Topic: [Story] The Colonists (Read 4229 times)

Shaalira · « **on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:13 »

[OOC Introduction]
This post is the table of contents for a ~~short story~~ novella based on the EVE universe. The subject matter concerns the colonization of w-space through planetary interaction. Although the story begins with a capsuleer, the primary focus soon becomes the colonists themselves.

Credit goes where it is due. Strong inspirations have been drawn from the River of Gods by Ian McDonald, the Battle Angel Alita manga, Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri, Star Control, and of course the EVE Chronicles. There may be others that I'm not aware of.

Feedback is welcome. I am posting this story here first, before polishing it up and adding it to the official EVE Fiction forum. If there's anything here that's outright inconsistent with the setting, feel free to point it out. [/OOC Introduction]

This data node has seen much abuse. Its case is scarred with both lacerations and scorch marks. Fortunately, the contents appear to be largely intact. The decryption protocol is one common to the Serpentis Corporation, and provides only a momentary obstacle to a capsuleer trained in file hacking.

Node Contents:

Attached Files:

Date: 08.15.112 14:00, Type: Electronic Mail, FileSource: 404Error

Shaalira · « **Reply #1 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:14 »

<begin download...>

June 4th, YC 112 00:00
CONCORD
Secure Commerce Commission

For immediate release to all registered capsuleers:

In accordance with the Planetary Development Treaty, which will come into effect on June 8, YC 112, capsuleers will be permitted full access to surface resources, allowing them to purchase and operate facilities on most planets in New Eden and in wormhole space.

The SCC has reviewed all possible scenarios that accompany the rapid expansion of capsuleer influence in the cluster and has decided unanimously that it will not be placing any artificial limit or restrictions on the acquisition of planets. In light of this, CONCORD is issuing the following recommendations to all capsuleer alliances, corporations, and individuals interested in managing planetary assets:

Seek planets outside of known high-traffic systems
While CONCORD will maintain its efforts to keep peace in high-security systems, it cannot guarantee complete safety
Early preparation is highly recommended - ensure that your skills, equipment, and research are updated

The SCC is confident that this treaty will usher in a new era of unity between capsuleers and planetary populations, forging a stronger economy in every corner of New Eden.

Eman Autrech
Chief Executive Officer
Secure Commerce Commission

Shaalira · « **Reply #2 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:14 »

Pilot Log 06.4.112
Thoughtstream begins 09:33

When the message blinked, I considered the possibility of a bug in the personal assistant AI. It certainly had its past foibles; I dare not explore the logic behind mixing Classical Luminaire Opera and Patar Neo Tribal Synth in the same playlist. And, usually, I would not consider a policy announcement by the SCC to be a 'high priority' transmission.

Of CONCORD's manifold branches, the Secure Commerce Commission does not rank high among the institutions relevant to my day-to-day operations. As long as the market interface led to the desired movement of ISK and goods, I couldn't care less about the minutiae of local trade regulations and station logistics.

But after I skimmed the brief transmission, I cut engines, closed non-essential interfaces, and ran through the message again. This time, I took it in with the slow deliberation of a human reading with vanilla-organic eyes.

The paucity of the transmission spoke volumes. Phrases like "full access to surface resources" and no "artificial restrictions or limitations on the acquisition of planets" implied a carte blanche for capsuleers. Yet, for all the delegated authority, the audacity of CONCORD underwrote the entire correspondence. With a stroke of the key, CONCORD subordinated planetary governments, regardless of locale, while asserting jurisdiction over the recently-discovered worlds in w-space. It was the latter claim that concerned me most.

True to form, Corporate comms lit up while I read. The flickering avatars of my colleagues hinted at cautious excitement tempered by well-practiced skepticism. As far as capsuleer corporations go, we were a modest and loosely-organized outfit. Yet, we were also a tight-knit lot, and the exploration and development of w-space was our business.

And, for what seemed like the first time, we were looking at the planets beneath our thrusters.

Tentative planning ensued. Barely a dozen individuals discussed the fate of two dozen worlds. To be fair, the planets we claimed were uninhabited and inert. Compared to the brilliant aura of radio waves and radiated energy surrounding any hi-sec metropolis, these orbs were but mute rocks.

Briefly, I imagined this scene repeating itself throughout k-space. Immortal pilots chat in low orbit over unknowing nations, claiming resources, splitting continents, and bartering entire ecosystems. The sheer economic imbalance between a capsuleer and the local population would render the former demigods; a single purchase would move cities and unearth mountains.

I did not linger on those self-important thoughts. Hubris is dangerous in deep space.

Shaalira · « **Reply #3 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:15 »

Video Render, University of Caille Security Network
Feed begins 06.6.112, 12:46

The observation balcony is an afterthought, a protrusion over a chasm of light and humanity. Below, the bowl-shaped arena simulates the effects of zero gravity. Youths in jumpsuits perform arduous gymnastics amidst floating globules of sweat. Their motions are archaic, dating back to the calisthenics of the first long-distance voyages through hoary jump gates.

The stars beyond the dome above are not simulated. The academy station sits in geosynchronous orbit beyond a small moon. An orb of cratered ice shines balefully overhead.

An aperture opens, and two figures step onto the balcony.

The first is an elderly man, slick white hair combed forward over a mottled scalp. His formal suit, of an old Crystal Boulevard print, is tailored to his thin, bent frame.

The second is a woman with ageless skin. Her features are Intaki, lips and cheeks painted with bold, traditional markings. The woman wears a jump suit of a plain and severe cut. She pauses at the end of the balcony, glancing directly up towards the camera feed. Her dark pupils reflect with the lattice weave of artificial optics.

She says, "It is kind of you to meet me on such short notice, Dean Harrow." Her tone is polite, if perfunctory.

The old man raises his palms and responds with a smile. He adds, "The University values our capsuleer patrons. We have departments dedicated to the development and patching of the latest lesson plans, compatible with the latest pod-"

The woman looks down from the camera, interrupting, "What you mean to say is that we're very lucrative to you. I have seen the pricing of your lesson plans. Some of them would dwarf the combined tuitions of an entire generation of your conventional students." She lays a hand on the hovering rail of the balcony and casts a dismissive nod towards the youths below.

The old man replies, eyes drifting downwards, "Be that as it may, our branch of the University of Caille has never lost its focus on the traditional studies, it is the future gen-"

The woman flicks her hand up dismissively, tone bored, "It was not an accusation, good Dean. Just an observation. But on that topic, you seem to have taken on an excess of students this cycle. Developments on the ground, I take it?"

The old man's surprise shows in his stammer, "Why y-yes, it was our decision to accept a larger range of candidates this year." He gestures with withered hands, taking in the assemblage of students, and speaks with a gentle tone, "Gen-V plague on Cilas- ah, one of the western continents. Not to mention rumors of another draft registration. There are many families fearing for their children right now. What can we do but widen our gates and let in as many of the gifted as we can? I fear, though, that our facilities are strained to the limit."

The old man hesitates, and inquires with a hopeful note, "I was not aware that many pod pilots kept track of our troubles planetside."

The woman folds her arms, responding coolly, "We do not. The excess traffic delayed my docking schedule and I made some inquiries."

The old man's crestfallen look lasts briefly, soon replaced by the patient mask of a polite smile.

The woman continues on without any indication of noticing. She holds up her palm and an underlying lattice work shines just beneath her skin. A holographic interface emerges, a wire-framed globe with a halo of scrolling text. She says, "I require data, course plans, and reference libraries pertaining to mineral and ecological resources on planetary bodies. Also needed are relevant technological manifestos concerning power generation and architecture in high gravity environments. Further…"

The old man coughs politely. When the woman pauses, the old man says, "The Planetary Development Treaty is not new to us, madam. We have made the necessary preparations for the inevitable inquiries from the capsuleer community. The new department is called Planetology."

"Planetology?" The woman lifts a thin eyebrow, "Sounds dangerously vague. Do elaborate."

The old man nods, "It is an eclectic collection of a variety of disciplines, ranging from meteorology and climatology to geology and xenobiology. In particular, it focuses on operations on the macro level, in anticipation of the… ah… unique perspective of capsuleers. We have also included courses on extraction technologies and atmospheric travel."

"Yes… yes." The woman's eyes glint with the reflection of the holographic display. Lists of treatises and lengthy cyclopedias flow at a frenetic pace. "I believe this is sufficient."

The old man adds, "Mind you, this knowledge has been… abstracted. One could spend a lifetime studying these fields in detail. Actual operations on the ground will require specialist personnel at the facilities themselves."

The woman's eyebrows scrunch together and she inquires with a hint of distaste, "You are saying I need to take on additional crew?"

"Ah, 'crew' may be the wrong term," the old man's correction comes cautiously. "Many of the standard extraction facilities require personnel in permanent residences. Technicians and workers living on the planet, if you will."

In response to the woman's expression, the old man adds quickly, "Such specialists are quite common on most worlds. I am sure a woman of your resources would have no trouble hiring locals for the task.

"'Most worlds' are not the worlds I am considering." The woman lets out a soft sigh and continues, heedless of the old man's questioning look, "Very well. Let me see your pricing plan." She snaps her palm into a fist and the holographic display disappears noiselessly.

The old man dips his head and fishes a datapad out his suit jacket. He hands it over. While the woman pores over it with a critical eye, the dean asks, "If I might be so bold as to inquire…?"

"Inquire," says the woman brusquely.

"If you are, ah, docking here for some time yet, we have a class of cadets graduating this afternoon. None have ever met a capsuleer in person, but they all aspire. If you were to drop by, if only for a few minutes, I'm sure they would be thrill-"

"No." The woman snaps. She taps a few entries onto the datapad and thrusts it back towards the old man. "I am purchasing your plan in full; payment in ISK has been cleared."

The old man nods resignedly, accepting the datapad and bowing his head, "Your patronage is always welcome madam… " His voice trails off while his eyes drift downwards. The woman pushes off the rail and strolls towards the door.

"Honored madam, I fear there is an error with the transaction. You have overpaid us by a large margin-"

"There is no error," she responds without turning her head. "Have your facilities upgraded by the time I dock here next."

The aperture closes behind her.

Shaalira · « **Reply #4 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:15 »

Pilot Log 06.9.112:
Thoughtstream begins 15:59

The Beta of binary system <redacted> is one of my favorite stars. Not for its rather ordinary red hue, nor its unremarkable corona of blistering flares. It is the particular texture of its solar wind that appeases me; I adore the way it strokes my hull and knuckles my sensors as would a firm masseuse.

I cloaked in a decaying orbit and rested my engines, succumbing to the lethargy of inertia. I could hear a gentle susurration as the amount of sedative in my pod adjusted automatically.

Pilots pride themselves on their processor-enhanced multitasking. My more experienced colleagues do not think twice about absorbing a dissertation on quantum mechanics while simultaneously maneuvering in a pitched dogfight. But as for me, I needed rest. The compressed time of virtual-environment lessons had left my higher faculties fatigued.

The respite did not last long. My attention wandered while I floated adrift, and I found myself connecting to GalNet. I needed workers.

Instinctively, I masked my connection. The ad-hoc beacon network of w-space does wonders for concealing one's login. I had no illusion of hiding myself from CONCORD's hardwiring; it was other capsuleers that I guarded against. My competitors lurked in the shallows between physicality and the sea of information, and the last thing I wanted to do was to make a big splash.

I uploaded a doppleganger avatar, a helper AI through which I would make the key transactions. The doppleganger replicated itself to function simultaneously on the myriad local networks I intended to reach, forming a hierarchy of collaborating intellects. Front organizations and intermediate bank accounts unfolded like a fractal rose. It was as natural as breathing.

Comfortably shrouded in fictions, I made my first inquiries.

Immediately, I discarded the initial results. The slave cartels and breeder-owned colonies offered the cheapest deals for mass labor, no strings attached. However, I was not interested in subjecting myself to the uncertain market and semi-legal logistics of Vitoc. Nor would I entrust the delicate and powerful tools of industry to unwilling laborers.

The next candidates were a bevy of guilds, unions, trade associations, talent agencies, and labor provider corporations. I drifted in silence, watching a dozen live feeds as the dopplegangers entered comms channels and asked for quotations and pricing assessments.

In the end, I closed them all with an irritated swipe. Frontier space lacked stable network beacons, let alone working stargates. DED presence was nonexistent. The planets were not properly surveyed for geological and biological hazards, a process that might take years to complete. To work under such conditions, they wanted danger premiums, contractual commitments, visitation rights and other guarantees: concessions I did not bother considering.

