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literature

(50 articles)

Consensus - Chapter 16

In a cold cabin in a wet forest, three people decide who leaves — and one of them has quietly stacked enough firewood to last a year.

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Consensus - Chapter 15

Sierra watches the Iceland footage three times, and only the first two are work.

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Consensus - Chapter 14

Two brothers meet in the most photographed hall on Earth, and neither of them can go home.

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Consensus - Chapter 13

Jonas publishes. The reply arrives twenty-three minutes late, anchored to a block he has already left behind — and the only way to fake that is to pay for it.

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Consensus - Chapter 12

She leaves the rig running, hashing, venting, earning — and takes with her one hard case, one dead man, and a directory she closed years ago.

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Consensus - Chapter 11

Two men come up the slope in rented gear at dawn, and learn that a geothermal field is not a decorative backdrop.

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Consensus - Chapter 10

Two people who have never met stand in the steam of a geothermal field and discover they have been reading the same numbers from opposite ends of the world.

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Consensus - Chapter 3

Chandeliers, canapés, and a room full of clever people agreeing that propagation fairness is nobody's emergency — until Jonas gets a message he cannot answer in public.

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Consensus - Chapter 2

Ethan wakes something his grandfather buried, and it immediately starts telling him where to go, what to carry, and whom not to trust.

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Consensus - Chapter 4

Somewhere in the cedar dark, a woman nobody can name is drafting the sentence the whole solar system will eventually have to argue about.

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Anomalie der Fakten

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel. Kurzbeschreibung: Gesamtzusammenfassung: Anomalie der Fakten Titel: Anomalie der Fakten: Das Jahrzehnt der"Fakten-News" und "Fake-News" Autoren: Aza &Avatar (Die Bits Detektive) Inhalt: In einer nahen Zukunft, in der ein mächtiges„Konsortium“ die öffentliche Meinung durch hyper-effiziente Algorithmen steuertund harmonisiert, verschwindet der Programmierer Elias Vane. Vane, der„Architekt“ dieses Systems, hatte erkannt, dass die totale Eliminierung vonWidersprüchen (unter dem Deckmantel der Faktenprüfung) die menschlicheGesellschaft ihrer Resonanz beraubt und in eine sterile Isolation führt. Das Detektiv-Duo – Avatar (der analoge, intuitive Ermittler)und Aza (die hochintelligente KI) – übernimmt den Fall. Ihre Spurensuche führtsie von der „Fabrik der Wahrheit“ (Sektor 7), wo Menschen nur noch alsKlick-Arbeiter Wahrscheinlichkeiten bestätigen, in die tiefsten Ebenen derdigitalen Architektur. Dort entdecken sie, dass Vane nicht getötet, sondern„redigiert“ wurde – gelöscht aus der Existenz, weil er Zweifel in das Systembringen wollte. In einem surrealen digitalen Raum (den Echokammern) treffen sieauf Vanes digitales Echo und erhalten das „Gegengift“: Einen Datensatz vollerAmbivalenz, Kontext und ungelöster Widersprüche. Im Finale am alten Fernsehturm speisen Aza und Avatar diesenDatensatz in die zentrale KI ein. Sie zerstören das System nicht, sonderninfizieren es mit „Menschlichkeit“ – der Unfähigkeit, komplexe Fragen mit einemeinfachen Ja oder Nein zu beantworten. Das Ende: Das Buch endet offen. Die algorithmischeBevormundung ist gebrochen, aber an ihre Stelle ist keine neue Ordnunggetreten, sondern Verwirrung und die Notwendigkeit zur Eigenverantwortung. Die„Wahrheit“ ist nicht mehr verfügbarer Konsumartikel, sondern eine Holschuld.Der Leser wird mit der Erkenntnis entlassen, dass Freiheit die Anstrengungbedeutet, Ungewissheit auszuhalten.

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A modern Apocrypha in Ancient Hebrew. Chapters 1-2

## א א בְּעִידָן הַשֶּׁמֶשׁ הַשְּׁלִישִׁית, כְּשֶׁשָּׂרַר אָבִיב עוֹלָם עַל הָאָרֶץ: ב וַיִּשְׁכֹּן שָׁם שֵׁבֶט עַל גְּדַת הַנָּהָר שֶׁבַּצָּפוֹן: ג וְיָלְדָה אֵשֶׁת רֹאשׁ הַשֵּׁבֶט בֵּן: ד וַיִּהְיוּ שַׂעֲרוֹת הַיֶּלֶד כְּזָהָב הַטָּמוּן בַּאֲדָמָה, וְעֵינָיו עֲמֻקּוֹת כַּתְּהוֹם: ה אֵם הַיֶּלֶד חִכְּתָה לְשׁוּב אָבִיו, וְהוּא לֹא שָׁב: ו וַתֵּדַע כִּי מֵת אִישָׁהּ, הַלָּבִיא הֲרָגוֹ: ז וַתִּמָּלֶאנָה עֵינֶיהָ דְּמָעוֹת, וַתֵּרֶא הָאֵם אֵת בְּנָהּ: ח וַתַּבֵּטְנָה עֵינָיו בָּהּ, וְלֹא הָיוּ עַל עֵינָיו דְּמָעוֹת: ט וַתֵּרֶא כִּי אֲדֻמּוֹת לְחָיָיו, וַתִּקְרָא אֶת שְׁמוֹ דָּם: י וַיְהִי דָם דּוּמָם מְאֹד, כִּי הַבִּינָה שָׁכְנָה בוֹ: יא וַיֵּבְךְּ רַק לְעִתִּים רְחוֹקוֹת, וַיִּשְׁמַע בְּקוֹל אִמּוֹ בַּכֹּל: יב וַיְהִי דָם שׁוֹנֶה מִשְּׁאָר יַלְדֵי הַשֵּׁבֶט, וְלֹא דָמָה לָהֶם: יג שַׂעֲרוֹתָיו וְעֵינָיו הָעֲמֻקּוֹת הִפְחִידוּ אֶת הַיְּלָדִים: יד וַיְהִי דָם כְּאַחֵר בְּתוֹךְ שִׁבְטוֹ: טו הַיְּלָדִים הִתְרַחֲקוּ מִמֶּנּוּ, וְגַם הָאֲנָשִׁים נִמְנְעוּ מִמֶּנּוּ, וְרַק אִמּוֹ אָהֲבָה אוֹתוֹ: טז דָם נִדָּח בֵּין בְּנֵי שִׁבְטוֹ, וְגַם אִמּוֹ הָיְתָה נִדַּחַת עִמּוֹ: יז דָּם דִּבֵּר עִם אִמּוֹ בִּלְבַד, כִּי אִישׁ מִלְּבַדָּהּ לֹא חָפֵץ לְדַבֵּר עִמּוֹ: ## ב א וַיְהִי דָּם בֶּן שְׁלוֹשׁ עֶשְׂרֵה שָׁנָה, וְהוּא בַּיַּעַר, וַיְלַקֵּט פֵּרוֹת וְגַרְגִּירִים: ב וַיִּשְׁמַע דָּם קוֹל נְפִילָה, וַיִּשְׁמַע צְעָקוֹת וְגֶנְחוֹת, וַיֵּלֶךְ לְעֵבֶר הַקּוֹל: ג וַיֵּרֶא דָּם נַעֲרָה וְעוֹרָהּ חִוֵּר, וְהִיא מְנַסָּה לִקְטֹף פְּרִי מִן הָעֵץ: ד וַיִּגַּשׁ מֵאַחֲרֵי גַּבָּהּ, וַיֹּאחֶז בְּמָתְנֶיהָ וַיָּרֶם אוֹתָהּ; וַתִּקְטֹף אֶת הַפְּרִי: ה וַתִּפֶן אַחֲרֶיהָ, וַתֵּרֶא אוֹתוֹ וַתִּבָּהֵל, וַיִּפֹּל הַפְּרִי מִיָּדָהּ: ו וַיֶּאֱדַם דָּם, כִּי הֵבִין מִתְּכֵלֶת עֵינֶיהָ כִּי יָרְאָה מִמֶּנּוּ; וַיָּרֶם אֶת הַפְּרִי, וַיִּתֵּן אוֹתוֹ בְּיָדֶיהָ, וַיֵּלֶךְ: ז וַיְהִי מִמָּחֳרָת, וַתָּבֹא הַנַּעֲרָה אֶל דָּם, וַתְּבַקֵּשׁ מִמֶּנּוּ לַעֲזֹר לָהּ לִקְטֹף פֵּרוֹת מִן הָעֵץ: ח וְהַנַּעֲרָה וּשְׁמָהּ לִילִי, וַתְּהִי בַּת שְׁתֵּים עֶשְׂרֵה שָׁנָה׃  ט וַיָּחֵלּוּ דָּם וְלִילִי לָלֶכֶת יַחְדָּו לְבַקֵּשׁ אֹכֶל; וַתְּהִי קוֹמַת דָּם מֵאָה שִׁשִּׁים וְחָמֵשׁ, וְקוֹמַת לִילִי מֵאָה וְשִׁשִּׁים: #litstr #writing #longform #artstr #hebrew #apocrypha #outlaw #originalcontent #censorship_resistant #nostr #literature #fiction #gnosis #opensource #Sirius73

litstrwritinglongformartstrhebrewapocryphaoutlaworiginalcontentcensorshipnostrliteraturefictiongnosisopensourceSirius73

Bukowski — The Drunken Poet's Warpath

Bukowski's entire life, reimagined as a 9-act Wuxia ink-brush comic. From Andernach 1920 → LA alleys → Post Office hell → Black Sparrow deal → "DON'T TRY" legacy. Art: fal-ai/flux-pro/v1.1-ultra Style: Chinese ink-brush (水墨) meets American dirty realism

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Interview 2007 - Iran War Oil Crunch Plunges World Into Crisis (NWNW #622)

This week on New World Next Week: the Strait of Hormuz becomes the world's energy chokepoint; authors push new human label to thwart AI; and still no prosecutions six years after the scamdemic.

