#016 - "A Vicious Cycle"
Chapter 2: The Catalyst
I have been sitting inside an OSI interrogation room aboard the ACSV Adjudicator for roughly the past twelve hours now. I had barely made it off the operating table before they dragged me to this pure white room.
Since then, they’ve only let me use the bathroom twice. Another one of their bullshit tactics to keep the victim on edge, and have them say something they didn’t mean to out of desperation.
They have brought in three interrogators so far. All of whom asked the same questions, but with different techniques.
The first one tried to intimidate me. He yelled and screamed, got in my face, and threatened me with central-class charges if I didn’t tell him everything. I kept my cool though, and answered honestly.
I told him about how we were waiting for their envoy. How we felt that huge vibration which knocked everybody out of their chairs. How the power cut out. How the computer came back online with countless catastrophic failure alerts throughout the whole station. How there seemed to be something wrong with the doors, and that Marco wasn’t able to close them. I told him about how that little monster Anna seemed to know about the door issue, and claimed they were: “Registered as a secondary process”. I told him about how she somehow managed to get a pair of Shredders, and savagely butchered Marco, Ron, Brick, and Lark, while taking my arm. I explained that she let me live in exchange for telling Anthony Valoretti that she was coming for him. How she knew what he did to someone named Kei, whatever that meant. Lastly – How she said that the reason she didn’t go after Anthony right then and there was because she had been: “Ordered to return promptly, and not run off anywhere.”
I answered everything as accurately and as honestly as I could. He then told me to sign a paper declaring everything I said was the truth under penalty of law, and I promptly told him to shove it.
I’d say they should have started with a different approach, but stressing the victim out, having them sign something under duress, and then clamping their balls in a legal vice because of a small discrepancy in their testimony is common tactic. That or use it as a way to keep them silent.
Not that they need me to sign a waiver to actually charge me with something. It just makes their lives easier.
The second guy who interrogated me came in several hours later. Instead of yelling, screaming, and throwing his weight around – He tried to be all buddy-buddy with me. Complained about how he “Doesn’t want to be here either!”, and offered me a sandwich and some water.
I declined both, just in case they stuck something funny in it. Instead opting to drink water from the bathroom sink later.
My body is still humming from the excessive amount of Neurocane they administered during surgery, along with the hefty dose of general use Neuralax I had to take afterwards. I feel sick, but it’s the only thing keeping the searing pain at bay. My head is in a fog. Just keeping my focus during all of these interrogations is taking everything I got. If he gave me something else on top of that, I’m pretty sure I’d just start babbling incoherent nonsense.
In the end, I told him everything I told the other guy. He also asked me to sign the paper – To which I also told him to shove it.
The third person was a woman. Tall, beautiful, long glossy black hair, seductive ruby red lips, glasses - A real cool-beauty type. She wore a firm fitting ash grey business suit, a short pencil skirt, sexy sheer stockings, and heels. She went with the flirtatious approach. She would subtly brush her hand against mine, laugh at any joke I made, and flutter her long eyelashes at me. She took off her blazer midway through, unbuttoning her shirt to show off her ample cleavage.
Just like the other two I gave her the same story, and refused to sign the paper.
But instead of quickly giving up like the other two, she started indirectly insulting my masculinity, and making snide offhand remarks to try and get me to sign the paper.
Two-faced bitch.
I told her to stuff that paper down her chest, and piss off. She accused me of sexual harassment, and I told her to not let the door hit her in the ass on the way out.
She left in a snooty huff. Frustrated she couldn’t get me to sign, and win those office brownie points.
Which leads me to now.
I have been sitting in this quiet room for about 4 hours since the last interrogator came in.
They’re either trying to make me sweat, or have moved onto Anthony.
But at this point though, all I’m thinking about is how badly I need to pee. I am genuinely considering just using the corner of the room as a urinal. But they’ll probably charge me with defacing government property, public indecency, destruction of a military asset, impeding a military operation, impeding a central investigation, and whatever else bullshit charge they can throw at me purely out of spite for not signing that paper.
I sigh, and look down at my stump of a left arm.
The DRAC envoy’s medics have already installed a fairly universal attachment point onto my arm. Which will allow me to get a cybernetic replacement sometime in the future. But because of this treatment, and how inflated the government bill was, I now owe even more money to the DRAC Central Government. All of my remaining debt to Hellman was transferred to them as well, and if I can’t make the payments, I am far passed fucked.
Despite their best attempts at tacking on as many additional fees as they could to the already outrageous medical bill, because I had been gradually paying off my debt to Hellman beforehand, fortunately my debt ended up below the “Lost-Cause Threshold”. Meaning that I’m not at risk for being labeled “detrimental to economy” and forced into permanent slavery. But I am however at risk of being conscripted into the ACN, or some other military branch until I can pay my debt off. Which is now more than triple what it once was because of this malicious medical bill.
With pay for debt conscripts being so low, I might as well be a slave.
I'm screwed.
I have no arm, I have no ship, and I have no job to pay off this debt.
Neither my parents nor my sister has the money to help me pay this off, and I can’t ask them to put themselves in harm’s way by taking on debt to pay off my debt.
I scoff to myself.
Despite how numb I am, I can still feel my missing arm. Everytime I look down and see that it's gone, a fiery rage swells within me.
That fucking therian – She took everything from me.
When I think about her slyly smirking after slaughtering my brothers, I want to strangle her with all my might, and watch her kick helplessly as I watch the light disappear from her eyes.
Then I realize my arm is gone, and my fury only grows.
□■□
I knew Ron, Brick, and Lark since we were kids. Dad worked a corporate job, and was never home. Mom struggled raising two kids, while working as much as she could. Sis was always running off with her friends, and causing Mom headaches. Eventually she got knocked up by some deadbeat who ran off, leaving Mom and Sis to both raise the child together.
Because of the existence of therians, and the copious amount of thrall races, there is a constant shortage of jobs for free-citizens. The only safety net citizens have is the “Heinrich Act”. Which makes it mandatory for companies to have at least 30% of their workforce comprised of free citizens.
Corporations have been lobbying for hundreds of years to have the Heinrich Act repealed. But the most the Colonial Congress does is raise or lower the threshold depending on the state of the economy.
The highest I’ve ever seen the threshold reach was 42%, and that was following an incident where rioters stormed some of the congressmen’s gated communities and estates. It was quickly stomped out, with all of the rioters either receiving life in prison, or permanent slavery.
They ended up dropping the threshold to 38% after 3 months, 35% after 5, and down to 30% after 7.
Since then, the threshold tends to alternate between 25% and 35% give or take. Just enough to sustain the middle SCI class, but barely viable for the SCI dredges.
While smaller companies will often hire more free-citizens than the giant mega-corporations which dominate the economy – They tend to not last very long.
Whether it be because they can’t compete, they get bought out, or they get regulated out of existence by the suits – It’s always something.
This constant shortage of jobs lets companies treat their employees however they damn well feel. If you don’t like your working conditions, there’s a line of people behind you eager to take your place.
I watched all of this growing up, and decided I never wanted to be a slave to the machine. The machine which forced my father to never be home for his family. The machine which forced my mother to constantly burn the candle at both ends.
“The galaxy is huge – There has to be more to it than this.” I thought.
