EVE Fiction

]During the Multiverse Sweep

The Hamazte, nestled in station for this next hour's time, its owner and captain tapping buttons to drop back the suspended captain's chair from broadcast position and using a finger-long lever to turn it in place, he picks from his lap a crude--functional, effective and Not of contemporary energy-based design--projectile pistol. Ice blue eyes cast their ire at the wiry, slender man at a console, whose face reddens with the sudden attention from the captain.

"Ye'll kee'a civil word n'a con'frence, 're ye'll be cast tae space a dead ma'. I's nae'n 'de body ye knae, b'I's nae be diff'ren', Lavid," the captain leans forward, resting one elbow on a knee, and holding himself up by that elbow. His ice doesn't melt, but its chill warms, just a little. "Bu' I'll be 'da firs' tae 'dmit she's a fairness 'dat kicks 'de shite ao't o'lookin' 't Nat's kicked-in face, 'ands daown... She be a fair sigh' more'n 'ceptable fer a Blood 'den an'o 'de lot o'ye dogs, bu' I knae wot ye'd a want'er fer.. an' as dae mese'f."

His wolfen grin tells the few men on the bridge of the Hamazte exactly what he'd love to do to the body seen through the holographic view, dim though it was. They've each sat in this darker system two weeks, now, and that much of a difference was stark and distinct, compared to the asteroids they've been picking out of the darkness these last days. But those curves.

"D'ye see 'de length o--" a grizzled bastard starts to say it, but he gets a jostling from the man next to him; Praezius turns the chair half to his console, nodding while he's bringing up his lists of folks once-set as enemy and poorer status, as the woman who ran the alliance he was formerly in had required him to set them. Praezius, himself, hates doing that; if he hasn't been forced to pull the trigger, himself, he doesn't like making enemies out of his profits.

"Oh, ayuh; 'dems legs I'ma willin' tae tae 'de time tae work 'de kinks o'de chair aoutta; 'das a La' ain' g'bu' one 'jective, an' 'das any cause 'dat ca'ches'er eye. She's likin' me, by'er eyes--jes' as saen kill ye as listen'o'ye're tripe o'er 'er lovin' parts; sae ye'll kee' 'dat civ... er... siv...vill ity...civility... when'st I's gae 'de comms open. Clear?" Two of the men in the seven-man crew raise their eyebrows, keeping themselvs busy. They've been exposed to the man that has been their captain since Letty'd said he was the same, just in a different body--these two don't have any qualms with that. The others might be willing to rock the boat, but they glance between their sides of the consoles, out to the others, giving their heads soft shakes to assuage their mutiny.

If the dark-skinned version that speaks like their old captain isn't their man, then he's a damned good likeness. They'd been aboard the Dragon when he'd landed that brick outside Nova Messina, and this man, by the sounds of him, is the sam man that'll climb underneath the deck and re-wire the ship's systems just so as he can fly it on his own, and still use the primary harvesting systems. "Ye'd dae well tae 'member; 'e daen't nee' us... we's jes' is ease makers. 'E kin dae 'dis wi'aout us, ye knae." Vilserri tips his head, casting his scarred Caldari State-inked face from his console at the boys causing ripples. They start to quiet a bit, having been younger when the disaster destroyed the Dragon, and its scoutship, listening to the older man, as he nods his head towards the man that's taking notes of his thoughts down, for his coming conversation with that bombshell on the other end of the holoscreen. "'Das a man 'dat's landed a flamin' boat droppin' parts 'de size o'frigate bays n'eavy atmo. We should'a been kill't; should'a been i'poss'ble; 'e done it. Iffin 'e says keep ye tongue tae yese'f, ye keep it 're I'll cu' it aou'."

Vilserri glances at the man in the bridge helm, whose broad shoulders have relaxed, visible he'd hope to everyone. But it's not always that easy to read the man. Maybe.. just maybe... you had to be there, when they took those months to rebuild the Dragon. Those years of harvesting isotopes in a barren land, with a radioactive ocean and underneath a nightmare of sights and sounds not a one had ever heard, but in storybooks. They're spacelane harvesters, not honeypot gatherers--they weren't made for sleeping on sand and under tree. Their trees are the clouded, backlit anomalies that destabilize corporations, or elevate conglomerates into celebrity status overnight.

Settling himself back from his notations, his written hand far neater than his spoken tongue may ever be, at least as far as these younger men will ever know, Praez claps his hands together.

"Les' mae ourse'fs knaen."