto her side, facing me. I tense, ready for a physical attack, but she merely points to a small badge stuck on her Stealth-Step. "Do you have any idea what this is?" she demands.
I look. It's an inverted triangle, with tiny holographic twinkles of orangish light cascading down in a constant stream over a background of some waving, flickering stripes of alternating colors. It's pretty, but I don't recognize it.
At first.
Then I focus on the twinkles. They do look a little familiar. Almost like cinders drifting from a fire…
Oh, grozit. Grozit all to frell.
The Harsene must see the change in my expression, because she sneers at me. "Is your CORETECHS defective, or don't dates mean anything to drek like you?"
"Emberfest," I mumble. "It's Emberfest."
"Got it in one, genius."
"So you're that, umm… that Old Lang Sign?"
She sits up, rubbing one arm painfully, and corrects me: "It's 'Auld Lange Syne,' p'takh. Maybe you've heard of it? Lights dancing? Stars advancing? Ring any bells?"
"I am so, so sorry--" I start to say. "Fat lot of good that does, karkhead," she snaps, surveying the carnage. "You've beaten the frak out of my entire team. How the frell are we supposed to distribute all this stuff to the needy when we're stuck in Sick Bay?"
…And that, good Sers, is why you find me here in the Wilds with you, delighted to present you with, umm, let's see, what do I have here… With these "Brain Booster" Bites and a Tier 1 ration pack, courtesy of the Auld Lang Syne! Also a couple of gently used holovids for the young ones. Oh, you'll love this one; it's one of my favorites. It showcases the natural habits of an old-Earth creature typically found in mountains and rocky crags. Scientists believe the green fur may have evolved for the purpose of camouflage, helping them avoid predators by blending in with cave lichens. Sadly, this "Grinch" went extinct due to the insufficient size of its cardiac system…
Out of the Black, the stars advanced,
Out of the Black, little lights danced.
From heart to heart, light remembers, darkness flees and fear dwindles.
From hearth to hearth, we spread the embers, joined together, life rekindles.
Merry Emberfest to all.
One Alone (215.86/08:923 GCT)
The Black is empty.
First thing I always do is head into the cockpit. I check the monitors, maybe hit a few buttons on the console, but the Vincible basically flies herself. It's more a habit than anything else, drilled into me back when I was a mere wet-behind-the-ears Ship Wipe.
If I happen to be docked at a station, I'll check the local Employment Center, see whether anything needs doing. I've got a lot of skills under my belt, learned just about all there is to learn. At this point about the only thing I haven't tried is outright criminal behavior.
But it's never long before I head back to the cruiser. To my cocoon. Universities and Gyms don't offer me much these days. And I learned the hard way that wandering around stations out in the open can be hazardous to your health. It's a lesson I've never forgotten, even though Security eventually eliminated most (most) of the psychotics.
Plus I've grown accustomed to being on my own.
The Black is solitary.
Once in a while, something will remind me of how amazing pre-Cat humanity must have been. Spread out across millions of planets, in billions of star systems. Galactic citizens who looked and thought and acted just like we do. Who had careers and families and friends just like ours. Who were technicians, artists, builders, scientists, inventors, traders, teachers, soldiers, just like we are. Who drank and joked and celebrated and wept and held each other, who laughed and learned and loved and lived just like us.
So few left.
The rest just billions of floating corpses.
The Black is silent.
These days there's almost no chatter on the Mesh, or at least the Vincible's ancient technology doesn't pick up any. The Citizen Council seems to be AWOL, but then no one's asking them for much. Occasionally someone might pipe up with a question, and Ser StarGazer is prompt to respond. Other than that, it's mostly background radiation. Static.
Every tenspan or two I'll hear from someone else in the TAU Syndicate, usually an invitation to help clean out a nest of ruffians on some distant station. Making our tiny corner of the galaxy a little safer, a little more palatable. They're a good crew--no, a great crew--but of course they've all got their own lives. So we get in, we do the job, we get out. Strictly professional. More efficient that way.
It's been cycles since any of my regular contacts updated their blogs. Can't really blame them, when I haven't updated my own either. Hence this somewhat more introspective than usual entry. Maybe someone out there is still reading. Still interested.
Still connected.
The Black is lonely.
The End (218.09/74:301 GCT)
Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.
--Arthur C. Clarke, The Nine Billion Names of God
Part of the Journey (218.27/88:922 GCT)
So this is where it ends.
I'm in the cockpit of the Vincible, ostensibly keeping an eye on the screens in case something goes wrong. Nothing ever goes wrong, of course. These ships with their pre-Cat designs are far more intelligent than the humans who build them, let alone fly them. The occasional flashes, beeps, and clicks are strangely comforting at this point.
Maybe I should read a last book or two. Keep the ol' brain sharp. Not much else to do in here, waiting for the end. But I'm sitting here dictating thoughts that no one will ever read, to an empty future that won't exist. Thanks, CORETECHS!
The Mesh has gone silent. No surprise there: most would want to spend their last moments with their loved ones.
Those who have loved ones, that is.
I've met so many people on my travels. They all had their own stories. It felt good to be a part of them, however briefly.
Heading to the YZ Zeti system. Farthest point in the known universe. Seemed fitting somehow.
Not that I'll make it.
So I'll be stuck in a Jump Gate when the 'verse ends. I wonder whether my consciousness will stay there, traveling eternally, always striving towards a distant destination, never reaching it.
I always thought I'd have more t