Ron, Brick, and Lark were basically the closest thing I had to brothers. They grew up watching the same shit, just from different angles.
Ron’s father was in the military, and ended up dying while fighting pirates. Forcing him to care for his siblings while his mother worked. But his dad had rubbed off on him, and he became a natural leader with a strong sense of responsibility.
Brick was never the brightest bulb. Not compared to his brother anyway. His dad desperately wanted his son to become a corporate bigwig sciolite. So he played favorites, groomed him for success, while completely forgetting about Brick.
Lark's mother was a Re:Call junkie. I saw her spaced out on the couch countless times, making uncomfortable faces of inexplicable joy. That or talking to people who weren’t even there. It’s no wonder why he wanted out of that house.
I still remember the day we all swore that we’d get out of our rinky-dink colony together. That we’d become mercenaries, buy ourselves a ship, and chase fame, fortune, and adventure.
We had to be about only 9 or 10 years old then I’m guessing. It was Summer, the air was thick and humid, and the sun had just set. We had spent all day running around shooting each other with toy laser pistols, and catching muckrats. We had set up camp next to the lake just past old man Tawny’s farm. At the time, I don’t think any of us took the vow we made around the fire seriously. But as time wore on, and as our living situations worsened, we each started to discuss it in earnest.
Eventually, we were deadset on making that childish promise a reality.
We each had our own reasons for choosing the mercenary path. But we knew there was no future for us back on that colony apart from what we had already seen.
If our futures couldn’t be found there – We’d forge the path ourselves.
Unlike the sciolite elites who are born with all the knowledge they’ll ever need for life already implanted in their heads – We SCI-8’s had to waste 10 years of our lives going to school.
After we graduated at 15 and became adults, all four of us immediately got our mercenary licenses (much to my parents dismay). We started out small, working planetside local requests.
Clear out a nest of lurkers, chase down a petty criminal, protect a store from some thugs – Basic stuff like that. The pay was trash but eventually we ranked up from F-rank to E-rank after about a year. Opening up some higher paying jobs over on the neighboring cirilium mining colony where the big-time corporations had set up shop. So we paid for a one way ticket to Geomoria, hopped on a local transport, and finally left home.
This was the first time any of us had been offworld, and our spirits couldn’t have been higher. The entire trip there, we were talking about what it was going to be like.
We all knew Geomoria was fairly undeveloped, but I think our excitement was somewhat extinguished when we finally arrived there.
It was a barren, orange, rocky wasteland.
Despite being further from our system’s sun than our home colony of Teramoria, it was somehow hotter. The sky was a lighter shade of blue than back home, almost white, and it constantly had this strange haze hanging over it. The air was dry, arid, and the wind felt almost nonexistent.
Fortunately for us, Dad had an apartment on Geomoria for work, and let us crash in the living room. The only thing he asked is we: “Not bring work home with us.”
I think Mom was hoping we were just going through a phase, and that by letting us stay there, we might snap out of it.
We spent most of our time there fending off the wildlife from the quarries. But occasionally we would have to defend the quarries from small spontaneous pirate raids.
The most action we ever saw came when tensions between the DRAC and Arastonia reached their peak.
Trying to cripple the DRAC’s cirilium production, Arastonia sent several fleets into the DRAC territories. They launched an orbital bombardment onto several mining planets that day. Fortunately none of us were hurt, but the plant workers were furloughed for several months while the plants were being rebuilt.
Arastonia intentionally chose a time when the least amount of workers would be present, which led to far fewer fatalities.
Somehow the DRAC and Arastonia managed to avoid a war over the incident. I later heard that the cirilium attacks were a response to a shipyard raid done by the DRAC – But I couldn’t find anything online about it.
In the end the attack was deemed to be caused by a “faulty weapon discharge”, not even acknowledging the fact why they would have fleets in rural DRAC systems to begin with.
But honestly it was nice being able to spend time with Dad, especially during his furlough. For most of my life, usually he was just in one day, and out the next.
At night we'd drink beer, play games, watch movies, and bullshit about whatever adventures we had been on that day (which were always slightly exaggerated.)
Dad was actually the one who taught us how to play poker. Ever since then, it became our go-to game.
It was a lot of fun… Until one day I caught Dad cheating on Mom with one of his co-workers.
I kicked the shit out of him.
I had watched Mom struggle alone to raise Sis and I, and later little Abby, all while working herself to the bone.
In hindsight, I regret doing it. I was probably only 16 or 17 at the time, and was moody and opinionated. I don’t believe my Dad is a bad man. If anything, he has always been a damn good father – Albeit fairly absent.
It is actually fairly common for married couples to find an intimacy partner when separated for months at a time; being literal planets apart, or even systems apart for work. That or they agree on getting a therian or a slave to take care of their needs while separated.
It’s basically the workaround people use to keep their relationships from falling apart.
Honestly, traditional families like ours are the rare ones at this point – And probably for good reason.
Dad swore up and down this was a recent thing, and he had never once cheated on Mom until the furloughing incident.
Which meant that, for the past 16 or 17 years, the poor man had only seen his wife for a couple days each month. Most of that precious little time was spent with his kids.
We made up, and eventually my stupid ass apologized. He also apologized and promised to tell Mom about it, to which he kept his word.
She was hurt of course, but much more understanding of it than I was. Mom was the first to suggest letting my Dad get a therian, but he declined.
I’m proud of him for that.
Although we had amassed a decent amount of weapons, and made a solid reputation for ourselves on Geomoria – We didn’t get a ship until after we made it to D-rank.
Even the shittiest of ships are expensive to the average DRAC citizen. But most mercenaries start off with a ship. Whether it be something they used to use for work, something they inherited from a deceased mercenary friend or family member, or something they bet all their chips on taking a loan out for – Usually they have something to get from planet to planet.
Taking a loan out on a ship is literally betting your life that things will work out. If you fail to pay off that kind of debt, you will end up as a slave for the rest of your life.
While we were young, dumb, and reckless – We weren’t that reckless. Ron, being the most sensible among us, was the one to first suggest we work our way towards buying a ship.
We all unanimously agreed, albiet somewhat begrudgingly due to our teenage angst.
But we hit a one-in-a-million break during a contract we were given shortly after becoming D-rank.
Cirilco contracted us to take out a group of pirates that had set up shop in a mountain range out in the middle of nowhere. The pirates had turned an old forgotten mine into a storehouse, and had been using it to launch raids on more isolated cirilium quarries.
The mountain range allowed them to fly low, and mask their exact location from the planetside aerial detection network. Because of how undeveloped Geomoria was, the corporations only had some of the airspace under constant surveillance. The mountain range allowed them to operate just outside of it.
Of course, the corporations did eventually find their hideout through orbital surveillance. They could have just bombed the shit out of them from orbit, but they wanted their cirilium back.
In the grand scheme of things, the amount of cirilium those pirates took was minuscule. But corporate sciolites tend to be petty, and wanted to send a message to any other pirates operating in the area.
Not to mention, it was far cheaper to pay a group of young, dumb mercs to clear the pirates out, than it is to organize an orbital bombardment. They’d gain absolutely nothing from that. We had a solid local reputation, and we were expendable.