With the AIs in idle chatter, I closed my physical eyes and floated fetus-like. Thoughts flowed. To get around these demands, I needed workers with no attachment to settled space. A staff not only open to residing on site, but willing, no, eager to set up on an unexplored planet.

I needed colonists.

The dopplegangers were rewritten. In their place, I sent out data miners - virtual drones clambering through the cracks of GalNet like gleeful electronic goblins. Bit by bit, they dug out files matching my search criteria. They collected the bios of the incarcerated, exiles, refugees, the impoverished, and the disgraced. Each holographic face was matched to names, resumes, criminal records, public statements, and psychological profiles.

When they were done, a galaxy of lives glittered in my mind's eye, stretching from one end of the virtual landscape to the other. I reached out, clutching at the data and sifting it between my fingers like sand on the beach.

Shaalira · « **Reply #5 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:15 »

House Reive Salvation Facility, Mehatoor VI
Stasis Block B, Cell (Solitary) #552
Holographic Render, House Rieve Security Network
Feed begins 06.11.112, 15:45; 07:15 Local

The cell is bereft of color, and form. The backdrop is the dull white of plaster, sans texture. In its space, a man sits. His shadow travels upwards where the floor seamlessly merges with wall.

The man is bald, his scalp a criss-cross of scarring. Improperly healed, they are knotted and ugly. The scars descend down half of his face, ruining it. There is a vague depression where his left eye should be, and his lips are twisted into a perpetual half-grin.

He is garbed in a grey tunic. As he sits, he scoops nutrient gel out of a tin with a scuffed spoon. His other arm is clutched close to his body, limp and bent. The sleeve seems too loose.

Metal scrapes echo.

The cell door opens, a materializing rectangle that swings open. Briefly, a wealth of sensation floods the room. Outside, spartan metal corridors run across a barren landscape of rolling yellow dunes and distant red mountains. A howling wind carries in metal sounds, drone sounds, human sounds. The door shuts, and all of that is snuffed out. The resulting silence is stark.

In place of the door stands a tall figure in a robe adorned with red and gold.

The priest begins to pace around the prisoner, his hands hidden by the voluminous sleeves of crossed arms. He says, "Thale Domai, Mannar. Sampling puts you at roughly 43 years old, almost half of which you have spent in our custody. You are accused, among other things, of murder, manslaughter, theft, and acts contrary to public morals."

The prisoner slips the spoon into his mouth, staring forward.

The priest frowns after a moment's pause, continuing, "Yet perhaps the greatest of your offenses is the refusal of redemption. At any time in the past decades, you could have chosen cooperation and freedom. Instead, you have chosen pride and misery."

The prisoner chews and swallows. He drops the spoon into the empty tin and places it gently before him.

"The psych profile claims you are still sane, prisoner Domai, despite the best efforts of our staff. Admittedly, it was composed before they switched from the cruder methods to sensory deprivation." The priest stops at the prisoner's side and leans forward, voice rising. "You are still cogent, aren't you?"

The prisoner responds with an even voice, made rough by dehydration, "I hear and understand, Chaplain Kalahonne."

"Hrm." The priest straightens and runs a hand down the front of his robe pensively. A signet ring glitters. "Others react quite differently when they see me enter the cell, prisoner Domai. They realize that one of my final duties as your warden is to perform the penultimate rites. Have you given up on life, prisoner?"

The prisoner closes his eye and says with a wry note to his voice, "Your staff made that choice for me, Chaplain Kalahonne. They do not even permit me to die."

The priest steps over in front of him and squats down, "Things do not have to be this way, prisoner Domai. It is not a choice between execution and submission. Providence has delivered you into our custody. As every slave is told, ours is a God of redemption. He will embrace those that come to him willingly, no matter their background. It is not treachery to answer our questions, prisoner. It is a new path, the path of truth."

The prisoner rests his palm on his knee and looks down to the ground, "I do not agree."

"Despite whatever Gallente skepticism you have picked up in the Federation, the one God-"

The prisoner lifts up one hand, "I apologize for being unclear, Chaplain. I do not agree that the only choices are death or cooperation." He looks up, his remaining eye sharp, "You are not here for the penultimate rites, are you? My execution is not imminent."

The priest goes silent, his expression guarded. The prisoner continues, saying, "I have been here twenty years. I have watched." He taps the cheek just below his eye. "Penultimate rites occur on rest days, or holy weeks. You always do them in the evening, just after dusk. I know you, Chaplain. You never rush. What's really going on?"

The priest stands, rearing to his full height. He looks down at the prisoner solemnly and parts his sleeves. Several small objects tumble down onto the bare floor before Thale Domai; the tokens have the clinical sheen of plastic.

The prisoner reaches out tentatively, a finger trembling, "ID chit, translator earpiece, InterBus ticket." He glances back up, voice laced with suspicion, "What is all this?"

Chaplain Kalahonne says, "A third party interceded with Holder Arc Reive, head of the Mehatoor branch. You are to be released into that party's custody."

"But you didn't agree, don't you? Hells, you would've had me chasing after some kind of frakking redemption, not even knowing that I was about to be freed-"

"About to be sold!" The priest nearly shouts. He takes a breath and says, "Before you leap at this apparent stroke of good fortune, prisoner Domai, let me share with you something I heard on good authority. This third party is a pod pilot, a capsuleer." The word emerges with a sneer.

The priest goes on, "You have been with us for twenty years, prisoner Domai. You do not know the arrogance of this breed of starship pilot. They have the pride of gods with all the vices and flaws of man. They are capricious and violent, and by and large they view the rest of humanity as worthless chattel beneath their notice. Know that this pod pilot will treat you as such, using you until you die violently in some mad scheme beyond your ken."

The prisoner stares down at the objects on the floor.

Chaplain Kalahonne's voice turns gentle, "If you accept the Faith, you will be a convert. You will be under my authority, and not that of House Reive. I can save you from this fate."

Thale Domai picks up the InterBus ticket and holds it up, looking past the reflective logo at his captor. He says, "I have been at the mercy of your god for twenty years. Perhaps it's time I meet a new one."

Shaalira · « **Reply #6 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:15 »

Video Render, Boundless Creation Docking Authority, Surveillance
Boundless Creation Factory, 12th Moon of Hek VIII, Pier F-3099
Feed Begins 06.15.112, 07:40

The concourse is a whirlpool of traffic. Building-sized apertures frame the octagonal space, each leading to the cyclopean piers where starships berth. Crowds stream through these openings in both directions, creating a multi-vectored effluence of humanity peppered with machines.

Automated dispensers service a line of waiting passengers, holographic avatars materializing among them to take orders. The ever-smiling illusions wear uniforms with the Quafe logo.

The customers are garbed in the styles of a dozen worlds. A tattooed youth in synthetic, raw leathers stands behind a businesswoman whose hair consists of illuminated optical fiber. A man in a somber Caldari suit speaks to a portly woman with a half-cybernetic face and a belt drooping with drone parts.

Above it all, hovercraft skim in orderly lines. The vivid colors of their hulls reflect the flowing sea of light beneath.

A scarred man settles into a vacant niche between two dispensers. A cleaning drone, small and insect-like, scurries out of the way. Dropping a duffel bag at his side, the man leans into the wall and draws back his left sleeve. His hand, despite the flesh tone, has a metallic sheen. Fingers flex.

He stares pensively into his palm until he notices the movement at his side.

The Gallente slips soundlessly into the niche and props himself up against the side of a dispenser, facing the scarred man. His black hair is slicked back and his face remains boyish, despite the faint wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He wears a zero-friction silk shirt and adaptive pants patterned in denim. He also wears a knowing smile.

When the Gallente reaches into his pocket, the scarred man stiffens. The Gallente quickly says, holding up his other hand, "No, no. It's just a viada fruit. I picked it up on the way here, but it must be eaten quickly, you see." He fishes out a mottled yellow orb, coated in frost. "I can tell by your face that you are not familiar with this Intaki vice. Let me show you its attraction."

The Gallente raises the fruit to his mouth and crunches into it. Without chewing or swallowing, he holds it in his mouth. A faint bubbling sound emerges. After a few seconds, he closes his eyes and exhales. Sparkling orange fumes fill the niche.

The Gallente sighs in appreciation, "The scent is intoxicating, no? The fruit is found only atop the tallest peaks of Intaki V. The flesh cannot exist in solid state at room temperature. Instead of chewing, you let it boil on your tongue and inhale the delicacy. The Intaki say it is a tempting aphrodisiac and a dangerous hallucinogen. I say it is a slice of heaven. Would you like some?"

The scarred man shakes his head silently.

"Mon dieu, man. You would do well to be more friendly. Your face is scary enough as is." The Gallente pauses to take another bite. Within seconds, brilliant red fumes exit his nostrils like a dragon's breath. "To tell you the truth, I had my eyes on you the moment you spoke to customs."

In response to the scarred man's expression, the Gallente laughs, "No, not like that. Not like that. Let's just say that I suspect we have a common interest. In fact, I know we do."

"Have we met before?" asks the scarred man cautiously.

"No. I doubt it." The Gallente's expression turns serious and solemn. He taps the side of his head, "That expensive translator earpiece. I have one of the same model. And that ID chit? Nano-built, like mine. If we were to compare InterBus tickets, I'm willing to wager that they head to the same destination. I'd say we have the same benefactor, you and I."

The scarred man watches the Gallente for a few seconds before extending his right hand, "Thale Domai."

The Gallente accepts it and smiles, "Henri Gaston."

Shaalira · « **Reply #7 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:16 »

Audio Record, InterBus, Customs and Passenger Safety Department
Shuttle Étoile, C Deck, Compartment 12
Recording begins 06.15.112, 08:32

"Excited?

"No, no. You misinterpret my expression. This is not the smile of hope; this is the black smile of a man on way to the gallows. You see, I am under no illusion about our fate and I use the term 'benefactor' only in the most ironic sense.

"You look skeptical. Allow me to explain.

"We have storied pasts, you and I. With you it is obvious - suffering's pen has writ all over your face. No offense. As for me, I will be candid in saying that I am a man on the run. I will also admit that if it were not for the machinations of our unknown pod pilot, I would most likely be dead and you would have to suffer this long trip alone.

"Have you ever heard of the Pèrales family? Ah, your blank face is answer enough. There are many tiers of rich, mon ami. On one hand you have the local rich. These rich might be known in a city or two, own a dome perhaps. If they are lucky, their children will get to study in orbit. Move up a few tiers and you hit the planetary rich, the people who slip their relatives into the Fed Senate. These are the people who have hub station decks named after them; that same name can get you into any Crystal Boulevard gala without an invite.

"Go up another tier and you find the Pèrales.

"Gather enough money in one place, friend, and what you get is a psycho-social singularity. Wherever the Pèrales go, people and rules bend around them. This is not mere fact; it is the expectation of a dynasty that has been rich so long that their genetic fibre cannot contemplate otherwise.

"To that incredulous expression, let me posit that the rich seek immortality but only a few attain it. It is the foreseeable consequence of being thought of, and thinking yourself as, a cut above the rest. Suddenly, death's democratic demagoguery is an affront. Most content themselves with a simulacrum - a heir with a trust fund, or a charity bearing their name. Only the upper tiers glimpse the real thing.

"You have heard, perhaps, of Jerseppe, the Rodan patriarch whose centuries-old body is a wrinkled husk plugged to a floating chair that is, at once, life support and personal transport. Or Yvette Moulai, the former holoreel starlette whose skin is grotesquely malformed by anti-senescence drugs. The Pèrales family has its own immortals, and the one I have had the distinct pleasure of meeting is the monster child, Inagio.

"Inagio Pèrales was ahead of his time. A century before companies like Cromeaux, before even Poteque had dipped its fingers into the business, Inagio was funding his own little cloning clinic. In those days, the methods were crude. You couldn't simply take a cadaver and squish flesh-clay until genes matched. Nor were mental transplantations as instant and seamless as they are now.

"No, monsieur Pèrales had to grow his own seed in a tube. And when the infant-copy was ripe, cranium joined wetware. They say the child Inagio watched his old body die, that cherubic face smirking like a demon.

"You see, my taciturn friend, This was not a child with the personality and predilections of a dead man. Those were the tube-clones of yesteryear. What was birthed was a rich man in a child's body. He kept all the vices, all the evil wants, of his past life.