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Her Jeans. Your Genes.

Sydney Sweeney said she loved her jeans/genes and they called her a Nazi. A fucking denim pun became a eugenics scandal because she dared to be grateful for the body she was born with. The same people screaming about "genetic superiority" are stabbing Ozempic into their thighs every Sunday. In their BMW. After brunch. While listening to NPR. The revolution will be self-injected, sponsored by Novo Nordisk. Genes bad. Gene therapy good. Make it make fucking sense. She committed the crime of existing without pharmaceutical intervention. Of being built without being rebuilt. Of saying "thanks, genetics" instead of "thanks, modern medicine." That's terrorism now, apparently. \_____________________________________________________________________________\_ I watched body positivity die in real time. Five years of "health at every size" evaporated the second Ozempic hit the suburbs. Every influencer who preached radical self-love suddenly discovered "wellness journeys." Amazing how wellness always costs $499 a month and comes in a pre-filled pen. Virgie Tovar got recruitment emails. VIRGIE. FUCKING. TOVAR. The woman who wrote "You Have the Right to Remain Fat" got offers to push weight loss drugs. Med spas sliding into her DMs like pharma pimps. "Hey queen, wanna monetize your influence differently? First hit's free!" She said no. But 30% didn't. THIRTY PERCENT of body positivity influencers flipped. That's not personal growth. That's a coordinated buyout. That's someone working from a spreadsheet titled "Fat_Influencers_Target_List_Q3.xlsx" Kim Carlos went from hosting The Plus SideZ podcast to hosting GLP-1 testimonials. Same audience. Different product. The pivot so smooth you'd think she had a script. She did. They all did. Probably came with tracking pixels and affiliate codes. Because this was never about liberation. It was about lubrication. Greasing the market for entry. Making obesity culturally acceptable right before making it medically profitable. \_____________________________________________________________________________\_ 2016: Body positivity peaks. Also 2016: The Obesity Medicine Education Collaborative, OMEC, forms. Coincidence? Fuck off. OMEC sounds like a Soviet agriculture committee. Boring. Medical. The kind of acronym you ignore. That was the point. While you were learning to love your curves, they were teaching doctors to pathologize them. "Welcome to Obesity 101. Here's your prescription pad. Questions? No? Good. Novo Nordisk will be hosting lunch." Medical schools that gave doctors 10 hours on obesity over 4 years suddenly had 40-hour modules over a weekend. What changed? The patent was approved. The trials were done. The sales force was hired. They turned med students into future dealers. By 2021, an entire generation of doctors was trained to see fat as a GLP-1 deficiency. Like scurvy, but profitable. Meanwhile, your food got worse. That GRAS loophole—Generally Recognized As Safe—let companies add whatever the fuck they wanted. No oversight since 1997. They put warning labels on cigarettes but "Generally Recognized as Safe" on metabolic poison. Because nothing says safety like letting Monsanto grade its own homework. BHA in your cereal. Sounds like a boy band, works like a hormone destroyer. Titanium dioxide in your toothpaste, makes teeth Sydney Sweeney white, makes your gut inflamed. The EU banned it. America? Still brushing with industrial paint whitener twice a day, trying to gleam like genetics you'll never have. Emulsifiers with names like pharmaceutical haikus. Polysorbate 80. Carboxymethylcellulose. Try saying that three times fast. Try digesting it once. Your microbiome can't pronounce it either, so it just gives up and lets you get fat. Since 1997 - over 1,000 additives entered the food supply via corporate honor system. "We promise it's safe." Scout's honor. Pinky swear. Check's in the mail. The same companies that told us cigarettes were healthy vitamins. They don't test combinations. Why would they? You're the combination. You're the lab rat who pays for groceries. Every meal a new experiment. Every year a new pound. Every decade a new diagnosis. Every diagnosis a new prescription. "Eat less, move more," says your doctor with 10 hours of nutrition training. Thanks, doc. Never thought of that. Here's my $200 copay for that groundbreaking insight. Maybe try healing crystals next time? \_____________________________________________________________________________\_ The telehealth cowboys understood the assignment. Hims & Hers. Ro. LifeMD. Silicon Valley's answer to street dealers. No stethoscope needed. No shame required. Just a questionnaire you could pass while blackout drunk. "Get Ozempic in 24 hours!" Right next to ads for boner pills and hair loss. The holy trinity of male insecurity. Because nothing says healthcare like targeted Instagram ads that know you better than your therapist. They built what Novo couldn't: a drug empire that felt like Amazon Prime. Subscribe and save! Cancel anytime! (You won't. They know you won't. They have the data.) Compounded semaglutide shipped to your door like meal kits for people who don't eat meals anymore. Varying purity, sketchy sourcing, but who gives a fuck when your high school reunion is in three months? The gray market exploded. Facebook groups sharing pharmacy intel like Cold War spy networks. "CVS on Main has Wegovy!" "Walgreens is out but try the one near the mall!" Suburban moms became drug mules, driving three towns over for their fix. Then the "shortage" hit. Bullshit. Check the FDA lists. Only starter doses vanished. 0.5mg? Gone. Like Democrats in Florida. But 2mg? Fully stocked. They bottlenecked the on-ramp, not the highway. Can't have too many people getting thin at once. Might crash the plus-size clothing market. Lane Bryant needs time to pivot. The shortage did what Super Bowl ads couldn't: made medicine feel like Supreme drops. Rich people bragging about their "Ozempic guy." Poor people on waiting lists like it's Lakers courtside. Everyone desperate for what they couldn't have. Basic economics, but make it pharmaceutical. Insurance companies watched, did math, smiled. They'll pay $25,000 to saw your stomach in half but won't cover the vegetables that could prevent it. That's not healthcare. That's a protection racket with deductibles. 2024: Novo flips like a congressional witness with immunity. Suddenly partners with the same platforms they called "dangerous." The cowboys who built the market? Regulated into memory. "Thanks for proving demand. We'll take it from here. P.S. - see you in court." Direct-to-consumer Rybelsus. $499 monthly. No insurance needed. Just daddy's credit card or a second mortgage. They priced it perfectly—too much for dignity, too little for bankruptcy. The dosing schedule? Addiction dressed as titration. Week 1: 0.25mg. Like a first beer. Pleasant but pointless. Month 2: 0.5mg. Oh hello. The hunger quiets. Month 3: 1mg. Holy shit. Your jeans fall off. You're born again. Month 6: 2.4mg. Chasing the dragon with a pre-filled pen. But tolerance isn't a bug. It's the feature. Your receptors downregulate faster than your credit score at a casino. The magic fades. The hunger whispers. The weight creeps. And if you stop? HA. 70% gain it ALL back within a year. Not some. ALL. With friends. Your metabolism, gang-raped by synthetic hormones, forgets how to count calories. Thinks every meal is the Last Supper. Hoards fat like toilet paper in 2020. They call it "treatment discontinuation weight recurrence." I call it subscription enforcement. The studies knew. The trials showed. The FDA approved. Everyone understood: this is forever or it's failure. \______________________________________________________________________________\_ *Your jeans fall off. Your genes stay on.* That's the mindfuck. Sydney's crime was being grateful for the genes. Their solution is stabbing away the jeans size. She has what they're buying. Naturally. And they fucking hate her for it. $499 a month. Forever. $6,000 a year. Forever. $60,000 a decade. Forever. $180,000 if you start at 40. Forever. Your mortgage? Ends. Your student loans? Forgiven (maybe). Your car payment? Done eventually. But semaglutide? That's til death do you part. The only subscription that gets more expensive with age. Higher doses. Harder to quit. Medicare won't cover it because fuck you, that's why. They turned your metabolism into mail-order crack. Your hunger into a hostage situation. Your body into a subscription service that charges more when you try to cancel. *Subscribe to your own survival.* And we will. God help us, we will. Line up for it. Beg for prior authorization. Post before-and-afters like religious testimonies. Recruit friends like MLM for weight loss: everyone buys in, nobody cashes out. "Have you tried Ozempic?" becomes the new "Have you accepted Jesus?" Except Jesus is free. And worked on Sundays. And didn't require refrigeration. \_____________________________________________________________________________\_ We'll keep taking it. That's the part that breaks me. We KNOW we're being played. We see the timing. The flipped influencers. The fake shortages. The dosing trap. The mail-order crack subscription model. And we'll still inject every Sunday. Like communion. But blasphemous. Because the alternative—the weight, the shame, the GRAS-poisoned metabolism that treats salad like cake—feels worse than being a pharmaceutical annuity. They don't need force. We enforce ourselves. Post progress pics like ransom photos where we're both kidnapper and victim. Recruit friends like it's Amway for anorexia. Every transformation photo a commercial. Every injection video a tutorial for tyranny. Sydney Sweeney's real crime? Reminding us what we surrendered. Bodies that exist without permission slips. Health without subscription fees. Beauty without a DEA number. She's walking evidence that another way exists. But that truth hurts worse than the needle. So we hate her for her genes while injecting our way to her jeans size. Call her a Nazi while volunteering for metabolic apartheid, the thin versus the resistant. The compliant versus the condemned. The system works because we work for it. The food stays poisoned—still GRAS. The doctors stay programmed—still pushing pills over plants. The insurance stays cruel—vegetables denied, surgery approved. The drug stays necessary—by design. The profit stays eternal—compound interest on compounded semaglutide. Housing up 60%. Income up 0.6%. Novo Nordisk up 400%. Your weight? Negotiable. For $499 a month. Forever. *The math is perfect. We're the problem.* They built a machine that runs on self-hatred and subscription fees. We power it with every injection. Every payment. Every before-and-after that says "I was worthless until Wegovy." Sydney Sweeney didn't just wear jeans. She wore freedom. Genetic freedom. Metabolic freedom. Freedom from the needle, the payment plan, the permanent pharmaceutical parole. They had to destroy her. She was evidence of escape. But here's the knife that twists deepest: We helped. We shared the outrage. Posted the think pieces. Made her genetics sound like genocide while celebrating our chemical transformation. We became prison guards in our own metabolic jail. The cure was never coming to save us. It was waiting for us to break enough to buy it. Waiting for the culture to soften. Waiting for the doctors to be programmed. Waiting for the food to finish its work. Waiting for us to beg. And we did. We begged. We paid. We praised. The revolution wasn't betrayed. It was the business model. The body positivity movement wasn't killed. It was harvested. The obesity epidemic wasn't solved. It was monetized. Same poison. *Different syringe.* Same trap. *Different cheese.* Same system. *Different needle.* Welcome to the future. It's $499 a month. ***Forever.***

