SYSNES2: On the Lathe of Suns
- Thread starter Disenfrancised
- Start date
General Release: 4976 Goods and Services Catalogue
Resources: Demand for volatiles is on the rise, beings! Stockpile now, to spend or sell at a profit later! Prices start at 1.5e/v, shipping costs will depend on your distance from the pumping stations of SAH7 VII. Contact Hank-Sobor now for free consultation!
Buy Ships: Ever wanted a ship of your own? Tired of always having to rent? The price may be steep, but if you pay for the best, well make it for you and deliver it to your doorstep, or in orbit directly above your doorstep if you would prefer to not have your living area crushed. We offer Teller-Class Sober III Haulers for 200e, and Wild Blue-Class Couriers for 100e. If you want to exchange resources or deals of other sorts instead of money, then we can negotiate on a case by case basis at your convenience!
Rent Tonnage: Gather around, governments, businesspeople and budget vacationers alike! Make use of our fine vessels to transport goods and persons anywhere*. Please, take a moment to look over sites with available shipping today!
ABELL: One Teller-class hauler currently in Heya (Oia B) Space! 50e for a years usage! Exploratory Capacity! Defensive systems! 48 cargo space! Its a steal of a deal!
SAF2: One Wild Blue-class courier in Torpor Space at SAF2! 20e for a years usage!
SIGMA RELAY: Two Wild Blue-class couriers at Hearthfire! 20e each for a years usage!
*For certain definitions of 'anywhere'. Areas that are selected simply to be deliberately obtuse or to test the limits of the system will be significantly more expensive to access.
Symphony D.
Deity
P.S. I make headers if you can describe/give a background and specify a font you like.
qoou
Emperor
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2007
- Messages
- 1,991
Due to the Quasi's breaking of the Treaty of Atooa, the Yanii will recall the Socioarcheologist sent to Salvador as per the terms of the treaty in UC 4977. We must do so, but hope that Salvador-Yan relationships will not deteriorate any further as a result.
Symphony D.
Deity
Derp derp. Carry on.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Showdown, Part 1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPvDiu_qYBQ&feature=related
Landborn or shipborn, we all start out the same way: Floating. For those like me, it just lasted a little longer after birth. Not good for kids, but we were lucky to have rad shielding as good as we got. Torus shelters and the luxury of muscle-building gravity was for big clans, Commodores' families.
My generation didn’t know any other life but the Migration. We’ve got maps and memorabilia and grainy old recordings from Old Standard, but we didn’t live it. Didn’t trudge through the snows of the Flint Mountains, nor stand on the cliffs of Zebulon’s Sea. My generation was raised on memories we never had and a war we never fought. Maybe that’s why we’re all so angry.
It was hard, growing up. Plenty of clans like mine fractured because of shipborn life. More than once a cargo hold was turned into a warzone, crates of chickpeas and drums of lubricants becoming barricades and shelters. My pa’ took me to a shootout when I was eight. Taught me how to recognize the pull of a gun and correct for it. That was the second best lesson he taught me. The best was “Don’t be a drunk,” though that was more of a show and tell type thing. He died when I was twelve.
Why am I recording this? Oh, I don’t know. If any member of the Common clan cares to know the story of her mother or cousin, how she got here, and what she fought for, it might make a difference. My voice can be a guide to some little girl or boy growing up, a guide that I sure as hell didn’t ever have.
---
Four years into the Great Stakeout, as most of them called it, the dusty border outpost called Trip’s Hollow was a ghost town. The bank, saloon, and charging station were the only real businesses left. The men camped outside the ramshackle buildings, forbidden to occupy abandoned structures because of their commander’s orders. Rolling hills of sagebrush beyond were disturbed only by the endless drone of a grasshopper-cicada analogue and the occasional rustle of a small mammal scurrying through the undergrowth.
They had a real decent camp. A bladerunning bowl of sorts, though they had to make do with roller skates and foam bats. Quiet, disciplined men manned the sentry towers, but the only time you’d ever see them was an occasional flash of light reflecting off long-range sniper optics. There were many such quiet, disciplined men working the Fleet’s jobs, quelling their reservations behind a strict sense of duty. Their commander preferred the relative tranquility of the front to, as her men put it, “cracking skulls and kissing babies” in Airharbor.
Provisioner-General Common sat on her cot, hunched over a transmitter that provided, for five minutes every month, a grainy black and white audiovisual of someone’s face in Buxe. Quite the piece of technology.
“My command is over,” Commodore Felix rasped.
“It’s a lifetime post,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“Trev lost the vote for the treaty re-negotiation, and he called out Rani and her lackeys in open session, in front of all the captains, for their shortsightedness.”
Kia cussed up a storm that brought a guard’s head poking through the tent flap before she waved him off. “Abandoning the treaty is practically a declaration of war! I can barely hold things down here even WITH the treaty!”
The Commodore’s voice was flat. “There were consequences. Our clan got hit last night. Lewiston is in ruins, and three of my blood’s taken the lonely road.”
Common closed her eyes. “So it is war.”
“No,” said Felix emphatically. “No blood feuds, not after we’ve worked so hard for some stability. Trev is resigning his post, and I’m following him.”
“You CAN’T!” she practically screamed. “That’s what they want!”
“I’m an old man, Kia, and my family’s bleeding. They made their point well enough.”
“I’ll resign as well, then,” she said.
“That won’t do a whit of good. You’ve got your men to think of, and even the hardliners on the Council are afraid to touch you. They might hate you on Abell, but you’re popular on Reliance. They call you ‘The Peacemaker.’”
“Well, that’s over now. No treaty, no peace.” She set her face in a grim expression. “Is the Fleet coming?”
“I…don’t know anything. They have plans to conquer Abell, conquer the Vale, bomb Larsilla itself. Endless planning, but no plan, if you take my meaning. But they mean to fight.”
“For the love of Elric, why?”
“The Valk are keeping our ships in the air.” His voice was strained. “We don’t have a choice anymore.”
“Get some rest, Felix,” Kia said simply.
“Unlikely. I’ve got a town to rebuild before I die. Godspeed, Kia.”
She wasn’t the sort to bury her head in her hands, but certainly felt like it. Instead Common stood up. She’d need to order new scouting patrols if the Fleet was finally forcing her hand to open war, and requisition new supplies and weapons from the locals. Countless times the ‘offensives’ she’d reported to the Council had been non-lethal stealth missions to prevent the Basin-folk from massacring more Mernt. But that was all going to change now.
One of her captains, Mav Mundane, gave her a toothy grin as she stepped out into the circle of tents used by the higher officers. “You look like you got cancer. I can have the boys cut it out if you want.” He guffawed.
“Not in the mood, Mav,” she shot back.
He raised his eyebrows, surprised more than offended. “Usually you like your talks with old Grandpa Felix.”
