Futuristic Blood Cross Chapter One Prologue: Dark as a Dungeon

[Bullroarer]

Dark as a Dungeon
Various Systems
Various places
May 14th, 3018.

Surrounding Alphonso was the baroque cockpit of a ten-meter-tall mark IV bipedal racer frame... or what would have been one if it wasn't actually a collection of parts scavenged from the Acadia ice derby racetrack. He rubbed his hands together to bring forth some warmth to his fingertips before sliding his nervous lithe body into the jockey command harness; a slightly oversized hard shell torso restraint, foot control apparatus slicked with a layer of frost, and the arm control modules. His breath blew clouds of ice vapor as he took a sip of hot tea from a battered "facts don't care" steel tumbler before setting the nearly empty vessel on a resin coaster glued to the top of the command console, a swirl of green and gold glaring with the dull greys of the machinery.

When Alphonso asked if he could join his father's warband, as many young male Acadians do with their fathers after their nameday, Laeoric just laughed and not the mirthful sort. As the legendary Laeoric Diligenzia, victor of over a hundred Vendettas, was often fond of saying, "Boy, the whole point of earning your name is to go out and prove your worth, not for me to give ya your worth."

In a moment, he would spring forward upon the ancient signals of a cylindrical three light lamp and race against a dozen other youngbloods. If he didn't succeed in winning this race, he would never gain his father's name and, more importantly, his respect. Throwing the mind sync switch, he tried to merge his mind with the machine's ghost. His heads-up display blurred as pain pierced his skull and the ghost rejected him. This was not a problem he had considered, being rejected by the machine as well.

After his head cleared, he checked his mind/machine interface on the back of the neurojack helmet. He felt completely foolish when he expected five inserted plugs and found only four. the fifth, the red one, dangled within his reach. Attached to the primary bundle by a zip tie, He quickly reinserted the plug and completed the neuro link with the spirit within the machine. He was now ready. With the nervousness gone, the lamp cycled from red to green. He willed the machine to stride forward, away from the frame gantry. He was on his way, towards his destiny.

[OOC notes: Joint Post by the Blood Cross Roleplay Group. Music my Merle Travis, linked through youtube.]

 

[Bullroarer]

Towards the end of the day, Chuan Yates had still not seen a ship within here price range up for Auction. Her beloved battle cruiser, Cameron's Call, had been sold off to some corporate scumbag, now that the Kingdom had begun it's new line of distinctive warships. In fact, all of the ships of her expeditionary fleet had been sold off, no doubt to erase the blemish she had inflicted on the Admiralty. "Couldn't have a young upstart outside of the bureaucracy and nobility making a mistake, now could we," Chuan thought.

Late in the evening, a final sale came across the block. A hologram of an ancient Invictus class foldship appeared on the auction table, pock marked with meteorite damage, two of its six solar collection sails dark. "I will start the bidding at two hundred thousand Werners." Jimmy stated.

Chuan's heart leapt. This was just barely in her price range, with a small loan from the auction house. She raised her sign, indicating her bid. "I have two hundred to the nice fox lady, do i have two fifty?" A wolfman in a sharp business suit raised his sign as well, smiling toward Chuan with a predatory gaze.

Bidding continued, a ping pong ball of a ship bounced back and forth before the wolfman swallowed hard and shook his head. Chuan smiled a small smile, relishing the victory. But like most of her victories, they came at a steep price. Hers today: five million Werners. Fortunately, she had negotiated with Jimmy Sorano before the auction, using her special brand of persuasion. Five million line of credit at an atrocious interest rate of 10 percent. With probable repairs and the hiring of a crew, she would be broke within a year, or worse. Not to say Jimmy wasn't a bad businessman mind you, thought Chuan. Just she preferred to be in control of her life rather than a plaything for the rich and powerful.

An hour later, she was the new owner of the Star Traveller, as well as the five million Werner debt to the Seven Deadly Virtues pawn and loan. Chuan truly didn't know whether this was a good day or not...

 

[Bullroarer]

Dav slept in the small nameless aeroframe as it descended through the thick, dark, atmosphere of Vice. Dozens of other passengers sat in ordered rows of hard plastic bucket seats and were strapped down, as he was, by a 5-point nylon belt system. A storm raged outside, ten miles above the surface, causing the aging Pou Nan Yie class aeroframe to buck and roll. In the belly of the metallic beast, the passengers unaccustomed to such travel were easily singled out. Wide eyed, they blended frequent vomiting with the smell sulfur and terror. This didn’t bother Dav in the slightest… until the back of his head was covered by the mucoid excretions of a nauseated Xriptellian. “I hate this shithole of a planet,” Dav thought as he attempted to wipe the alien snot off his neck. Or maybe it was just travelling coach when he was more accustomed to travelling with his old warband, now disbanded. Once an elite fighter for the Black Anvil, Dav was good at killing during Vendettas. His specialty was battleframe combat, the preferred method of resolving a Vendetta between disputing or feuding Houses. The battleframe was a perfect meld between man and machine, ten meters of death and destruction only rivaled by another battleframe.

Dav remembered his last Vendetta, the one that destroyed the Black Anvil as well as scattering its remaining living members across the whole of the Kingdom of Vice and Virtue. He wished this wasn’t a common event, but Dav himself had witnessed dozens of such warbands and House companies disbanded through such Vendetta battles. As the most senior living member of the failed mercenary warband, he sold the remaining assets and distributed the shares as was the custom in the warband contract registered with MECHA. That was his purpose for coming back to this planet. Begin anew, but this time he would do it right. Do it better than his mentor had. Speaking of brotherhood this and obligation that was all fine and good as long as one could lead in victory. But letting ego get in the way of sound tactical decisions which ultimately led to their loss and destruction, as well as the sacrifice of a whole squad of battle brothers was unthinkable to Dav. To be sure, the Dark Wolves led by Laeoric Diligenzia had a part to play in it as well. They were considered the finest of all registered warbands, undefeated over its time since Laeoric founded the warband nearly one hundred cycles ago. That he had also fathered many great warriors who garnered their own glory before returning to their father’s warband also had nothing to do with its success, Dav thought with more than a little sarcasm. Dav was sure Laeoric had forgotten more than he had learned of battleframe combat.

Dav still remembered vividly his last action, the last scene often haunting his dreams. On the mountainous planet, Tiberius IX, he followed his mentor, friend, and father figure into a desperate charge rather than signaling defeat. Dav piloted his up armored crab-like Tiger beside Victor’s man shaped Puma into the perceived breech made by a heavy missile salvo from their support squad led by “Freight Train” Fasani. In their arrogance, though the breech they pushed.

In the breech they found their humility.

In the breech they died.