"Did you think he would wait two decades to bed a woman? Sex is more than the stirring of the loins, mon ami. It is expression. Think of the frustration, the emasculation, of a wealthy and powerful magnate who could not get it up. That lurid angst was cruelly expressed. I have heard stories of the toys he used, the acts he performed. Terrible stories.

"Terrible."

Words fade to a quiet length. A crunchy bite is followed by a long exhaling.

"It was I who sought out Inagio Pèrales. I have a particular skill set, and rumors whispered that he had a particular job.

"I sought him on Halle III, a burning rock of a planet. Improbably, it hosted a château dome of the Pèrales family, a self-contained red light district made literal by the effulgent rivers of molten rock.

"They call it L'Enfer d'Halle, an inverted city built into the overhanging rim of a caldera, so that illumination rises upwards from the fires beneath. The magnificence of the city's construction was that tint of the biodome could be changed at whim. The crowds of pleasure-seekers might dance to cerulean flames one moment, and a jade inferno the next.

"It was monsieur Pèrales' création magnifique. And it was in one of the stylishly squalid dance clubs of the lower dome that I knew he would be lurking that night.

"The club was a jagged landscape of naked metal. Intentionally incomplete scaffolds supported stepped tiers of dance floors. Through grilles and in between rivets, you could see the distant bubbling of the active caldera. Yes, my friend, the club-goers reveled over the geothermal instability. You could see the madness in their dance.

"I loitered near a bar on the upper tier, just beneath Inagio's overhanging office of one-way tinted mirrors, through which he observed the festivities. That is where I saw the angel.

"You can tell by her demeanor that she was clearly out of place. Her features were pretty but unremarkable, the simplicity of a hydroponics girl but with a hint of Jin-Mei ancestry. She wore a straightforward, pale dress of meta-silk and stood alone and awkward with her drink. I might have passed her by were it not for the lure of her eyes. That such plaintive innocence could exist there of all places was nothing short of a miracle.

"I spoke to her, of course, and found to my amazement that her alluring naiveté was not simply for appearances. She was a budding architect from one of the garden worlds of Halle, interned here to work on the château dome's demanding infrastructure. My guardedly suspicious inquiries found her wholly ignorant of the Pèrales family, bubbling with enthusiasm with her work, and yet homesick for the cultured glades of her home.

"I was enthralled, and I could not help but keep her company. I entertained her with tales of past jobs, laced with hinted danger and intrigue. I spoke of the worlds I visited, the people I've done business with, and leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially of well-known secrets. She soaked it all in with great, big eyes.

"You must think me boorish, friend, for showing off to young country woman with such stories. But it served a purpose. The bartender and his assistant, undoubtedly serving as eyes and ears of the monster child, were never far off. I was, in short, announcing my presence to monsieur Pèrales whilst advertising my talents.

"Indeed, it was not long before I felt the hand of a uniformed thug on my shoulder, whispering Inagio's polite yet undeniable invitation to the club's office. I regretfully parted with the young woman, promising unconvincingly that I would find her once my business was done. I left her on the upper tier balcony; her smile was heart-wrenching.

"Up the metal spires I went into the mirrored lair. The office was shockingly normal, horrifying in its banality. For at its center, behind a desk of real wood, sat the monster-child.

"Words, friend, cannot describe the shuddering disquiet caused by monsieur Pèrales' gaze. I knew, from various sources, that he had inhabited this body for decades. Yet the nature of the clone's genetic tailoring was for unnatural longevity. He had the size and look of a boy no more than twelve. But you can see in his eyes and in that smile, that horrible, horrible smile, that something older lurked inside.

"'Good evening monsieur Gaston,' he began, "'I am surprised you did not invite your lady friend to join us.'

"I could feel my stomach tighten when he said those words. I think I kept the dread out of my voice when I told him, 'It is an honor, monsieur Pèrales. As for that woman, she is just someone I chanced upon down below. She is nothing.' I thought to protect her by dismissing her, hiding her in unimportance.

"To my relief it seemed to work. The unchild made a thoughtful burbling sound, then spoke, 'I have been told that you were the who cracked the CBD data node in the Fleur nebula…'

"And so it went. I slid into the business discussion much more comfortably. He hinted and I offered. We bantered, trading bits of information until we both knew that each had something for the other. A bit of puffery to market my abilities, without going so far as dangerous boasting - that sort of thing.

"In the end, despite my half-hearted negotiation, he made me an offer well beyond what I expected. The payment was in isk, friend. And I was certain that the job was well within my talents.

"I was leaning back in my chair, exulting in the moment with a long sip of my drink, when I noticed Inagio Pèrales standing by the wall-window overlooking the club floor. At the center of his view, on the forefront balcony, the young woman stood watching the lower tiers. She defied the flames with an awed smile.

"The monster-child said to me, 'It is an ugly dress, don't you think? It does not suit the décor, not in the slightest. See? Everyone else knows not to insult the aesthetic.'

"I could not think of anything to say. How could I? In the end, I think I stammered a 'Oui, monsieur.'

"Inagio Pèrales turned his attention to me, 'I think she should be removed to preserve the atmosphere. You will do this small favor for me, won't you, Henri Gaston? Call it a small token of faith, so that we might seal the deal.' He gestured vaguely with his underdeveloped hand, 'A push will do. A careless shove. Then we will see if she is hiding wings in that ugly dress.'

"He added, 'After all, you said it yourself. She is nothing.'

"I had prepared a laugh, hoping to turn it all into a joke. It died in my throat as I looked on his face. His eyes, mon ami. I could see nothing but those abhorrent eyes. I realized, then, the unspoken threat. I already knew too much. If that young woman left the club alive, I would not. I knew this with chilling certitude."

Several seconds of silence follows. A second voice, rough, asks, "How did you escape?"

The question is met with a bitter chuckle.

"Ah, my silent friend, I thank you. You flatter me, you truly do. I am no romantic, who would risk life and career for a pretty face, nor am I a holoreel rogue with a golden heart, treading dark paths while unable to hurt the innocent. I am a coward, my friend; I am a survivor.

"I had to stop and gather for myself, for I had remembered just then. I remembered the look on her face- the confusion, the realization, the fear. I remembered how she tumbled from the balcony, pale dress spinning, until she caught the rising, sharp spiral of a twisted girder. And I remember most of all, the accusing look in her dead eyes, my reflection in them small and wretched. That hurt expression stabbed me through the heart. All else was numb and cold, but that one pain I could feel.

"I feel it still.

"There were screams from the dance floors as her blood flowed down the girder. Some laughed, thinking it another holographic spectacle. I do not know when security was finally called in, when the 'accident' was dutifully catalogued and the body disposed of. Nor do I know how Inagio Pèrales reacted in his shielded office. Yet, for all the commotion, I could almost hear the monster-child barking a demon laugh at the angel impaled in his hell.

"And that is how I came to work for him.

"You have a strange look, monsieur Domai. Perhaps I should explain why I tell you this story.

"Life is dirt cheap in New Eden. In this era, terraformed worlds are an isk a dozen. Billions upon billions of people live on thousands of planets. How many? No one knows; no one can know. The numbers of humanity are beyond counting, and will continue to grow despite the everyday atrocities of the powers that be.

"We are a fucking renewable resource, Thale Domai. If you or I disappear, no one will notice. Thousands wait to replace you, whether you're a freelance nethack, or a scarred fugitive, or some innocent young architect. We are cheap and we are expendable.

"They know this, the monsters that aspire to be endless. Inagio Pèrales was a mere prototype. His immortality is crude; his wealth old and stagnant. We are about to meet the real thing. Podders are unbound, their transition between bodies seamless. They accumulate isk as naturally as breathing.

"I tell you stories of little demons so that you will know what to expect when you meet a devil.

"You were expecting, perhaps, the story of why Henri Gaston is a man on the run? No, this is the story of my black smile. That other story I will tell you another time. Perhaps. After all, we just met."

The second voice speaks, dry, "And a story of murder was better suited to a new acquaintance, I take it."

The laughter that responds is jovial.

"Yes, yes. Now you are getting it. In whatever purgatory we have been reincarnated into, my quiet friend, murder will be the least of what we face."

After a poignant pause, the second voice asks, "Do you ever regret what happened in Halle?"

"Every day of my life, mon ami. Now, strap in and make yourself comfortable. We have a long trip ahead."

Shaalira · « **Reply #8 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:16 »

Composite Video Render, Sisters of Eve Port Security
Arnon IX Bureau, Exchange Quarter, Hangar C-33214
Recording begins 06.15.112, 19:09

The hangar is an orifice that opens, cliff-like, into the station's abyss. The canyon of swelling lights, the wall of gargantuan, identical openings, suggests interior space on a scale that would encapsulate cities.

On the edge of that hangar, one of thousands, an intra-station shuttle hovers like a bloated gnat perched on the lips of a titan. Two men step off the unfurled docking ramp and pause.

"Merde," breathes Henri Gaston as he looks about, "la collection d'humanité loufoque."

Between the high walls, amidst container pyramids and tower stacks, a vast crowd mills. Their heterogeneity hints at a variety of origins; the squat denizens of high-gravity worlds mix freely with the slender forms of lifetime orbitals.

The crowd is a riot of color in defiance of the drab Caldari metalwork, and it is not merely their clothes that provide the patchwork of hues. Ebony flesh, seared by the hottest of stars, contrasts with the ghost skin of oort cloud prospectors, for whom solar warmth is a distant memory. Artifice explores the parts of the spectrum that nature does not; body mods, nano tattoos and genescripts abound.

Thale Domai grunts softly in agreement. He says, "Now, I suppose we find this Quartermaster."

"Instead of attempting the impossible, how about we ask some of those who arrived before?" Gaston says, already making his way towards the nearest group. "Excuse me, gentlemen…"

His greeting falters as he nears the knot of men sitting in a crevice between sealed containers. They gather round a unit heater, the holo-fire illuminating hard faces, naked prosthetics, and faded Home Guard uniforms. They turn to look at the Gallente, expressions far from friendly.

Domai curses softly under his breath and rushes to catch up.

The closest of them stands up and turns around, a lumbering motion befitting a man with the build of a small boulder. A chiseled Civire face looks down at Gaston and hisses, "You sure you're bothering the right people, frog?"

"As a matter of fact, no," says Gaston, standing his ground with a widening smile. "I was looking for information, and this seems the wrong neighborhood for it."

"That right?" The Civire's massive hand tightens into a fist. Movement rustles over the circle of men sitting around the heating unit. Gaston slides back one foot.

Domai crosses the remaining distance with several quick steps and interjects himself between Gaston and the Civire, extending an arm between them. He gazes up at the large Caldari with a level, impassive expression.

The Civire looms over Domai and looks him over. "You. You're military, aren't you?"

"No," says Domai. He adds, "Not anymore."

The Civire remarks, "Even if you've moved on, it doesn't leave you. For me, it was the Home Guard's 14th."

"The Fourteenth," says Domai thoughtfully. "Orbital Insertion. Word was they disbanded."

"You've heard of us, then."

"Fought you. Black Rise."

The Civire grunts. His fist loosens and he extends his hand towards Domai. "Name's Hocke. Jarot Hocke."

Domai accepts it and shakes, "Thale Domai." The small circle of veterans sit back down, relaxing. Gaston lowers his hand from his rear pocket.

Domai adds, "Man behind me is Henri, Gaston. We just got here and we're looking for the quartermaster."

Hocke casts a nod over his shoulder, "Quartermaster's desk is past the freak show. It's between the tractor cranes and the gel dispensers. Follow the wall on the left and you can't miss it."

Domai offers a thankful nod, then realizes that the Civire hasn't let go of his hand.

Hocke's voice lowers, taking on a serious tone, "What do you think of all this?"

"All this?"

"All this. Having some fucking deus ex machina crash into your life, get you some free hardware and meds, and send you on an InterBus trip to some station you've never even heard of. No explanation given - not even a bloody name. Yeah, yeah, I could have just dropped the ticket in some recycler and stayed right where I was. As if I had a choice. As if any of us had a choice. Ask around. This crap smells like a goddamned fedo."

Gaston folds his arms and looks between the two speakers, eyes sharp on the conversation.

Domai says, carefully, "I much prefer where I am now to where I was a week ago, and nothing could convince me to go back. If this pod pilot is responsible for it, then I'm at least willing to hear what he has to say."