“Yeah well, not this time.” She wasn’t going to be the one to break the news about the hit on Lewiston. Commodore Felix was a beloved symbol to most military men, so half her captains would be shouting for blood, and she didn’t want to have to deal with that right now.
“Glad I don’t have your job. Anyhow some strange foreign folk drove up in a fancy veto, saying they were some kind of negotiators. We stripped it for parts and threw them in the old dry well.”
“WHAT?”
“Hahah, I’m just kidding. About the well, we seriously did strip their veto. They’re waiting for you at the saloon, we’ve got ‘em under guard.”
Kia groaned. It was bad enough having to protect foreigners from getting lynched in Airharbor, but out here in the badlands, anything could happen to them. Part of her grudgingly admired that they’d even gotten this far.
“Wonder what they want,” she finally said gruffly.
“Well, you are the queen of the planet, oh great leader.” He gave a little mocking bow.
“Queens have people for this bullcrap,” she grumbled, but stalked off to see them anyways. In fact, her men had them trussed up on the porch of the saloon, looking mighty uncomfortable. There were two men: A Css’erian, looking pale, frail, and “fashionably dressed” whatever that was supposed to mean. The other dwarfed him considerably, and its unique build had been described to her by the Fleet’s intelligence men, but she’d never seen it before. The thing had been staring at her in a, “I only choose to allow these bonds to hold me” sort of way. It was a Praxzen.
“Alright, you found me,” she said.
The moon man sniffed, trying and failing to muster some bravado. “My name is Fakir Tarrias. Is it customary to strip-search a privileged emissary of the Css’erian Confederacy, and then to abscond with his personal items?”
Kia stroked her chin, trying not to laugh at him while he sweated under the heat of the noonday sun in his starched suit. “Well, sir, the security situation being what it is, you could have been a…partisan of the enemy.” Her lips curved downward, avoiding a smile. “I’m sure you understand.”
“My credentials have regrettably been confiscated, but I ASSURE you that my mission, as all missions of the Republic, is peaceful in nature, and furthermore,”
“I get it,” she cut him off. “And what’s your story?” she said to the Praxzen-thing.
“I’m with him,” it said, and grinned in a highly unsettling way.
“Okaay then.”
“Before being harassed in such an execrable fashion, I had been instructed by my government to tender you a proposal of utmost discretion.” said Fakir.
She looked at the Praxzen. “What is this about?”
“I’m just a factfinder,” it finally said. “But I have some leeway to make agreements on behalf of my government. My colleague wants to make you an offer that has my support.”
She narrowed her eyes. “First off, I’m the Provisioner-General of Abell. I’m not the Fleet. Second, we don’t take kindly to foreign ‘offers,’ since they usually come with foreign strings.” Kia would have spat at the foot of the Css’erian to show him what she thought of his money, but she had to set an example for her men.
“Our interests align,” said the Css’erian. “Your commanders are driving you towards a war you do not want, and cannot win. Unlike the Migration, however, this is an avoidable crisis…if the relevant parties take discreet action.”
The Provisioner-General folded her arms. “You’ve just proposed I commit treason. Propose it again and I will have you shot.”
The Praxzen’s skin shifted from tan to a deep umber, causing some of her men to cry out in surprise and take a step back. Radiating heat, it snapped the metal handcuffs, standing to its full height. Her guards took aim, but Kia raised a hand to stop them from shooting.
“I’d heard that Commodore Elric governed with the people’s consent,” it said. “Perhaps I was misinformed.”
Kia said nothing to this, because there was nothing to say.
“If you feel like speaking with us further,” it continued, “my card.” It held out a wafer-thin black business card with a single silver square set in the middle. She took it.
“You have forty-eight hours to get off my planet.”
“Thank you for your time, Provisioner-General Common.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPvDiu_qYBQ&feature=related
Landborn or shipborn, we all start out the same way: Floating. For those like me, it just lasted a little longer after birth. Not good for kids, but we were lucky to have rad shielding as good as we got. Torus shelters and the luxury of muscle-building gravity was for big clans, Commodores' families.
My generation didn’t know any other life but the Migration. We’ve got maps and memorabilia and grainy old recordings from Old Standard, but we didn’t live it. Didn’t trudge through the snows of the Flint Mountains, nor stand on the cliffs of Zebulon’s Sea. My generation was raised on memories we never had and a war we never fought. Maybe that’s why we’re all so angry.
It was hard, growing up. Plenty of clans like mine fractured because of shipborn life. More than once a cargo hold was turned into a warzone, crates of chickpeas and drums of lubricants becoming barricades and shelters. My pa’ took me to a shootout when I was eight. Taught me how to recognize the pull of a gun and correct for it. That was the second best lesson he taught me. The best was “Don’t be a drunk,” though that was more of a show and tell type thing. He died when I was twelve.
Why am I recording this? Oh, I don’t know. If any member of the Common clan cares to know the story of her mother or cousin, how she got here, and what she fought for, it might make a difference. My voice can be a guide to some little girl or boy growing up, a guide that I sure as hell didn’t ever have.
---
Four years into the Great Stakeout, as most of them called it, the dusty border outpost called Trip’s Hollow was a ghost town. The bank, saloon, and charging station were the only real businesses left. The men camped outside the ramshackle buildings, forbidden to occupy abandoned structures because of their commander’s orders. Rolling hills of sagebrush beyond were disturbed only by the endless drone of a grasshopper-cicada analogue and the occasional rustle of a small mammal scurrying through the undergrowth.
They had a real decent camp. A bladerunning bowl of sorts, though they had to make do with roller skates and foam bats. Quiet, disciplined men manned the sentry towers, but the only time you’d ever see them was an occasional flash of light reflecting off long-range sniper optics. There were many such quiet, disciplined men working the Fleet’s jobs, quelling their reservations behind a strict sense of duty. Their commander preferred the relative tranquility of the front to, as her men put it, “cracking skulls and kissing babies” in Airharbor.
Provisioner-General Common sat on her cot, hunched over a transmitter that provided, for five minutes every month, a grainy black and white audiovisual of someone’s face in Buxe. Quite the piece of technology.
“My command is over,” Commodore Felix rasped.
“It’s a lifetime post,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“Trev lost the vote for the treaty re-negotiation, and he called out Rani and her lackeys in open session, in front of all the captains, for their shortsightedness.”
Kia cussed up a storm that brought a guard’s head poking through the tent flap before she waved him off. “Abandoning the treaty is practically a declaration of war! I can barely hold things down here even WITH the treaty!”
The Commodore’s voice was flat. “There were consequences. Our clan got hit last night. Lewiston is in ruins, and three of my blood’s taken the lonely road.”
Common closed her eyes. “So it is war.”
