Personal log, Stardate 8-7-3308
09 Jul 2022Cycronos
start audiologWell, here I am. It's been 4 weeks since the Dyavansana incident, and I'm still free.
I was sure the Greybird just dropped me off there to twist the knife before carrying me on to Purgatory, but no, not a peep from this cursed ship.
Something doesn't add up.
At first I thought it was more of their typical mindfuckery. Offer freedom, take freedom, offer freedom, rinse, repeat, and I was prepared to give in. But 4 weeks? That's an awfully long period for a mind in a state of shock, that is scrambling to get back in control. It's not like them to be so imprecise in their usually expert attempts at conditioning.
Maybe it's just another layer of control I haven't been exposed to yet, but that doesn't jive with all the entanglements they've allowed me.
TCON, all the contacts I formed during the passenger-missions at Robigo, the engineers who will most likely remember the know-it-all that second-guessed them at every turn and was even occasionally right....
So many opportunities to tell people about Purgatory. Something I avoided at first, since it made sense. Get away, lay low, keep shtumm. But now that I have every reason to believe I could be dragged back to that hellish place any second, it makes way more sense to rope as many people into it as I can, in the hopes that silencing all of them will be so much of a hassle, that they just write me off and let me go.
Then again, it is possible that that's exactly what they want. Everytime I talk about Purgatory it's legend grows. But outside of imperial space that makes no sense either. The Feds are scared by loss of profit, not ghost stories, and the Alliance... well, I'm sure they were bombarded with dire warnings and threats of dark places when they first formed and have grown numb to it by now. Purgatory only works within the very rigid social structures of the Empire. It's strict codes of conduct, it's high emphasis on manners, the importance of station and loyalty above all else create an environment primed for fear, the more diffuse the better. No hard numbers, no recent history of phenomenal success to fall back on, just the trust that the person above you has your best interest at heart, and the hope that you've not just said the wrong word in the presence of the wrong people. Just whisper "Purgatory" and everybody crawls up the walls.
But I'm not in the Empire. I fact I've give it as wide a berth as I possibly could. So why allow me to run my mouth wherever I go? Why put me in a position where screaming my truth from the rooftops is actaully the sensible thing to do...
I can think of only one explanation: They finally made a mistake. Something went wrong. The coinciding of my arrival at Dyavansana, the twisting of the knife and the Solaris desaster is something even they couldn't have anticipated. The results of it were equally unexpected.
It is alive again, I can feel it growing inside me, every second. Even 20 years of the most expert mental reprogramming in the fucking galaxy couldn't keep it dead, and now it is pissed. It's cry of rebirth nearly split my skull, and it's flames almost cooked my bain. Literally. Running a fever of 43 ° C for nearly 12 hours sure did a number on my gray matter. If it wasn't for my abnormally high neuroplasticity and increased stem-cell activity I'd be a vegetable now. Thanks eugenics, I guess.
And I'd be quite content with that, if it wasn't that very same neuroplasticity that should have kept the fucking thing dead for good. Gods, all my higher brainfunctions as well as the complete limbic system were totally rewired during those last 20 years, down to the last neuron. There should be no way for it to come back to life. It should have been wiped, deleted, formatted, all traces eradicated......
Unless of course the condition doesn't originate from the neurons, but something else. If it's root cause lies somewhere in the glial cells or worse the poly saccharides, then science won't find it for at least another millenium. Worse still, it could be in the more conserved regions of the brain. Sensory neurons, cerebellum or, gods beware, the brainstem.
Or maybe the crackpots were right and it lives in the quantum consciousness nestled in the microtubuli.
Either way it's back and that should be the last thing they want. An unfettered phoenician temperament that has every reason in the verse to lay bloody vengeance upon anyone and everyone even remotely connected to purgatory, should be something even they fear.
Well, in theory. In practise all they have to do is put a bullet through my skull, which should be an easy feat.
So why haven't they?
Could it be that I have a guardian angel? Was my escape from Purgatory genuine after all, and the horror at Beagle somebody else's doing? Maybe even an attempt at reawakening the Phoenix?
Currently that's the only scenario that fits all the facts. But who would have all the necessary knowledge, skill and resources?
And the moment I dare not contemplate that, cause something tells me that all I'll find will be pain.
So what to do? Lay low or rattle some cages? Somehow I'm leaning towards the latter. Well, it does.
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