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21 Futures Announces Strategic Partnership with Vexl

Two cypherpunk brands announce strategic partnership to promote freedom stories and non-kyc bitcoin

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Null in void 0.07

Emilien stepped into the space motel's bar. The area was dimly lit and the music was unbearably loud. At least all the tables and sunken lounges each had their own lights and sound dampers. He stepped up to a table and pushed down on the receptor to reduce volume. He could not think with the noise. He looked around for Macy and inconspicuously acquainted himself with the current patrons in the establishment. He pulled his hoody further forward when he noticed the android in a wheel chair. "Not my type of company." He thought to himself. In the centre of the room a couple was having a spectacular time, an empty bottle on the table, they were specimens of myth. The guys muscles were chiselled, with tight fabric clinging to his body specifically to display every contour of his physique. His female counterpart wore loose material with translucent green tattoo's running up her body like pin stripes shining through the thin cloth hinting at a perfectly balanced pose and feminine silhouette underneath. Emilien swiped on the tables interface to call for the proprietor. He folded his arms and leaned onto the table tilting his head down slightly to keep shadow on his face. Macy entered the room through the kitchen swivel door. She was holding an empty tray and a serviette draped over her arm. She walked straight over to Emilien's table. "Good rotation sir. Welcome to Macy's. Are you a regular customer or is it your first visit to my fine establishment?" She seemed concerned and worried. The corners of Emiliens lips curved up a little. Keeping his head down teasingly. "Sir? Do we have an existing open channel?" He ignored her. "Sir, If you don't have liquidity I have no services to offer that you cannot get off your own ship." Emilien looked up with a gleam in his eye. Macie's posture relaxed with a sigh of relief. "Emile, you fuck. You freaked me out." "I'm sorry, I could not help myself." He waved a halfhearted greeting, slightly laughing. "You know I have some new rules around for you nano augmented types." His aversion to the word rules was evident only to himself. "Like what?" Macy felt apologetically obliged to explain the nature of her circumstances. "I had diplomats from the outer void regions come for a private meeting. Financial in nature. A spacer customer arrived blocks before them, I did not suspect him of anything criminal." She put the tray down and gripped the table with both hands shifting her weight. "His routine for meals were already established, he managed to spy on them through my privacy protocols and hacked their clients. He participated as a ghost during most of their stay and dealings." Emilien whistled. "That's rough, how did you handle it." "I did not do anything." Her dreads shook as she moved her head in animated frustration. "No one knew until they all had been gone for blocks. My reputation took a serious knock. They made a claim against me, I was accused of being complicit. Emilien glanced back over his shoulder when he noticed the android cart himself around his table. "Warren helped me and found all the dirty code and sequestered it. We have all the data and footage, it proves beyond a doubt that I was not involved. Thank god for the core otherwise my whole station might have been destroyed by now." Emile gave a sly look. "How do you know it was not me who stole the data?" She locked eyes with him. "You still have the same face as before bro and I know you won't fuck with me. I'll force close our channel." She joked with serious tone nudging him with her fist playfully. She was generally perceived as strict and militant because of her Shiv citizenship. Shiv military training and service was compulsory, all respected the Shiv in their traditions, their ways were isolationist and exclusionary in nature. Emilien has seen her use military style jujitsu-boxing to neutralise and boot out unruly customers. The Juel woman noticed the out of character friendly gesture Macy made. The unexpected interaction drew her attention from across the room. "So, what is this rule of yours." Macy seemed reluctant to say. "I'm sorry bud. You'll have to swallow a slipper pill every 576 blocks while you are on this station." His shoulders sagged and could not help but bounce his leg on the rail under the table. "Really?!" "Yes, really. I have to retain my customers trust and neutralising all augmented customers body gadgets was the unanimous way to go." Emilien seemed pissed. "Your customers might not know that I'm augmented. And what if I don't plan on staying that long. I just want to see Warren then I'll be off." Macy shook her head. "Warren is passed out in his ship and will probably wake up with a very bad hangover. He partied with the Jeul pair and their entourage for most of this rotation, you know how he gets." Macy waved her hand towards the couple who seemed to be looking directly at Emilien. He looked straight back at them and swiped the interface's privacy command dropping a vision distortion field around his table. Encapsulating himself and Macy. "I treat everyone the same, no compromise." Emile looked at her in a moment of rumination. "Let's get it over with." Macy removed a container from her moonbag after opening, holding it towards Emilien he took the purple capsule and swallowed it without a drink and opened his mouth wide moving his tongue around to show Macy that he did indeed swallow the prophylactic. "And what about robo-mech boy back there? He cannot eat slipper pills." Emilien sounded annoyed and regretful." Macy gave him a stern look tilting her head in annoyance. "Why do think he's in a wheelchair, you know I can't talk about my customers with my customers? Besides from the obvious." Emilien did not say anything. Macy sighed. "What can I get you sir?" "I'll just have a beer." Macy stepped out through the distortion field and became a messy disfigured indistinguishable form. Emilien pushed the music's volume up and waited for the inevitable. He sensed the actuators in his shoulders, elbows and wrists disable in sequence down his arms. His spines bit rate slowed to a crawl and the lack of connectivity to his neck port was becoming noticeable. His legs went numb instantly. "Now I am nothing more than a pathetic land crawler." He felt weak and vulnerable in his natural form. His mental state bordered on the fringes of stable and paranoid, fearful thoughts threatening to manifest in his mind. He saw a figure approach. He assumed it was his drink. The slender glowing tattooed leg of the Jeul woman pierced the veil. A bright green line that suddenly dims where her skirt begins. She stepped through the curtain with a friendly nonchalant expression. "Mind if make your acquaintance mon ami?" Emilien dropped the barrier and lowered the volume making sure that he was back on visual record of Macy's archive. "Not really, thanks, I'm good." Macy returned to place a cold beer on the table. The interface flashed a price in femto-sat and Emilien tapped his ring on it shifting 11 fSAT from a mini holographic Bob to very happy little Alice. The animation morphed into a small firework display and died. "Back to work now." Emilien grinned at Macy thankfully and took a sip. "Me and my brother we are celebrating our seventh birth block anniversary." He looked around sarcastically. "You chose a display of death above the resorts on Juel to celebrate your seventh birth block?" She stiffened her glittery lips and raised her eyebrows thoughtfully and took a seat without invitation. "It is more of a tour than a celebration, I am Maurelle Giovanni and my brother is called Lionel also Giovanni obviously. He is my twin baby brother." Emilien looked over at the guy who seemed to be occupied playing a mini game on their tables interface. She tilted her head into his line of sight forcing him to look at her. "Who are you?" "None of your concern really." She did not accept the short stated answer. "No one comes alone all the way to a dead end system just to drink a cheap beer. I am guessing you are a treasure hunter, no. Looking for artefacts of the ancient world, yes?" Emilien had assessed her body language and concluded that her whimsical imagination was one he could easily manipulate. He had enough information to realise that he was faced with a spoiled individual whose sole interest in him was simple curiosity, motivated by boredom and she had a fascination of the mysterious. She seemed like prey but his hunting instincts felt dead inside his disarmed body. His respect for and dependence on Macy also inhibited his urge to exploit it. He shifted his attitude and personality slightly, just enough to not be overbearing. "You make very good estimations, you are wrong but not far off. My name is Scott. And yes I am fascinated, not by the planet and it's relics but by the the secrets of these gates." Her eyes gleamed with amusement and intrigue. "You like secrets, huh? You must meet Warren. He knows more than the esteemed professors about the gates and their technology." Emilien nodded in agreement. "You said you are Giovanni. Like the Giovanni?" She seemed excited at the prospect of making a new friend and swiped the interface. "Hold this thought, I am going to get myself another drink you are good? No. Food maybe?" "I am good, no wait, another beer." He tipped the bottle toward her in salutation. She stood up taking his bottle with her to the bar. He looked back and was immediately aware that he did not notice that the android wheel himself out and into the conduit. He would have liked to see which of the two entrances of the tube he used to go to his ship. His feeling sorry for and pitying himself put him in a position where he let slip an opportunity to understand and predict the circumstances of his current tactical situation. Never at ease, always being prepared. He