So they gave us the largest contract we had ever seen, with great terms to boot. Even though the job didn’t offer a down-payment like most corporate jobs do (probably because they had low expectations) we eagerly jumped at the opportunity. Unlike small business owners, corporations always paid-up after a job was done. At least so long as you read the fine print.
Which we always did. Because we quickly learned some bean counters in the corporate hierarchy are hungry for recognition, and will cut costs however they can. Even if it comes at the cost of the company’s reputation amongst mercs. They simply didn’t understand that there’s more to running a company than numbers.
So when we had the option, we typically looked for the old-timers to act as our company representative. More often than not, they understood the importance of having a good working relationship between local mercenaries.
After the orbital bombardment by Arastonia, the Horizon Corporation quickly learned this fact. Even though Horizon was offering maybe double or triple the rates the other companies were for protection during the reconstruction period, they still couldn’t find anybody willing to work for them.
Any merc that had worked on Geomoria for more than a day had been burned by Horizon’s fine-print fuckery. In the end, they had to pay through the nose for protection. Completely negating any dracan they had “saved” ripping off the local mercs.
Fuck Horizon.
Our contract stipulated we wipe out the pirates, recover the cirilium, and destroy the entrance to the mine to prevent future incidents. Anything that wasn’t cirilium, we were free to claim for ourselves.
The mine was apparently well over 200 years old, and was created by a company that no longer exists. While rights to the derelict mine had been transferred to Cirilco through various past acquisitions, it had long since been buried in the bureaucratic archives.
The mine had run dry over a century ago, and had become more of a liability than an asset. Cirilco just wanted the problem gone, and we were more than happy to oblige.
Cirilco probably had the best reputation amongst the mercs on Geomoria. Primarily because of how straightforward they were. At least when it came to the Geomoria branch.
All of their representatives were past miners or quarry foremen. While they were hardasses, they were reasonable and fair. They knew what it meant to work.
You can tell a lot about a company’s culture by the attitude and personality of their representatives.
Horizon is the galaxy’s largest distributor of goods, and were a bunch of bean counting cunts. Everything is about efficiency to them. They don’t give a damn about anything but the numbers, and treat the billions of slaves they have working for them like disposable assets. I actively avoid buying anything from them at this point, despite how difficult they make it to boycott them.
The Akasha Corporation's representatives were… A mixed bag. They either scared the shit out of you for a plethora of different reasons, or were straight-up perverts. The Akasha Corporation is the largest cultivator of therians in the DRAC territories. But they also specialize in genetic modification, cybernetics, creating “militarized biologics”, biological weapons, medical technology, pharmaceuticals, and countless other shady fields.
I will admit, they did treat you right though. Phil, our designated representative, was an absolute character. He was an old man, but he was an open pervert when it came to therians.
He’d take us to the management-exclusive Akasha therian club, give us all unlimited drinks, where we’d inevitably wake up the next morning literally buried in naked women.
At first we all thought he was trying to get us to buy therians from him, or to create brand loyalty to Akasha. But no – I genuinely think Phil just loved being a full-time lecher.
We never had any therians growing up, but they were always around. Most households owned at least one. The only families that didn’t have one growing up were Lark’s and mine. Granted Lark’s mother never bought one because she was too busy buying drugs.
I never really had any strong feelings about them one way or the other. Except when I was very little, and I begged my parents to get one.
Owning a therian or some other kind of slave is basically the norm within the DRAC. Frankly people thought we were weird for not owning one.
I remember as a young kid, I honestly felt embarrassed that we didn’t own one. I remember a few kids called our families dredges because of it, and said we were too poor to afford even a second-hand therian. Whereas, because it is often believed to improve therianthropic symbiosis in the long-run, that kid’s parents gave him his own Cottontail at an early age.
While in my family’s case, it was just my parent’s mutual decision to not get one. But in Lark’s… Well… That kid technically wasn’t wrong.
Lark tackled the kid, and beat the snot out of him. Afterwards the kid's mother went over to Lark’s house to complain.
I vividly remember them both standing in the doorway, as the woman bitched out Lark’s mom while she was high on Re:Call.
I vicariously felt embarrassment for Lark during that incident. He pretended not to care, but he very clearly cared.
There were countless other companies that had set up shop on Geomoria, all with different cultures.
But Cirilco, Horizon, and Akasha were the major players on Geomoria.
While the Arastonian orbital bombardment was undoubtedly the most amount of action we saw during our time on Geomoria - We never really did anything apart from helping the survivors, and protecting the quarries and plants from looters in the aftermath. I mean how could we do anything about a fleet of battleships raining down death from above? We just ran like the world was ending.
This contract would mark our greatest personal achievement on Geomoria. Ron had the gameplan all worked out. We would use the Maverick MATT, or ‘Multipurpose All-Terrain Transport’, to drive to the mountain range under the dark of night. During the day, we would hide the Maverick underneath a makeshift camouflage tent. Which made the Maverick look like a rock from the air.
Me and Brick spent all night making that piece of shit tent. It was intentionally designed to be misshapen, and oddly bent to try and really sell the illusion. For the job it needed to accomplish, it worked just fine. But underneath, the support beams were a total mess.
It certainly would have been faster to take a vehicle that flies. But Ron theorized that the pirates might have some sort of aircraft detection system set up – Which we later found out was correct.
Lark had won the Maverick in a lucky game of poker over at a local mercenary bar. It was adequate for getting around, but pretty devoid of luxuries. It had no doors, making air-conditioning a mute point.
That two-day journey out to the mountains was infinitely more difficult than actually clearing out the pirates. It was a heatwave, and we had no AC.
We damn near passed out from just how hot it got in that tent. We couldn’t even leave it because we saw the pirate’s ship pass overhead several times.
So instead of sleeping during the day like we planned, we took turns driving at night, and sleeping when things were tolerable.
It was a miserable experience that I now look back fondly on.
By the time we finally reached the mountains, we were so pissed off and miserable that we didn’t even bother with sneaking into the mine. We just stormed it guns blazing.
We already knew the basic layout of the mine from Cirilco’s old archives. While at one point, the mine had multiple entrances and exits running through the mountain. Most had been closed off over a century ago due to instability issues. It was highly unlikely the pirates would take the time to reopen them, or even know about them to begin with - Leaving only two entrances open.
Lark and Ron took the top entrance, which was used as a small hangar back in the day. Brick and I took the original mineshaft entrance near the base.
The look on the pirates faces when we kicked the door in, sunburnt and seething, is something I’ll never forget.
With Ron and Lark already in control of the hangar, they tried fleeing deeper into the mine. Brick, who was the most sunburnt and pissed off out of all of us, just grenaded the tunnel shut behind them. Which caused a massive tunnel collapse probably a kilometer deep (0.6mi).
We knew they were trying to lure us into an ambush inside the central cavern. We also knew that the tunnel network's various exits had long since been caved in.
When Brick sealed the only remaining entrance into the central cavern shut, those men were as good as dead.
After verifying that the rest of the accessible parts of the mine were clear, we located the crates of cirilium, and we deemed the operation a success.
Problem was – How the fuck were we going to transport that much cirilium? The Maverick couldn’t carry even half of it, and we were not about to make multiple trips.