Hocke sniffs sharply, eyeing Domai's face, "That's all well and good, but what do you think that egger pulled us out of the fire for? Not out of the goodness of his isk-grubbing heart, that's for sure. Look, we were in a tough spot and he fixed it. That doesn't mean we're bought. Doesn't mean we'll agree to be fodder. Frak 'im if he wants to send us out to die again. You understand me?"

Domai says, "Crystal."

"Good. Good." Hocke pulls back his hand. Domai looks down and finds that he's holding a comms chit. Hocke turns back to the fire, "Watch your back, Domai. We'll keep in touch."

Domai locks gazes with Hocke for a moment longer and nods. He walks off, heading deeper into the hangar while pocketing the chit.

Gaston walks alongside, casting a dubious look over his shoulder at the circle of men, "Dangerous."

"You didn't seem very intimidated," Domai says distractedly, picking his way through the motley crowd.

"Not them, mon ami. You keeping that chit. Let's say they start trouble and get caught. Someone traces their comms to you and you get pegged as a collaborator. You know what they do to mutineers on a ship?"

Domai lifts his remaining eyebrow, looking sideways at Gaston as they walk, "You think we're going to be on the crew of a starship, then?"

Gaston sidesteps as a body modder slides past. Fur brushes against his skin and slitted eyes regard him with a playful wink. As Gaston looks over his shoulder, eyes following the swaying tail, he says, "Our mysterious benefactor is a pod pilot, my scary-faced friend. Where else would he be? Ambulating on some space station?"

"I guess so." Domai slips his hands into his pockets, pointedly staring straight ahead. He nods to the front, "Think that's it."

The flow of the crowd parts before an elevated platform. A line of people leads up the platform to a 'counter' of crates and cylindrical containers. Beyond, several figures are seated with datapads in front of them. The figures, two women and one man, wear what could have been uniforms. The crisp blue dress jackets are worn in various states of dishabille - cuffs rolled up, shoulders embellished with primitive feathers or polished scrap, buttons undone to reveal flowing nano-tattoos beneath.

Gaston leans towards Domai while they get in line, whispering, "Spacers."

"How can you tell?" asks Domai.

"Look at them," Gaston responds. "That pallid complexion, the awkwardness with which they move. Can you see those metal bits? Those aren't the the glued-on toys of the tech-hip planetside."

Domai's lips curl slightly as he follows the line up the platform, "Worried about your looks?"

"You wound me," chuckles Gaston. "I am not all vanity."

Domai says, "I don't think you need to worry either way. Like you say, the people up ahead are spacers. But you, me... we're not. Just like most of the crowd."

Gaston folds his arms and glances to the side, eyes drifting while the two shuffle along with the line, "You have a point. Still, why then would a pod pilot call together a hangar full of random people?"

"Random? I'm not sure sure. But we may get our answers here in just a moment." Domai remarks as he nears the desk. Raising his voice, he says, "Excuse me. We just arrived, and our instructions told us to seek out the Quartermaster?"

The woman sitting on the other side of the container desk has a head half-shaven, the remaining blonde hair drifting over one side of her face in glossy bangs. She wears her tracking beacon as the gem of a necklace, tucked into the cleavage of an open flight jacket. Without looking up from a portable holo-comp, she responds, "Put your InterBus stubs on the counter."

Gaston and Domai exchange glances before digging through pockets. A pair of white and copper polymer chits clatter onto the make-shift desk. The woman looks at them briefly, types into her interface with curiously metallic fingertips and a drone behind her rattles into activity.

While the chitinous drone sorts a stack of electronics, the woman asks, "Domai, Thale Andressi and Gaston, Henri Renault. Is this correct?"

Domai nods. Gaston flinches but does the same.

The drone returns with two datapads, placing them on the counter. The woman says, eyes never leaving her interface, "We have been waiting for you. You are the last foreman to arrive, Domai. Take these pads; they have your profiles and assignments."

"Foreman?" asks Domai, picking up the datapad in front of him and pressing a palm into it.

"Profiles and assignments?" asks Gaston, continuing "Pardon me, madam, but we don't even know why we're here. Nor have we agreed to anything."

The woman responds in a tired, monotonous tone, "The capsuleer will address all recent arrivals this evening at 19:30 universal. The details of the proposal are outlined in your datapad. Should you wish to refuse the offer, that option is available prior to departure at 06:00 tomorrow."

Domai holds up his datapad, "Do we just return these to you when we're done reading or-?"

The woman blows out of the corner of her mouth, displacing some bangs. She says, "Keep them. If there's nothing further, please move on. There is a line behind you."

"Keep- Ah." Domai's eyebrows arch but he nods in compliance, stepping out of the way and down the far end of the platform. Gaston trails shortly behind, face lit up by the text flowing down the datapad in both hands.

"Merde."

"You look pale, Gaston."

"This little datapad lists almost every single job I have done, even some that I have forgotten about."

Domai slips out of the crowd, finding a secluded cul-de-sac amidst sealed crates. He turns and leans back against one, folding arms, "So our pod pilot knows a lot about us. That's no surprise."

Gaston stops and looks up, the datapad's pale light casting his face in an ethereal glow. "My sullen friend, you do not understand the nature of my work record. This," he says, jabbing a finger into the pad, "is worse than sticking a gun to my head. There is no way I can get up and walk away, aware that this pilot knows everything."

Domai suggests, "It may not be a threat. The spacer said we could refuse."

"Do you really believe that?" Gaston scoffs, "Why let on how much you know about a person otherwise?"

Domai shrugs, his forehead crinkling in thought. Scars twist. "She mentioned that there was a 'proposal' on the datapad. What else is in there?"

"You do have one of your own, mon ami. Why don't you try reading it?" Gaston glances up as he speaks, looking above Domai. "Well, when you have the luxury of privacy that is."

Domai turns his head, following Gaston's gaze. Atop the crate he leans on, a bundle of polytextiles squirms. A smooth, tawny face pokes out, small fist rubbing at one eye. The bundle says in a groggy, female voice, "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

Gaston is already wearing a polite smile, "No madamoiselle, we simply did not see you at first."

"What are you doing up there?" asks Domai, deadpan.

The woman sits up, swaddled composite fabric. A length of cloth drapes over her head like a hood. She says, "Experiencing sleep. When you've gone without for so long, sometimes you get blindsided by how tired you are."

"I hear you," says Domai, a touch uncertain.

Gaston says, "I am Henri Gaston. My frightening but altogether amicable friend is Thale Domai."

"Please, call me Lira." Tiny fingers clutch at the edges of polytextile shroud, pulling it closer around the woman. She leans forward, peering hesitantly down over the edge of the crate, "Though, I am at a loss as to how I even got up here."

Domai takes a step away from the crate and raises his hands, clearing his throat politely. The woman nods and shuffles onto the edge of the crate, legs dangling. She drops down into Domai's arms and he lowers her to the floor. As she offers a thankful, fleeting smile, the cloth falls back from her head. Unkempt chestnut-red hair spills out over brown eyes glittering with copper lattice.

Gaston remarks, "Forgive me for prying, but that is an optical implant, is it not? It is difficult to notice; those eyes are works of art."

Lira pulls forward the polytextiles draped over her shoulders with self-conscious swiftness, covering her head in a 'hood' once more. "Thank you. That is kind of you to say."

Gaston inquires, "You must be a member of the crew here, then?"

Lira opens her mouth briefly, glances to the side, and thoughtfully hesitates. After a second, she says, "Yes."

Gaston responds, doubtful, "I see."

Domai lifts his datapad and waves it, "Perhaps you can answer some questions for us then."

"And perhaps you could answer some of mine," Lira says, with a sudden forthrightness.

Domai glances back at Gaston, saying, "I suppose that is only fair, though to be honest we just got here-"

A green shine cascades down Lira's left eye as she speaks. "Yes, like most of the people in this hangar. Whatever your past circumstances, one you one day received a free ticket off-world. No explanation, no expectations, not even a surchage. Tell me, why did you make use of it and come here?"

"Why?" asks Gaston. "I hardly had a choice in the matter."

"Likewise," grunts Domai.

"No choice," says Lira, sounding vaguely dissatisfied. "Did you not feel any curiosity as to why you received such things? Perhaps a desire to travel some place new?"

Gaston laughs, "Madamoiselle, any of my past associates can tell you that Henri Gaston is not a man for lingering in familiar places. But with 'our past circumstances,' as you put it, being what they were... well. Let me put it this way. I had just spent the better part of a shuttle ride regaling my poor friend about why I could not possibly return to my old employer. As for him, his scars speak for themselves, do they not?"

"Henri was very talkative," agrees Domai.

Gaston continues blithely, "And you ask us whether it was curiosity and wanderlust that drove us here? Ma chérie, perhaps if I had the luxury of a quiet life I could indulge in such childish longings."

"Childish longings," repeats Lira with a soft sigh. She steps out towards the entrance of the cul-de-sac, looking out towards the crowd. She draws the cloth tighter around her, looking like a small bundle.

"I admit," ventures Domai, "I am curious to meet the capsuleer that arranged all this."

Lira looks over her shoulder, face shadowed by the hood. "Oh? What is your opinion of capsuleers?"

Before Domai speaks, the lighting changes abruptly. The steady faux-florescent glow of the ceiling is replaced by sharply flickering amber. An industrial klaxon wails. Domai's gaze rises, following the sound of deep mechanical booms from behind the walls. They are the sounds of unseen machinery in motion.

Lira looks up as well, "I see. It is already 19:30."

"Yes," says Gaston, "Wasn't the egger supposed to give an 'address' around this time?"

"This way," says Lira. She tugs her hood forward and beelines towards the elevated platform where the quartermaster held office. After an exchange of looks, Domai and Gaston trail after her.

The crowd stirs with the ambient flux. People stand, heads rise, and the milling knots coalesce in a press towards the center. All attention turns to the elevated platform, where spidery drones gather crates on their back and clamber off. There, the crew members abandon their desks and gather up their interfaces. They sidestep urgently whirring drones as they vacate the platform, looking unperturbed as they move through the automated chaos.

Domai finds hemself pushing and sliding through the mass of people as he struggles to keep Lira in sight, her bobbing hood always a few steps ahead. Her petite frame slips unnoticed past gathering bodies, quickly approaching the front of the crowd.

When the platform is cleared, floor panels part and hydraulic appendages writhe out from beneath. They rise like cobras out of a basket, scaled in metal and dripping frost. One slides above the rest, bearing a multi-faceted head of tinted camera bulbs and quivering antennae. It scans the hangar, tilting this way and that with avian awkwardness. It pauses and clicks.

Several of the robotic appendages level off and snake towards the crowd with blurring speed. Gasps and cries of alarm emerge and some of those nearby stumble to get out of the way.

Domai dashes forward and he reaches out towards Lira. The warning shout dies in his throat, and his eyes widen.

Lira has pushed back her makeshift cloak, and it slides off the skinsuit beneath. The outfit is cut low in the back, revealing bare flesh. Sockets line her upper spine, clockwork cavities dug deep into her body.

The appendages embrace her and she is lifted. She sits calmly upon the quivering hydraulics, eyes closed. When she reaches the platform, a half dozen smaller tubes have risen to meet her. They line with her back and join the sockets with grotesque susurration.

The body jerks, then relaxes. The klaxon ceases, and the flickering light steadies and dims.

When the capsuleer's eyes open, her body is seated upon a throne of coiled machinery and draped with a cloak of squirming tubes. The cascade of tiny green lines down her left pupil has accelerated to the point that the entire eye glows.

When the capsuleer speaks, her mouth does not move. Still her voice, borne by speaker, transmitter, and quantum relay, fills the hangar.

Shaalira · « **Reply #9 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:17 »

Transcript of Audio Record, Hangar C-33214 Occupant Broadband
Document Timestamp: 06.15.112, 19:31

"Good evening."

"Before we begin, allow me to direct your attention to the aperture to your left, the one framed in blue light. Should you wish to leave at any time during this discussion, you may depart through there. Deposit your datapad with the drone and step through the screening chamber. The hallway beyond will lead to the station proper, through a customs office that will integrate you and assist you with local work and travel options. I will erase your file and all references to you from this project, and it is unlikely we will ever meet again."

"If you so desire, you may avail yourself of this option now."

<break>

"Regardless of your origins, all present share a commonality. A few days ago, each of you received a passenger-specific InterBus ticket, an external translator device, and a GalNet ID complete with a line of credit locked until such a time as the InterBus ticket was used. Many of you also received situational assistance in extricating yourselves from previous habitations."