Laeoric himself stopped that push, as if by magic or supernatural force. In a mangled Atlatl, the heaviest of battleframes, he impaled Victor upon a particle lance through the transparent aluminum canopy. Then Dav’s Tiger by a hit to his reactor core. Dav watched, helpless, as one by one, Laeoric either killed or disabled the rest of Victor's squad and part of Fasani's. Eventually Laeoric's frame failed, the pilot ejecting. But his sons, the members of his personal squad, rallied and finished off the remaining Black Anvils. Of all the things he remembered of that dark day, it was the smell. The smell of burning flesh, oil, and metal. The smell of death. The smell of loss.

 

[Bullroarer]

Xir knelt before The Preeminent, as did thousands of other Xir, in the belly of The Companion. The Preeminent was the oldest of the species as Xir understood it. Black as pitch, with nearly a dozen snake-like tentacles sprouting from the shoulders of the centaur like body. Deep indigo lights emanated from the three eyes in the hardened chitin skull matching the multiple indigo lights at the ends of the tentacles. In contrast, Xir was titanium white with blue lights for eyes and only a pair of smaller tentacles.

The space the Xir occupied was a chamber meant for the Xir to gather in before being released into the void. Hard chitin overlaid the soft muscular flesh of the Preeminent’s Companion, a living creature the size of a small planet, which carried The Preeminent throughout the void of intergalactic space. Such was the way of the Xir. Every century, The Preeminent would order a host of Xir spawned from the older Xir as The Companion would order a new host of Companions spawned from the older, larger Companions. The Xir would incubate and grow, developing the basic sentience required of all Xir to perform their functions. The first was an innate process of learning and observing, growing in knowledge of the universe. The other was specific to The Preeminent and its needs. This batch of Xir were meant for a purpose. The purpose now was expressed as various lights and flashes, indicated to the Xir they were supposed to go forth and seek The Destroyers. Many such Xir were sent across the galaxy, each with the same mission.

To watch.

To learn.

To grow.

To integrate where able, hide otherwise. Always watching. Watching for evidence of The Destroyers. No such evidence had been seen in this Xir’s lifetime, nor in several generations before him. But the Preeminent had seen them. The Preeminent had fought them. It was imparted in Xir and all other Xir before Xir that no destructive force would be spared if such evidence was found. In the Living memory of The Preeminent, it had been to battle against the Destroyers four times in as many millennia’s millennia. Always they sought to subvert and mobilize the natives, the savages, the lesser races. To The Preeminent they were Mensch, lesser beings to be protected if able. Sacrificed if warranted. Destroyed if corrupted.

As with a wheel turning, ages coming and going, this Xir among Xir would be sent out into the void. To seek new life as did its forebearers, to quietly go once again where Xir have travelled before in the millennia past and to grow and learn. To watch.

Always watching.

 

[Bullroarer]

Muk Skullcrusha sat at the end of a table in one of the card rooms to the rear of the King’s Deck. A handful of smaller Atraxians stood behind their boss. A human couple, a winged alien, an elf man, and a humanoid lizard also sat around the table, playing a variation on Poker. Muk watched his opponents carefully.

His faith in Kragonak, the warrior god of the Atraxians, was weakening. He was starting to rely less on brute strength and divine intervention since Kragonak had allowed him to suffer a humiliating defeat at the hands of another Atraxian in the employ of House Pazienza. That defeat had cost him his left hand as well as most of his warband. A warlike people with green skin living on a barely habitable planet, Atraxians would only follow the strongest Warbosses, as weakness often leads to death on Atraxis IV.

Everyone watched Muk, the lizard, and the elf. The lizard alien’s tongue darted out for a millisecond, a nervous tic that betrayed the confidence on his face. Muk wondered if the rest of the players noticed it.

The elf threw down his cards in disgust. “I fold.” He said.

Muk grinned. “I’m all in.” He said, sliding his chips to the center of the table.

The lizard maintained his cool facade, laying his cards out on the table. “Full house, Jacks over Sevens.” He said.

Muk looked dumbfounded. He was sure he had won. He put his cards down face up revealing three sevens. “Dat’s a good hand.” Muk replied.

The lizard smiled, exposing a row of sharp teeth. “Someone of my caliber could never lose to a Neanderthal like you.” He said haughtily.

Muk stared at the pile of money he had just lost. He had only a few Werners left to his name. He stood up, nearly flipping the table with his mass. “Dis ain’t over, snake.” Muk said, walking out of the room. His boys followed him.

He pushed open the doors to the bar and exited to the bustling street, flanked by five smaller Atraxians. The little bit of coin he had left wasn’t enough to feed or house him for a night. He needed to make some quick cash with no questions asked.

Looking up he saw a sign on the building across the street. It said “HELP WANTED” in bright red letters that Kragonak would be proud of. Muk wondered if Kragonak was just testing his faith. “Come, boys.” He said. Unnoticed by either Muk or his illiterate band of sycophants, the shop advertising was a franchise MECHA agency. Little did Muk know, this was another turning point in his saga.

 

[Bullroarer]

Reservoir

Acadia

May 13th, 3018



Alphonso began to bed down in his on a surplus warband cot and heated sleeping bag. The cot was shaped as most military cots had been for the last three thousand years if not using the same materials as well. Lightweight and foldable, this one was made of a slender carbon nanotube filled aluminum frame and woven Kevlar/nylon blend hammock. His six-foot, five-inch lanky frame barely fitting upon the frame, his feet perpetually hanging off the foot of the cot. Sliding himself inside the coverings, he laid down with a well-used pillow and scrap of thermal shielding he used for a supplemental blanket. He flicked on a micro-fusion heater, instantly warming his ‘office’. His ‘office’ was just a secondary supply room in the maintenance gantry he rented at the Acadian Ice Derby racetrack, one of the coldest places in the system.
Crowded him and his cot was a small student desk for study and circuit programming and a precision work bench he was given from his sister on his thirteenth alignment day, the day when Vice annually aligned with Acadia and the parent star, Reservoir. Drifting near unconsciousness, Alphonso’s piercing blue eyes closed. His rounded ears, and short dark brown hair, and chiseled jaw burrowed into his covers. He murmured in his characteristic tenor voice “Daddy” before rolling over, exposing a UOC tattoo, the logo of his favorite racing team. His scent filled the room, the scent of apple overpowering oils and metallic smells of machinery. The morning of the big race was tomorrow, and everything was set. Boyo Blood was already onsite with pre-checks complete. Even his father would be in attendance, along with the whole of his family, house servants, and The Dark Wolves warband. He dreamed of the span of time leading up to this moment, the day before the big race, all alone.