“No,” said Felix emphatically. “No blood feuds, not after we’ve worked so hard for some stability. Trev is resigning his post, and I’m following him.”
“You CAN’T!” she practically screamed. “That’s what they want!”
“I’m an old man, Kia, and my family’s bleeding. They made their point well enough.”
“I’ll resign as well, then,” she said.
“That won’t do a whit of good. You’ve got your men to think of, and even the hardliners on the Council are afraid to touch you. They might hate you on Abell, but you’re popular on Reliance. They call you ‘The Peacemaker.’”
“Well, that’s over now. No treaty, no peace.” She set her face in a grim expression. “Is the Fleet coming?”
“I…don’t know anything. They have plans to conquer Abell, conquer the Vale, bomb Larsilla itself. Endless planning, but no plan, if you take my meaning. But they mean to fight.”
“For the love of Elric, why?”
“The Valk are keeping our ships in the air.” His voice was strained. “We don’t have a choice anymore.”
“Get some rest, Felix,” Kia said simply.
“Unlikely. I’ve got a town to rebuild before I die. Godspeed, Kia.”
She wasn’t the sort to bury her head in her hands, but certainly felt like it. Instead Common stood up. She’d need to order new scouting patrols if the Fleet was finally forcing her hand to open war, and requisition new supplies and weapons from the locals. Countless times the ‘offensives’ she’d reported to the Council had been non-lethal stealth missions to prevent the Basin-folk from massacring more Mernt. But that was all going to change now.
One of her captains, Mav Mundane, gave her a toothy grin as she stepped out into the circle of tents used by the higher officers. “You look like you got cancer. I can have the boys cut it out if you want.” He guffawed.
“Not in the mood, Mav,” she shot back.
He raised his eyebrows, surprised more than offended. “Usually you like your talks with old Grandpa Felix.”
“Yeah well, not this time.” She wasn’t going to be the one to break the news about the hit on Lewiston. Commodore Felix was a beloved symbol to most military men, so half her captains would be shouting for blood, and she didn’t want to have to deal with that right now.
“Glad I don’t have your job. Anyhow some strange foreign folk drove up in a fancy veto, saying they were some kind of negotiators. We stripped it for parts and threw them in the old dry well.”
“WHAT?”
“Hahah, I’m just kidding. About the well, we seriously did strip their veto. They’re waiting for you at the saloon, we’ve got ‘em under guard.”
Kia groaned. It was bad enough having to protect foreigners from getting lynched in Airharbor, but out here in the badlands, anything could happen to them. Part of her grudgingly admired that they’d even gotten this far.
“Wonder what they want,” she finally said gruffly.
“Well, you are the queen of the planet, oh great leader.” He gave a little mocking bow.
“Queens have people for this bullcrap,” she grumbled, but stalked off to see them anyways. In fact, her men had them trussed up on the porch of the saloon, looking mighty uncomfortable. There were two men: A Css’erian, looking pale, frail, and “fashionably dressed” whatever that was supposed to mean. The other dwarfed him considerably, and its unique build had been described to her by the Fleet’s intelligence men, but she’d never seen it before. The thing had been staring at her in a, “I only choose to allow these bonds to hold me” sort of way. It was a Praxzen.
“Alright, you found me,” she said.
The moon man sniffed, trying and failing to muster some bravado. “My name is Fakir Tarrias. Is it customary to strip-search a privileged emissary of the Css’erian Confederacy, and then to abscond with his personal items?”
Kia stroked her chin, trying not to laugh at him while he sweated under the heat of the noonday sun in his starched suit. “Well, sir, the security situation being what it is, you could have been a…partisan of the enemy.” Her lips curved downward, avoiding a smile. “I’m sure you understand.”
“My credentials have regrettably been confiscated, but I ASSURE you that my mission, as all missions of the Republic, is peaceful in nature, and furthermore,”
“I get it,” she cut him off. “And what’s your story?” she said to the Praxzen-thing.
“I’m with him,” it said, and grinned in a highly unsettling way.
“Okaay then.”
“Before being harassed in such an execrable fashion, I had been instructed by my government to tender you a proposal of utmost discretion.” said Fakir.
She looked at the Praxzen. “What is this about?”
“I’m just a factfinder,” it finally said. “But I have some leeway to make agreements on behalf of my government. My colleague wants to make you an offer that has my support.”
She narrowed her eyes. “First off, I’m the Provisioner-General of Abell. I’m not the Fleet. Second, we don’t take kindly to foreign ‘offers,’ since they usually come with foreign strings.” Kia would have spat at the foot of the Css’erian to show him what she thought of his money, but she had to set an example for her men.
“Our interests align,” said the Css’erian. “Your commanders are driving you towards a war you do not want, and cannot win. Unlike the Migration, however, this is an avoidable crisis…if the relevant parties take discreet action.”
The Provisioner-General folded her arms. “You’ve just proposed I commit treason. Propose it again and I will have you shot.”
The Praxzen’s skin shifted from tan to a deep umber, causing some of her men to cry out in surprise and take a step back. Radiating heat, it snapped the metal handcuffs, standing to its full height. Her guards took aim, but Kia raised a hand to stop them from shooting.
“I’d heard that Commodore Elric governed with the people’s consent,” it said. “Perhaps I was misinformed.”
Kia said nothing to this, because there was nothing to say.
“If you feel like speaking with us further,” it continued, “my card.” It held out a wafer-thin black business card with a single silver square set in the middle. She took it.
“You have forty-eight hours to get off my planet.”
“Thank you for your time, Provisioner-General Common.”
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: I don't like your story's portrayal of Csser'ians. 
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
OOC: I don't like your story's portrayal of Csser'ians.
Maybe you should have consulted me before writing about Standards, then.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
A young engineer wakes from a nap
Soundtrack to accompany the story
The slow increase in noise gently roused Vis from her nap. For a few seconds she couldnt quite work out what it was, then she looked down onto the robins egg blue sky and it clicked into place. The transfer pod control circuit must have decided to execute a slow roll, probably to redistribute thermal stress, and her perch had been rolled round the face the planet. The constant shimmering breathy scream of the ice giants magnetosphere whispered on the edge of her hearing as her sensor suite converted the radio waves to their equivalent sound. Rising and falling tones and the occasional whistling resonance gave a constant chaotic complexity to the sound, and Vis paused a moment to take it in. It was so unlike the harsh chirps and shuddering static of the rocky planetoids shed been born and raised on, but it was all the more hauntingly beautiful for its unfamiliarity. Some flatlanders said it was like the wind in a garden worlds sky or the sound of air slithering off a lake surface, but despite her lack of experience with either Vis had to scoff at the conceit. This was the raw breath of a world, and in the intense haecceity of this moment it could be compared to nothing else.