Fortunately for us, the pirates had their ship parked in the hangar. When all of us looked at each other, realizing what that meant, we almost had a party right then and there.
We had a ship.
After 4 years of dealing with the scorching sun, bullshit contracts, and sleeping on my Dad’s couch – We had FINALLY made it.
The galaxy was open to us. We could go anywhere we want, do anything we want. We could finally BE somebody – Rather than just some D-list mercs stuck on a backwater planet.
And let me tell you – She was a real peach.
Lark jokingly nicknamed her the “MSV Shitbox”, and the just name stuck.
The ship was older than the damn mine, and half as structurally sound. The electronics were so goddamned ancient, Lark was able to crack the security in less than 20 minutes. We loaded the Maverick, the pirate loot, weapons, and cirilium into the rear hatch. After destroying the last two entrances to the mine, we made our way back to town.
After they confirmed that the mine was indeed inaccessible, true to their word, Cirilco gave us a massive payday and let us keep all of the loot – Ship included.
They also put a good word in for us with the DMA, or Department of Mercenary Affairs, which eventually led to us being raised to C-rank.
That said – Our hopes were quickly crushed once we had to deal with the BSV, or Bureau of Spacefaring Vessels.
They took one look at the Shitbox, and promptly declined it for interstellar use.
We were 19 when we got the Shitbox. While we were allowed to use it for planetside jobs, which made our lives significantly easier, it wouldn’t be until we were 21 that we’d actually be able to leave the planet with it.
All the money we had been saving for a ship was immediately dumped into fixing and retrofitting the Shitbox. It felt like we were 15 again, running around Teramoria with no dracan, and no contract that paid high enough.
Thank God Lark was tech savvy, and Ron knew a fair amount about mechanics from his dad. If we had to pay a mechanic to work on the Shitbox, we would have scrapped her.
The age of the Shitbox actually made retrofitting her significantly easier. Modern ships have complex proprietary software which locks modifications behind a paywall. The Shitbox also had ancient paywall “safeguards”, but they were so rudimentary, Lark was able to bypass all of them without spending a single dracan. Not that we could take it to the manufacturer even if we wanted to, given that they no longer exist.
Lark actually dug through the computer’s isolated partitions, and recovered some of the ship’s old datalogs. Apparently the Shitbox was first launched in 136RE, making it 340 years old now. It was originally called the “Iglehart”, and was one of 4 custom order escort ships for some old cargo ship called the “John B. Ford”.
Given the age of the ship, and the fact that it was custom made as both an escort vessel, and supplemental cargo ferry, getting replacement parts was out of the question. We were forced to strip the ship down, and replace most of its components.
My Dad, who had since ordered a pre-fabricated home on Geomoria, was not happy that we filled his spacecraft hangar with antique spaceship parts. Ultimately though, hoarding all of that old crap was the right call.
I think in hindsight, Dad bought that house so us boys could work on the ship there.
While Ron and Lark worked on the ship, Brick sourced parts, and I went through the absolute nightmare of getting that thing registered.
But the day that thing got approved…
Words cannot describe the joy we felt.
By the end, it was hardly the same ship anymore. Apart from the massive upgrades we did to just about everything on it, the interior was no longer just bare metal plates – But was actually fully furnished and carpeted. It had running water, a working filtration system, a new emergency bulkhead system – The works.
Sure, everything was done on a budget, but the ship was livable now. After everything we went through and saw during that ship’s retrofitting, I am genuinely in disbelief that the ship didn’t depressurize when those pirates took it into space. We didn’t need to kill those pirates – This ship would have done it for us.
But given that the ship was no longer a steaming pile of garbage, calling it the “MSV Shitbox” was a disservice to both the ship and to us.
Obviously we didn’t try to register the ship as the “MSV Shitbox”, that was just our nickname for it. At first we tried to register it as the “MSV Harold” after Ron’s late father. While Ron appreciated the sentiment, none of us were sold on the name. Eventually we settled on the “MSV Splicer”, given that the ship was now a complete hodgepodge of parts of varying brands. It kept the spirit of the Shitbox intact, while respecting the work we had put into it.
We took the ship for multiple test flights, each of us taking turns. Brick sucked at flying, Ron and Lark were passable, but apparently I was a natural born pro.
I was forcefully volunteered to be the ship’s designated pilot, and in celebration of our newfound prospects, we took everyone back to Teramoria – Dad included.
Dad was impressed by the progress we’d made, and apologized that he ever doubted us. Everyone started drinking in the back, as I, the designated pilot, flew us home.
Seeing Mom and Sis for the first time in 5 years was great. Little Abby had grown, and while we were gone, Sis had another daughter named Tanya. Fortunately the second guy she was with was a decent enough guy, even if he did keep a Therianthrope concubine. He stuck around to raise Tanya, and Abby seemed to like him.
Ron, Brick, and Lark all visited their families in the meantime.
Ron’s siblings had grown, and were excited to see him. According to Ron, his mother toiled like a woman possessed to make a feast for everyone.
Brick’s brother had gotten a job with Akasha, and steadily moved up the ladder. During those 5 years apart, Brick’s brother had not only been raised to SCI-7, but to SCI-6. Which had apparently gone completely to his head. Turning him into even more of a prick.
Lark’s mother had... Unfortunately passed away while he was gone. Re:Call, while physically benign when it comes to health effects, is extremely cheap and highly addictive. Lark hadn’t kept up with her while he was gone, and only found out about her passing after he got home. In his absence, she had started taking harder and harder drugs. Eventually it ended up killing her.
Lark wasn’t completely torn up about it. It’s almost like he saw it coming. But he did smoke an excessive amount while we were there.
We all held a private psuedo-funeral service for her, since she wasn’t given one when she was buried.
Lark’s aunt, who Lark hadn’t seen since he was a kid as she had cut contact with her sister, was still registered as the sole inheritor of his mother’s property. She ended up paying the last little bit of the house off, along with the quarterly taxes on the property to prevent it from being seized.
As soon as she heard that Lark was back home, she immediately signed the property over to him without asking for a single dracan.
From the tragedy of his mother’s death, Lark was able to rekindle his relationship with his aunt. Who effectively became something like a second mother to him.
She had lamented not doing more for Lark and her sister, and this was her way of trying to make up for lost time.
Lark, while appreciative of his Aunt’s generosity and consideration, couldn’t bring himself to see that house as a home. She refused to take it back, so rather than sell it, he decided to hold onto it until its value appreciated. So he bought a cheap second-hand therian for the sole purpose of looking after the house in his absence.
The therian, a cute 42 year old Cottontail with golden brown hair and an AgeLock of probably 13 or 14, was overjoyed to be bought for such an easy task. Lark left her ownership to my sister since she lived locally, who happily accepted the extra hand. Apparently my sister still has her alternate between helping out at home, and tidying up Lark’s property.
It's mind-numbing work, but Sis says she seems very happy with her life.
With Lark gone… That therian is probably going to be moved into my sister’s house indefinitely. I can’t imagine my sister just selling her after all these years.
Lark had set his aunt as the inheritor of the house. Since she has no family left, she’ll probably just end up selling it. That house holds painful memories for everyone involved.
After spending about three weeks back home, we unanimously decided to head out. Brick and Lark both wanted to leave like the planet was on fire, and Dad had already flown back to Geomoria. So there was nothing keeping us there.