Alphonso was always a bit of a scrawny lady boy, lacking in muscular bulk and body hair. He was born prematurely to his mother, Felicia de Whent, also a slight woman and third bound concubine to Lord Laeoric Diligenzia, thirteenth in line for the House Seat of Diligenzia. When Laeoric, a great bear of a man, looked upon his latest offspring, his seventh, he snorted. Felicia just smiled, knowing her ‘husband’ would, in time, also accept this child as he had his others. Like his other siblings, he was loved by the mothers as well as the house servants. Even is elder half brothers and sister loved him in their own way, physical beatings and harmless pranks aside. But he was different from the others and he knew it. Unlike his siblings who inherited the dour nature of a people constantly under threat by the deadly environment of Acadia’s surface, Alphonso had an easy way about him. A joke or measure of sarcasm always was ready on the tip of his tongue. In his bedroom or the family kitchen, his knack for a quick smack by his hand was often able to almost magically start simple machines, especially those with electrical parts, much to the wonder of the house servants. This easy way was not appreciated by his father, a more traditionally minded man. Often, he would hear his father’s perceived favorite phrases, so often used Alphonso once thought those were the only words Laeoric knew.

"Be responsible!"

"Grow up!!"

"Take this seriously!!!"

The problem was Alphonso was all these things, he just didn't show it in a traditional way. He received good grades in primary school, worked hard when required to, but daydreamed when not. This, plus his weight and musculature deficiency, was what put him often at odds with his father. Despite his father being a master frame pilot, legendary to some, he put great stock in physical prowess and ‘serious’ frames. Nothing like the Ice Derby. This often confused the young Alphonso. As far as he could tell, the frame pilot needed no physical strength, just a passing dexterity. His sister, Catherine, was both short and slight of build and was widely renowned for her masterful ability to pilot her twelve-meter-tall biped frame known as Grasshopper.

Despite his father's relatively mild objections, Alphonso loved the glamour of the Ice Derby races. Ice derby frame racing was part blood sport, part race, emphasis on the blood sport. Bright, fast, and violent, it was THE place to show off your frame skills and impress the highborn and mercenary captains alike. Racing champions were often offered positions in well-known warbands or, if you had the right family connections, a House Guard company. It was even whispered a young man who performed well could even earn his Bloodname there. That was Alphonso’s dream...

To earn his Bloodname and join his father’s warband.

Laeoric’s warband, The Dark Wolves, were legendary for both their racing and Vendetta accomplishments. When he asked if he could join his father's warband, as many young male Acadians do with their fathers, Laeoric just laughed. Not the mirthful sort. The ridiculous sort. As he was often fond of saying, "Boy, the whole point of earning your name is to go out an prove your worth, not for me to give ya your worth."

His mother, to humor her baby boy, used a favor from her time in the warbands to get Alphonso a contract and an ancient carryall to clean the derby track. This placated her boy with time in the places he loved and her beloved husband with surety his son would "learn how the world works" as he was fond of saying.

Over the alignments, Alphonso collected the scrap, kept the choice bits, and sold the rest to pay rent on a maintenance bay for a racing frame as well as simulator time. This appeased his father as Laeoric didn't have interest in child’s games but saw the value of keeping a kid busy.

Piece by piece, Ton by ton, cycle by cycle, Alphonso built his own racer, the Boyo Blood. He called it such because with this vehicle he would seek and win his father's approval.

His father's favorite term of endearment was boyo, even to Alphonso's spitfire of an older sister, Catherine. She had achieved her Bloodname in the derby and Alphonso sought the same prize.



Reservoir

Acadia

May 14th, 3018



The loud basal tone, like a foghorn from a wet navy ship, brought Alphonso back to the present. The red light of the ancient lamp illuminated. He prepared himself, both physically and mentally. Literally half the man his father was, Alphonso hung in his straps of the ad hoc frame harness. As a wiry youth, the salvaged torso straps allowed far too much give. His feet were locked into the rocker sliders of the foot control apparatus. His gloved hands held the frame arm grips with white knuckles, one in each hand. Coiled wires ran from the base of the grips to the command consol. Through the mental connection to the Boyo Blood, Alphonso readied the startup procedure. He looked out the heavily scratched alumiglass of his cockpit and watched for the lamp to change colors. What seemed like an eternity, he waited for the circular green lamp to illuminate, the ancient signal for the race to begin.



Red...

Yellow! There it was. Just a few seconds to go.

GREEN!!!



Alphonso hesitated, his mind temporarily blank to the startup procedure for all fusion powered frames. His cobbled together frame didn't have an Artificial Intelligence to handle all of the nitty gritty of frame operation, but that wasn't a problem. They were prohibited anyway, along with overt weaponry. Couldn't be trying to kill the other participants, though accidents did happen. To prevent such “accidents”, the first half of the track was actually twelve independent canyons in the frozen surface of the Acadia, 8th planet in the Reservoir system. The race was 10 kilometers to the finish line and the "crunch” was around the midway point, the point where the independent tracks merged into one. Called the “crunch” because, even in the near lack of the frozen atmosphere, when a half dozen ten-meter-tall multi ton machines collided, an audible crunch sound could be heard from the viewing platforms all along the final stretch of the race. That was where Alphonso had gathered his scrap and parts over the years. When he came back to the here and now, a split second had passed. He took a few deep breaths, remembering his father's training.

Fusion plant ... Ignited. Magnetic bottle ... Stable. Gyroscope ... Steady with 3000 rpms. Gantry locks ... off. He directed the plasma through the cooling coils and powered up his frame. He began to lurch forward before engaging fully the mind machine interface, lending his balance and intelligence to the control circuitry. The machine righted itself as he merged with the frame, the legs kicking forward. Moments later, he was up to speed and winding a path down the icy track.

His dad would see.

His whole family would see.

The universe would see.

Today was the day.

Today was his day.

His name day.

 

[Bullroarer]

Reservoir

Acadia

May 14th, 3018



Alphonso quickly reached the Boyo Blood’s top speed of seventy-five kilometers per hour. Its long legs gouged deep tracks into the frozen rock as it ran down the uneven terrain. Often the pilot would pick their preferred track based their frames interaction with the various aspects of the terrain. Distance, best top speed, length of straightaways, and many, many more. Alphonso selected track six due to the shorter distance and hairpin turns. This was also the track often run by his sister. She had many victories in this track and grilled him mercilessly in his simulations. He was putting that training to use today. The initial straightaway narrowed quickly, the hundred-meter-wide canyon shrinking with each step to a bare half dozen. Deep furrows where racing frames had been driven into the walls by unwary rookie pilots lined both sides of the course. He chuckled as he negotiated the narrowing with ease. This was shaping up to be a fine day for victory. His first hairpin turn was quickly approaching. He slowed only marginally and rotated his machine as he leaned into the turn. Knowing how the ice could form on this particular corner due to the wind and moisture from the gantry nearby, thanks to his sister’s knowledge, he navigated the turn. Using his right arm, he reached out in his cockpit to grab the wall. Due to the miracle of modern frame technology and the mind synchronization software he wrote, the frame mimicked his movements and reached towards the wall. When the hand touched the wall, new furrows were formed below the existing furrows. His sister’s trick worked. He felt a new kinship with Catherine, two pairs of gouges, one above the other. He felt good. He felt right.