She considered opening up her recording software and composing a tathata sense poem of the rest of the ascent to high orbit, but a sudden spurt of the pods correctional thruster rockets reminded her that this might not be the best platform for generating art. Instead she curled her slender frame and started to unscrew the carabineer that had anchored her ankle to a strut whilst she slept. Poetry or not it she found it tremendously refreshing just to get outside again and properly stretch. Half a megasecond spent labouring in the cramped and twisting ceramic corridors of the pump archipelago was two months to many, especially when most of what shed been doing was menial maintenance work. The hundred and eleven balloons and their extractor gondolas floated down there in the main cloud deck at nearly six bars worth of pressure; enough that windows and more than tiny crawlspaces for the workers to sleep in would be ridiculous extravagances. Everything down there in the blue murk was pressed and rough, even and especially peoples tempers.
Standard protocol should have her spending this long transfer orbit safely strapped down in the tiny crew shed deep in the stubby cylinder that made up the main body of the pod. But given months of claustrophobia she wasnt going to wrap herself up when free space was only a few metres away! As soon as the main ascent and vectoring burns were completed shed been skittering hither and tither on the pods exterior gridwork like some pre-schooler with their first set of legs. Her dear mother had always said her fidgeting and carelessness would get her killed one day, a phrase shed bring out on average about 60% of the way into a typical session of haranguing.
Thinking of her mother brought her up short, and Vis sighed and let go of the anchor. For the sake of that memory she stopped and took and inventory and diagnostic; just like the good girls and boys do before they go for an unsecured jaunt in vacuum. First you secure the suit, then the rest of you. The baggy blue weave of the suit, with its extra layers of insulation and padding for the environment was free of punctures or damage, and the intrasuit pressure of the pure nitrogen was a nice hundred millibars to allow a free range of movement. The neck seal was as tight as always and the clear fishbowl of her helmet was without blemish or scratch, not that marring its transparent aluminium was an easy task. It cradled a thick half a bar of nitrogen and oxygen; to stop strain on her eyes and the membranes of her head rather than supply her need to breathe, though the helmets air could last her for a few minutes in an emergency. The helmet was pure dumb matter, without a trace of circuitry or smarts shed seen on Hank-Sobor armoured models, but each to their own she guessed. Shed gone for a larger than standard helmet, because she liked the way the added space let her customary long ponytail of white hair drift around. The suits seals around her back rig and foot talons were just as snug and secure as the neck ones.
Suit done, it was on to testing and flexing all her limbs and functions, a rote checklist at the very centre of her mind; arms [good], battery coil [60%], data architecture [triple calls on all routes], beacon [the ping blasted in her other sensors], eyes [clarity fine, nothing to test distance on], fingers [stiff in the suite, but functioning], gyroscope [its dense mass as reliable as ever], heart [50 beats per minute], heavy grip limb [flexing well, pads worn down by constant use on the pump island], jet pinions [all 6 had less than 3% propellant remaining], laser cutter [the ache of a diagnostics error, though shed used it only yesterday so it was probably fine], legs [much better than usual, all the flatlander walking of the last months had given them a good tone], locomotion limbs [unfolding and packing all sixteen was slick and fast], lungs [a breath of the helmet air brought an icy fresh blast into her chest], multisensors [sight, vibration, and taste all coming through from the packages on her limbs and hands though the last was just a null channel], optics boom [the most delicate of her limbs picked out some tiny high altitude clouds on the planet before being folded away], oxygen store [97%, shed topped it up for free on the island], pressure mesh [complete coverage intact], radio boom [of course it was working after it woke her up], range finder and signal casters [nothing to bounce them off to test], steerage panels [all eight of the fragile things intact, though their argent iridescence could use a polish after months folded up], guts [both plastic and organic were burning some starches right now], talons [the slender grips retracted and extended from the housing in her feet no problem], thermal distribution mesh [evenly pumping heating from her body to the wing-rig to be radiated away], toes [all wriggle well, though the left pinkie still hurt from the plating shed dropped on it last week], tongue [able to roll and touch her nose].
Everything looked okay, though she had a flare of annoyance at forgetting to top up her jets propellant reserve whilst shed been down on the planet; it was unlikely the pod had an accessible stock. The annoyance was tempered with guilty relief though; shed been contemplating leaping off the pod and doing some spatial acrobatics, and might have found herself in a bit of pickle if she hadnt done the diagnostics check first. The process had only taken a few minutes and saved her the embarrassment of causing an emergency or worse. To an outside observer it would have looked ungainly as she stretched and twitched and beat her wing-assemblies like a new moth awkwardly emerging from its cocoon. A fellow deep spacer, of any faction, form, or flavour, would have understood though; the utter dependence on your equipment when youre cast adrift in the infinite void is a relationship deeper than planet-dweller or big-ship crewman with their fail soft devices and nigh unlimited reserve of materials could truly comprehend. The Ilosians might make the relationship more intimate than most, but the essential dynamic could be understood by anyone. From the Hankish trader whose suit has the decals of all the places it has visited as a good luck charm, to the Csserians with its gold and lazuli plating to shine in the darkness, and even Standardite whod simply kill another man for using his suit or jetpack; all would just smile and probably be spurred to do their own checklists.
With the free floating option denied her, she decided to do laps of the pod until it made its correctional burn to dodge the ring. That glorious natural structure, which so heavily featured in promotional images of the pumping operation, was pretty much edge-on to her pod currently and would remain nothing more than a line of light for at least ten more hours. If shed look at exactly the right place at the right time, spotting the burn of the pod ahead of hers as it ducked above the ring would have been easy enough. Humdrum traffic control wasnt really one of her interests however, particular one as automated and boring as the constant supply chain; out to high orbit where the pod would drop its tanks, then zip back empty for an atmospheric insertion and return to the islands. The pick-up of the tanks and their loading onto intrasystem barges or interstellar tankers was more complex of a scheduling and orbital problem, but of the sort so straightforward theyd give it to teenagers for a test.
It was the latter class of ship that she was interested in, and had every intention of hitching a ride on the humorously designated 7A659 on its way back to Phaeton. After two months shed had more than enough of the main planet, and the rumours on the Piped Net were that any wider development of the rings or moons was going to be a long time coming. It was something of a conundrum to qualify with excellent marks in fluid dynamics only to discover you didnt like atmospheric stations or much enjoy being a ship crewman, but unlike the majority of her peers she didnt have to spend two decades chipping away at a terrible job to pay off her loans. Freedom of direction is all the more precious for the costs you incur in achieving it and she wasnt going to let her freedom go to waste. The word on the Pipe, as slow as that medium of communication was when data had to be hauled from system to system like cargo, also had some other interesting things to say. Apparently the Executives had a bead set on some new developments deeper into the nebula, with good solid rocky ice and nice hard vacuum. Whatever the conditions of that turned out to be, they would need someone to managing the plumbing and extraction, and she would get to go outside anytime she wanted. It sounded wonderful.