After saying goodbye to everyone, loading up on supplies, fuel, and whatever else we might need - We were off.
For 6 years we traveled the stars in the Splicer, returning home every so often. We went system to system, doing jobs, killing bad guys, collecting stories, and making a name for ourselves.
While we never made it to S-rank, we did eventually become respected A-rank mercenaries.
We did it.
That childish promise we all made to each other next to the lake when we were kids was finally a reality.
We became mercenaries, we got ourselves a ship, and we chased fame, fortune, and adventure.
Life was great.
…But all good things come to an end.
Because of certain BSV regulations, we were prohibited from replacing certain components on the Splicer with anything but OEM parts. Had the Splicer been registered as a civilian ship, we would have just risked the fine and swapped them out. But the Splicer was registered as a mercenary spacefaring vessel – A type of warship.
Had we gotten caught at any point with those components replaced, we could have faced real jail-time, or even lifelong slavery.
It just wasn’t worth the risk.
Shortly after I turned 27, shit hit the fan.
After 6 years of hard flying and daily use, the MSV Splicer declared that she had had enough.
We suffered a primary power failure while out in space.
To make matters worse, we were out in the middle of a low-traffic rural system. So by sending out a distress beacon, we were more likely to get picked up by psychos or pirates than we were a friendly vessel.
That is – If we had a working distress beacon.
Ron and Lark had always ensured the ship received proper periodic maintenance. But small original components had been frequently failing leading up to this incident. They would spend hours rebuilding them, yelling to each other from across the hangar. But they’d always get them working in the end.
Apart from our flashlights and visors, we spent the first week in total darkness. Ron and Lark tore that ship apart just trying to jury rig it just enough to get us home.
Fortunately water and gravity controls still worked, but oxygen was fried. They spent four days furiously trying to get it to work. We were nearly out of air, and we were at our wits end.
Eventually Brick, who had been having a near constant panic attack the entire time, eventually flipped out and started pounding on the oxygen generator like a madman.
While we were pulling him away from it, unbelievably it kicked back on.
We all just stared at each other in silent disbelief, as Ron cracked a chuckle.
The ship erupted in relieved laughter, as we realized we weren’t about to suffocate.
Then Ron and Lark got the safety lights working, and then the communications; so we now had a working distress beacon.
But rather than immediately use it, we took a vote on whether or not we wanted to take a chance and risk everything using it in such a remote location, or keep it as a last resort.
We voted 3-1 in favor of saving it as a last resort, with Brick being the only one voting to use it.
Ron tasked me with keeping Brick calm while they worked on the ship. Which I had already pretty much been doing. It was just much easier now that the lights and oxygen were back on.
They spent the next week going over that ship with a fine-tooth comb looking for whatever caused the whole disaster. Eventually they found it.
The part that ended up failing was way beneath the floor boards, hidden behind a small panel tucked between the hull and a support beam, and burnt to Hell.
It was some weird 340 year old electrical board that used technology none of us had even seen before. It had various glass tubes that were hot to the touch, and several of them had exploded.
Honestly none of us even knew what that thing did. We had never found it while we were retrofitting the ship.
But when we all realized our lives were probably in the hands of these three and a half century old, scalding-hot, fragile glass tubes – We immediately took a vote on whether or not to use the beacon.
It came out 4-0.
We spent the next week waiting to be rescued or possibly killed. We periodically turned off the water to reduce the load on those tubes, which decreased their temperature a fair bit. It was the most tense week of my life.
But eventually we got a response.
The ACSV Delahaye – A DRAC destroyer out on patrol heeded our call.
We had spent the entire week on edge not knowing who would heed our call. We basically burst into tears, born of pent up stress, finding out that a friendly found us first.
After they loaded the ship into their hangar, we greeted the crew. The Captain actually knew of us, and said we rescued his brother back on Naratova when pirates raided the colony. Normally being rescued by a DRAC warship would have come with a decent sized bill, which we would have been fine with paying. But the Captain said he'd: “Pull some strings.”
We spent the next month helping around the ship, and eventually had the ship transferred back to Dad’s hangar back on Geomoria.
We did some research on our mystery part, and discovered it legally fell under the classification of restricted parts we couldn’t replace. We unanimously decided that enough was enough, and to sell the Splicer off.
After paying for a seller’s permit, we put her up on the Omninet for sale.
Although the price we were asking for was very fair, we had few takers. The age of the ship, and the lack of replacement parts made it a deal breaker for most. A few shady merchants were interested, given that they could modify the antique parts at only the risk of a fine. Whereas our punishment would have been much more severe.
Eventually we found a taker.
He was the shadiest character of all, but for completely different reasons.
He refused to give us his full name. Despite the fact that we’d need it to fill out the forms needed to transfer ownership of the ship. Instead he just told us to call him “Tom.”
Tom showed up to our little rural hangar with a small security detail. Real military-spec cyborgs who were more metal than man. They didn’t talk at all, instead opting to stand menacingly around the hangar entrance.
Tom had shaggy black hair, and wore a labcoat for whatever reason. The moment he saw the Splicer in the hangar, he started yelling at us about how we: “Bastardized an irreplaceable piece of spacefaring history!”
The guy was an judgemental prick, and reeked of sciolite energy.
But after we told him we had saved all of the original antique parts, which had since been stored in large crates in the back room of the hangar, his face immediately lit up.
Brick might not have been the brightest bulb, but he was a fierce negotiator. Even if he hadn’t shown up with a security detail, he could have smelled the dracan on this guy from a hundred kilometers away. He managed to get the guy to pay for both the ship, and the antique parts separately.
While slightly irked we were price gouging him, he accepted our terms.
What’s weird is that, when we filled out the forms, “Tom” used a completely different name for the title. Not only that, but the BSV issued us a transference gag order – Something I didn’t even know existed.
Whoever “Tom” actually was, he was obviously some kind of VIP within the DRAC government.
With a hefty amount of dracan now in our accounts, we decided to hold off buying another ship until we could save up for a brand new one. Ron and Lark had practically killed themselves trying to keep the Splicer in the air, and didn’t want to go through the same stress again.
Then over at the Geomoria DMA branch, Ron learned of a recruitment listing for a big time mercenary group called the HMC.
We all knew of the HMC, they were run by Hans Hellman himself afterall – Who was basically a national hero due to his accomplishments as a Colonel in the Allied Colonial Navy.
The recruitment listing was for a one year contract, didn’t require having a ship, and the pay was great for footwork.
We were used to getting much higher paydays after having the Splicer for so long. Which made the contracts around Geomoria seem beneath us at this point. While the HMC’s pay wasn’t as great as independent work, we were willing to settle for it.
So we signed up and ended up getting shipped off to an asteroid base called Junis-12.
This would end up being the biggest mistake of our lives.
At first we were in awe. The place was basically its own city, full of luxury services for mercs to enjoy in their downtime. They had anything you could ever want and more. But it was all really expensive.
Upon arriving, were immediately placed in the reserve unit, and kept on standby. So we had absolutely nothing to do. Sure we were getting paid to do literally nothing, but the Omninet subscription service was outrageous, so we just ended up playing poker together over and over and over until it was driving us mad.