Alphonso glanced at the position map indicator and meters left to travel. He was in third, only a half second behind the leader, a frame called Gut Buster from the OTC racing team. He picked up his pace, jarring his spine as he slid his feet back and forth. He wanted a true victory, unassailable from any including his father. He wanted to be first through the crunch and evade the dangers of mortal combat.

The second hairpin turn approached. Despite his sister’s warnings, he didn’t slow. His adrenaline was worked up, as was the growing heat from the power demands from the slightly too small fusion plant. The frost from last night melted off of the surfaces of the cockpit and controls and quickly evaporated. As before, he reached out to grab the wall with his hand. He saw the furrows of his sister’s frame. Confident, he also lined up his grip. The frame’s arm extended, as before. Closer and closer he approached. Unnoticed by Alphonso, his speed hadn’t slowed. He drifted slightly to the right. When he entered the turn, tips rather than the whole of the hand touched the wall. He missed the grab. He failed to perform the trick. He didn’t connect. A fraction of a second passed before Alphonso attempted to control the quickly unbalancing Boyo Blood.

Alphonso leaned deeper into the turn, hoping his feet dug into the ground to prevent a full speed collision with the opposite wall. Deep trenches formed as the multi-ton machine pivoted into to the turn. He extended his right arm, hoping the servos and musculature of the Boyo Blood would absorb some of the force if he was unsuccessful. He was not.

Alphonso, loosely held in place in the frame by his straps, shifted in the cockpit under the strain of the new, unexpected forces subjecting his body. His software mistranslated the movement of his body as a lean. Fear ran through his mind. In an instant his frame lost balance and crashed into the wall of the canyon. The screech of metal and ceramic upon stone reverberated throughout the frame. Like a bartender mixing a drink by hand, Alphonso shook as he rolled, first along the wall, then upon the narrow canyon floor. His helmeted head struck the console, severing his link to his machine while simultaneously bloodying his nose. The metallic taste of copper filled his mouth as warm liquid dripped down his chin.

He screamed at himself as well as the world. “How could I be so stupid”, he thought. He had practiced that turn dozens of times, knowing he needed to slow and slide left slightly in the track. He quickly reestablished his mind link and began to asses his machine. Only minimal armor damage and no servo damage, thanks be to Goradon. Even though he wasn’t a particularly religious man, Alphonso was thankful. When he emerged victorious, he would make a suitable offering on the family’s alter. Unnoticed by neither the computer nor Alphonso was the small leak around the canopy seal, leaking atmosphere from the cockpit out into the greater frozen wasteland that was the surface of Acadia.

Quickly negotiating his limbs, he got his feet under himself and stood back up. Once erect, he began to accelerate. He had lost time, now in the middle of the pack. This began to bother him. Like several others, he was concerned he would become involved in the crunch. He hurried, unlocking the servo safeties and pushed his machine past his safe optimal speed.

Several easier turns were navigated with no mistakes, the temperature rising in the cockpit. Sweat began to pour down his back and neck, unnoticed. His speed in the final portion of the first half of the race was close. Like himself, most of the other pilots had increased their speed and were within a fraction of a second between each other. This was shaping up to be a bigger crunch than last week’s race.

The collective force from all dozen multi ton racing frames travelling at almost one hundred kilometers per hour was a number in Newtons displayed on the forty-meter-tall multiscreen tower above the crunch zone, known as the Crunch-o-Tron. This was, after all, the highlight of the race, even more so than the final victor. Last weeks victor was displayed, dragging itself across the finish line.

Hurtling down the final ramp, Alphonso pushed his body in the sweltering heat of the frame cockpit. This was nothing like the cool simulators, even when he was running his simulated frame hot. He had never pushed his weak body this hard. Muscles strained from the repetitive motions of simulated running. His father’s words began to resonate in the back of his mind. Doubts began to form before he pushed them away. All he needed to do was beat the rush, be first through the crunch. Escape the twisted horror he had spent so many afternoons cleaning up. Just a little more…



Laeoric watched from his family’s skybox above the stands, his stoic face almost masking his fear for his son. The rest of the Dark Wolves whooped and cheered for the Boyo Blood, hoping he would make the final push through the crunch or fall behind and dance through the wreckage. Both of his beloved ladies held onto his arms as they sat in a doubly hulled and insulated skybox section above the rest of the family, the pressure mounting on his forearms and biceps as he gripped the arms of the over padded chair he sat upon. Catherine sat beside her father, opposite her mother, Felicia. Despite the stoicism displayed by all three, their collective white knuckles betrayed their emotions as the crowd below roared to a fever pitch in contrast to the silence within the box. On his personal monitors, a drone camera preceded the Boyo Blood, complete with vital statistics and technical readouts linked to the mainframe computer onboard his son’s frame. To his sharp eye, he saw the leak from the canopy as well as the dropping pressure in the cockpit, slight as it was.

He hoped his son would pass out from the exertion so as to avoid what the brutish term the crunch described. He had seen such things before, when his daughter raced, but took solace in the fact she knew well enough to avoid those encounters, choosing to lose a race rather than suffer the mortal combat that ensued. It seemed his son was not such a tactical thinker, especially as his blood oxygen levels fell below ninety percent. He was red lining, pushing himself and his machine past what was safe, hoping to beat the pack and come out ahead. As the Boyo Blood reached the intersection, so did half a dozen other machines, all with the same goal. Laeoric held his breath, as did Catherine and Felicia.



Alphonso was baking alive as he struggled to keep up his pace. He had never practiced the red line sprint, thinking he would be able to win with his wits and skill rather than the raw physicality his father trumpeted. His vision began to blur as he began to feel short of breath. Undaunted, he pushed himself faster. Ignoring the race display flashing red, which had been flashing for some time, he gave his all in the final stretch of a few hundred meters before entering the clear intersection. He was elated, high on adrenaline. He was going to do it. He was going to beat the pack and avoid the crunch. As he gave the fullest his body could push, he entered the midpoint intersection. His sweat soaked body tingled, floating in elation and euphoria. Then it happened. The dreaded sound of the crunch echoed through his body. His good feeling slipped away along with his balance. His straps strained as he shook within his cockpit, loud concussions battered his spent body. Once, twice, thrice, his body shook, the cacophony of the Crunch reverberating through his teeth. Then the sounds stopped. The sky suddenly filled his canopy. He felt the slight rotation as the ground came rushing into view. Then the darkness overwhelmed him.



