Vudukudu
Farseer to the Warsong Clan
In 2783, Saratoga Station's construction was completed, and the completion of recruitment for its two million crew and residential staff signified its ready status. The massive station, designed as a central spire surrounded by five rings, each connected by a massive network of elevators, mag-rail stations, and service tunnels, was built to support and sustain a population of 4 million indefinitely. To say it is the greatest feat of mankind is to trivialize it; God could not have done better.
But there is no God on Saratoga; not anymore. When the station launched from its dock above Scepter, the capital of Uranus, its massive engines roaring above the fanfare of a crowd of billions, there was hope.
But there is no hope on Saratoga; not anymore. When Saratoga broke free of the Sol System, cradling the bravest pioneers humanity has ever birthed, communications briefly failed. In a day's time, mankind released its bated breath; a focusing crystal had broken, the ansible had lost power, and the crew had resolved the issue. There was relief.
But there is no relief on Saratoga; not anymore. It is now 3012. The station's population has reached an estimated 20 million. The station is falling apart, and virtually no one knows how to rebuild it. Order has broken down; sections of the rings are cordoned off from one another, held as gang territory. The police, but for the idyllic, isolated section 12A, no longer exist; the last remnants of their existence is in the worn, re-branded badges of the gangs they once fought and the stolen armor and weapons now brandished by common thugs. Thousands starve in the streets, tearing rusty metal from the walls to build their shanty villages with. A plague, called the Growth, is wiping out hundreds in mere days and no cure has been discovered for forty years. Its symptoms, including liver failure and a bile-spewing cough, all come second to the most visible one; a few black, tumor-like growths on the neck and face.
Saratoga is hell. There is no getting around it. Man tried to build a world as their gods had before; we failed. Now, the 20 million souls aboard Saratoga must pay the price.
But there is no God on Saratoga; not anymore. When the station launched from its dock above Scepter, the capital of Uranus, its massive engines roaring above the fanfare of a crowd of billions, there was hope.
But there is no hope on Saratoga; not anymore. When Saratoga broke free of the Sol System, cradling the bravest pioneers humanity has ever birthed, communications briefly failed. In a day's time, mankind released its bated breath; a focusing crystal had broken, the ansible had lost power, and the crew had resolved the issue. There was relief.
But there is no relief on Saratoga; not anymore. It is now 3012. The station's population has reached an estimated 20 million. The station is falling apart, and virtually no one knows how to rebuild it. Order has broken down; sections of the rings are cordoned off from one another, held as gang territory. The police, but for the idyllic, isolated section 12A, no longer exist; the last remnants of their existence is in the worn, re-branded badges of the gangs they once fought and the stolen armor and weapons now brandished by common thugs. Thousands starve in the streets, tearing rusty metal from the walls to build their shanty villages with. A plague, called the Growth, is wiping out hundreds in mere days and no cure has been discovered for forty years. Its symptoms, including liver failure and a bile-spewing cough, all come second to the most visible one; a few black, tumor-like growths on the neck and face.
Saratoga is hell. There is no getting around it. Man tried to build a world as their gods had before; we failed. Now, the 20 million souls aboard Saratoga must pay the price.