The cheapest services they had were the therian subscription services. The most basic one allowed you to visit brothels in the Therianthrope District.
We were trying to save up money for a ship, but bored as Hell sitting in our rooms. At first we got the lowest tier subscription service, allowing us to use the brothels. But we got sick of walking, so we opted to upgrade so they would just come to us.
Eventually, after many nights with different girls, we each ended up settling on our favorite therians.
While having on demand call girls is great, after 6 months of doing nothing but tussling every night, it really starts to wear on you. Despite our constant requests to management to have them give us something to do, we always got back the same answer: “Sorry, we don’t need you right now – But we’ll let you know when we do!”
Eventually our therian companions suggested we just bite the bullet and get the date subscription package, as they were also: “Getting really bored as well.”
It’s never nice to hear a girl you’ve spent 6 months plowing tell you that they’re bored with you.
So in a fog of shortsighted stupidity, we got the date package.
At first, the date package was great. New subscribers got unlimited drinks and recreational drugs for the first three months. Along with three months of complimentary train service (assuming you kept it after the first month.)
Our dates were fun, but always ended up as a blur by the end of the night. We’d drink ourselves into a stupor, or take something and get fried, and end up buying the girls expensive gifts, or fine dining. Eventually just to keep the party going, we started blindly gambling our money away.
We didn’t realize it then, but we were beginning to lose it. Apart from through the windows, which blocked any sensation of warmth - We hadn’t seen real sunshine for over 9 months. All four of us ended up as either alcoholics or as junkies of some kind.
We ended up gambling everything away just trying to sustain our new mental crutches.
We thought we were fucked. All the progress we had made was now gone. But our therian companions suggested taking out a small company loan, and utilizing the salary payback service. Which just took a small percentage out of our paycheck each cycle.
We must have really been chugging the stupid juice, because despite what we learned on Geomoria with Horizon, we didn’t read the fine print.
The “automatic deduction system” always took just shy of the required amount, causing the interest to compound. We didn’t notice for months, and by then it was too late.
Our debt was massive, and to make matters worse, our contract stipulated we wouldn’t be released from our “one-year contract” until it was paid off.
We learned then that everybody in the HMC had massive debt to Hellman. Nobody talked about it until then because either the merc’s egos were so big they didn’t want to admit that they had fucked up, or they were quietly ashamed.
Our particular loan contract was different from most mercs there, with staggeringly aggressive interest due to our comparably short enlistment agreement. Our interest compiled weekly, rather than monthly, quarterly, or yearly. We only learned of our debt because of our end of contract meeting.
Still, we were some of the lucky ones. Some of the guys there had such criminally predatory loan contracts that there was no hope of them ever getting out. It’s probably why the suicide rate was so high there.
Of course, it wasn’t until then that they actually gave us something to do.
They shipped Ron and I off to the Libertalian front-line, where we would spend the next two years being forced to commit countless atrocities that will keep me awake at night for the rest of my life.
A huge chunk of my paycheck was going to my debt to the HMC, and anytime I got downtime back at base, Ron and I ended up drinking our traumas away just so we wouldn’t have to think.
We rarely saw Brick and Lark after that. Anytime we got to see them, their complexions got worse with each passing visit. While we all managed to give up the drugs easily enough, Brick and Lark’s finances were notably worse off than ours.
While on the front-lines, we didn’t have anything to spend our dracan on. So Ron and I were able to gradually pay off our debt, while accruing a new form – Mental.
Brick and Lark however were trapped inside Hellman’s playpen. So they were given the choice of constantly living paycheck to paycheck, paying off the debt while using the remainder to keep themselves from going crazy through overpriced entertainment. Or pay off the debt, and then turn into a vegetable and sleep the days away.
They chose the former.
Eventually we got called back to base for a huge celebration in the Fortune District, where drinks were half off, and the therian services were hugely discounted.
Rather than fall for that line of horseshit again, we opted to quietly play poker in traffic command with Brick and Lark just like the old days back on Geomoria.
…Which leads me to now.
□■□
A deafening silence falls over the room as tears begin to swell in my eyes.
I furiously grit my teeth in a pure, powerless frustration.
I had thought I cried out all my tears while I sat bleeding out in traffic command. I had to tear off what remained of Ron and Lark’s sleeves to use as a tourniquet. Brick’s body was so mangled that his clothing was in tatters.
I had known each of them my entire life. They were my family – My brothers.
It still hasn’t fully sunk in yet that they’re gone. That I’ll never see them again. That we’ll never be able to sit around and play poker like in the old days. That we’ll never be able to make that childish dream we had back then a reality.
…That I’m the last one left.
It feels like I have gaping void where my heart should be. I can’t imagine a world without them.
You would think I would have prepared myself more for something like this given we all chose this path. But the concept of living the rest of my life without them is so incomprehensible to me that my mind can’t bring itself to accept this as reality.
This world feels like a counterfeit nightmare I can’t wake up from.
I wipe my runny nose, and look up at the blank white ceiling as tears run down my cheeks. My lips curl and quiver as I desperately try to hold it together.
What am I supposed to tell Ron’s mom and siblings? She had already lost her husband, and now she’s lost her son. What am I supposed to tell Lark’s aunt? Her whole family is gone now.
Anna… I’m going to kill that evil bitch if it’s the last thing I do.
She’s taken everything from me. My friends, my family, my body, my future – Everything I held dear is now gone because of her.
When I picture her relishing in the destruction and chaos she’s wrought, a hate-filled flame appears in place of my now hollow heart.
That sly, uncaring smirk.
That degrading dimeanor.
That was genuine pleasure radiating off of Anna. She was savoring every second of that massacre. Not giving a damn about the families she’s torn apart, or the lives she’s ruined.
I WILL DESTROY HER.
I wipe my eyes. Sniffling back my urge to completely break down into tears, and stare vacantly at the wall.
One thing is concerning me though…
…Anna said she had been ordered to return promptly by someone.
But who ordered her, and why?
The only person who could have given her orders was her owner Hellman, and having her attack his own base makes no sense.
A slave’s owner can’t be changed without extremely complex equipment which only the DRAC Central Government has.
Did Libertalia find a way to crack the security on her CNI?? If so, how long were they planning this!?
I furrow my brow, completely overwhelmed by the countless questions racing through my head.
This whole situation doesn’t make any sense!!!
First the largest bounty in human history suddenly appears through classified channels. While it’s common for classified bounties that only approved mercenary groups can get to be relatively nondescript. But that woman’s bounty was almost devoid of information. It didn’t even say the class of ship she was flying, let alone the model. Yet somehow, Hellman’s favorite slave finds her almost immediately. Then everybody is ordered to withdraw from the Libertalian front-line for a party, completely losing any progress we had made. Then Hellman’s most loyal slave goes ballistic out of nowhere, killing damn near the entire HMC, and escaping the station completely unscathed.
Somebody definitely orchestrated all of this – But who!?
If somebody ordered her to return promptly, that means there’s somebody pulling the strings here. It wouldn’t make sense for it to have been Hellman, he was on the station when it happened.
It could have been the DRAC government, they had been looking for an excuse to invade Libertalia for years now. But a ton of Hellman’s financial backers were congressmen and extremely powerful sciolites. They just lost hundreds of billions worth of dracan on this incident – They wouldn’t sacrifice their own finances for a tiny country like Libertalia.