Laeoric watched in horror as another frame crashed into his sons. With its hands clenched, the frame known as Gut Buster punched through the left flank of Boyo Blood, spilling cooling fluid and plasma across the canyon track before it froze. The sudden shock slowed both just a fraction, but enough for a larger Atlatl frame to catch up and toss the two smaller frames aside. The Gut Buster collided with the canyon wall; a pink mist exploded out of the bulbous cockpit seams before collapsing to the track ground. The Boyo connected with another trailing frame, the head assembly ejected as the dying carcass of the Boyo Blood crumpled around the smaller racing frame, bringing both down. Nearly two seconds later, the egg-like head holding Alphonso impacted outside of the canyon, a small puff of smoke and gasses escaped.

Both Catherine and Felicia leaped from their seats, rushing towards the express elevator. Laeoric, often in life and death situations, instead pressed his earbud communication device. “Yeah, boss?” the voice on the other end replied to the call nearly instantly. Laeoric, composed as was his usual in high stress events, said one phrase, “Broken stick.”

One second of dead air passed before the voice responded. It said, “They’re on their way, Sir.” Laeoric cut the line and followed his family to the elevator, both waiting for the car. They looked at him expectantly. “I had a plan for this. Dark Wolves med evac was on standby at the edge of the track. They will take him to our Dropship and their trauma medical ward. If he lived, he will be fine.”

The relief that shown on both of their faces calmed them all down, hearts racing beginning to slow. The family dropship, Wolf’s Den, had some of the most advanced medical facilities in the Kingdom as well as the most experienced and talented staff in the system. For Laeoric, nothing was too good for his warriors. Even medical care. Especially medical care.

 

[Bullroarer]

Reservoir system

Orbit of Vice

Hallway of the Star Traveller

May 20th, 3018



Chuan scowled in disgust. Oily deck plates merged with filthy wall panels, where such existed. The ship itself looked like it had been well used for a few years at least. Scratch that, she thought. This ship was at least as old as Chuan… possibly more. MANY more. A horror-show of Admiralty infractions lodged itself in her mental ledger. Rubbish, dents, missing wall panels. A quick glance to her side as she accompanied showed minimally functioning solar sails. All in all, Chuan felt screwed. Not the pleasant sort, the worse sort.

Jimmy stood with Chuan just outside the command deck, chuckling a little. "I still can't believe you bought this pile of junk for five million. Probably could have held out for a different ship at that price," he commented. Not to be bullied again, Chuan lifted her pronounced chin half an inch. “This is the one I wanted,” she replied defiantly. Jimmy shrugged with a half-smile before continuing his tour and explanation, "So, pretty par for the course for a first generation Invictus. It has the drive functioning, but not the Wolfleonium power core sheath nor the Hexaaxium drives or batteries. In short, it barely flies.” Jimmy continued, "I could never tell if this was a deliberate design choice by the last Captain or she just sucked at maintaining the ship."

"First off, this ship runs as smooth as any fancy ship from the Admiralty, even with the missing solar sails. And second, what do you mean ... last ... Captain? " A voice asked from behind the two. It started annoyed, typical of this human female, but at the mention of last Captain, the voice had turned into a violent hiss.

Jimmy groaned, turning around to see the anthropomorphized reptilian woman. A little under 6-foot-tall and build from head to toe specifically to rend flesh from bone, the creature before Jimmy screamed horror. Zelsu was a dragonette, a sub class of gene engineered clones from reptile stock grafted upon human genomes. Favored for either war or menial labors by the rich, rarely were they allowed their freedom. This one owed him for her freedom, regardless of what she thought, but Jimmy knew he must handle her carefully. No sense in losing his life over this creature, yet he must keep her in check. Jimmy quickly assessed the situation and formed a plan. To Zelsu, Jimmy just blinked once, a long slow blink. He followed with one word, spoken in a quiet tone. “Zelsu.”

She backed down a little, lowering her head before Jimmy’s large bulk hid behind a cheap suit. Jimmy, recognizing the submission, let the disrespect pass. He said, “I've told you already. This ship isn't yours anymore. There is a reason it is called repossession and…," jimmy said, abruptly cut off.

"And I told you I would pay my debt! You haven't even given me a chance and your selling it to this … human!?" The woman snapped back. Jimmy, unwilling to let the second disrespect slide, took his meaty paw and slapped the smaller creature across the face. Surprised by the telegraphed blow, Zelsu collapsed to the floor. She felt the blow reverberate through her body, jarring her teeth and dazing her senses. She saw the blow coming. How could she not. He moved slow, even for a human. But he was strong. Strong enough to break bones with his bare hands. And proud. She knew she would get at least a blow, if not a hospitalization, from disrespecting Jimmy in front of his boys. She knew she should submit. She knew her life depended upon her next action.

She submitted, staying upon her back, long tail wrapped around her legs. Jimmy was satisfied by the creature forced low before him. He placed an oversized Brogue on her long neck before continuing with his explanation. The pressure of a mountain of muscle and fat emphasized his point, both about humans in general and him specifically.

"Well, this 'human' bought the ship and cleared your debt. You’re a liability, and you’re lucky she did buy it, or the boys would have probably taken this debt out of your hide, and not in the fun way," Jimmy retaliated.

"Oh, and I suppose I should be so grateful?”, Zelsu snapped back. Jimmy bore down once before letting her back up. The threat was real. Cross Jimmy again in front of his subordinates would end her life. Still freshly enraged and terrified, Zelsu turned her ire upon Chuan. “So how much you buy it for, human?" Zelsu asked, putting her fists on her hips.

"Five bloody million bloody Werners, and a night of you know what." Chuan replied. "So … you have a choice ... Zelsu was it? Stay a board, help me get this … businessman … his money so we can be free and clear, or watch him peel both our hides. From personal experience, he has a heavy hand with a riding crop, and I wouldn't want to make him angry, now or later."

Chuan extended her hand to the previous owner, now possibly her employee or, hopefully, a friend. "Can we work together and keep flying, Zelsu?" She asked the tall reptilian woman. The reptilian looked at the hand offered, scrunching up her face. The fox woman could see this was far from a prospect that pleased the ex-captain. Barring her teeth, she finally responded. "I get to keep my room?” To Zelsu, the human smelling woman before her looked every bit a short, earth-fox shaped woman. Digitigrade legs, thick dark fur, fluffy opposable tail, and open mammalian ears atop her head. Chuan responded, "Fine with me, Zelsu. I just want to fly." Besides, she thought, there was no telling what that creature had hiding in her room. Chuan, still with hand extended, asked, "Can we bury the hatchet pulled from your back by my auction bid and work together?"

The woman growled but took the hand. “Fine … but screw me over and it'll be my teeth buried in your neck you'll have to worry about," she warned. She had such a warm and pleasant personality, thought Chuan. Wisely, she kept that tid bit to herself. "I would expect nothing less, Zelsu." Chuan replied, firmly shaking her hand. Glancing over to Jimmy, Chuan said, "I suppose you will want to get off my ship now, Jimmy. If you want your money, we have a lot of work to do to get that money. So, I suggest you GET OFF MY FUCKING SHIP!"

