Alright. This project is probably going to take a while, so I'm going to upload the first two chapters now, and do it as sort of a serial thing.
Egghelende V – Moon 13 – University of Caille Orbital
Transit Tunnel LN-4224, Portside Habitation Wing
09:32 EST, 04-01-115
My name is Andreus Ixiris. and I am fifteen minutes away from the realisation of the best idea I've ever had.
I'm currently standing in the carriage of a transit monorail with a group of just over a dozen other people. We're an interesting mix of races and genders – sitting across from me, right next to each other are two impossibly square-jawed men, one of whom sports a beard which he doesn't seem entirely comfortable with, and one of whom is clean-shaven and clearly somewhat unused to it. One of them is my most excellent and long-suffering friend Verin Haktain. The other one, a man named Pieter Tuulinen, whom I barely know, is dressed as Verin. Verin is dressed as him. I am dressed as myself. This is because we're going to a convention of people who idolize us, disguised as the people they idolize.
Perhaps I need to explain a few things.
Let's assume for a moment you have no idea what a capsuleer is. I'd ask you what rock you've been living under for the past decade, but the nation I was raised in would call such questioning “culturally insensitive.” I know some people come from rural communities who're barely aware we can travel through space at all, let alone that we have space pilots who spend a great deal of time functionally indistinguishable from the ships they fly.
I'm a space pilot of some renown (more on that in a minute) who's one of the lucky few who can operate the hydrostatic capsule – a piece of advanced technology given to our society by deeply cryptic benefactors of dubious motivation. It lets a suitably-prepared pilot interface his brain directly with a spaceship, giving him a level of control over it unmatched by even the most efficient and well-trained crew. Modern versions of it come with additional features that make you functionally immortal as long as you aren't too attached to a specific body. So there's that.
Turns out that when you give a human being complete functional control over equipment as powerful as a starship and a literal eternity to do what they like with it, they become a little hard to manage. They become a little bit detached from conventional notions of society and morality. We sort of built a culture all of our own, based around paranoia, grandstanding, money and obscene amounts of violence, and like any strange and exotic culture that people don't really understand, we have a fandom.
Currently, we're pretending to be members of it. This is going to be absolutely hilarious for a number of reasons which I can't adequately explain to you. I'm attending dressed as myself, which is, admittedly, a pretty easy thing to do. Other members of the entourage I've put together are attending under various guises from the mundane to the somewhat outlandish. For instance, the Sebiestor woman I'm sitting next to – Ava, who I respect but don't know very well – is going disguised as another Sebiestor. Who's a man. I'm not sure whether to be amazed or unsettled at how perfectly she's pulled it off.
The idea is to mingle with our adoring fans without them even knowing we're among them. Obviously, this poses a few difficulties, since usually, people at these events expect us to do something like this, but I happen to have planned for this little problem, and with the capsuleer celebrities I've arranged for the convention to have attending openly, no-one will be any the wiser. You would not believe who's on the guests of honour list!
Egghelende V – Moon 13 – University of Caille Orbital
Foiritan Suite, Cyrelle Convention Centre, Portside Habitation Wing
09:40 EST, 04-01-115
My name is Istvaan Shogaatsu, and I'm kind of a big deal.
In case you haven't heard of me, I'm a man of wealth and taste, and I enjoy wallowing in luxury, the collection of priceless cultural antiques, political intrigue and murder. I do all of these things really well, but if you've heard of me it's probably because of one of the people I killed. Or one of the things I did when I was experimenting with neural boosters. You know how those are, I'm sure.
My acquaintances in capsuleer circles believe I'm assisting in the execution of a prank planned by a man named Andreus Ixiris, a capsuleer of fairly modest achievement who'd usually be way beneath my notice. They are partially correct. I honestly think that no matter how his idea turns out, it'll be hilarious for someone, and I'm happy to help in that respect. But that's not actually why I'm here. The reason why I'm here is that someone is playing a game, and wants to make me a piece, rather than a player.
I'm currently looking at my own dead body. Of course, it's not actually my dead body, because I wouldn't have fallen for the “mild sedative in the coffee creamer into thin-profile knife between the ribs” gambit like this tool lying on the floor of my suite. That's such an unimaginative way of killing someone I'm almost offended, but I'm simultaneously glad the world is rid of someone silly enough to fall for it. I don't even know why he's here. Is he one of the convention staff? No, they don't dress up. Must be a fan. Perhaps he wanted a taste of the luxury his idol lives in. Pretty impressive that he managed to sneak in here, though.
I rummage through the pockets of his coat – a knock-off of a Vallou original. Not authentic but so admirably tailored for an imitation that I can picture myself wearing it – purely ironically, of course. Oh, sweet, whoever killed him left his wallet, and he's loaded! Obviously, it's just Gallentean planetary currency, not even worth a single interstellar kredit, but pocket change is very useful on occasion. ISK is very useful when you want to buy everyone at a convention a round of drinks (or, alternatively, buy everyone at a convention, period. No, really, that happened once!) but paying for things like a restaurant tab on ISK is total overkill unless you're buying a bottle of the FC 33 Tikiona to go with the meal.
I did that once. The wine was rich and complex, deep oak flavours with hints of roiling political discontent and imminent orbital bombardment (although that may have been the six lungfuls of Mindflood I huffed before the meal).
His personal effects identify him as a Monsieur Derek Alivaux of Tolle III, thirty one years old, a high-level manager in a minor CreoDron subsidiary and a divorcee. He has super-sponsor registration so he'd have been present at the VIP luncheon I'm scheduled to do on day three. He also has a high-grade print of my Imperial Apocalypse, which I presume he wanted autographed. I sign it and put it back in his pocket. I'm not all that big on sentimentality, but it seems like the right thing to do.
A thought suddenly strikes me as I'm doing this: he's a high-level manager with an ex-wife. I mean, while the most likely explanation is that he got caught in a hit aimed at me, it's not entirely beyond the bounds of possibility that someone wanted him dead. He looks enough like me that an assassin who was either sloppy or scared of discovery might not take the time to investigate further, but then again, what better cover for the true purpose of an assassination than to kill him while he's dressed like a much juicier target?
After all, the best time to kill the president's aide is when he's standing next to the president. That almost happened once, but he made me a better offer.
Shit, I'm doing that thing when I wax lyrical on assassinations when I find dead bodies in my hotel room. I really need to stop mixing Crash and Blue Pill, and on top of that I should probably hide this body. Listen, go and read about whatever hilarious bullshit Andreus and his friends are up to while I work that out, alright?
Cool.
Author
Topic: Andreus Writes Everyone A Christmas Present - "The Convention" (Read 9662 times)