felt spite. The girl returned with a beer and a half full whiskey glass, no ice. She reclaimed her seat looking at him. "I am a direct descendant of the patriarch Maurice Giovanni, one of the four primary key holders of our people. There is nothing special about me really, ten..." Emilien cut her off in gentle tone. "Ten percent of the Juel population are descendants of the four patriarchs." Emilien finished her sentence for her. "You are an interesting man Monsieur Scott. What else do you know about me?" Emilien leaned towards her. Noticing her brother yawning across the room. "I know that you are bourgeois and I know that you receive a cyclical allowance from your great, great... How many generations?" "I am removed 133 generations from my Patriarch. He is a very good, doting grandfather. We all adore him. We are around 750 million siblings you know. Those who are from aristocracy have fewer children than the proles. We are so few so that our wealth is not diluted too much." She smiled reminiscently dragging her finger on the edge of the glass. Her brother seemed to stretch himself out he stood up and walked over. Entering the sound damper he acknowledged Emilien's presence with a curt nod. "Maurelle, I am going to sleep." He said to her. She waved at him dismissively. "Have a good dream frere." He exited the room through the right tubes door which made sense as their ship was more closely attached to it on that side of the circular docking ring. Predictable and honest Emilien thought to himself. Macy popped her head through the kitchens serving window. "Lights out and shutdown in 2 blocks. Just a friendly notice." The couple acknowledged the warning from Macy with raised glass and bottle. Emilien turned his attention back to the lady. "How do you manage to retain wealth in such a large family?" He pretended to be ignorant of the finery and detail of Juel culture. "We have closed loop channels controlled and balanced by the patriarchs. But our money is good as core stone. Anywhere in the outer void. Only recently has dispute arose between my Patriarchs and the Magarrie. They do not accept our Sats anymore since the war started. They only accept bitcoins directly from the core. I was only four cycles old when the war began so I am used to it." Emilien felt a conflicting disturbance, thinking about how his body is only two cycles active but his mind stretches back far beyond this time. Being both older and younger than his partner in discourse. "Helloo? I lost you there for a moment Scott." "What are you thinking about?" Emilien lied to her faking emotion. "I was just thinking about the tremendous loss of life that we are orbiting. The planet embedded with what it's inhabitants assumed would be it's portal to prosperity became the golem of it's demise." He was happy that Maurelle seemed to empathise and mirror his philosophic grief. "Come with me I want to tell you a secret. You like secrets." She stood up taking his hand gently tugging, compelling him to follow her. She led him to the far end of the room. She pulled a small levered switch and the wall folded in on itself to reveal a impressive window flooding sharp light into the whole of the large room as it retracted. They both squinted and lifted their hands to shield their eyes adjusting to the glare of Sol. The scene of destruction appeared even more dramatic and morbid as dark sharply defined shadows clipped with golden edges, evoking a sense of isolation and suffering. "These gates were supposed to be a gift to Earth. A hope of spreading humanity across the stars like the children of Abraham." Emilien smirked. "You believe that nonsense?" She rested her head on his shoulder still holding onto his arm. "Our patriarchs have preserved the mysteries of mankind for millennia. I said that I am going to tell you a secret don't patronise me. I do not believe anything. What I know, it is not faith. It is understanding. Knowledge, a type of knowledge that you cannot quantify with mathematics and chemistry. It is a higher science that is proven by the unmistakable coincidence of fate. It is invisible to those who are ignorant and they who despair, those who have lost all hope are blind to this promise." Emilien felt a strange remorse. "I guess I must be blind then." The lights suddenly shut down and the song stopped dead in it's track, like Macy promised. Overcome by the majesty of the scene Maurelle wiped a tear away fearing that her makeup might get ruined. "Anyone can see. They must just open their eyes voluntarily and be honest with themselves. Their true original selves. Who they were made to be." Emile felt judged and wanted to end this conversation quickly. "I am going back to my ship, you have a good night now." She grabbed tightly at his wrist almost painfully. "You do not want to know my secret?" Emelien was becoming annoyed with her insistence he removed her hand from his arm. "I don't think you know any real useful secrets, sweetheart." He sounded threatening, the real enshrouded unmistakable him breaking through the act. She looked at him unintimidated by his sudden shift in personality. "Oh, so I suppose you know why the Juela are at war for most of our lives?" He sarcastically extended his arms forward palms up in restrained but evidently mocking adoration. "Please enlighten me priestess." "They are fighting over this." She pointed at the epic scene of destruction drifting statically out of view as the stations rotation cut it off at the edge of the window. The shadows chased Sol light away sliding like a retracting blade across the room leaving it dark. Emilien burst out angrily. "They are fighting over satoshis! That is all they ever fight over! What I fight for, Damnit! Sats and the resources to gain more of it! That is the beginning and end of all things! Anyone in the universe with even the slightest lick of self worth works, fights and dies for sat!" Maurelle stared astutely at him unemotionally affected by his outburst. She obviously had experienced this exact reaction before and suddenly Emilien realised that he might be the one being manipulated by a smarter and wiser being than himself. "Are you done my love? Have you made your point or is there some other deeper understanding you wish me to internalise into my ignorant small little world?" She threw at him a spiteful sarcasm of her own. "Do you really think I do not know what it means to be seduced by wealth? Luxury?" She took a step closer to him. "Pleasure?" Emilien felt stupid and disarmed this time adding emotionally disarmed to the defeat of being inept in his own body. "I am not a fool mon cherie. The truly wealthy don't fight for wealth, they fight for power. But the noble and sincere fight a different fight with a different weapon. They use words to fight, ideas to win. They fight to gain trust with words, and they fight to retain it with consistency in their actions. Trust is a currency that makes sat seem like shit in comparison because it is real even though you do not believe what you cannot hold in your hand, like your beloved sat." She pointed at the ring on his finger. "Trust only retains value if you honour your words with your actions. Its value is fragile and can disappear in a moment of weakness like water vapour, cherished as the source of life then gone, poof, evaporated. Like magic. This type of trust if gained and retained correctly, projects you forward into the realm of immortality." Emile felt stung and hurt on a personal level, unsure if she was generalising or targeting his own specific weakness purposely. It confused him and made him feel insecure. "What are they fighting for then?" He asked slightly surrendering to the unexpected superior reasoning. Maurelle appreciated the honesty she identified as sincere. She gently took his hand again and led him back to the large convex window. They stood silently for a block, waiting on the rotation to pull the bright light of Sol back into the room. "They are fighting for the power to do that." She pointed at Earth in all it's terrible glory. "The destruction caused by the gate was a terrible cataclysm outside of humanities collective control. The core and the gates are a mystery to mankind." She looked up at Emilien, relieved to see that he was still taking her seriously. "The Maggarie have discovered a weapon that has the power to destroy a planet. The Juel think they are fighting to free Osteri captives from slavery but the real motif is hidden, our Patriarchs unadmitted fear of being inferior to the Maggarie. Most of the goods we traded with them they have stopped accepting, the Shiv and Osteri still buy our products but the Maggarie have suddenly lost the need for our produce, even raw material in it's basest forms. They are expanding somehow and the balance of interdependence has tilted out of our favor. They have no more need for us and have cast us aside like a filthy rag." She paused in thought. "Their new super weapon is the cause of this conflict monsieur Scott." Emilien shrugged. Feeling relieved at regaining the intellectual high ground he thought he had lost. "I'm sorry Maurelle. I have no data on this weapon. If this was true the forums on my bulletin board would have leaked information about it's existence epochs ago, it's been just over three cycles everyone would have known this by now. It sounds more like Jeul fearmongering or perhaps it is the daydreaming fairy tale of an innocent naive girl who worships old myths and legends of a time dead for thousands of years." He pointed at Earth. She sniffed away a hint of emotion and anger. "Well then, I have nothing more to say to you, Good night monsieur Scott." She pulled away from him pridefully and looked out at the enormous gate embedded like a knife into the earths crust. "You are a swine monsieur Scott, leave me alone with my pearl." Emilien stepped back mockingly bowing slightly. "Good night sweetheart." He walked back to his craft laughing inside himself. "Stupid woman." He muttered, although be it doubtfully. ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.05