Jimmy, more interested in getting his money than getting some tail, turned and walked off towards the shuttle bay, two thugs in tow. "Good luck, ladies. You're gonna need it. Hard universe out there. Call me if you want another loan, Yates." With that, the two women were alone in the hallway in front of the command center for the Star Traveller.

Zelsu was quiet for a moment before turning to Chuan. "So... What do you plan on doing to the ship? I take it you’re not a fan of the dark?" She asked, looking at the light pouring in from the main hatch. Chuan said, "Well, lights would be a good start. Getting some clients to pay for transport would be the next.". Zelsu rolled her eyes, her most human action so far. Zelsu said, "I pick the lights. I'm not going to blind myself every time I walk into a room on this ship." Chuan laughed, nodding. Chuan had hope now. Not much, but a little was better than none.

 

[Bullroarer]

Reservoir System

Orbit of Vice

Star Traveller



Chuan sat in the galley, "brand new" red lights put in, casting the stainless-steel countertops a bloody hue. Zelzu certainly had a sick sense of décor, she thought. She was looking over a few ads for dropships on her V-pad 43. None of the drop ships looked particularly... pretty. All were military surplus, of varying ages. The process was familiar to her, despite the prices and the appearances being of great variety. Once upon a time, she worked for House Paizenza’s transportation crew before she bought off her debt, followed by a commission in House Virtu’s space navy, a shiny new lieutenant on a ZX-28 cargo hauler. Few knew of her history, or her age. She wore her forty-two years well, thanks to the advanced medicine available to the higher ranked Admiralty. Those had proved themselves worth the investment. She paid several years of salary to acquire longevity procedures. She was more than just vain about her appearance. It was her greatest asset as well as her most dangerous tool, much to the unwary captain or rear admiral’s chagrin. The combination of experience as well as youthful Fox like body and facial structure allowed for so much mischief. Her Genomic modifications were not all of the Admiralty, however. Those physical fox like features were the result of her first owner, a wealthy nobleman with a fetish for anthropomorphized animals. She could remember little of that time other than the pain of both the procedures as well as the desires of her owner. She was glad when one of her older “sisters” lost her mind and ripped out his throat. She didn’t like to dwell on that memory, returning her focus and thoughts back to the here and now.

On the screen sat several promising listings for transport. The Ulysses, a House Virtu military Baron class drop ship transferring from the nadir jump point, The Babsie, an independent Star Union class cargo transport, The Steamy Valleys, a small Tiger class dropship carrying "diplomatic" cargo, and a routine passenger ship listed only as Star Lanes flight 5051 bound for Komodo Prime. She transmitted the appropriate codes to begin docking upon payment of retainer.

Just as Chuan raised her head at finishing the morning business, Zelsu entered the galley. Zelsu opened the large, double sided refrigerator and began to sniff around inside the cold cube. Zelsu, eyes barely open, but observant, absently asked Chuan a question. “Have our fares sorted out?”, she asked. Chuan, a master of admiralty decorum, ignored the underlying comment. She responded with a vague response, “It has been taken care of. We should be ready to cast off with in four hours.”

An unmodified human couldn’t pick up the pheromone transfer between the two women, but they could. Zelsu’s contempt and hate railed against Chuan’s indifference and confidence, bolts of lightning crossing the intervening space yet not disturbing the calm surface of Chuan’s favorite drink, Iced sweet caocao. Chuan took a sip of the spiced drink, the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting upwards. Zelsu glared as she took a bite out of a cold shoulder of mutton.

Chuan replied to her bosun and de facto first mate’s unspoken question. "I suppose we should settle on our articles of agreement as soon as we are underway, and I believe we should take on five hundred tons of foodstuffs of your choice. Unless you have any particular preference of fares, I think we should accept The Ulysses, The Steamy Valleys, and the Star Lanes passenger ship. They ought to pay the most."

Zelsu began to stalk off, growling about the new order of command. Chuan, unruffled, responded to the attitude. Chuan said, “I expect you to get those goods secured, Zelsu.”

Zelsu stopped, then turned and saluted Chuan with a crisp, if badly executed hand motion, clawed fist to chest. “Then I shall buy the goods for delivery right away and inform the captains that we will provide their transport needs, for a reasonable price. Especially the Baron." Zelsu replied to Chuan. “I'm gonna make those pigs pay through the nose”, she thought. Zelsu turned around again and began to walk away. Chuan smiled before stopping Zelsu with a final question. Chuan challenged, “You are ex-military as well, are you not?”

“I am.” Replied Zelsu.

"Well, we are both out now, aren't we?" Chuan responded.

Zelsu said, "For better or for worse."

Chuan smiled, “Then I suppose we should both do our best, in all areas of life. It wouldn’t do for us to tear at each other when those men would enjoy nothing more than to watch while placing bets or filming for some other nefarious reasons.”

Zelsu didn’t respond. She didn’t need too. Her scent spoke volumes. Hate turned to confusion.



"You are cleared for docking, Steamy Valleys." Chuan responded to the hail from the last of the docking dropships. "Zelsu, begin retracting to sails so we can get under way."

Zelsu activated the hydroponic booms, hearing the squeak and grind of the booms retracting into the sides of the Invictus class ship. “Please don't break now, goddammit”, she thought. With the income promised in escrow for this first jump into Virtu held space, The Star Traveller would make its first payment to Jimmy -- on-time – IF they could get underway.

Those Kingdom bastards angered her no end, but their credit was always good. A bonus was to be paid if they could get the Ulysses to its destination. No sense in letting good credits lie on the floor. "Setting course for Epsilon Prime, Zelsu. Let me know when we are able to get under way." Chuan asked. the trip to the Komodo system would take several jumps, as crossing from the core of the Kingdom of Vice and Virtue to the Xriptillian Empire was no small trip. Following established trade routes was safest, as Chuan was still unsure about the reliability of the sails and the drive. Jumping into an uninhabited system could save them time, and money, but if a system failed, they would be up shit's creek without a paddle. Just because she thought the Star Traveller was tip top didn't mean such was so. With only two thirds of their sails operational, recharging the batteries would take longer. Longer meant possible greater delays, with increased costs, or worse, cost them freight. A difficult choice, but for this voyage, Chuan would err on the side of caution. Take the extra time, at least until they have the money to replace the damaged sails.



"Just give me a minute, she's being prissy," Zelsu responded over the comms net. "You just had to be a big I'm uncultured, didn't you? Couldn't just work for once the first, could you?" Zelsu growled, trying to get the mechanism to start moving again with a pipe. It took a moment and some good yanking, but the sail assembly retractor came free, relieving the squealing that was heard moments before. The cable began to retract, all systems green.