Hoping out and back to Phaeton like this cost years out of time, and shed have to live on her savings and the basic sustenance credit. Sometimes however you just had to take risks in order to ride the waves of new opportunity, and the time living as a nigh penniless bum could be seen as an investment for future adventure. There was never anything bad about being in Phaeton at the heart of it all, and being plugged into the news in real time was certainly a big draw. It would not be the most unpleasant way to spend time, even as her heart cried out for emptier and wilder places.
As she dashed round the pod; hand and limb and talon all flashing and grabbing and pushing as the gyroscope whirred in compensation. It was good to be alive, good to be free, and she chuckled as she amped up the gain on her receivers and drank in the sound of the planets sky. Memories that will keep her smiling until she dances in the song of a new world of course.
Soundtrack to accompany the story
The slow increase in noise gently roused Vis from her nap. For a few seconds she couldnt quite work out what it was, then she looked down onto the robins egg blue sky and it clicked into place. The transfer pod control circuit must have decided to execute a slow roll, probably to redistribute thermal stress, and her perch had been rolled round the face the planet. The constant shimmering breathy scream of the ice giants magnetosphere whispered on the edge of her hearing as her sensor suite converted the radio waves to their equivalent sound. Rising and falling tones and the occasional whistling resonance gave a constant chaotic complexity to the sound, and Vis paused a moment to take it in. It was so unlike the harsh chirps and shuddering static of the rocky planetoids shed been born and raised on, but it was all the more hauntingly beautiful for its unfamiliarity. Some flatlanders said it was like the wind in a garden worlds sky or the sound of air slithering off a lake surface, but despite her lack of experience with either Vis had to scoff at the conceit. This was the raw breath of a world, and in the intense haecceity of this moment it could be compared to nothing else.
She considered opening up her recording software and composing a tathata sense poem of the rest of the ascent to high orbit, but a sudden spurt of the pods correctional thruster rockets reminded her that this might not be the best platform for generating art. Instead she curled her slender frame and started to unscrew the carabineer that had anchored her ankle to a strut whilst she slept. Poetry or not it she found it tremendously refreshing just to get outside again and properly stretch. Half a megasecond spent labouring in the cramped and twisting ceramic corridors of the pump archipelago was two months to many, especially when most of what shed been doing was menial maintenance work. The hundred and eleven balloons and their extractor gondolas floated down there in the main cloud deck at nearly six bars worth of pressure; enough that windows and more than tiny crawlspaces for the workers to sleep in would be ridiculous extravagances. Everything down there in the blue murk was pressed and rough, even and especially peoples tempers.
Standard protocol should have her spending this long transfer orbit safely strapped down in the tiny crew shed deep in the stubby cylinder that made up the main body of the pod. But given months of claustrophobia she wasnt going to wrap herself up when free space was only a few metres away! As soon as the main ascent and vectoring burns were completed shed been skittering hither and tither on the pods exterior gridwork like some pre-schooler with their first set of legs. Her dear mother had always said her fidgeting and carelessness would get her killed one day, a phrase shed bring out on average about 60% of the way into a typical session of haranguing.
Thinking of her mother brought her up short, and Vis sighed and let go of the anchor. For the sake of that memory she stopped and took and inventory and diagnostic; just like the good girls and boys do before they go for an unsecured jaunt in vacuum. First you secure the suit, then the rest of you. The baggy blue weave of the suit, with its extra layers of insulation and padding for the environment was free of punctures or damage, and the intrasuit pressure of the pure nitrogen was a nice hundred millibars to allow a free range of movement. The neck seal was as tight as always and the clear fishbowl of her helmet was without blemish or scratch, not that marring its transparent aluminium was an easy task. It cradled a thick half a bar of nitrogen and oxygen; to stop strain on her eyes and the membranes of her head rather than supply her need to breathe, though the helmets air could last her for a few minutes in an emergency. The helmet was pure dumb matter, without a trace of circuitry or smarts shed seen on Hank-Sobor armoured models, but each to their own she guessed. Shed gone for a larger than standard helmet, because she liked the way the added space let her customary long ponytail of white hair drift around. The suits seals around her back rig and foot talons were just as snug and secure as the neck ones.
Suit done, it was on to testing and flexing all her limbs and functions, a rote checklist at the very centre of her mind; arms [good], battery coil [60%], data architecture [triple calls on all routes], beacon [the ping blasted in her other sensors], eyes [clarity fine, nothing to test distance on], fingers [stiff in the suite, but functioning], gyroscope [its dense mass as reliable as ever], heart [50 beats per minute], heavy grip limb [flexing well, pads worn down by constant use on the pump island], jet pinions [all 6 had less than 3% propellant remaining], laser cutter [the ache of a diagnostics error, though shed used it only yesterday so it was probably fine], legs [much better than usual, all the flatlander walking of the last months had given them a good tone], locomotion limbs [unfolding and packing all sixteen was slick and fast], lungs [a breath of the helmet air brought an icy fresh blast into her chest], multisensors [sight, vibration, and taste all coming through from the packages on her limbs and hands though the last was just a null channel], optics boom [the most delicate of her limbs picked out some tiny high altitude clouds on the planet before being folded away], oxygen store [97%, shed topped it up for free on the island], pressure mesh [complete coverage intact], radio boom [of course it was working after it woke her up], range finder and signal casters [nothing to bounce them off to test], steerage panels [all eight of the fragile things intact, though their argent iridescence could use a polish after months folded up], guts [both plastic and organic were burning some starches right now], talons [the slender grips retracted and extended from the housing in her feet no problem], thermal distribution mesh [evenly pumping heating from her body to the wing-rig to be radiated away], toes [all wriggle well, though the left pinkie still hurt from the plating shed dropped on it last week], tongue [able to roll and touch her nose].
Everything looked okay, though she had a flare of annoyance at forgetting to top up her jets propellant reserve whilst shed been down on the planet; it was unlikely the pod had an accessible stock. The annoyance was tempered with guilty relief though; shed been contemplating leaping off the pod and doing some spatial acrobatics, and might have found herself in a bit of pickle if she hadnt done the diagnostics check first. The process had only taken a few minutes and saved her the embarrassment of causing an emergency or worse. To an outside observer it would have looked ungainly as she stretched and twitched and beat her wing-assemblies like a new moth awkwardly emerging from its cocoon. A fellow deep spacer, of any faction, form, or flavour, would have understood though; the utter dependence on your equipment when youre cast adrift in the infinite void is a relationship deeper than planet-dweller or big-ship crewman with their fail soft devices and nigh unlimited reserve of materials could truly comprehend. The Ilosians might make the relationship more intimate than most, but the essential dynamic could be understood by anyone. From the Hankish trader whose suit has the decals of all the places it has visited as a good luck charm, to the Csserians with its gold and lazuli plating to shine in the darkness, and even Standardite whod simply kill another man for using his suit or jetpack; all would just smile and probably be spurred to do their own checklists.