"Of course, those present do not represent the sum total of tickets dispatched. Some made the choice not to use the ticket, and allowed it to expire. Some attempted the journey, but succumbed to one of the many dangers of interstellar travel. This attrition was accounted for in the planning stages, and the number of actual arrivals is within expected parameters."

"Therefore, to those who are here: Welcome. Congratulations on making it this far."

"Naturally, you have questions. Who sent the ticket? For what purpose was it sent? Where are you to go from here? Why were you chosen?"

"I will address these questions in the stated order."

"As many of you have already surmised, I am a capsuleer and the source of the tickets. Though I am under employment contract, this venture is funded by personal assets."

"A file has been unlocked in your datapads. It contains pre-surgery biodata, a digital copy of my capsuleer license, my contractual history, and my extant criminal record as told by the CONCORD database."

"Read this file at your leisure. If, for whatever reason, you do not feel you can work with me, the door to your left remains open."

"And what exactly is the work I offer?"

"This venture entails the extraction and processing of valuable commodities from hostile environments. This is a task that requires a multitude of specialist skills, ranging from material sciences and core engineering, to xenobiology, FTL communications, inter-cultural disciplines, battle-tested leadership and omni-spatial security."

"In short, this is a task that requires the range of talents now assembled in this hangar."

"The perks of employment are manifold. You will operate with the best-available equipment, utilizing tools that many planetary administrations could only dream of affording. Your fellows, some of whom you have already become acquainted with, are each talented and capable in their respective fields. It is not an exaggeration to say that your work will push the boundaries of available technology."

"As for pay, you may now consult the unlocked folder entitled Compensation Packages. Take a moment now to review your personalized options."

<break>

"As you have no doubt noticed, the offered rates exceed competitive local salaries by an order of magnitude. I assure you that these rates are neither profligate nor needlessly generous. Allow me to answer the next question."

"That is, where this venture will take place."

"The hostile environments I refer to are located within a particular solar system beyond the stargate network, accessible via wormhole. I will reiterate; these are unexplored planets beyond the starcharts of the four nations. There will have been no survey work done prior to your arrival, beyond a superficial orbital scan."

"It is not known what natural hazards you will face. You will have to adapt to geothermic imbalances and aberrant weather patterns on the spot. Some of these worlds will contain life. The dangers presented by local fauna and flora, not to mention microscopic entities, will be legion."

"There has thus far been no evidence of native cities or wildcat colonies on the garden worlds of this system. However, sub-industrial cultures can quite easily exist beneath orbital detection. Some of you may have been alive for the ZN0-SR incident. Proper precautions will have to be made to ensure similar tragedies do not occur."

"And, as many of you know, the mercurial labyrinth of wormholes hides remnants of ancient spacefaring civilizations. My organization has detected no evidence of their presence on the worlds of this system. However, that does not discount the possibility of encountering dangerous artifacts waiting dormant on the surface."

"For those of you waiting for the idiomatic 'catch,' this is it. The venture will take you to the very fringes of known space, and the opportunities to return will be few."

<break>

"It appears that a very high percentage of you remain. This is not unexpected."

"Why were you chosen? Why was it that, of the many accomplished and able candidates of your origin world, you were the one to receive a ticket?"

"The question is not posed to belittle your credentials. If the available record had not suggested your individual skill, you would not be present."

"No, there were factors additional to your resume that led to your candidacy. All of you have an aspect of your public record that suggests a desire to uproot. For some it may be disenfranchisement or disenchantment. For others, escaping incarceration or debt. For others still, perhaps a simple expressed wanderlust."

"This suggestion, this hint, was gleaned from the constellation of data that life produces: legal records, press statements, published works, private interviews, and GalNet histories. There are, of course, limits to inference. Some of you, certainly, have a more extensive record than others. But for all that, records are merely data: subject to error and falsification. Therefore, an added test was structured into the offer."

"When the tokens were dispatched, when the meddling steps were taken, it was by design that no explanation was offered you. You did not know why some stranger had stepped into your life, why some unknown agent had offered you a ticket off-world. All you had was the means to find out yourself, and the choice whether or not to make use of it."

"And thus you are here. You have made the journey of lightyears - crossing the gulf between worlds - simply to find an answer. And for that reason, I am confident that you are suitable for this venture."

"The door to your left will remain open until the early hours of the morning. If you decide to stay, there are quarters available down the hallway to your right. A map on your datapad will guide you to your respective rooms. Pre-flight registration and team orientation will begin at 07:30 universal."

"Good night."

<end transcript>

Shaalira · « **Reply #10 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:17 »

Holographic Render, Intra-Cam Unit #<404error>, Unregistered Network
Iteron-class Industrial Vessel, Carcasonne
Magnetic Elevator, Deck 3
Feed begins 06.19.112, 13:13 Universal

The angle of the shot is awkward.

The man, Domai, stands in the narrow confines of an inertia-shielded room. The cylindrical elevator is set at an uncomfortable slant, enclosed by walls of reflective viridian. Because of the corner camera, Domai's bald head seems overly large compared to the rest of his body. The scarred half of his face is prominent.

A door opens like a folding fan and a woman sweeps into the remaining space. Her upright bearing grants her a stature greater than her modest height. She is clad in an Amarrian long tunic, detailed with silver lace, and a hooded shawl. Her lowered cowl frames a face that is all proud lines and sharp angles. Wrinkle lines veil features that were once beautiful, and pockets of white are buried in the roots of her tied-back ebony hair.

She inclines her head in a gesture that is both curt and uncompromisingly formal, "Mr. Domai."

"Forewoman Ykaterina." Domai lowers a datapad, tucking it into a worn technician's jacket.

The woman smiles thinly, turning to stand side-by-side with Domai as the door closes, "Ah. I really should used to that title. Though it sounds so..."

"Plebian?" offers Domai.

"I was going to say industrial," retorts Ykaterina, looking at him out the corner of her eye. "You are from the Federation originally, are you not? I suppose I need not ask you what you think of Holders."

Domai is silent at first. "Would you prefer I call you Lady? Or Dame?"

"Please." The woman lifts her chin, "Do not patronize me with insincere formalities, Mr. Domai."

"I have noticed Foreman Mbadi addresses you that way."

"That Thukker nomad does so because he mocks me. He thinks it would bother me if I am addressed with the honors of a title I no longer have."

Domai tilts his head, casting his eye towards the woman, "I did not know Holders could cease being Holders."

"Many things are possible in the broad expanses of the Empire, Foreman. Pray you never cross the Theology Council or come under the scrutiny of the Speakers of Truth."

"Were you suspected of heresy, then? The Speakers of Truth are said to be apolitical."

"Color me surprised," remarks the woman. "You are familiar with those terms. Somewhat. Have you spent time in the Empire?"

"Yes," admits Domai, who adds evasively, "Some."

"Then you know enough not to ask. I am a 'Forewoman' now, and what I once was is no concern of yours."

"No," concedes Domai, "it is not."

A panel by the door emits a sickly blue light. Numbers flicker on and off, made blurry by the camera's perspective.

Ykaterina folds her arms and glances up at Domai, "It appears we are both on our way to see the capsuleer."

The scarred man nods mutely.

Ykaterina says, watching him sharply, "I intend to personally appeal the personnel committee decision on proposal number five."

"The vote this morning," says Domai, recalling, "Slave labor?"

The woman nods brusquely, "Yes. I am not the only foreman concerned about the degree to which the initial operation will depend on automation."

"And drugged slaves are more reliable?" asks Domai dubiously.

"Yes, precisely. Mechanical errors compound themselves; humans correct their own errors. Properly managed slaves are far more adaptive, and cost-effective, than drones in unfamiliar situations." The woman carries on in an even, business-like tone, "Do not misunderstand me. I completely agree with the capsuleer's decision to rely on technical specialists and colonists rather than bought labor. However, many of those specialists are also proficient in labor management. A lower echelon of slaves would amplify our work enormously."

Domai's shoulders tense up.

Ykaterina observes, "You disagree, of course."

Domai responds, "I wouldn't be the only one. A good many of us are Matari. Do you think they'll accept you taking along slaves? It'll divide the expedition."

"And this troubles you, why?" The woman has a wry smile, "The operational theatre contains multiple worlds and many separate, independent planned facilities on each world. Individual colonies, if you would. Those that object to the presence of slaves need not work in the same facilities. In fact, it would provide an excellent opportunity to see which method of organization is more efficient. The unowned Matari could set up their own-"

"The free Matari, " corrects Domai in a forceful tone. "And they're not going to sit quietly and watch you pen and breed their own. Same for the Gallente, the Caldari, or any other peoples who you will bring along as slaves. It won't end with separate colonies. We'll see fighting before we even finish landing."

"I think you underestimate the capacity of people to ignore what does not affect them, so long as they live comfortably. And, as long as the production quota is met, do you think the capsuleer would even care? I would wager, Foreman Domai, that she would overlook whatever internecine fighting occurs in this motley expedition as long as her planned revenue is unchanged. Do you disagree?"

Domai shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scowling quietly.

"You see the possibilities, but you remain unconvinced. Are you truly comfortable with how dependent we will be on automated functions? Our numbers are few, and will take some time to grow. Do we really rely on a fleet of worker drones until then? A slave stock is not just cost-effective, it is self-sustaining. In the worst-case scenarios, they provide a valuable genetic reserve-"

Domai interjects, "These are people you are talking about, Forewoman. They are not tools, not resources. We are not bringing slavery with us to the new worlds."

Ykaterina's smile deepens, "Ah, you're finally showing your true colors. I always suspected you were a man of principle, Foreman Domai, but I never imagined those principles would be so sentimental. Your passion does not lie; you really do believe, don't you?"

Domai stares back wordlessly.

"I have always been fascinated with those of Federation upbringing. Your unrelenting superstitions is so very stoic, if quaint."

"Our unrelenting superstitions...?"

"Yes! You believe, all evidence to the contrary, that simple numerical superiority is the best metric to decide who is fit to govern. You believe that a mass of people absorbed in unrelated professions, based solely on those biased snippets of news they can perceive in their leisure time, can best decide affairs of state. You believe in the independent rationality of an individual in an age where the mind bends to countless tools, subtle and overt. You believe this in an age where a certain few have amassed wealth beyond imagining, whose access to such tools is beyond doubt.

"You addict your immigrants to every manner of vice whilst presenting them with a ballot every few years. Then you step back and call this 'freedom.'"

"And what would you call freedom?" counters Domai.

The woman responds, "Freedom is self-mastery. The animal is bound by instinct; give it pleasure or pain and it will react in the pre-ordained way. The man ennobles himself by rising above base wants and embracing that which is greater, self-less, transcendent. The animal is an entirely material creature; it cannot conceive beyond its senses. The man distinguishes himself by understanding the abstract, by giving birth to concepts and stipulations; he is not trapped by the material, he orders it to his design. The man is free when he forsakes the worldly and accepts the eternal."

"So..." says Domai, "freedom is faith."

Ykaterina's eyes shine brightly, "Exactly, foreman. Freedom is faith. This is why the slavery you decry is so sadly necessary. We strip the lesser races of their material distractions and false idols, so that they might find wisdom in privation. Under our tutelage, they can achieve true freedom - perhaps not in this generation or even the next, but in the end they all will be equals under the one God."

Domai turns his head to face Ykaterina directly. He inquires, echoing her earlier words, "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Indeed, I do. And what better proof of the validity of our faith than the success of the Amarrian way of life? Our peoples are the most numerous; our empire is the largest and greatest of the spacefaring nations."

"And yet," points out Domai, "you've chosen to come here, instead of staying in the Empire."

The irregular pulse of the elevator's lights shifts direction. Shadows stretch and crawl over the walls and the two people within. Ykaterina's expression is veiled in darkness.

Her voice is subdued, "You doubt my dedication to the throne? My faith?"

Domai remains silent, mulling a response. He is preempted.

Ykaterina shrugs, "It is easy to cast such aspersions when you are ignorant of the circumstances."

Domai suggests, "Then enlighten me."

"I appreciate the gesture. But, you don't have to be polite to the point of feigning an interest in my story."

"I am interested. We will be working together."