With no other delays or mechanical issues, the sails were stowed within the hour. Powering the Fold drive from the Lithium Ion batteries, in a moment time and space warped. Reality folded in on itself, over and over, moving without moving. Mild disorientation and dizziness washed over Chuan, a normal reaction to Foldship transportation for her. A kalidescope of colors danced across her vision, the greens blending with violets and reds. Her breathe stopped, along with time. Fingers elongated towards the path of travel, then her whole body followed. Even in a a null gravity environment, a sense of movement caressed her inner ear. Moments before she felt her iced caocao rushing to escape her stomach, Blackness overcame her. Instantly, the Star Traveller leaped across light-years, arriving at Epsilon Prime. Zelsu, in the time necessary to translate from Reservoir to Epsilon Prime, had meandered her way up to the bridge. She watched as Chuan vomited on herself, brown liquid staining her glistening fur. Sitting herself down at one of the empty bridge consoles, unphased by the faster than light travel, Zelsu smiled. There was weakness to be exploited.







31st, January, 3018 GST

Epsilon Prime System

Nadir Fold Point

Star Traveller

"So, The Empire, huh? This should be entertaining," Zelsu stated, looking over the nav data. "Given the Empire and the Kingdom are currently not on the friendliest terms..." The lizard said, leaning back and putting her strangely shaped legs up, talons wiggling idly. "So, are we going to grab some candy and meats?"

Chuan replied, “I will see if the Ulysses is willing to part with some food stocks in exchange for some credits, but no promises. I don't want to give the spooks here in Epsilon any reason to board and sniff around, especially with our crew. I would like to get across the Kingdom as quickly as possible and without any incident with the local authorities. House Pazienza runs the show around here and they are a quick to pressgang sort of people. With us jumping to the nadir point of Epsilon Prime, we can blend in with the other merchant shipping."

Chuan stood and stretched, her muscles tight from sitting. She began to walk toward the door, her high heels accenting her swaying hips and fluffy tail to nobody. Chuan said, "I will go collect our pay from the Ulysses captain and see about that meat. Please deploy the sails as soon as is prudent. We are above a type V orange, so it will take a little bit longer than i would like."

"Yeah, and about the sails. We are going to need parts. I can probably get some cheap stuff in Empire space, but things are tense on the border. It’s likely the Kingdom is going back to war...they always do... I Just want to haul freight and make a living, maybe even grab a decent husband on the way, if such a thing exists anymore." Chuan replied, with a bit more heat than she intended. The psychological scars of some past trauma were written all over the foxy woman's face, a single tear falling from her face, hidden from view.

Zelsu looked at Chuan, noticing the hitch in her voice, then snorted. "I ate my last husband, so I wouldn't know," She stated, shaking her head.

Chuan grimaced at the thought of Zelsu eating another human being, however evil or distasteful. Refocusing on the problem at hand, Chuan reasoned out loud, "Sounds like I may need to think about where we go from Komodo Prime. With a war brewing, any ship in Empire space is likely to be either destroyed or conscripted into the Empire's navy. Neither is an appealing thought" Chuan stated, her calm demeanor returning. "As for sails and parts, we shall stock up and replace what we can when we get to Komodo Prime."



After returning from collecting their pay from The Ulysses, Chuan tossed Zelsu a thick chocolate bar with Kingdom symbols on it. Zelsu quickly tucked the bar into her jumpsuit, a small amount of saliva dripping onto the floor.

Chuan smiled at the woman, logging the new information into her memory. Knowledge was power, after all, and she was in desperate need of some right now. With the military ship released after paying their fare, the Ulysses began a standard burn towards the second planet in the system. The small Kingdom station nearby queried the Star Traveller, asking if any other ships were disembarking in this system. Chuan responded with an older military code, indicating a continued mid-level diplomatic mission. "The Glenn, another dropship from the league, has offered to dock for one jump, willing to trade supplies and goods rather than currency for transport. Apparently their Foldship is having power stack issues and they need to get to their next job. Maybe we accept and let them dock without sealing the dock collar until we are ready to jump." Chuan replied. Pirates were unlikely, but without the Ulysses attached, their security was far from certain. "How long until we are ready to Fold?" Chuan asked her Bosun.



"78 standard hours. If you want to do a trade transport for goods that's fine by me. If anyone tried anything, I'll just turn off the lights and grab my gun. This is possibly the worst kind of place to fight my kind," Zelsu explained, putting her feet back up. "Might nap a little though. Been meaning to catch one for a while."

Chuan shuddered, remembering a nightmarish scene from a command briefing from a few years ago. "Yeah, let's get some rack time. I will turn in after I get the cargo loaded into the starboard hydroponic bay." Chuan replied.


9th February, 3018

Komodo System

Orbit of Komodo Prime



"This is Star Ttraveller to Imperial orbital station Khelena, requesting permission to maintain course Zulu 43-876, utilizing clearance alpha 4 tango. Personal identification 8773-563-6987" Zelsu said over the radio, waiting for a response.



"Authorization approved Khysze Zelsu Lak'Sivaro. You are cleared to dock, hangar 4, path to your docking station will be lit via your system navigation. Please grant access before proceeding," She returned to her piloting station, to which she complied with what they asked. When the line went dead and their navigation markers were in place, she turned to Chuan and said, “Don’t ask. You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to tell.” Chuan held up her hands, palms outward and said, “None of my business.” Zelsu snorted but said nothing.

The Star Traveller was tugged into place by the station pilot ships and their staff. Magnetic grapples were connected to the well-used hard points of the Star Traveller from the Pier. The piers consisted of long enclosed spokes off the main cluster of moon sized pods containing the main portion of the station. A spiderweb of interconnected access tubes linking many of the piers together. It was chaos for navigation and art to the unaided eye. Chuan, her first time out of Kingdom outside of the military, was awe inspired. Zelsu, jaded from a longer spacer life, snorted at the wonder Chuan displayed. Zelsu got up and tossed a small scrap of cloth to Chuan as she headed towards her quarters. Chuan was startled back to reality and looked at Zelsu confusedly. Zelsu said in passing as she left the command room with a smirk, “You might want to clean off that slobber before you leave. Can’t have our illustrious captain looking the part of the good doggo.” Chuan’s face darkened as well as a loose toolbox appeared heading towards the hatch. The toolbox impacted the quickly closing hatch. A scream of rage exited Chuan, her composure unleashed from her deep subconscious. She would get that lizard. Fire her and leave her here to rot on this station. Unnoticed, a droplet of saliva parted from her soft fur under her muzzle.