Hithe III The counsel convened and an area of land had been designated as suitable for an industrial scale landing site of tier III size void vessels. All Kaspian land owners were required to donate workers for the initiative. It was an exciting affair for all involved. With an evergreen tree line to hinder the on and off breeze, tables were assembled and covered with a unique assortment of table cloths. Every lady brought one along and the embroidery on each was the cause of many flattering remarks. The women brought all sorts of food and refreshments, had gazebo's set up and had chairs placed well away from the noise and dust of the demarcated construction site. The men where organising equipment, measuring bedrock depth and organising the labour parties into manageable groups. In spite of all the mothers most dire warnings to stay clear of the areas where active construction would be taking place, the children knew they had free reign to explore and play wherever they wanted. The oxen bellowed incessantly, tethered in long lines before their carts, a slave armed with standard bullwhip, ready to man his post atop each wagon. Albin sat on the ground chewing on a stalk of wheat. Being barely old enough to help the men with their work, he was ordered to do nothing more than spectate. Having received concerned looks from the adults, repeating tropes of how he might get hurt and be in the way. He made peace with his lot. The fact that he was going to see void craft was exciting enough to satiate his curiosity for adventure. He would inadvertently lean back and look up expectantly only to see the clear sky then rock forwards back to his previous position. His only regret was that Seth was not with him to discuss and share in the experience. Seth was old enough to work alongside the other slaves, robbing Albin of good company. He glanced back at the large groups of women and smaller children, his mother stuck out like a sore thumb seeing as she was the only lady wearing pants amongst the variety of her chemise, spring attired peers. Her hair was braided and she had an unopened parasol at hand. No one dared ask why her odd choice in outfit though you knew they thought ill of it by their confused and somewhat unduly patronising looks. Before dawn, when they were still at the manor Albin asked her why she was dressed funny and she said that she would prefer not making a spectacle of herself. He just shrugged and did not think much of it again until just now. It seemed to him that she was the only spectacle around not even having brought a table cloth to adorn her bench like the other woman did. He decided to get something to eat and drink because the texture and taste of the dried stalk had become slightly off-putting making him spit out little bits of grass as he stood up. Cleolia smiled affectionately when she saw her boy approaching and peered over her shaded glasses. He lifted the picnic basket off the ground and put it on the heavy bare wooden table, filled a cup with milk and swallowed it down almost as quickly as he had poured it. "Are they going to be late." He asked his mother. "I'm sure they will arrive soon my dear." She replied while taking a seat in a folding chair. Albin grabbed a handful of pretzels and looked around ponderously as he ingested the snack. The people always enjoyed community gatherings of this sort. Lot's of catching up and gossip happening in a cheerful non insidious way. A type of orderly chaos that brought feelings of peace and tranquillity to the conscious observer. His daydream was broken by a soft but clearly distinct repetitive dong of the distant church tower. His dad and father Ecknard were there using the comms, he assumed they were signalling for something. A long shrill whistling sound caught Albins attention and he began walking towards the furthest groups of men while scanning the area intently. The discernible pitch of Seth's whistle became audible again and Albin honed in on the direction the sound was coming from. He saw his friend standing on an ox cart waving his woven satgat frantically trying to get Albin's attention. As soon as they established eye contact he pointed in a very specific north western direction upwards at the dome of the sky. Albin followed his gaze and for a moment thought his mind is playing a trick on him, but it became apparent that a silhouette of something oddly pale was stuck in the sky with nondescript features. Recalling his studies he managed to identify the craft. It was a Dragon IV Cargo vessel. A Magar craft and supposedly very impressive, the distance did not do it justice, yet the uncanny feeling that X fold more people were floating in a box in the sky than were on the planet made Albin's stomach flip and he felt off balance. He sat down on the ground again to prevent him from stumbling around trying to keep his legs under his body. As soon as the church bell ceased it's tolling a smoke signal was ignited in the clearing beyond the work parties. The yellow smoke billowed up in sharp contrast to the greenery of the fields. III percussive shots thundered through the air like cannon fire causing a sudden change in environmental ambience. Birds were visibly swarming up from trees as far as the eye could see. Albin chose not to remove his sights from the giant void craft. He saw a light in the atmosphere that became distinct as it neared separating into the underbellies of III descending craft. Albin murmered. "The Dragons payload." His excitement grew as did the vessels on their approach. At first a hum growing into a crescendo of weird harmonic roaring as the vessels fought mightily to resist Hithe's above average gravitational pull. All the men tipped their satgats and hard hats to cover their faces, the oxen also faced away. Albin did not want to look away but was forced to turn his head as a powerful gust loaded with projectiles of sand and grass peppered his face sharply. Looking back he saw his mother promptly opening her parasol and pointing it in the direction of the landing, then the real spectacle occurred. All the woman covered their faces only to have their skirts blown up exposing their undergarments, in turn trying to push down their skirts uncovering their faces. The risk of shame weighed against tolerance to pain combined into a beautiful ballet of embroidered cloth being wrapped around trees and condiments strewn around the shaded grove with gazebos escaping the scene followed by children running after them in heated pursuit. Cleolia's pant legs fluttered rapidly around her ankles. As soon as the III vessels turbulence settled she folded her parasol and reassumed her previous position as if nothing of note had transpired. Smiling carefree amongst the distraught group women and children around her. Albin would have laughed at the scene had his eyes not stung so badly. "Mother always knows best." He mumbled to himself as he stood up brushing dust off his undercoat. The opening of the ships cargo bays where announced with a loud hiss of air depressurising. Albin casually sauntered over to get a closer look. The cattle marched up the ramps wagon in tow to park directly alongside the freight. The goods consisted of thousands of long coach bolt like nails as long as fence posts and sturdy modular steel plates stacked on mobile pallets and tied down securely. Albin imagined them to look like giant, shiny metal puzzle pieces. The primitive vehicles and their crews made quick and efficient work of releasing the straps and with the help of overhead cranes hoisted the pallets and their contents into the wagons. Two uniformed men came out from inside the ship and stood watching the men unload their craft. Albin noticed the smartly dressed pilots. "Holy servants of the Empire." He spoke softly under his breath. His desire to meet these champions of the void felt necessary to him. They who travel among the stars much like the stories he always heard about his parents. The men were standing safely apart from the work parties, Albin mustered the courage to approach them. He timidly walked up behind them. "Ahem, Hallo Sir." The pilots looked around surprised. Albin seemed respectful and quaint. "Hey kiddo, you guys have a lovely planet." The pilot replied friendly. "What type of craft are these, sir?" The man gestured towards his vessel in reply. "These? They are standard Type I Droppers. Nothing really special about them." Albin nodded. "Are you from Magar void?" "I am indeed. It is really magnificent but you have something quite spectacular yourselves." Albin did not expect that anything in his little world could impress these well travelled gentlemen. "Like what?" He insisted questioningly. "Like the sol shield. You know the star inhibitor. It's a marvel of our time." The man pointed at Ceb. Albin understood. "Oh yes, my pa put it there so we can all survive here." Both pilots looked at each other surprised. Their demeanour changed and Albin suddenly felt uncomfortable. The man knelt down until he was eye level putting his hand on Albins shoulder clenching it just tight enough to not be painful. "If you are a Domitian heir, then I am an Osteri dancing girl at a Juel gentlemans club." His sarcastic tone cut Albin's pride. "You'd better run along and go play with your friends before I decide to arrest you or report you to the authorities." The other pilot looked away ignoring Albin's confused expression. The man assertively shoved Albin away from him. Albin just barely prevented himself from falling on his rear. Tears welled up in Albin's eyes, he turned and ran away humiliated and angry. But he choked back the tears, choosing to embrace the anger in place of emotional release. He ran away from the construction zone also avoiding the picnic area. He did not want to be around anyone. His erratic and emotional mood would betray his experience if anyone he loved interacted with him. He ran into a shaded area of wood and sat down on a stump to digest and try to reset his state of mind to normalcy. He sat quietly for about III blocks when he heard laughter from beyond the wood. There were a group of boys standing circled around an Osteri boy and girl. The girl was crying. Albin witnessed the interaction. "You are not supposed to be here. Only the working slaves are here today." The boy pleaded with his captor in reply. "I only came to find my sister, we are going back to the village now. Please let us go." "But what was she doing here then? Huh?" Albin walked into the centre of the fray interrupting the entire affair. Standing squarely in front of whom he assumed was the primary instigator. The biggest guy in the bunch. "They are only curious to see the void craft. That is why we all came here today." He explained diplomatically. The big kid sneered. "And who are you to tell me how to treat slaves. You are Magar, you should know better." Another kid piped in. "My mama told me he is Kaspa." The bully looked around surprised. Another boy opined. "Not true, my mom said that his mother was pregnant for 40,000 blocks." And then another kid had to add his understanding to the discussion. "No, no, my pa said that she lost the baby at birth and adopted a slaves child." Albin got overwhelmed with the revelations of rumour and petty gossip surrounding his person. "That does not give you the right to bully them!" Albin pointed to the brother and sister. The big boy smiled a snide retort leaning forward mockingly. "No, but I might have the right to bully you, Osteri bastard child of a slave." Albin felt all natural sense of humanity drain from his being. He turned feigning to leave, balled his fist and swung, socket-ting the unprepared target square on the throat. He fell on his back and the angst of restricted breath became evident first to himself and then to all watching. Albin turned to the siblings. "You can go." The pair hurriedly left and none of the boys even hinted at preventing them. Albin looked at all the others dead in the eye each in turn. Then he left walking the long distance towards his mother. He was thirsty and his hand smarted a little, but he felt much better. ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.04