"Really, now." Ykaterina's voice rings with skepticism, the voluminous sleeves of her tunic crossing over her chest, "I suppose I could bore you, foreman, by telling you of a little Holder girl growing up in a manor of servants and machines. Of how this girl, who would have gladly spent her days chasing fireflies and playing with toy starships, nonetheless obeyed her distant parents to attend etiquette lessons, learn planetary dialects and master the myriad forms of the curtsy.

"She did it because it was expected; because it was proper. Because she was a faithful servant of God and a loyal member of her family.

"I could tell you of her husband, the insufferable but high-born wart that he was. Of how dazzling dreams of noble weddings and low-gravity waltzes faded before a bloated man that preferred gynoids to human company. Nonetheless, the duties of marriage were kept, and the rigors of childbearing borne.

"Why? Because she was a faithful servant of God and a dedicated wife.

"Would you like to hear of the children, perhaps? Of idiot newts made spoiled by an indulgent father? Perhaps you would hear of their mismanagement, of entire cities subjected to the tantrums of thirteen-year-olds and blue-blooded adolescents? No, because none of it mattered. Because there was a woman there, a doting matron who would clean their messes, suppress the revolts, and handle the grit of logistics and governance. Because she paid attention to her lessons.

"After all, she was a faithful servant of God and a dutiful Holder.

"But there was only so much she could do. The excesses were too much. A Speaker of Truths arrived, as brilliant as the gateflash that heralded his presence. The fire of investigation would consume everything, from toady husband to faithful wife to the entire litter of misbegotten children. Even the youngest, an infant who did no harm to anyone. The one child who shined with intelligence and compassion. He would be taken too."

Ykaterina's voice quiets. She utters, low and almost wistful, "It would have been wise to cooperate. That would have been expected, proper. That's what a faithful servant of God would have done, or a loyal citizen of the Empire."

"Why didn't you?" asks Domai.

The woman snaps, a bark of lightning, "Because he was my son."

The air between the two is thick with silence. Outside the cylindrical elevator, the rolling lights slow, then come to a stop. The door opens.

Domai straightens, hand clasping wrist behind his back. Eyes to the side, he begins, "I'm-"

"Don't," interrupts Ykaterina. She brushes a hand down the front of her shawl, "Spare me any stumbling attempts at apology or comfort." She turns her head to examine Domai with a look that sharp and searching. "Your laconic manner is deceptive, Foreman. But it serves you well."

Thale Domai inclines his head and extends an arm politely to the door, "Forewoman."

The woman sweeps out of the room, chin lifted. The man soon follows, tugging at his worn jacket.

Shaalira · « **Reply #11 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:18 »

Holographic Render, Intra-Cam Unit #33-S, Maintenance Network
Iteron-class Industrial Vessel, Carcasonne
Prow Observation Room, Deck 5
Feed begins 06.19.112, 13:32 Universal

A scarred man stands between stars and sea. On one side, a viewing port dominates a curved wall. Beyond, the void is broken by pinpoint lights and nebulous bands of violet. On the other side, a translucent wall glows dim and blue. The aquarium contains viridian and ochre coral, and silver slivers dart amongst them.

Thale Domai's footsteps ring loud in the spacious room. He approaches an empty desk and chair, made of the same black-green metal as the floor. Interface lights are dimmed and inert. The scarred man looks about, searching. His mouth opens to speak, but his eyes are drawn to the aquarium. Distracted, he steps close to the translucent wall and lays a hand on it. Refracted blue light dances over his face with the gentle contours of flowing water.

"Moya fish. They're probably native to the world of my birth."

Domai looks over his shoulder as he hears the voice. A slender, tawny woman stands before the previously empty desk, the interface lights behind her now lit up. She is clad in an airy Intaki robe, of the same deep red as her facial markings. Yet, despite the clarity of her appearance, her outline glimmers with a faint electric nimbus. A scan line slowly runs down, from head to toe.

The hologram smiles.

"Probably?" asks Domai.

"Yes," says the hologram as it walks soundlessly towards the translucent wall. "After all, we lack reliable records from the prehistoric period wherein a wave of colonization is theorized to have originated from EVE gate. What we do know is that the ecologies of garden worlds throughout the cluster are remarkably similar. By and large, chiralities are compatible, carbon is the structural element and water is the preferred solvent. Some species, aside from human beings, were common to many planets since before the modern era of expansion and consolidation. Wheat grains, for example, are ubiquitous."

The simulacrum stops side-by-side with Domai, lifting her gaze to the aquarium. "The Moya are unique. They've not been found on any other world."

"I see," says Domai, his attention drifting back to the ebb and flow of life before him. "They certainly don't look like any fish I've seen."

"Fish is a misnomer, in fact." explains the hologram. "The Moya have vexed the scholars and taxonomists of my world for generations." Her false arms spread as if to encompass the scene before her. "Watch them dance. Can you spot the electrostatic charges between the golden bulbs? Do you see the acidic emissions from the pores of the small pale ones? None of these creatures have internal digestive systems. They swarm, trap, and break down prey with external chemistry. Take any one of the moving parts before you and you'll find nothing approaching a central nervous system. Yet watch them for any length of time and you'll be convinced that there's a guiding intellect at work here.

"Individually, they are transient and helpless. Together, they are something more - something resilient and beautiful. Perhaps, they're not even aware of it."

Domai slips his hands into his pockets. He watches the hologram out of the corner of his eye as he inquires, "Are you supposed to be our guiding intellect?"

The holographic woman faces Domai fully and flashes an impish, bemused smile. Instead of answering, she begins walking back towards the desk, "You did not come here to speak of marine life. Do you also seek to appeal proposal number five?"

Domai turns back towards the center of the room but remains standing by the clear wall, "No, ma'am."

The hologram affects a sitting posture on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs and resting her palms on either side, "I asked you to call me Lira, yes?"

Domai frowns, "Yes."

The image of a woman smiles, "The offer of familiarity makes you suspect. You are a jaded man, understandably so, and you probably associate first-name offers with subterfuge and ulterior motives."

"That may be true," admits Domai.

"It matters not what you call me, Foreman Domai. I offer 'Lira' since most have difficulty with my full name. If the familiarity makes you uncomfortable, I find 'Pilot' to be an equally acceptable form of address."

"If that pleases you."

"It does," responds the hologram with unnatural swiftness.

Domai nods, pausing to press a fist to his mouth and clear his throat. "I wanted to speak to you on a more personal matter, actually."

"Oh?" prompts the image, her legs dangling child-like off the edge of the desk.

"Yes," Domai says. "Since the first orientation meeting, I've gotten to know the other Foremen." The statement trails off, hesitation obvious.

"Do you have reservations about any of them?"

"No- Well, none that are worth bringing up." The scarred man rubs the back of his bare head self-consciously. He continues, "I am more concerned about my own qualifications, in fact."

"Indeed?" The hologram draws up her feet and appears to sit, cross-legged, on one end of the desk. She leans forward with an unabashedly curious tone, "Go on."

"You have quite a team here. I've met former holders, ex-mayors, discharged naval officers, and even a Thukker caravan master." Domai glances to the side, "Very experienced leaders. Measured up to them, I'm not sure I'm up to the task."

"Were you not once an officer in the Federation military, Foreman Domai?"

"Warrant officer," specifies the scarred man with some reluctance, "FIO."

"Yet, you led a unit. Yes?"

"Once," responds Domai with a fleeting, pained wince. "Just once."

"Your first and last command," recounts the hologram, her false eyes closing. "Warrant Officer Thale Domai, a Matari cultural specialist and liaison to resistance groups in the greater Devoid. Your final assignment was logistical enhancement of revolutionary elements. In short, supplying arms to rebellious slaves. Your orders specified that you and your unit were to assume civilian identities; under no circumstances were you to be connected to the Federation. Is that correct?"

The scarred man frowns with a subtle swallow and nods.

"You were captured."

"Yes," says Domai, the pain in his voice becoming more evident. He turns away with a grimace.

"You were held for twenty years, Foreman Domai. You grew old in captivity." The hologram's eyes open slightly, as if scrutinizing Domai's back, "But not once did you divulge information on your unit. The actions of your men in Devoid were never traced back to the FIO, and the passage of time inexorably buried the incident."

"It was the least I could do in their memory."

"Their memory?" The hologram's projected voice hints at confusion.

"Those men trusted in me. My decisions led to their deaths. I knew what would happen if their identities were leaked. Their names would be dragged through the mud of every holofeed headline from here to Tash-Murkon. Their families would be outed; there'd be retribution." Domai looks down at a trembling palm, "It was the least I could do, having failed them like that. You want to entrust more lives to my command? No. Find someone competent, trustworthy."

The hologram's legs unwind slowly and she stands, voice tinged with sorrow, "You don't know, do you...?"

"Know what?" Domai looks back, snapping with irritation.

The fake woman speaks softly, "It would make sense for your captors to lie to you, to instill you with despair. Perhaps they correctly gauged your dedication, but underestimated how loyal you would be to the fallen."

The slow realization on Domai's face is quickly replaced by suspicious disbelief, "No."

"You were the only one captured, Thale Domai. The mission was a success and your men survived, precisely because of your reticence. Many are alive still, retired, though all believe you dead. I'll have the data forwarded to your-"

The hologram stops speaking when the scarred man collapses to his knees. It starts with a soft chuckle, shoulders trembling. A laugh takes over, almost manic in its intensity. Salty water runs down from eyes wide and unfocused. He collapses further, hands on cold floor. Tears splatter around his fingers.

"Alive," Domai sputters. "They're alive."

The hologram hovers close, reaching hesitantly for the man's shuddering shoulder. In the end, her fingers and she draws back silently. The simulacrum fades, wispy and ghost-like, before vanishing completely.

Left alone in the darkened room, the scarred man sobs.

Above him, the Moya dance and dance.

Shaalira · « **Reply #12 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:19 »

Mail Server CCNet_SAA
Date: 06.20.112, 20:12
To: TDomai
Re: Agitators

Coucou!

I have inquired as you asked. Our mutual friend J.H. has been making quite a few contacts. Most are from the State or former military. He seems quite dissatisfied - makes you wonder why he did not simply choose the door, no? You are right to suspect that he is still planning something.

He's been approaching people outside his team, and it would not surprise me if he's spoken to members of your own. Perhaps it is a good time to interview some of your subordinates, mon ami? A leader should know where his followers stand.

Amicalement,

Henri

Shaalira · « **Reply #13 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:20 »

Holographic Render, Intra-Cam Unit #99-G, Maintenance Network
Iteron-class Industrial Vessel, Carcasonne
Cargo Chamber Alpha, Habitation Package 201
Feed begins 06.21.112, 09:44 Universal

The corner camera records a simple room. A rectangular meeting table and chairs shine with the same green-metal as the gently curving walls. On one side of the table, a scarred man sits in workman's clothes, a simple synth-leather jacket worn atop. Across the table, a lanky Deteis man with coal-black hair is caught in the act of standing up as the feed begins.

"Thank you, Mr. Pascci," says the scarred man with an amicable tone. A datapad is set on the table in front of him. "Please tell the next one to come on in."

The Deteis wanders off-screen after a slight nod. Somewhere, something opens with a hydraulic hiss. The scarred man leans back in his chair, picking up the datapad and eliciting a shimmering display of text with a few taps of his finger. As he reads, another figure walks into view.

The woman is short, and her baggy technician's fatigues only emphasize her waifish figure. She removes a short-brimmed cap as she approaches the table, revealing an unremarkable face framed by close-cropped black hair. Her large eyes are as bright as stars.

The scarred man stands politely, extending a hand, "Ms. Seija Chiriya. Accounting technician?"

"Yes," says the diminutive woman as she accepts the hand and shakes. She is expressionless, head craning back to take in the scarred man's face. "You must be Foreman Domai."

Domai nods in confirmation, then sweeps with his hand, "Please, have a seat." As he settles into his own, he inquires, "Tea?"

The woman shakes her head mutely. She takes the seat across, upright, stiff and unnatural. Yet, her expression seems to be at ease.

The scarred man begins pouring himself a cup, a hint of steam rolling over the table. "We'll soon be working together, Ms. Seija, and I prefer to know my team. I've read your record. But there are some parts I'd like to ask you about, if you don't mind?"

"Sensible, Foreman. I have no objections."

Domai blinks, once, at the curt answer. He carries on, tapping the datapad, "The entry for your bloodline reads 'Achura/Sebiestor,' is that correct?"

"Sixty-eight and twenty percent, respectively. The remainder is comprised of a variety of ancestries, according to the genetic tests. 'Mongrel' was the term used by the census secretary, if I recall correctly."