With the free floating option denied her, she decided to do laps of the pod until it made its correctional burn to dodge the ring. That glorious natural structure, which so heavily featured in promotional images of the pumping operation, was pretty much edge-on to her pod currently and would remain nothing more than a line of light for at least ten more hours. If shed look at exactly the right place at the right time, spotting the burn of the pod ahead of hers as it ducked above the ring would have been easy enough. Humdrum traffic control wasnt really one of her interests however, particular one as automated and boring as the constant supply chain; out to high orbit where the pod would drop its tanks, then zip back empty for an atmospheric insertion and return to the islands. The pick-up of the tanks and their loading onto intrasystem barges or interstellar tankers was more complex of a scheduling and orbital problem, but of the sort so straightforward theyd give it to teenagers for a test.
It was the latter class of ship that she was interested in, and had every intention of hitching a ride on the humorously designated 7A659 on its way back to Phaeton. After two months shed had more than enough of the main planet, and the rumours on the Piped Net were that any wider development of the rings or moons was going to be a long time coming. It was something of a conundrum to qualify with excellent marks in fluid dynamics only to discover you didnt like atmospheric stations or much enjoy being a ship crewman, but unlike the majority of her peers she didnt have to spend two decades chipping away at a terrible job to pay off her loans. Freedom of direction is all the more precious for the costs you incur in achieving it and she wasnt going to let her freedom go to waste. The word on the Pipe, as slow as that medium of communication was when data had to be hauled from system to system like cargo, also had some other interesting things to say. Apparently the Executives had a bead set on some new developments deeper into the nebula, with good solid rocky ice and nice hard vacuum. Whatever the conditions of that turned out to be, they would need someone to managing the plumbing and extraction, and she would get to go outside anytime she wanted. It sounded wonderful.
Hoping out and back to Phaeton like this cost years out of time, and shed have to live on her savings and the basic sustenance credit. Sometimes however you just had to take risks in order to ride the waves of new opportunity, and the time living as a nigh penniless bum could be seen as an investment for future adventure. There was never anything bad about being in Phaeton at the heart of it all, and being plugged into the news in real time was certainly a big draw. It would not be the most unpleasant way to spend time, even as her heart cried out for emptier and wilder places.
As she dashed round the pod; hand and limb and talon all flashing and grabbing and pushing as the gyroscope whirred in compensation. It was good to be alive, good to be free, and she chuckled as she amped up the gain on her receivers and drank in the sound of the planets sky. Memories that will keep her smiling until she dances in the song of a new world of course.
Symphony D.
Deity
Since it's going to take awhile to finish these, I figured I'd post the ones that are done to see what people think of this kind of style. I can at least make one for each PC faction and possibly the major NPCs, and I think they could be used to consolidate and liven up the op a little once they're all done.
One obvious change will be toning down the stripes in the Hank ones to be less jarring and fit in with the more subtle patterns the others have.
Spoiler Hank/Yan Alternates :
One obvious change will be toning down the stripes in the Hank ones to be less jarring and fit in with the more subtle patterns the others have.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Neat! Some for the major NPCs at least would be very nice.
Kraznaya
Princeps
Current Hankish design seems more apt for the Corporation than the Republic imo
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
The Treaty of Adamas Vineyard
The first preliminary discussions between the Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate were overshadowed by the expansionist Csserian commercial interests in Lipsid Beta. However as time went on and the Csserian expansion led to vast increases in the worth of Coran data markets, relations improved as many members of the Illuminate began seeing the Csserians as more than simply obnoxious capitalists and insurers. Recognizing that cooperation between the two polities would be mutually beneficial, Csserian and Coran diplomats met in Lipsid Gamma to work out an arrangement.
The Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate, desiring to work towards superior trading relations between our two states and enhance the future prospects of Segmentum-wide trade, do endeavor to sign the Treaty of Adamas Vineyard.
I. Recognizing the peaceful intentions of the Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate towards each other, the two states do endeavor to enter into a peaceful trading relationship,
II. Understanding that the Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate have significant mutual interests, the two states agree to coordinate their commercial and data operations as well as respecting and not competing with the other partys existing commercial and data market shares,
III. Acknowledging that situations may well change, this Treaty will remain in effect until either party seeks a re-negotiation, should re-negotiation fail, the treaty will be void one year after the failed renegotiation discussions,
IV. The Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate pledge to work together towards greater tranquility and peace in the Segmentum.
Signed,
Josef Leoni
Prime Minister of the Csserian Confederacy
Haymir Jabal
Foreign Secretary of the Csserian Confederacy
The first preliminary discussions between the Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate were overshadowed by the expansionist Csserian commercial interests in Lipsid Beta. However as time went on and the Csserian expansion led to vast increases in the worth of Coran data markets, relations improved as many members of the Illuminate began seeing the Csserians as more than simply obnoxious capitalists and insurers. Recognizing that cooperation between the two polities would be mutually beneficial, Csserian and Coran diplomats met in Lipsid Gamma to work out an arrangement.
The Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate, desiring to work towards superior trading relations between our two states and enhance the future prospects of Segmentum-wide trade, do endeavor to sign the Treaty of Adamas Vineyard.
I. Recognizing the peaceful intentions of the Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate towards each other, the two states do endeavor to enter into a peaceful trading relationship,
II. Understanding that the Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate have significant mutual interests, the two states agree to coordinate their commercial and data operations as well as respecting and not competing with the other partys existing commercial and data market shares,
III. Acknowledging that situations may well change, this Treaty will remain in effect until either party seeks a re-negotiation, should re-negotiation fail, the treaty will be void one year after the failed renegotiation discussions,
IV. The Csserian Confederacy and the Coran Illuminate pledge to work together towards greater tranquility and peace in the Segmentum.
Signed,
Josef Leoni
Prime Minister of the Csserian Confederacy
Haymir Jabal
Foreign Secretary of the Csserian Confederacy
To: Hearthfire Terraforming Association
From: Serney Thoms, 'Leader' of the Hankish Opposition
Could these ones please provide an outline of the initial plan for Hearthfire's terraforming, and estimates regarding the costs of altering the environment around Hanksville, or on Hearthfire as a whole, to be more resilient? Perhaps doing so fits in with these ones' initial plan for terraforming the planet.
I've contacted these because... well, if I don't, then nothing'll change in Hanksville. The Hankish Republic's a neutered and powerless organization, and the Consortium has no idea what it's doing. If we work together, the Terraforming Association bes back in business, Hearthfire won't collapse into environmental disaster and strife, and maybe the Republic will be able to get a hand on the controls of the wayward Consortium.
