EVE Fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why didn't you?" asks Domai.

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

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

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

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

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

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

<endfile>

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

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

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

"Yet, you led a unit. Yes?"

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

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

The scarred man frowns with a subtle swallow and nods.

"You were captured."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Above him, the Moya dance and dance.

<endfile>

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sensible, Foreman. I have no objections."

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

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

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

"Unknown, irrelevant."

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

"Yes."

"You are also listed as deceased."

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Yes."

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

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

"Did you work for SuVee?"

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

"Living debt?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<continue file...>

Domai exhales, "That must have been difficult."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Irregularities?" asks Domai.

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

"Someone was falsifying the numbers."

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

"The manager was embezzling," concludes Domai.

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

"Did you report him?"

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

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

"Why would you-"

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

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

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

"That was the day you..."

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

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

<continue file...>

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<continue file...>

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

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

"Why should it?"

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

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

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

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

"You disagree?"

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

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

"Then the capsuleer found you."

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

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

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

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

<endfile>

Mail Server <404error>
Date: 08.15.112, 14:00
To: KLSarpati
Re: -


Included are relevant data segments provided by our informant. The files should give you insight into the people involved. The data is almost a month old, but more up-to-date information will be forthcoming. You have the channel and decryption files to receive updates from the insider directly.

They found something, something big. You can do whatever you like to the survivors. Full payment will be yours upon delivery of the artifact. If you need more weapons, the line of credit remains open.


NSL

<endfile>
<end download>

Yep, really digging the story so far and looking for more. :)

Really liked it and hoping for a sequel.