Almost two hundred metric tons of cargo rested in the belly of the Star Traveller and would need to be offloaded over the next week. With the increased tariffs levied on Kingdom goods, the taxes were monstrous. With the earnings from the transport of both the Steamy Valleys and Star Lanes flight 5051, Chuan should be able to pay for customs on the goods brought to market as well as docking and repair fees.

Chuan disembarked, as some of the other crew did, and looked upon the Star Traveller up close from outside on the pier. Meteor scoring was clear as was the wear on the sail masts. Like a wheel attached to the axil of a cart, multiple spokes adorned the aft section of the aging Invictus class foldship. One awesome score for a run and already they could afford some badly needed repairs.

The first thing Chuan while traveling towards the main station pods were the people. The orbital station Khelena, like most docking and transfer stations in the known universe, contained a diverse and eclectic population, with a long-term temporary bazaar. Food carts containing every imaginable cuisine abutted dry goods merchants, weapon dealers, and bars. With the open areas containing the goods for sale and transfer, the more permanent sections contained both living quarters as well as the vice of spacers nearly everywhere: ladies of the evening. Crudely crafted signs indicated where the pleasure district was located. Scantily clad dock bunnies directed several recently released crew towards ecstasy and oblivion.

The second was the state of the station itself. Trash littered the cavernous bays, small plastic cups and food wrappers scattered in the corners and in between the cuboid freight containers. The smell of decay blended with the smell of sentience, musk and the sickly sweet of disease. One could almost imagine a variety of animals inhabited the port, not some of the most advanced civilizations ever created.



Most of the freight unloaded onto the ad-hock warehouse on the piers and pods showed the wear and tear of interplanetary commerce, often reused multiple times on a variety of objects. Large square cubes were stacked beside flat, oblong, and round varieties. Refrigeration containers 333 beside hazardous materials. A glorious smorgasbord of capitalism and corruption for those with the funds to feed.

Zelsu walked off the ship and looked around at the public port, scowling at what was around. "Uggh... I always hated this part of the station..." She muttered, baring her teeth a little. Chuan nodded, her first look at this side of the tracks. This would take some getting used to, she thought. Forgotten for the moment was the slight recently received from Zelsu. Chuan electronically signed the bill of ladings for the harbor-master's assistant, duly paid the tariffs and taxes, and made arrangements for the unloading of the freight carried halfway across the known universe. Fortunately, buyers were already lined up for the freight, enough currency promised to repair the Star Traveller as well as to make another monthly payment to Jimmy. Power loader teams began unloading the ship beside the Star Traveller, an indication of the speed and efficiency of the professional dock workers union.











18th February, 3018

Komodo System

Orbital Station Khelena

Chuan sat at one of the cheaper watering holes, far from the docks and storage bays. Firewater idled in her cup, a styrofoam cup melted on a plastic tray beside a glass tumbler and a tall bottle. A few hours before, the local garrison initiated a press gang sweep, collecting her twenty some odd crew for a cruiser being commissioned later that day. A captain without a crew, without any cargo, and a large debt hanging over her head. Pouring two fingers of amber liquid in a tall glass tumbler, she rolled it around for a moment, then knocked it back. Flame burned her throat as she swallowed, choking and gagging for a moment. The poison coursed through her veins, giving her the heady buzz and amnesia, she sought at the bottom of a bottle.She felt the nudge of a nail at her thigh.

"Pardon me." The voice was soft and high pitched, tremulous, though not from age. It belonged to a little mouse of a man who stood about a foot shorter, carrying a walking stick with a strange pattern on the end of it, wrought in what looked like caste iron, and wearing a loose frock which, on further inspection, turned out to be a purple "Idoline!" hoodie. The image of the stylized pop star clashed with the weird staff and strange red eyes, like an oversized field mouse, all white and brown, had poked into a candy wrapper. "I am sorry that I am late, but I had trouble finding you here," he said, his voice not really matching the movement of his mouth.

"Whatchu want wif me?" Chuan replied, the hold of the liquor taking root in her brain. She must be crazy, talking to a oversized mouse, especially in a noisy bar on some shit space port. She had seen a lot of strange things, but surely this must be a side effect of the booze. She turned to the mouse, her stomach suddenly churning, a boiling pit of hellfire and brimstone. Around an incoherent phrase she attempted to say, the drunken vixen vomited in the direction of the oversized rodent. Somehow or other, none of it got on him. He must be a quick sort of person. It ended up before him and on both sides of him. He looked down at the little puddle of puke, and then up at the Captain, and she got the feeling that he was resigning himself to something - likely smelling her vile odor for the foreseeable future. She must smell like rubbing alcohol and bile.

"I need to be on your ship," he said, "I am replacing you."

"Yoor a silly little mousy, aren't you?" Chuan replied, just before the darkness of alcohol poisoning overcame her. She knew no more, not even as she collapsed into the unusually strong arms of the tiny mouse man. He shook his head once again, his thoughts his own.

 

[Bullroarer]

Reservoir

Vice

The King’s Deck



To: The Preeminent

From: the humblest Xir 4831

First contact report:

This Xir has arrived in the assigned region of observation. As per the great plan, I have settled in a densely populated space of a species that calls itself Umanity and begun to observe, catalogue, and analyze. To blend in better, I have obtained a permit to observe in exchange for menial labor. The proprietor of a most curious place called a “watering hole” has allowed my presence as a defender of the establishment and its patrons. I expect I will gather much knowledge from the observation of the many oddities of these savage and unevolved species that frequent this space.

There are several transplanted species, non-native to this region of space. They acquired simplistic faster than light travel and have used this to colonize and spread their genetics across this region. The most numerous are a peculiar mammalian species calling themselves Umanity. They seem to prefer applying crude genetic modifications to a subset of their population, though the selection criterion is clouded in mystery at this time. This is a point I will endeavor to unearth in my extended stay here amongst the Umanity.

Umanity also contains a fair amount of basic technologies which I will catalogue in some form over the next few cycles of revolution in this system. Of note is their fascination with crude large metallic servitor bipedal vehicles called “frames”. These objects are often worshiped by the Umanity, occupying a great amount of time by the priests that coax these creations to life as well as the masses that watch various sporting events involving these vehicles. One often discussed event in my first several rotations of time at the watering hole is the Vendetta.

This event is apparently how this species resolves dispute between tribes of Umanity. It is very brutal and simple as expected of the savage mind of the unevolved mammalian. Representatives of the two disagreeing tribes participate in a structured combat where the victor of the combat is declared the just plaintiff in the case before their arbiter. It seems quite commonplace for the tribe to have favorites as the more well known a combatant is, the more often they have their own worshipers. This lowly Xir will endeavor to learn more about this oddity of Umanity culture.

Other species also inhabit the settlement selected as a starting point of my observational journey with their own quirks of uniqueness. Their interviews were quite fascinating. They are too many to list here but will be part of the raw data packet designated tk.42.1.1977.