Yours,
-Single Shareholder Thoms
From: Serney Thoms, 'Leader' of the Hankish Opposition
Could these ones please provide an outline of the initial plan for Hearthfire's terraforming, and estimates regarding the costs of altering the environment around Hanksville, or on Hearthfire as a whole, to be more resilient? Perhaps doing so fits in with these ones' initial plan for terraforming the planet.
I've contacted these because... well, if I don't, then nothing'll change in Hanksville. The Hankish Republic's a neutered and powerless organization, and the Consortium has no idea what it's doing. If we work together, the Terraforming Association bes back in business, Hearthfire won't collapse into environmental disaster and strife, and maybe the Republic will be able to get a hand on the controls of the wayward Consortium.
Yours,
-Single Shareholder Thoms
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
6.5 Orders received so far.
Technically Iggy the Hankish don't even have a formal or properly set up republic.
The original terraforming brief was to use Dusts everywhere then Establish Biosphere+Enrich Biosphere on the three empty regions then spread the population around to reduce impact. Total cost estimates of 2500e 1700s 90m 150v plus 25m and 25v upkeep per year. Though that can be reduced with refining or more skilled specialists.
Technically Iggy the Hankish don't even have a formal or properly set up republic.
The original terraforming brief was to use Dusts everywhere then Establish Biosphere+Enrich Biosphere on the three empty regions then spread the population around to reduce impact. Total cost estimates of 2500e 1700s 90m 150v plus 25m and 25v upkeep per year. Though that can be reduced with refining or more skilled specialists.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
Adrum, adrum, adrum.
Radimir kept drumming his fingers on the table. True, it was an exquisitely carved wine table but it represented everything he didn’t like about the Dathics. At least everything Csser’ians didn’t like. The table screamed to the galaxy the power and ostentatious nature of Datha System. The words “Made in Datha” on the side made it all the more impressive. The costs of transporting the table alone would have been enormous. It was literally a piece of Datha and the table was possibly priceless. Obviously the opposite of what the Atooans thought of the time of the Csser’ian delegation as they’ve been kept waiting for almost two hours.
“Stop the drumming Rad, it’s too annoying.”
Vanessa glared at him. They were of course scandalously dressed in the style of the Late Empire, with their clothes an eyesore in the rest of the sector with their vividly bright colors as well as all the requisite scarves and sashes. He was of course immaculately dressed with his hair parted and slicked back with a bright yellow sash gracing a slender but just as bright green jacket, vest and shirt. Though of course compared to Vanessa, he looked normal. Vanessa wore an exquisite deep red hue mandarin gown complimented with red flowers adorning the light brown hair while her hands wore black lace gloves. The black fan and scarf completed the picture. And naturally with the Dathic style, the cut and style of the dress was extremely form-fitting. And with Vanessa…
“Stop ogling me you perverted Mernt savage!”
Whack.
Rubbing his head’s pain away from the strike of her fan, he double-checked his hair and graced Vanessa with a magnificent smile and taunted her, all the while keeping a straight face.
“Only half a perverted Mernt savage. My Csser’ian mother found my Oiat father quite dashing, dashing and charming enough to marry and beget me and a squad of younger children. I’m told I have very sharp and rugged features, features that even a Dathic would envy” and immediately began preparing for another fan strike."
It came as a surprise when she just smiled and turned away.
“I expected to have to wait, but I didn’t expect to wait this long. Rad, the Atooans have already made up their minds. Now its just a game, a fine opera for them to play and enjoy while we squirm in discomfort”.
He bit down on his lip hard, hard enough to draw blood. It was the taste of a primordial fear. A bell rang, the doors of the conference room swung open dramatically, and a veritable Roman festival triumphantly marched in. All Atooan Dathics in the Late Imperial Style, with long-robed individuals inter-dispersed amongst the crowd. He and Vanessa stood up and nodded at the assembled notables, offering salutations in the highest-flowing language in the Dathic style.
And the party began.
Robo-servants filed into the room, with food and drinks, and the conversation flowed as well as the fountains of wine. A part of him couldn’t help but be a bit in awe. Larsilla of course had more than its fair share of celebrations and parties but the Atooans took it to another level. They were good humor and charm incarnate. They were as a whole, everything the briefing had suggested about the Atooan Dathics. Datha’s Death aside, life still went on more or less undisturbed to the Atooan Dathics. Larsilla would be intrigued. The constant flow of the party ensured he and Vanessa were constantly entertained by Atooans, all testing their social niceties.
Finally one young Atooan dandy, a Monsieur Torres as he introduced himself, came, all smiles and jokes, barbs and quips in hand.
“Ah Lady Vanessa, the fame of the beauty and charm of the Csser’ian gentle sex, is known throughout the galaxy. My eyes are unworthy of looking upon you, for the rumors of Csser’ian beauty does not do justice to you. Your companion, Monsieur Radimir, likewise is impressive. The both of you will surely be the toast of Atooa for it has been too long since representatives of the Forest and that of the Csser’ian Confederacy have come once more to submit to mighty Datha.”
He heard that and sighed. So it would come to this. He saw Vanessa’s panicked eyes, smiled, sipped the champagne and addressed the Atooan with a thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Monsieur Torres, I am afraid that is not what is up for discussion.”
The expression on the Atooan’s face turned from jovial to one of pure apathy instantly. He rudely walked away, scarves and sashes included. The party died likewise. The moment the dandy turned, the music stopped and the smiles ceased. The party was now a wake. Everybody simply glared at them. Strange. All the Yanii had left. Perhaps it was the big boys’ party now, a classic Dathic diplomatic ambush.
A sharp forceful voice rang out, disdain and condescending disgust oozing out of every syllable:
“If not to submit and recognize us as Datha’s true successor in the sector, why else would you come? Your capitalists and traders do not interest us. We are Datha. Eternal Datha, for our light shall never be snuffed. We shall rise once more, and smite the murdering Apeilic Iris.”
The crowd of party-goers cleared, and the man with the disdainful voice walked to the forefront. He was impressive, an old man yes but with a bearing and vigor of an era when Datha bestrode the sector and all quivered in her wake. The man looked at him, his steel gray eyes piercing through his thoughts, and then saw Vanessa.
“Always Csser’ians. Merchants, shop-keepers and counters of coins. Not-Dathics, a mongrel of lesser peoples, perpetually seeking their place in the sun. I know what you seek and you shall not find it here. There is nothing for you. Begone from here.”
Vanessa curtsied and smiled. He offered his arm and they waltzed across the dance floor, the sea of Dathics opening before them. He went for the door, was stopped, and turned around quizzically. Vanessa held her place.
“My grandfather believed in peace. He believed in Datha. Yet in the end, he cast his lot with the Apeilics. Because in the end, Datha is gone. The Apeilics remain, and the sector remains. We remain.”