Arastonia?? No. While they are definitely the biggest suspect, their central neural implant technology is far behind ours. There’s no way they could have closed that technological gap so fast.
…The Scion? While possible, I don’t see any reason for those things to suddenly try and instigate a war with us after almost a century of peace.
Then there’s the fact that they brought the Adjudicator here along with the entire 5th Fleet just to pick up that one woman. This roaming solar eclipse of a ship is used to flatten planets and tear through enemy fleets like they’re made of butter. Why would they bring such a monstrous behemoth just to pick up one woman!?
I mean I figured she was a defector of some kind, but this is way past the point of overkill. This is like trying to kill a muckrat with an orbital strike – It’s insanity.
Everything about this situation stinks. I feel like I’m being used as a pawn in somebody else’s game. All the pieces seem to connect to form a bigger picture, but I’m missing the final piece to the puzzle. The common thread which connects all of this mess together.
Just then the door to the interrogation room opens, and a man walks in.
He’s carrying two briefcases, one silver and one black. He’s wearing finely pressed charcoal colored dress pants, a tucked-in white button-up shirt, a charcoal black tie, and freshly polished black shoes. He’s impeccably clean cut, and cold in his dimeanor.
Working as a mercenary, I’ve gotten good at guessing people’s SCI ranking from a glance. Unlike the other three, who were most likely SCI-6’s trying to desperately to break out of the middle class – This guy is a real deal Sciolite, and the dangerous kind to boot. Probably SCI-5 or SCI-4.
I need to stand firm, but it’s best not to antagonize him.
Without even acknowledging my existence, he walks to the opposite side of the table from me, and sits down. He sets the silver briefcase on the floor, and sets the other one up on the table – Popping it open.
Slowly and methodically, as if trying to build tension, he pulls out a folder containing a stack of papers, pushing the briefcase aside. He looks down, and flips the folder open to the first page.
He clasps his fingers together, resting them on the table.
After briefly skimming over the page in total silence, in a tone I can only describe as empty, emotionless, and completely devoid of human compassion, he speaks.
“…Flynn Fairwood… 30 years old… Born SCI-8 to David and Christina Fairwood on Teramoria in 446. You graduated school in 461, and immediately registered as a mercenary – Correct?” He asks, looking up at me with cold, unflinching eyes.
“I-It’s Fleece.” I stammer.
“Hm?” He hums, raising an eyebrow.
“My name – I go by Fleece. But yes, that is correct.”
“Ah – My mistake. Well then… ‘Fleece’ – You then left Teramoria for Geomoria at 16 with one Ronald Morris, one Simon Henderson, and one Leonard Hoskins – Correct?”
“That’s Ron, Brick, and Lark.” I say, trying to bury my irritation.
The man gives the driest, most robotic chuckle I have ever heard.
“My apologies Mr. Fairwood, we don’t always have nicknames on file.”
Bullshit – You Office of State Intelligence bastards know everything there is to know about me.
Something about this guy is terrifying.
It’s like he’s trying to imitate being a human being, rather than just being one.
He knew getting their names wrong would piss me off, and yet he did it just to get a reaction. Brick hated being called Simon. Have some respect for the dead you suit asshole.
“But yes… All of that is correct.”
The man nods.
“You four then got your first ship at 19, got it registered at 21, and used it for 6 years. During that time, you four were promoted to A-rank mercenaries, and had your SCI scores raised to 7. Then after you turned 27, you four opted to sell it and join the HMC. Why did you do that? And who did you sell it to might I ask?”
Ahhhh… I see your plan.
This is a trap. They couldn’t get me to sign that paper, so this is their angle now.
If I answer, they’ll have the leverage they need to either prosecute me, or at least keep me silent.
“We sold it because the ship was 340 years old, and certain components couldn’t be replaced with aftermarket parts due to regulatory restrictions. As for who we sold it to, I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.” I say flatly.
The man’s lip twitches, as his brow slightly stiffens.
“You do realize that this is both a central investigation, and a military operation we are conducting right now – Correct Mr. Fairwood? Withholding information, no matter how trivial, can be construed as an obstruction of justice.”
“I am well aware of that sir.” I say respectfully. “But as you are no doubt aware, the BSV issued me with a transference gag order when I sold that ship. I cannot discuss what individual or entity I sold that ship to without a formal order issued directly from a high court – You understand.”
The man’s eyes darken.
While his expression hardly changes, I can sense the animosity radiating off of him.
He was hoping I’d slip up there.
They want to bury as much of this incident as they can as fast as possible.
I’m fucked either way, so I might as well go for the blunt force approach.
“Sir, with all due respect, I have already answered all of your questions three times now. I have been fully cooperative with your investigation, and answered everything honestly and truthfully. I am an A-rank mercenary with a decorated history of supporting this country. I understand when I should be discreet. So please… I am severely injured and would like to get some rest – So can we please end this already?”
The man pauses, and just stares at me, blinking in silence. I genuinely can’t get a read on what’s going through this guy’s head, but something about him scares the shit out of me. For whatever reason, I get the feeling he’s imagining doing horrifically violent things to me right now while wearing an empty, deadpan expression.
Finally he closes his eyes and sighs through his nose.
He looks at me with a newfound look of disinterest.
He puts the folder away into his briefcase, snapping it shut. He silently looks up at the ceiling and immediately the room goes pitch black.
This guy must have a sensory neural implant installed. So when he was blankly staring at me, maybe he was talking with someone…?
Suddenly the wall off to the side illuminates the room, covering the entire wall with an image of A-Wing. It is an image of just outside the Export Box. In it there are three people: A tall man wearing a mask and mercenary armor, Ionna – Hellman’s custom order Kitsune, and a blond haired woman with her face completely censored with a black box.
“Do you recognize this man Mr. Fairwood?” He asks.
My eyes narrow. I recognize that armor from somewhere… But where?
“That’s… Um... Ummm… Oh! Tony! That’s Tony Gantz!” I exclaim, pointing to the man in the image.
The man nods.
“Everybody who recognized the armor said the same thing. But surviving ODSS recordings have him marked at 195cm tall (6’4ft), while all records of Tony Gantz have him at 186cm tall (6’1ft).”
I turn sharply to the OSI interrogator.
“Wait – Is this the guy who ordered Anna to do all this!?”
The man leans back in his chair, gesturing to the image.
“While salvage efforts and data extraction are still ongoing, we did manage to locate Tony Gantz’s room – Or at least, what was left of it. Mr. Gantz’s body was found stuffed in a dresser with his throat slashed.”
I jump out of my chair, ignoring the excruciating pain in my thigh, and point to the man displayed across the wall.
“ARE YOU SAYING THAT IT WAS THIS SON OF A BITCH THAT CAUSED ALL THIS!?” I shout.
The man’s expression remains stonefaced.
“We have reason to believe that may be the case, yes.”
My eyes fly wide open, as I grit my teeth in a fury.
This motherfucker is the reason they’re all…!
“Mr. Fairwood.” The man says, interrupting my death stare. “Please have a seat.”
I huff, and begrudgingly sit down.
He leans in. “Do you have any idea who could match this man’s description? Anyone at all.”