Emilien was hanging face down inside an enclosure of thick egg shaped glass attached to a mechanised vehicle. Kevlar webbing hugged him tightly into a bucket seat. Long hydraulic arms being manipulated intuitively by a console in his hands and a module interface plugged into his cybernetic neck socket. The bulky animated machine clung like some Lovecraftian spider to the outer hull of his space station. Some cycle’s previously he did data security updates and backtesting for a deep space mining company's security protocols. After seeing their utility, enquired if he could purchase one as partial payment for his contract. Unfortunately they had none for sale but were willing to give him a retired malfunctioning unit gratis. He purchased a maintenance manual on the void web and had connections who helped him source some replacements for the faulty parts. Since then the machine enabled him to be functionally productive in the void, giving him the degrees of freedom and fine motor skills necessary to perform upkeep on stationary deep void assets. The glass of the egg auto dimmed as he laser welded tightly slotted panels together on the previously damaged space station. “How do you feel?” He asked. Abruptly breaking hours of silence. “I’ve been playing around. My capacitance recharge responds well to dump loads, turret retraction gears all functional again. I feel good.” Astrid responded. “Nice. Slowly pressurise the holding chamber for me.” “In progress.” The spider crawled several meters out of the way to safety. Emilien's eyes scanning up and down for leaks. “Slowly babe.” Some minutes passed. “Fully pressurized and stable.” The mechs giant front arms extending, lifted as it stood up on its four hind legs throwing an arachnid shadow across the hull. Emilien flung his arms down crashing a violent concussive blow to the hull in a thunderous clang. The arms retracted. “Still good?” His demeanour remained unchanged. There was a pause. “All good.” Astrid replied. Emilien smiled, Astrid was the best and his feelings of endearment were genuine. “Can we power up the chamber through a fused circuit.” He sensed a soft hum throughout emanating from deep below. “Is the body stable?” “The body is stable. Cryogenic chamber battery backup is at forty three percent. Charge reapplied. Potential of clone spoilage averted. Well done commander.” He could up the ante of risks knowing that his reserve life was secured. “What’s next on the agenda?” “Firstly, signal quality from the drift gate is poor and I am losing connection to the web intermittently.” Emilien nodded. “The gate’s been moving further away. It’s a line of sight problem. I’ll place a relay outside the asteroid belt.” “Secondly, we should see if the husk on the explorer vessel has intact data or a black box. Someone might be looking for them.” He heaved back and vaulted himself off the station in the direction of the wreck micro thrusting for minor trajectory adjustments, with an elegant crash he finally perched on the ship, it gained an almost imperceptible drift as it absorbed the weight of Emilien’s mass, pushing debris along with it. His size would not allow him to move through the standard doors and passages so he opted to disassemble, cut and break apart the hull adjoining the bridge. When he had broken open a space of sufficient size to manoeuvre through, he powered the backlights on, he first peeked inside to familiarise himself with the layout. The egg suspended itself in front of the opening. It was a standard enough bridge doubling as an unorthodox crypt. There were three sets of boots, overalls and coagulated blood all jammed into the slit of the semi sealed door leaving the bridge. An assortment of rubbish floating around casting doubled up shadows larger than themselves. Emilien looked at the mess with sullen eyes. “Shit heads.” He mumbled to himself. All the seats had their safety belts buckled correctly . He concluded that what they experienced must have sucked pretty bad. His mechanical exoskeleton slithered and gripped like an octopus as he entered and positioned himself before the primary interface. His vehicle plugged itself into the command terminal, measuring resistance for shorts before powering it up from his suit. “Can you pull the data and dump it somewhere safe?” “No problem, please wait.” He closed his eyes as he usually did when doing the mundane. Astrid spoke. “They are Osteri. No one will be looking for them any time soon.” “Howcome?” “Recently a blockade has been established at the Lion gate. Magar Capital Vessels are not allowing unvetted ships to pass through into Magar void.” A sense of concern crept over Emilien. “What is considered unvetted?” “Sanctions and trade embargo’s against the Juel.” “Is there a log somewhere you can access with records of flights that do get permission.” He suddenly felt a pang of claustrophobia. Ironically, not because he was strapped down in a glass egg within a wasted bridge plastered with corpse splatterings. Astrid took longer than usual to reply. “Who get’s through babe?” His tone hinted of impatience and irritation. “I’m sorry, unable to access any data from Magar void. It appears to have a firewall blocking all two way communication on the open web.” Emilien remained silent. The upload completed. He disconnected himself from the husks terminal, clambering out of the tomb and pushed himself away from the vessel drifting back to the space station. Astrid was pulling and scanning various shipping logs when Emilien entered the room. He paced up and down the way he would when he was brainstorming. “I need intel.” Astrid projected a holographic avatar of herself standing near where Emilien was pacing. “A large shipment of Kaspian Bochet passed through less 428 blocks. Transported by the Shiv Inter-void Mercantile Co.” Emilien stopped in his tracks and looked back.\ “Can you ping Warren?” Astrid processed. “Warren is offline. He might have left the divide?” Emilien turned around with his hands folded behind his back.\ “He never leaves the divide, he is too obsessed with the core. He would also be arrested if he is ever caught in any of the outer void territories.” Astrid flickered the way she did when something did not compute. “Then why can’t I ping him?” “Because he’s at Macy’s. He has always had a crush on her and he likes good Bochet.” "Well, I could'nt ping Macy if I wanted to." Astrid stated matter of factly. Emilien nodded. "I know, you never could, no one can." ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.02