The Dathics laughed. Of course, he shook his head, why would the Dathics deign to care about what an emissary’s grandfather did or not do.
“My grandfather was Haymir Cvorak and he cemented Apeilic power in the old hegemony.”
There was no response. The room stared back at Vanessa with empty faces, empty faces of disdain. Save one, a face of pure and livid hate.
The old man’s nostrils flared.
Vanessa curtsied once more exaggeratedly and mocked the Atooans:
“I have been to Datha and seen its beauty. I remember still the moons adorning the heavenly sky.”
Sensing what was coming next, he opened the doors and tried to rush Vanessa through. It was too late. Vanessa looked back and shouted at the dead room.
“None of us will ever see Datha again. That is the price of hubris.”
The music resumed.
Radimir kept drumming his fingers on the table. True, it was an exquisitely carved wine table but it represented everything he didn’t like about the Dathics. At least everything Csser’ians didn’t like. The table screamed to the galaxy the power and ostentatious nature of Datha System. The words “Made in Datha” on the side made it all the more impressive. The costs of transporting the table alone would have been enormous. It was literally a piece of Datha and the table was possibly priceless. Obviously the opposite of what the Atooans thought of the time of the Csser’ian delegation as they’ve been kept waiting for almost two hours.
“Stop the drumming Rad, it’s too annoying.”
Vanessa glared at him. They were of course scandalously dressed in the style of the Late Empire, with their clothes an eyesore in the rest of the sector with their vividly bright colors as well as all the requisite scarves and sashes. He was of course immaculately dressed with his hair parted and slicked back with a bright yellow sash gracing a slender but just as bright green jacket, vest and shirt. Though of course compared to Vanessa, he looked normal. Vanessa wore an exquisite deep red hue mandarin gown complimented with red flowers adorning the light brown hair while her hands wore black lace gloves. The black fan and scarf completed the picture. And naturally with the Dathic style, the cut and style of the dress was extremely form-fitting. And with Vanessa…
“Stop ogling me you perverted Mernt savage!”
Whack.
Rubbing his head’s pain away from the strike of her fan, he double-checked his hair and graced Vanessa with a magnificent smile and taunted her, all the while keeping a straight face.
“Only half a perverted Mernt savage. My Csser’ian mother found my Oiat father quite dashing, dashing and charming enough to marry and beget me and a squad of younger children. I’m told I have very sharp and rugged features, features that even a Dathic would envy” and immediately began preparing for another fan strike."
It came as a surprise when she just smiled and turned away.
“I expected to have to wait, but I didn’t expect to wait this long. Rad, the Atooans have already made up their minds. Now its just a game, a fine opera for them to play and enjoy while we squirm in discomfort”.
He bit down on his lip hard, hard enough to draw blood. It was the taste of a primordial fear. A bell rang, the doors of the conference room swung open dramatically, and a veritable Roman festival triumphantly marched in. All Atooan Dathics in the Late Imperial Style, with long-robed individuals inter-dispersed amongst the crowd. He and Vanessa stood up and nodded at the assembled notables, offering salutations in the highest-flowing language in the Dathic style.
And the party began.
Robo-servants filed into the room, with food and drinks, and the conversation flowed as well as the fountains of wine. A part of him couldn’t help but be a bit in awe. Larsilla of course had more than its fair share of celebrations and parties but the Atooans took it to another level. They were good humor and charm incarnate. They were as a whole, everything the briefing had suggested about the Atooan Dathics. Datha’s Death aside, life still went on more or less undisturbed to the Atooan Dathics. Larsilla would be intrigued. The constant flow of the party ensured he and Vanessa were constantly entertained by Atooans, all testing their social niceties.
Finally one young Atooan dandy, a Monsieur Torres as he introduced himself, came, all smiles and jokes, barbs and quips in hand.
“Ah Lady Vanessa, the fame of the beauty and charm of the Csser’ian gentle sex, is known throughout the galaxy. My eyes are unworthy of looking upon you, for the rumors of Csser’ian beauty does not do justice to you. Your companion, Monsieur Radimir, likewise is impressive. The both of you will surely be the toast of Atooa for it has been too long since representatives of the Forest and that of the Csser’ian Confederacy have come once more to submit to mighty Datha.”
He heard that and sighed. So it would come to this. He saw Vanessa’s panicked eyes, smiled, sipped the champagne and addressed the Atooan with a thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Monsieur Torres, I am afraid that is not what is up for discussion.”
The expression on the Atooan’s face turned from jovial to one of pure apathy instantly. He rudely walked away, scarves and sashes included. The party died likewise. The moment the dandy turned, the music stopped and the smiles ceased. The party was now a wake. Everybody simply glared at them. Strange. All the Yanii had left. Perhaps it was the big boys’ party now, a classic Dathic diplomatic ambush.
A sharp forceful voice rang out, disdain and condescending disgust oozing out of every syllable:
“If not to submit and recognize us as Datha’s true successor in the sector, why else would you come? Your capitalists and traders do not interest us. We are Datha. Eternal Datha, for our light shall never be snuffed. We shall rise once more, and smite the murdering Apeilic Iris.”
The crowd of party-goers cleared, and the man with the disdainful voice walked to the forefront. He was impressive, an old man yes but with a bearing and vigor of an era when Datha bestrode the sector and all quivered in her wake. The man looked at him, his steel gray eyes piercing through his thoughts, and then saw Vanessa.
“Always Csser’ians. Merchants, shop-keepers and counters of coins. Not-Dathics, a mongrel of lesser peoples, perpetually seeking their place in the sun. I know what you seek and you shall not find it here. There is nothing for you. Begone from here.”
Vanessa curtsied and smiled. He offered his arm and they waltzed across the dance floor, the sea of Dathics opening before them. He went for the door, was stopped, and turned around quizzically. Vanessa held her place.
“My grandfather believed in peace. He believed in Datha. Yet in the end, he cast his lot with the Apeilics. Because in the end, Datha is gone. The Apeilics remain, and the sector remains. We remain.”
The Dathics laughed. Of course, he shook his head, why would the Dathics deign to care about what an emissary’s grandfather did or not do.
“My grandfather was Haymir Cvorak and he cemented Apeilic power in the old hegemony.”
There was no response. The room stared back at Vanessa with empty faces, empty faces of disdain. Save one, a face of pure and livid hate.
The old man’s nostrils flared.
Vanessa curtsied once more exaggeratedly and mocked the Atooans:
“I have been to Datha and seen its beauty. I remember still the moons adorning the heavenly sky.”
Sensing what was coming next, he opened the doors and tried to rush Vanessa through. It was too late. Vanessa looked back and shouted at the dead room.
“None of us will ever see Datha again. That is the price of hubris.”
The music resumed.