I look down and ponder. “No… There weren’t a lot of people there who were that tall… Bradley maybe?”
“Bradley Hunts is dead.” He states planely.
I look up in shock.
“He was brutally maimed and tortured, but still barely alive by the time we arrived. Despite our best efforts, he succumbed to his injuries. Only you and Mr. Valoretti survived the attack on A-Wing.”
I look down in horror.
These people are sick.
I look back at the man onscreen and glare daggers at him.
I will make them pay.
The man looks back up at the ceiling, causing the lights to turn back on and the image to disappear.
“By the way Mr. Fairwood, I have something to give to you.” He says, lifting up the silver briefcase.
He pushes it to me, as I look at it with confusion. I hesitantly pop it open. As soon as I see its contents, I wince and shirk back in dismay.
“Your former crewmates had any surviving members of the MSV Splicer written in as the inheritors of their remains in the wills registered with the DMA. Given you are the sole surviving member, that role falls to you.” The man says in a hollow, bureaucratic tone.
Ashes – 3 clear bags of ashes lined up side by side. With nothing but a sticker identifying who is whom.
You heartless suit bastards couldn’t even bother putting them in a canister.
I quickly close the briefcase.
“Thank you.” I say in a pained voice. “Did… Did they leave me anything else?”
“Unfortunately Mr. Fairwood, due to their outstanding debts, any assets they held is now property of the DRAC Central Government.”
I slam my fist on the table.
“THAT’S BULLSHIT!!! – What about Lark’s house!?!?”
The man’s expression doesn’t even flinch. He just tilts his head with cold, uncaring eyes.
“May I remind you that Leonard Hoskins only held a Class-4 land ownership license. He did not “own” the property – The Department of Colonial Development did. He simply had the ability to live there, modify the structure, and pass it on so long as he did not have any outstanding debt upon his death.”
I look at this soulless man with bottomless ire. It’s impossible for any singular citizen to get a true Class-1 license without having deep pockets, a high SCI ranking, and countless connections.
I’m so sorry Lark.
“One last thing Mr. Fairwood – I have something for you to sign.” He says, pulling a paper from his briefcase and pushing it in front of me.
I don’t even bother looking at it, I just push it back to him.
“I’ve already told you people I’m not signing it.”
“This is not the same paper as before, this is a military operations incident report.” The man explains dryly.
I raise my eyebrow in confusion. “Incident report? Why would you need me to sign something like that?”
“It seems that you sexually harassed Ms. Samantha Gale, so she filed an incident report following the interaction.”
“WHAT!?!?”
The man picks up the paper, and begins reading it aloud.
“During my questioning of Flynn ‘Fleece’ Fairwood regarding a major military incident (Case No. 475194), despite how obviously uncomfortable it was making me, Mr. Fairwood spent the entire time openly fixated on my chest. When asked to fill out some simple forms, he responded with telling me to, and I quote: ‘Stuff that paper down my chest, and piss off.’ Unable to take the harassment anymore, I opted to retreat from the interaction. On my way out, Mr. Fairwood intently focused on my buttocks, and told me to: ‘Not let the door hit me in the ass on the way out.’”
I just stare at the emotionless man in disbelief, mouth agape.
“TH-TH-THIS IS HORSESHIT!!! I’M NOT SIGNING THAT CRAP!!!”
The man pushes the paper along with a pen in front of me.
“Mr. Fairwood, we have the entire incident on record, so we have proof of its validity. We take sexual harassment incidents very seriously. May I remind you that, when you signed up to be a mercenary, you agreed to sign any incident reports involving military operations. If you refuse to sign, you will likely have your license revoked, and may face charges for impeding a military operation and central investigation.” The man says without a hint of empathy.
I look down at the paper before me with a mixture of rage, helplessness, and humiliation.
That petty vindictive cunt.
An incident report is merely a notation of a complication which occurred during a military operation, or investigation. While it won’t officially impact my standing with the DMA, that bitch intentionally registered it as a Class-D incident report. Meaning that, unlike a Class-F or a Class-E, a Class-D will never disappear from my public record. Given the severity of this whole mess, trying to contest it will only lead to me getting fucked over even harder.
That woman didn’t need to file something like this, but she did so purely out of spite.
I grip the pen in my hands, and with irate ferocity, sign my name as large as I possibly can.
As if to say: “YEAH – I FUCKING DID IT. WHAT OF IT!?”
I guess I’m petty too. But this is the only way I can mentally justify signing such an intentionally skewed recounting of events. This is one of the most degrading moments of my life, and that’s exactly why she did it.
The man, completely unphased by the blatant bias of the whole situation, takes the paper and puts it neatly into his briefcase. He stands up and begins to walk out of the room.
“S-So what happens now!?” I stutter.
“Hm?” he says, turning to me. “Oh – You’re free to go.”
I look at him with complete confusion.
“Free to go?? We’re in space! Am I just supposed to walk out of the airlock!?”
The man just looks at me with vacant eyes.
“It seems that somebody is looking out for you, as I have been instructed to allow your release. This matter is no longer my prerogative.” He states bluntly as he opens the door and walks out of the room.
Once again I am left in a locked room completely lost on what the fuck is going on.
A few minutes later the door opens, as a slim built man with somewhat toned muscles walks into the room.
He’s wearing tall lace combat boots, brown military fatigue trousers, a black henley shirt, and a lightweight ballistics vest.
His dull black hair is long for a guy. Just past his shoulder, and naturally straight. His face is mildly gaunt, with a finely trimmed anchor beard.
“Hey Fleece – Glad to see you made it!” He says with a cheerful grin.
I stare at him in disbelief.
I know this man well. I served under him on countless missions in Libertalia.
“BERRICK!?” I exclaim in shock. “You’re alive!?!?”
“For better or worse I must admit.” he says, flopping down in the chair across from me.
“So… I heard about what happened with Ron, Brick, and Lark…” Berrick says in a sympathetic tone. “I’m sorry Fleece... While I didn’t know Brick or Lark real well, I always liked Ron. I know he was like a brother to you. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to go out the way he did.”
I look down and nod.
“It feels so unreal… It’s hard to accept that they’re gone…”
Berrick looks at me with sad eyes.
Brick and Lark never liked Berrick. They saw him as one of the people getting rich off of their debt. But anybody who served under him knew that he had no part in all that. That was all Hellman’s doing.
But Ron and I always liked him, it was hard not to. While the guy is loaded and technically a sciolite - He always treated us mercs like we were equals. Unlike Hellman who came off like a narcissistic prick – Berrick always felt real and approachable. He was a self-made man who pulled himself up from being a dredge. He never forgot his roots, and feels like the kind of guy you could have a beer with.
His respect for the mercs serving under him shined through in his tactics. He never treated us like we were disposable, and assuming he was able to, would try and make sure everybody got home safely.
“Fleece…” He says breaking the silence.
I silently look up at him with damp, somber eyes.
“I have an offer for you. I’m planning on going after the bastards responsible for this whole tragedy. If you’re feeling up to it, I can get you a second shot at the bitch who murdered your brothers.”
My brow furrows and my gaze turns fierce, as I lean in intently.
“I’m listening…”
Hearing this – A wide grin stretches across Berrick’s face.