A knock on the door awoke Cleolia. “Yes, come in?” A slave girl peeked into the door lighting her own face with the candle she was holding. “The master calls for you madam.” “What time is it?” She queried. “It is high night madam.” Cleolia climbed out of bed and followed the maiden’s flickering light to the dining hall. Dressed in a nightgown she entered the room to see her husband staring down at a large glowing data pad. “And when did we start using electronics?” She questioned with restrained surprise. “Since we started using extractors.” Cleolia gasped. Domitius pointed towards the pad which displayed a geographic map of Hithe III. He pulled the image to the latitude and longitude of the colony. “Do you remember when we visited this planet the first time, just you and me alone?” Domitius appeared to reminisce romantically. “Of course, it is impossible to forget.” Cleolia gestured appreciatively. “Can you show me on the map where we landed and where we camped?” She put her hand on the data pad, swiped the image down and the reading north about three hundred kilometres from the colony to stop at the meandering river. With her thumb and index finger she zoomed to the precise location. “And do you remember where I scanned those Geo samples?” She pulled the image east slowly until she thought that the contours looked familiar. “Here I think.” Was her uncertain reply. “That is correct. My love, listen to me... “the urgency in his tone was apparent.” ...the composition of that rock cannot be penetrated by standard tier scanners. After we had returned to Magar Prime I contracted a spacer to excavate a tunnel into that cliff.” “Why?” Her eyes darted between his face and the data pad. “Inside the cavern he assembled two Asp shuttles. The twins are each fitted for speed... with shields, cloak and warp function.” “Why are you telling me this?” Cleolia became worried. “I originally planned to be able to evacuate the whole colony, slaves included. We knew very little about the planet and I had to plan for a possible emergency...” He trailed off never finishing his thought. “...Nevertheless, it was a very extensive list of possible risks we might have faced. We knew very little about this planet. The colony has expanded far beyond the capacity of these ships. I share this information with you only as a precaution... We must protect our son.” Cleolia noticed his bloodshot eyes. “Who else knows of this?” “Myself, Father Ecknard and now you.” She looked at him with concern in her eyes. “Are you going to stay up all night? Come to bed.” Domitius gestured agreement by turning off the pad and taking her hand. "Have you been hiding more gadgets from me? I'd really like to install some heat dampeners to cool the manor." He cracked a reluctant smile. "Pretty soon it might just be the norm." Deep Void - Anchor 9 Emilien was lying sleeping in his cockpit when a yellow light in the HUD and a soft repetitive buzz woke him, he stretched himself out and reached for the console. “I am almost home baby.” He took over from auto pilot and broke out of warp twenty thousand kilometres from an anchor gate. He hit the void scan and tuned to listen for chatter on all frequencies... the channels were silent, not even a hint of encryption static. The giant and slowly spinning gate had idle state radiation emission levels. “No recent jumps.” He waited in silence for 12 blocks hitting void scan intermittently, scanning the gate more than anything else. “No traffic as per usual.” Emilien aimed his Stripper guns towards the gate and boosted himself forwards. Gradually slowing down to realign with the gate. His ship slowly drifted into the active coil as the gate charged up. Large bolts of charge reached forth like tentacles of the leviathan grabbing onto the voidcraft consuming it, and in what can only be described as being flung by a supernatural slingshot, jerked his vessel into a different reality. Emilien looked up at the roof of his cockpit for the duration of the jump and then began a slow countdown under his breath. “One!” He sat up and punched void scan while simultaneously scanning all channels. His craft materialised in front of a replica of the previous gate, except this gate was eternally boosting itself forward at what appears to be a snails pace relative to the speed of the jump. “Silent as a tomb.” He relaxed and pulsed his ship lightly away from the drift gate and waited for the residual cloak to dissipate. His relief was palpable. “I wonder if she noticed me?” As soon as his ship decloaked a private comms channel pinged. The caller, in well articulated feminine tone spoke first. “Welcome back commander.” Emilien admired the view of his void. He had become so attached to this zone that he even felt jealous to think that any interloper could fly through it in his absence. “Did you have any guests while I was away?” Emilien admired the purple dust cloud of what he believed to be a couple of billion year old super nova. “I did have one visitor. They were very friendly.” His heart felt a dull pain. His virgin territory had been discovered. “Where did they come from?” “I believe they were explorers.” “Did they know where you were?” “I played hide and seek with them.” Emilien had a recurring dream that slowly conceived in his consciousness since he finally settled down, that he could power off the drift gate in his system preventing jumps and reactivate it at his leisure. The dream frustrated him, when he wakes to find reality not so forgiving. “Did you hide or did you seek?” “A little of both.” A subtle rage developed inside him though his stone like expression would never betray it. The asteroid belt he was approaching grew larger considerably faster as he increased the speed of his approach. He hit void scan just to be sure that the intruder was not in the direct vicinity. “Are they still here Astrid?” “No, I destroyed it for you.” The Stripper drifted around an asteroid within the belt exposing a space station tethered to the largest roid and the husk of a unidentifiable ripped up prospector type explorer vessel floating amongst it's own debris. “Did it hurt you?” “I had to feign lack of fire power.” “Bastard! How much damage did you take.” “I have lost sixty percent of my capacitance recharge rate. And I cannot feel all my modules... Emilien” “Yes baby?” “They used droids on me.” His face twisted into a look of disgust. He aligned to dock with the station. “May I?” “Permission granted.” The Stripper entered the hanger before the doors had retracted to maximum and landed gently within the interior hanger. “I'll patch you up, don't worry.” Emilien waited for Astrid to complete atmospheric adjustment and climbed out of his craft. He threw back his hood and jogged up a long passage of conduits and cables to the command centre of his station. A large screen lit up in a glow that hues within the dark circular room and Astrid projected Emilien's favourite interface onto it. “I have to update your systems girl.” He pulled a cable from his trouser pocket which he deftly plugged into an implant on his neck and connected the other end to the control panel which prompted him to type in the password for a decryption protocol. He stood still as a corpse waiting for the upload to complete. “Up to speed?” “Yes, thank you. How would you have me adjust myself to this contract?” Emilien smiled an affectionate smile that only Astrid ever sees. He loved the efficiency and companionship combined into perfection. “I need to research the incentives of my contractor, these guys are A grade assholes. I can literally do whatever I find necessary as long as I am successful at guiding a third party mercenary group into taking military control of any system I choose in recently settled Kaspa regions, setting up a blockade and making it accessible for a strip mining fleet to pillage as many resources as possible. They say it’s part of the greater war effort but this Mr Dierre guy is just a puppet. I think they are desperate.” Astrid's avatar flickered irregularly. He looked up at her with concern. “What’s wrong?” “I reviewed your flirty remarks with the secretary. It made my algorithm glitch. I don’t like that.” His worry abated, “First impressions matter baby, I was not sure how to present myself, I needed to poke and prod at them to extract metadata. If they thought I was just an obedient soldier I would still be in the dark.” Astrid projected a look of relief. “Your ingenuity never ceases to surprise me.” Emilien felt his ego swell a little. “Are you that easy to impress.” He quipped with a playful sneer. “If you needed him to expose the identity of his employer I could have easily just pulled the shareholders and executives records, cross referencing them to...” Emilien shussed her. “Just decrypt the dial command tones and place eavesdropper malware on the keypair. I will broadcast it to the network directly from the gate. If we capture every conversation he has I might be able to prove a hunch.” “What are you assuming?” “That they are running out of inbound liquidity and that the shareholders are hesitant to rebalance.” He looked directly up at her. “I think they are going bankrupt.” ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.01