Domai lifts a teacup to his lips, concealing a briefly uncomfortable fidget, "I see. Your parents-"

"Unknown, irrelevant."

The scarred man nods, mulling over his tea with a quiet sip.  "You have a State Citizen ID."

"Yes."

"You are also listed as deceased."

"Yes. Legally, I was executed on the tenth of this month, at zero-nine-hundred universal." Seija pauses, then adds in a reassuring tone, "The records are not all in error. I was quite guilty."

"But before you were actually executed, the capsuleer..."

"Yes."

Domai leans back in his chair, "Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning."

"Yes."

Datapad text scrolls in an incandescent blur, "It says here you were born in orbit of Vaajaaita I, specifically the Sukuuvestaa Corporate Warehouse station."

"Yes, that is probably true. To my knowledge, this voyage represents my first and only departure from that station."

"Did you work for SuVee?"

"For most of my life, yes. I had paid off my living debt three years prior, and was a full-time, salaried employee."

"Living debt?"

"An administrative accounting method used by the Vaajaaita I orbital authorities. The same or similar methods may be in use at other SuVee stations, but I would not know. All residents are subject to it."

Domai's single remaining eyebrow rises, "Can you explain?"

Seija lays both hands on the table, her fingers lacing together. Her tone is formal, pedantic. "Environmental services are taken for granted by many planetary businesses, which discount them as externalities. On space stations, however, commodities such as breathable air, potable water and heat-waste disposal are the products of carefully balanced systems. These systems, of course, require initial investment, maintenance, and ongoing renovations. The sum costs of providing a living environment are quantifiable, and are part of the expenditures of an orbital business.

"The Sukuuvestaa Corporation is not a charitable enterprise. Therefore, it seeks to charge service beneficiaries for the commodities enjoyed.

"Through statistical information gleaned from billions of citizens and employees operating on dozens of worlds and countless deep space installations, Sukuuvestaa has the data necessary to determine the air intake, water consumption and heat-waste production of the average individual. Scaled categories account for such variables as age, gender, profession, health-related characteristics and artificial enhancements. When measured against the sum costs of providing a living environment in a particular facility, it is elementary to determine individual apportionment of costs.

"Therefore, the exact monetary value of providing a living environment for a given individual is also quantifiable.

"The consumption of these commodities is, naturally, not always a voluntary process. However, excepting for rare cases, it is a consistent process and can be assumed to occur. Hence, living charges start to accrue when an individual first begins to enjoy environmental commodities. This includes when a new resident arrives at the station-"

Domai's eye narrows as he interjects, "Or when someone is born."

"Yes," confirms Seija in a neutral tone. "That is the most common point in time where living charges start to accrue for station residents."

"But a child can't pay..."

"The Sukuuvestaa Corporation understands the credit limitations of new citizens. Therefore, the first payments are deferred until the child in question has come of age. It is not unusual for a station resident to begin his career in debt to the Sukuuvestaa Corporation, for environmental commodities consumed during the time of minority."

Domai asks, "But can't you just leave?"

Seija responds, "The Sukuuvestaa Corporation is a one hundred percent owner of the subsidiary that directly manages the Vaajaaita I orbital facility, which includings docking authority. Administrative accounting rules state that port services will be denied to any debtor of the Sukuuvestaa Corporation."

"I see."

Seija continues, "Affluent residents will often pay off the living debt of their children, at least in part. High-tier employees may also obtain, as part of their compensation package, living charge credits that they can share with their family. For those of neither category, direct employment under the Sukuuvestaa Corporation is the most common method of paying the debt." The woman's gaze lowers, her volume faltering, "Of particular concern are unregistered children, delinquents, squatters and people that do not exist in the station database. The station authority characterizes these individuals as Class C vermin, whose continued existence constitutes property theft."

Domai inquires, carefully, "You were one of the unregistered ones?"

Seija Chiriya proffers a smile, but there is a brittle quality to her eyes, "Not my fondest memories, Foreman."

"If you don't wish to speak of it..." Domai's suggestion trails off.

"There isn't much to say. The 'vermin' category is rather accurate. You live as a rat, scavenging what you can, drinking out of leaking and broken pipes. The spaces between walls becomes your home, your retreat. You crouch beneath the floor, watching through grates as the normal residents carry on. It seems so bright up there, so colorful. But you know the moment you show yourself you will be kicked and spat upon and worse. You're a freerider in a world of workers, of people struggling to pay for the air and water you steal for yourself."

The diminutive woman's eyes do not rise. Instead, they drift to the side, "The best you can do is not to be seen, not to exist. You live through watching others be happy, imagining that you are the one embraced, whose hand is being held. And when the patrols make their sweeps, you try to hide. Oh, yes. You try to hide."

"You were caught in the end," observes Domai, his scarred face wretched in twisted expression.

"We all are, Foreman. I know some fellow rats who found ways to escape the system for years. But you can't go your entire life without being careless, without making mistakes. I was lucky. I was the fourth one caught by the patrol that day, and they had already expended their anger and energy. I was just boxed about the ears a few times and bound for processing."

"Processing?"

"Genetic sampling, database integration. Your age is estimated, along with your level of indebtedness. An appraisal is made of your abilities and biomass, so that the corporation might determine how best to recover lost revenue. Again, I was lucky and was found to have aptitude. The others were not."

"What happened to them?"

"I do not know."

"And yourself? What kind of aptitude did they find in you?"

Seija lifts her gaze, her eyes wide and luminous, "Have you ever heard of a quantum savant, Foreman?"

"Only vaguely," Domai remarks. "Something about human calculators."

Seija shakes her head, though a genuine smile creeps into her lips, "No, we would be far less useful if that were the case. It is silly to imagine a human crunching numbers faster than a modern AI. Quantum savants work in conjunction with artificial processors, not in replacement of them. Given a matrix of data, a quantum savant can make accurate intuitive leaps without full comprehension of what's before them."

"I don't quite follow," Domai admits, lowering his datapad.

"Most people see a stream of numbers, Domai. We see the pattern. The weave and the rupture.

"SuVee trained me to see market trends. I was subjected to a constant river of real estate and property figures from throughout Lonetrek. Ten hours of each day, I was surrounded by a cocoon of holographic readouts, voicing observations to a dictation recorder. I was briefed each morning and debriefed every evening over my nutrient supplements. When time permitted, I was given lessons to make up for my lack of schooling.

"All this took place in-laboratory, of course. The staff observed me over camera and spoke to me via speakers from the moment I woke to the moment I slept. They watched as I ate and bathed and studied."

Domai exhales, "That must have been difficult."

"Difficult?" The woman cants her head to the side, looking avian as she grins from ear to ear. "I was happy, Foreman. For the first time in my life, I was seen and heard. People wanted to know how I was doing, whether I was all right. They gave me purpose, and each day ended with a sense of accomplishment.

"The laboratory staff even threw me a party when my living debt was paid. That day, I met some of them face-to-face for the first time. They embraced me and congratulated me. There were smiles everywhere." The woman's voice is filled with vim and mirth. She continues, "I've kept some of the pictures, even. I was utterly loyal to the Corporation."

Domai shifts his weight in his seat, ill at ease. He observes, "It's not surprising you decided to stay on as an employee, then. What changed that led to your, ah, execution?"

Seija straightens, a somber undertone replacing her previous enthusiasm, "After the debt was paid, I had fewer working hours and more leisure time. But the habits remained. During my off hours, I would sit back and just browse data. It didn't matter where it was from or what it was. GalNet provided the numbers in endless varieties.

"There was something comforting about the stream, the oscillating images and emergent patterns. It felt like home. I even took to learning more about the Corporation, accessing the SuVee employee databases, public revenue sheets, and asset portfolios.

"That's when I started encountering the irregularities."

"Irregularities?" asks Domai.

"Patterns that don't weave properly. A normal person would likely not notice, even after thorough study. But I did. Contrived data is like that faint and disgusting aroma you can't quite place. Or that itch that lingers under your skin. It bothered me so much that I had my assistant AI start positing numbers into a hypothetical matrix. True enough, I found alternate values - replaced figures that would flow more smoothly than what was before me."

"Someone was falsifying the numbers."

"Yes. Over a period of months, it became my obsession. I felt the flaws, the sums that didn't add up. Those stitches led me back to the source. And I found it. It was the manager's office of my very own branch, just a few decks above in the same station. I drew up more data - transactions, purchases, transfers. My access was limited, of course, but it was a trivial matter to fill in the blanks. What I found was unauthorized withdrawals, understated profit reporting, and inflated expenses."

"The manager was embezzling," concludes Domai.

"Correct," affirms Seija, momentarily taking the tone of an approving school teacher. "Precisely that."

"Did you report him?"

"I was not that naive, Foreman. I was a new employee at SuVee, without tenure. While I now had a Citizen's ID, my record is clear on what I used to be. There was no way I could accuse a senior branch manager and survive, let alone succeed. There was little I could do but watch.

"And so I did. During my leisure time, I calculated what his corruption was costing the Vaajaaita I Orbital Administration. It was a sizable figure and growing with time. After a week, I decided to compare that curve to my own estimated value to the company over time."

"Why would you-"

The diminutive woman smiles, "Watching was one of the few viable options, but not the only one."

Domai frowns, his prosthetic hand clutching tightly on an armrest.

Seija continues, "Sure enough, there was an intersection. That occurred exactly twenty-eight days ago, the point at which the branch manager's continued embezzlement would start costing SuVee more than the entire projected net worth of my labors to the Corporation."

"That was the day you..."

"Yes. Twenty-eight days ago, I entered the office of the branch manager and murdered him."

The camera feed shows Domai staring silently at the woman across the table from him. The woman's face is blank, with an impeccably polite smile. Seconds tick away.

Domai breathes in sharply, running a hand over his scalp, "Why did you wait until then?"

"The cost curve was just an estimation. There was always the possibility that the branch manager would cease his activities, for one reason or another, and the costs of his embezzlement would flatten out. Acting prior to that point in time would have potentially cost the Corporation more. But after that point, removing him at the cost of myself was a demonstrably efficient exchange."

The scarred man reaches for the datapad, "According to the autopsy report, bludgeoning was the cause of death."

"Lacquered metal ashtray imported from Saiso III," explains Seija. She adds in a helpful tone, "It was on his desk."

"The report also says the cadaver suffered from severe post-mortem trauma."

"The manager benefited from an expansive health and dental package. There was the possibility that even clinical death could have been undone by cybernetic rejuvenation. In order to preempt this possibility, I had to do irreparable damage to the brain.

Seija remarks with a hint of embarrassment, "I am not trained in medicine or anatomy so my approach was a bit crude. Messy."

Domai's chair scrapes as he draws it closer to the table, sitting up straighter, "That's not a lot of time between the crime and execution."

"I cooperated fully and admitted guilt. The hearing was very short." Seija's lips thin into a bittersweet smile, "The assistant manager was displeased at the prospect of losing me as an asset, but there was no getting around corporate bylaws in a case like this."

"Any regrets?"

The woman starts to shake her head, but stops. She clutches her cap tightly to her lap, scrunching it between her fingers. "Well, I did feel lost while I was waiting in my cell. Having been stripped of my role, I had no purpose. My duty to the Corporation was done, and it had no further use of me. I was just biomass waiting to be reprocessed.

"I felt like a rat again.

"But then the supervisor entered my cell one morning, and informed me of the capsuleer's purchase. I made one last profit for the Corporation, and then I was released from custody. Under a temporary identity, of course. Justice had to be done, at least publicly."

"Why did you make use of the InterBus ticket? There were other places you could have gone. A different SuVee branch, perhaps."

"I was utterly loyal to the Corporation, Foreman. But it was done with me. Technically, it had killed me and recycled the remains." Seija's luminous eyes rise to meet Domai's, "The ticket was for me. Someone out there was interested in me. I had to find out who it was.

"And I don't regret doing so. The podder gave me a new purpose." She pauses for a soft giggle, "It reminds me of the first heady days in the laboratory, in fact. I look forward to working with you and the rest of the team. I truly do."

Domai shifts in his chair, discomfited, "I trust I'll not end up like your previous manager?"

"Don't be silly, Foreman. The branch manager was a waste of organic mass, a drain on Corporate resources. I have a strong feeling that you will be a value-enhancer. Call it a savant's intuition." Seija nods twice, her voice ringing with certitude, "You will be an asset to the enterprise."