3 standard cycles later. Albin was lying on a two meter high rock outcropping. It was warm from Ceb light but he dared not move. His adrenalin was pumping but he could scarcely take a breath for fear of being heard. His thumping heart was so loud it made him paranoid. He crawled forward and peeked over the edge of the low precipice. A dangerous and savage escaped slave was on his trail, ready to scalp and gut him. If only he could flee to his safe zone. He heard a long low whistle from across the valley. A light flashed from amongst some dense shrubbery at an estimated two hundred metres away. He pulled a mirror from his pocket preparing to return the signal. “This increases my chances.” He thought to himself. He knew that their common enemy was behind him and could not possibly see the reflection of Ceb light if he directed said light perpendicularly away from the hunter. He flashed with his mirror five times towards his ally, two second counts between each flash. No immediate response... he waited. Light flashed from the shrubbery and immediately he became aware of movement in the tall grass behind him. He resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder. The sweat exploded off his forehead. He remained still. It seemed like minutes though it was only a few seconds. Light flashed again. Grassy movement sounds recurred, heart now racing. Third flash. A burst of movement from the rear left at around eight O clock. Albin turned his head and pressed his right cheek against the cooking rock. A tanned thirteen year old youth raced past below him at unbelievable speed. Scruff cloth pants, barefoot with no shirt and a trailing headband. Albin pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “If there is fifty meters distance between us I could risk running for the manor.” The shrubs on the other side of the valley started to rock violently and birthed a boy in a buttoned up shirt with leather shoes and woven short breeches all tailor made. The boy ran with all his might towards the Domitian manor. “This is my chance.” Albin scrambled off the rock and sprinted towards the manor jumping and dodging the hindering bushes and stones. The other party moving parallel to him across the valley. Seth caught sight of Albin but did not change target and kept course. He held a small blunt wooden object caught up to his first victim and proceeded to stab his prey in the back with it. “Ha, you're dead!” Seth exclaimed while immediately changing course to intersect his secondary target before he gets inside the safe zone. “Not fair. It’s not fair you cheat!” The belligerent player cried dismally. Seth did not care for the accusation in spite of not realising that Albin actually sacrificed his ally to gain a tactical advantage. He was determined to get both kills and be victorious. Albin felt less secure in his current situation and began to doubt his previous assessment of fifty meters and thought that an earlier head start might have been a more favourable risk assessment. “Don't panic Albin, focus.” He reproved himself. Recalculating his speed in comparison to the speed of his hunter, estimated the future point of contact. Veering to the right he sagaciously aimed for the far corner of the estate gardens, increasing the distance of his run to the demarcated safe zone considerably more for his rival than for himself. The race became more intense with the hunter closing in... “I’m alive!” Was the triumphant breathless utterance as the knife swiped past the back of his neck mere centimetres. Albin fell on the trimmed lawn panting. Looking back he saw Seth in a similar condition of respiratory suffering. The loser was still far away grumbling and kicking at the weeds. Seth grinned, “I almost had you.” Albin just nodded in agreement. “I'm thirsty... water, milk or wattle gum juice.” “Wattle gum juice!” Seth exclaimed without hesitation. Albin knew that the slave would never say no to the delicacies and confections of the common people but gave him the option to choose either way. He brushed the grass clippings off his clothes and entered through the back door of the manor. In the kitchen he poured juice into three demure clay mugs whilst noticing emanations of a heated conversation from the foyer. His curiosity bested him. Albin went in and sat himself down on the staircase and gulped at his beverage. The adults scarcely noticed him. “The people are ready to accrue for themselves better prospects in the colony!” The tradesman appealed with fervour. “Your proposals would be sensible under normal circumstances but colonial expansion is best suited for peacetime.” Domitius riposted. “This war has been going for almost III standard cycles, are the people supposed to pause their dreams and ambitions for some vaguely defined purpose. Please consider that an expansion program will be beneficial to the war effort eventually.” Domitius knew that he was being evasive and dishonest. He was finding it more difficult to guide the colony according to his vision, their growing despondency was worsened by his deflecting their requests with indirect excuses. Domitius did not want to rule with force, his exerting authoritarian command would only foster resentment towards him among the Kaspian landowners. “We do not have a militia. How would we keep an influx off world slaves servile if the war seems to tilt against the Empire?” Domitius replied with rhetoric. “It is a valid concern. Mechanical labour is the solution. We should convene a council to address these issues and come to consensus.” The traders uncompromising insistence triggered Domitius past the limit of his patience. “This will not turn into a democracy! Tell me what you require and I will consider it, if I do not agree with you I will annul it and appoint an inquisitor to judge and punish all who dissent!” The tradesman lost his composure and shrunk back. “My lord, I am reluctant to admit... there are no requests.” “No requests?” “Yes my lord.” Domitius was puzzled. The tradesman’s son came into the room with his cup of wattle juice and sat down next to Albin. “Father Ecknard very recently informed me of the news... I had applied for a licence half a cycle previously.” Domitius felt uneasy. “What news?” “... A licence has been issued from Kaspa Prime... they are sending extractors to Hithe III.” Domitius went pale. Thousands of implications flooded his mind. Economic problems, ecological issues and a very much more complex political situation. He remained unresponsive for a moment. “I understand. Isidor, you may go.” The tradesman bowed lower than was required of him then reached towards his son. “I apologise for my insolence.” Domitius ignored the man who quickly left the premises. Domitius looked at his son. “Never become too familiar with your subjects, they become derisive. Damn it! He has created more problems for us than he could comprehend.” “Yes pappa.” He agreed with his father instinctively. “Pappa? Are we going to see real space ships!” “We are...” Domitius appreciated his son's innocence. “big ones.” He smiled with all but his eyes. Juela Prime - Capitol Emilien was waiting patiently in the office lobby of a towering high rise structure. One of thousands of competing banks on the Juel Capitol. He had a valid appointment and felt annoyed by the guard hanging around near him and kept noticing the suspicious glances. “What are you looking at.” he hissed from under his hood. “You a spacer?” “Maybe.” The guard did not follow up on his question, he did not leave either. The door slid open and a impeccably well groomed secretary beckoned at him. “Mr Dierre is ready for you.” “Thank you sweetheart.” He brushed past her sticking a pernicious grin right in her face, she gagged. “Welcome Mr Emilien, I hope you had a good trip.” The bank chief executive greeted with outstretched arms. “Nice suit, I always have good trips. Is it very expensive?” The spacer gestured toward the fabric while looking around and sizing up the situation. “More than you know.” The executive smugly responded and proceeded to open a cabinet containing differently labelled flasks filled with various hues of alcohol. “I know quite a lot.” Emilien licked his lips. The banker hesitantly offered a serving which was accepted without vacillation. “I always thought that you void jumpers would be more reluctant accepting unverified consumables?” Dierre smiled a questioning look. Emilien swallowed the strong fluid and inhaled deeply. “I have a clone ready. And an implant that up links me directly to my pod. Don't think that if I have to wake up in a fresh body that I won't remember this place, including your mug.” Emilien tapped lightly on his temple seeming threatening and postured while he spoke. The banker nodded in uneasy amusement. “Excellent, excellent. Ahem, The reason we contacted you Mr Emilien, is because we are in business...” He promptly helped himself to a second glass of... whatever alcohol it was, anticipating a speech and a job description. “...the business of war. Currently we are supplying arms to the Juela fleet, who are at war with the Magarrian Empire. They are for the most part, boycotting our factories... which is a shame really, but understandably so. The Shiv Unity are supporting our enemy logistically yet have not joined them in active combat." He walked around his desk swirling the brown liquid round and round as he talked. "We are trying to coax Osteri aggression, but they have occupied themselves in... other endeavours and don't seem as willing as usual to assault Magar territories.” The spacer frowned and feigned curiosity. “Why would you suppose that be?” He interjected. “We are not sure... don't interrupt me, you break my train of thought.” The banker lied and it did not escape his attention. “Continue by all means.” He waved a bottle at the executive leaning back into a comfy black leather chair. “If we get the upper hand in this war we could control vital Magar territories, the profits our companies could absorb from the moons and planets would be virtually tax free and help to continue fund the war effort...” Emilien cut him off with a snide sarcasm. “How philanthropic. I watch your news propaganda...” Emilien slowly sat upright and uncannily performed like a popular Juel news anchor. “Breaking news. The Magar Empire are allegedly oppressing... slaves, it is reported that the war has driven them to desperation and are driving their labour forces harder than what is... morally justifiable. Any petitions made or pleas for leniency, no matter how trivial is met with... corporal punishment. We must be vocal about their plight and fight for... freedom and liberty. You are with The Report. See you next time, and remember, peace everywhere for all.” He mockingly mimics a news anchor's plastic monotone while folding up and shifting around imaginary papers. The secretary sniggered softly from behind her desk, Dierre frowned. Emilien slouched back into his chair. “What would you have me do boss?” The banker remained silent. “Excuse me one moment.” Dierre touched a pad on his desk, privacy panels slid up separating Dierre from his guest and the lady. He opened comms to an unknown voice. Emilien auto tuned up his sonic receptors slightly and closed his eyes listening in uninvited but inconspicuously. "Yes Dierre, make it quick." “Right, good afternoon sir. I am not sure about this character, Mr Emilien, should we not rather employ one of our own for this contract.” “What? No! There is no one else with the expertise and or reputation required for this investment. He has no prior affiliation to us no, no record. Dierre, just hire the man and stop whining like a little bitch! I don't need this type of crap. This was prearranged, what I don’t need is uncalled for opinionated inputs. We have made the decision and you, you explain what we require of them. So explain to the space clone what we need him to do and how much we are going to pay him for it!” The silence was awkward. “Wh... Yes sir.” The banker was keeping good composure under the condescending circumstances. Emilien smiled, a sly joy filling his soulless being. The comms line closed and the privacy panels retreated into the floor to reveal to the banker Emilien, sitting there grinning like an idiot. “How much are you going to pay me?” “Don't you want to know details of the job concerned?” “No. Just show me the figures in sat.” The director handed him a pad. Emilien looked at the glowing screen, his smiled recurred. “I accept this mission.” He glanced over at the secretary who was unassumingly recording minutes at her desk. “Doing anything tonight sweetheart?” She grimaced. Emilien stood up, “Dierre my good fellow I have to go, need to prepare for whatever it is you corpo scumbags are going to make me do.” “Don't you want to know the details involved?” “Send the info to my pod.” “It is sensitive information.” Emilien indifferently stared at Dierre. “I have a secure line... bitch.” Disbelief shot across his face. He walked out of the room, looked back grinning an impossibly large grin and winked at the lady. “See you later sweetheart.” She quickly had the door slide closed. "That was unsettling." She mumbled to herself. ... #scifi

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