The scarred man manages an uneasy smile, "Thank you, Ms. Seija. And thank you for your time. I'll not take up any more of it, this morning."

The woman stands, doffing her technician's cap, "Shall I call in the next one?"

"That won't be necessary. I'll call for them myself later." Domai's nod is affable, "See you in the mess hall."

Seija Chiriya flashes a true smile, her expression eclipsed by bright, bright eyes. She walks away, leaving the camera's field of vision.

Somewhere, a door opens with a hydraulic hiss. Then, it clanks shut.

Domai reaches for an intercom button on the table, "I just interviewed the one you were concerned about."

A speaker voice responds, "Oui?"

"I doubt she's been contacted."

"I will trust your judgment on this, mon ami. Did you warn her about monsieur Hocke?"

"No. Actually... I'm considering warning Hocke about contacting her."

"Oui?"

"I'll explain later."

"Of course."

Domai releases the button and reaches for his forgotten cup of tea. He grimaces after a lukewarm sip, then leans back. The scarred man stares at the chair the woman used to occupy, quiet and contemplative.

Shaalira · « **Reply #14 on:** 09 Sep 2011, 15:20 »

Video Render, Helmet Camera Unit
Pressure Suit #C221000005
Feed begins 06.21.112, 16:20 Universal

The video feed begins pitch black. A man's breathing can be heard, echoing in the confined space of the pressure suit's filtration systems.

Suddenly, there is space. A gloved hand grips a metal rung and pulls the camera perspective out of a dark hatch. The void spins past, dotted with stars, until the view settles. A plane of green-tinted metal provides the ground beneath the star-lit sky. The suit wearer walks soundlessly across the exterior of a starship hull, the camera's perspective bobbing along with his helmet. His steady breathing is the only noise.

Once, the suit-wearer glances back. His hand tugs at a cable that binds his belt, a cable which snakes back to the open hatch. Somewhere beyond the small aperture, perhaps a half kilometer away, the edge of an engine flare lights up the world like a blue sun. The view spins once more as the suit-wearer faces forward.

The hull slowly curves, like a small world rotating beneath the suit-wearers' feet. The slope reveals another pressure suit, standing some distance ahead.

The person ahead moves through the void with an uncanny grace. Soundlessly, heavy boots slide and stomp over the hull surface. Arms thrust out, then twist, as flattened fingers weave through the air. The form has a martial tempo, a warlike attractiveness.

The suit-wearer continues to approach, his breathing quiet. The second figure abruptly stops moving, drawing upright with boots still clamped to the hull beneath. An opaque visor turns towards the camera.

A voice crackles on speaker, a deep bass, "I see you, but I don't recognize the suit. Who's there?"

The suit-wearer stops approaching, some ten paces away from the man ahead. A familiar voice speaks, made tinny and uncomfortably loud in the helmet's confines, "Thale Domai, Foreman of your team. I assume you are Ryargar Usttig, our ground security specialist and licensed self-defense instructor."

The man ahead raps the side of his helmet and the reflective visor slides upward. The clear helmet reveals a swarthy, grinning face with brown, almond-shaped eyes and broad features. Beaded dreadlocks dance within his helmet, unbound by gravity. "Yeah? How'd you know to find me out here?"

"I asked your students," Domai responds. "It's impressive that you have a following after having known these people for only a few days. That wasn't a traditional Starkmanir martial art I saw you practicing, was it?"

The man named Usttig rests his hands on the belt of his pressure suit and shakes his head, dreadlocks swinging behind his visor. He laughs good naturedly, "Well. I'm impressed, Foreman. On two counts." The man's grin turns sharp, "First, that you picked me out as Starkmanir. Most people peg me as a Brutor. Second, that you could guess what is or isn't a traditional art."

Usttig begins circling to the right, palms upraised and gesturing as he speaks. A glow flashes from the soles of his boots as the magnetic clamps turn on and off. "Matter of fact, you're right. What I practice is something my old teacher liked to call Ógildur-Konst. Familiar?"

"Afraid not," says Domai. "Why is it that you practice out here?"

Usttig stops in place, the arm of his pressure suit making a wide sweep over the stars, "Because out here is the heart of my discipline. The traditional arts are bound by the circumstance of environment. You may perfect a strike on Matar. But will it work equally well on Varkal? Kullheim?" Usttig's fist lashes out, a blur ending in a sharp snap. A bright flash emanates from his magnetic boots. He continues, "At 1g, a boxer lowers his center of gravity to add power to his punch. Will that work at 2g? How about half a gee? Should you even throw a punch at all in low gravity?

"The guiding philosophy of Ógildur-Konst is simple. Go back to the basics. Master combat in zero-gee, and you can fight in any gee." Usttig draws his hand back, turning to look at Domai with a wolfish grin, "Would you like a demonstration?"

"A demonstration?" The helmet-camera's vision shakes from side to side. "I actually just came here to to talk. Get to know my team better before we arrive at our destination."

The Starkmanir drives a fist into his palm, "This is how I talk, Domai. Practicing calisthetics on your own can get dull. I hear you're ex-military. How about we have a friendly match?"

"Out here? You're mad."

"Out here is the real thing!" Usttig spreads his palms wide, "You want to get to know me better? Best way to know a man is to fight him. Or have you Federation types gotten too used to your drones fighting for you? Perhaps you have the machines please your women for you as well?"

"Heh," Domai grunts. "Fine." The tops of his fists can be seen rising into the camera's field of vision.

The speakers crackle with laughter, "That's it!" Usstig's soles rise slowly from the hull, his arms deceptively languid and relaxed to either side. He drifts, toes a few inches from the curved starship exterior.

The camera vision lurches forward suddenly and Domai's teeth are heard grinding.

"You'll have to turn off your magnetic boots for this, Foreman. Or do you intend to catch me with your feet glued to the wall?"

The camera view jolts slightly, a tapping sound emerging from the side of the helmet. An almost inaudible hiss follows. Suddenly, the ground no longer seems so stable. The angle of the world begins to move, slowly.

Beneath the sheen of his helmet, Usttig smiles. One hand beckons.

A rough blare announces the activation of Domai's pressure suit jets. He closes the distance in less than a second, throwing his right arm forward in a textbook straight cross. Usstig looms in the camera vision, growing larger very swiftly as Domai approaches. The Starkmanir makes no motion aside from tilting his head slightly. Domai's fist connects, flush, on the side of Usttig's helmet.

Bonk.

The sound of the glancing impact travels up the interior of Domai's pressure suit, reaching the helmet camera. Usttig begins spinning, slowly. Meanwhile, Domai hurtles away, stars spinning and hull entering and leaving the field of vision.

Usstig's voice crackles on speaker, "Remember, Foreman, that you fight in the void. In zero-gee, the laws of action and reaction translate directly! Throwing a punch like that will affect you as much as your target."

Domai's suit jets flare in short, staccato bursts. His vision struggles to stabilize. When it does, the ship hull is directly overhead, a metal sky. Ahead, the apparently upside-down Usttig allows the tips of his feet to scrape against the hull in a strange pirouette. His spinning motion slows, and stops. He bends his legs and draws close to the hull, "Now, if you want to hit someone..."

Usttig shoves with his legs and dives forward horizontally, resembling a swimmer launching into the water. But unlike a swimmer, his gain in speed is constant. His open palms slide forward, reaching towards Domai.

Domai's guard rises instinctively, arms crossing in front of the camera's field of vision.

Usstig twists suddenly, rotating as he approaches. One hand snakes up and takes a hold of Doma's forearm. His voice cuts through the static, "Seize their body, then strike!"

Domai's arm is yanked forward, and at the same time Usstig plunges an elbow into his abdomen. The camera vision tilts forward violently as Domai doubles over, hacking and coughing. Over the sound of the scarred man's retching, the speaker crackles, "Hit off center, and much of the force is lost on spin! Target their center of gravity, and make their body internalize the shock!"

The screen fogs up briefly as Domai hisses in concentration. He twists his other arm over, taking a hold of the wrist that grabbed him. He spins his scissoring legs towards Usttig's head. The other suit's helmet looms, and the man within can be seen smiling calmly, "And if they grab you..."

Usstig's arm rotates rapidly in a circular motion. Domai's attack is thrown off-course as his entire body begins tumbling. In the backdrop, stars tumble madly as all sense of orientation is lost. The speaker hisses, "...remember that your opponent isn't grounded. Toss them off balance!"

Again, the suit jets blare, but they only seem to exacerbate the spin. Arms flail out, reaching for purchase but finding nothing. The hull spins in and out of view at a maddening pace, slowly growing more distant. Domai's breathing can be heard quickening in hyperventilating panic.

With a hard jerk, the camera view stabilizes. A dull thud echoes when Domai's head bangs up against the interior of the helmet. The man groans. Slowly, the angle of the camera peers down to his feet.

Usttig stands on the ship's hull, both hands keeping a firm grip on the cable connected to Domai's belt. He begins reeling it in slowly. The Starkmanir's voice rattles over the speaker, "Can't have you flying out into space, Domai. It'd be bad luck if our team loses its Foreman before we even arrive."

The breathing within the helmet grows calm and even, if exaggerated. Domai accepts Usttig's offered hand as soon as the other is in reach, and his boots clamp down on the hull once more.

"Just now, your magnetic boots were off," observes Domai. He asks, "How did you maintain contact with the hull? Even during the spar..."

"Keen of you to notice! That's a technique for the advanced students. I'll give you a hint, though." Usttig maintains his grip on Domai's hand and leans close. With the helmet visors almost touching, it is easy to see the Starkmanir's sharp, wolf-like grin, "Van der Waals forces."

Domai's response is mute. A glimpse of his confused expression reflects off of Usttig's helmet.

The Starkmanir laughs abruptly, clasping Domai's shoulder with his free hand before letting go. "Good of you to spar with me, Foreman. You didn't do half bad for someone without zero-gee training."

The camera tilts down as Domai's hands rub over the front of his suit. They rest on a small indentation on his midsection. Domai says, "I may have to join your class."

Usttig's grin lingers, "You would be the oldest of my students. That bother you?"

"Why should it?"

The other pressure suit takes a step back, arms crossing, "Well, well. Not so prideful that you can't stand on equal level with a younger generation for the sake of learning something new. I'm really starting to like you, Foreman. If only more of the tribes thought the same way."

Domai inquires, "Have you taken a lot of flak for practicing a non-traditional art?"

Usttig turns halfway, helmet tilting upwards to survey the star scape. His voice comes rough over the speaker, "Tradition, hah. The new chains, brother. You would think the homecoming would be enough, that people would be happy just to be reunited with lost kin.

"But it's not. It's not enough that the lost tribe has returned. Apparently we have to become what we used to be, or what they think we used to be. The more traditional tribes - the Brutor, the Vherokior - push us, drive us into reclaiming old traditions. Nevermind that our knowledge of them is largely lost, piecemeal. But they're adamant; they say that the traditions - how we think, how we act - are who we are."

"You disagree?"

"No, I think the same way. We are our beliefs, our values. But we're not the same people that we were centuries ago. The cluster has changed around us, and we've changed with it. We've picked up new ideas, adapted to the circumstances. We survived. Binding us to the old ways is a slow death, but a death nonetheless.

"Ógildur-Konst is a modern art, one for the space-faring age. It's a stark departure from the old Starkmanir martial arts. These days, that's enough to get a practitioner harassed, his students heckled. If you're lucky, you're just ostracized. I decided I was through when a disciple of mine, a promising one, got caught when a mob stormed one of the refugee camps and torched some converts' church. I didn't know where I was going to go, I just knew that I had to get out."

"Then the capsuleer found you."

"Then she found me," Usttig's voice turns wry. "Come with me, she says. Let's start a new colony somewhere far away, somewhere new. Somewhere the old traditions can't reach. Hell yes. That's why you're out here, right Foreman? You're looking for a fresh start too, I wager."

"A fresh start..." repeats Domai, his voice low and pensive. Before he finishes the thought, a green light blinks on at the corner of the camera. Usttig pauses, moving a hand to one side of his helmet. A green light can be seen glowing inside his visor as well.

"It seems our pilot is back online and the ship is coming out of dormant mode," observes Domai. "We best head below-decks before we enter warp."

"Sounds like a plan, Foreman. How about I introduce you to the other students?" Usttig approaches and clasps Domai's shoulder affably as they begin making their way back to the hatch.

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