How I became an Xmas present
26 Dec 2015Monolith Preacher
Well, it's been quite the cycle, and I'm a bit late updating ergo. Where to start?The weekend after Saturnalia, an Asp turned up at Fehu, wrapped in red xmas paper, with basic internals, an A5 Fuel Scoop, a lot of cargo racks, and a note.
Season's greetings, Preacher!
I didn't have time to fully equip your welcoming gift, so I just gave you the most important part. I look forward to meeting you on Monday to discuss the specifics of your tenure.
Cordially,
~O.
As usual, sentiment and obsolescence. I appreciated the cost of that fuel scoop, but I really had litte use for an Asp. As a matter of fact, I've prided myself on flying only DeLacy and Kruger ships since I left my Sidewinder. Obviously I was told to buy an Imperial ship when I made the gentry, and a Courier suited that purpose enough to save face and my wallet. But Lakon ships all look and fly like bricks. The Asp has a nice jump range and the VTOL engines are good, but its acceleration and deceleration are awful, and it heats up far too fast to be a useful exploration vessel. Next time I travel out of the bubble, I'll buy an Exploraconda if nothing better has turned up. But I digress...
I took the Asp to Sheng, who shared my sentiment on the thing, and told him to re-fit it as a smuggling vessel. His hair had been platted into foot-long circles in triplicate around his brow. Varied bags and pre-rolls hung in geometric patterns within each hoop. He wasn't kidding about how seriously he took his appearance. From the intricacy of the weave, either he spent four hours a day doing it, or he had professionals on call.
I complained when he mentioned installing shields, and he eyed me warily. "You were gone a while out there in the black, preacher. Babylon' been tightenin' up dem rass since den. Trus' da man dat tell you dey put a tracker on dis Asp."
I eyed him equally as warily as he finished his statement. "What's the designation?"
For the first time since I'd met him, his face fell flat. He sighed deeply, picked an Onionhead smoke out of his left circle, and flicked it at me. I wasn't planning to go to see Orpheus half-cit on my first impression, but you don't deny a gift from a Rasta. He had rolled a small skin by the time I had snatched my gift fro the air, and we lit in unison. He looked straight at me as he blew out his first hit. "You a slave fo' Babylon, an dey mus' have plans if ya da'know, Mon'." The smoke caught in my throat. I carefully exhaled as I spoke. "I think...I may...be late."
I hastily bade my farewells, and stuck the rest of the smoke in my ashtray for after what was bound to be a long conversation with my new "employer". I didn't need to betray my previous ignorance, as I already knew what had happened. That scurvy dog Springheel Jake had double-crossed me. Sure, the Archon wanted those Hammers, but Jake wanted me out of the picture. This way, even if I managed to slip out from my captors and take some Hammers with me, I'd have to be back for breakfast, so to speak.
Imperial society is all about saving face, keeping face, being a face....they like faces. It's unthinkable to speak ill of one's superiors until you outrank them, so at least I had the advantage of knowing I had been duped in advance. Otherwise, well...I may be a preacher, but I'm not a saint, and everyone loses their tongue.
When I met Orpheus later in his study at Macmillan Terminal, he was instantly someone who set me on edge. His styling seemed to be a grotesque mirroring of my own. Whilst i dress in a moderate noir style with a side parting and a preacher's collar on my suit, this whelp had half my haircut on the top of his head, and lapels so thin I could barely recognise their existence.
His tone, as he spoke, was instantly too ingratiating.
"I must say, good Marquis, that your promotions within our Navy henceforth have been steady, but this egregious action of personal servitude serves as an amazing example of penance truly worthy of both a pyrat and a preacher!"
I could tell he was running out of breath by the end of that sentence, but I managed to stifle a smirk I felt creeping up the right corner of my lips. His archaic manner of speech must have taken him quite some time to learn, and he wasn't the tallest of chaps to be pushing so much air out of his lungs. I decided to be patient as he continued unabated.
"I see that you have come with my gift. Take good care of her, preacher, she was mine once. My brothers and I used to tear out to the Aucocks pocket and just stare into the nether. I thought she would be of use to you considering everyone and their dog are running smuggling out of Fehu, and as a pyrat preacher your expertise could hardly be in firepower. However, we notice you have instead been trading around the bubble. I can't help but ask why."
I decided the truth was the best option in this regard, considering the care he had for this Asp I was stuck using. "This Asp is cursed. I don't know if this tracker is transmitting to every space hulk out there, but I couldn't take one just out of Fehu without getting a squad of meat wagons on my tail. I decided it was better for me to put it to safer use rather than endanger its integrity."
I had hit a nerve. I had worried him. He took some reading glasses out of his pocket, put them on, and started looking at some papers he had on his desk. Laser eye surgery was opt-out, and had been for over three hundred years, and paper was superfluous in a hydrogen society, but these Imperials can't help but regress. He shuffled the files to and fro aimlessly for a few seconds, engrossed in thought. He looked up, and removed his glasses in what he obviously hoped resembled a dynamic gesture.
"My good preacher, you are not one who craves for money, that much you have proved, and your usual efforts of charity may be curtailed by recent galactic admministrative changes. In order for you, and myself as your liason, to maintain our mutual rise to grace, it would be best for you to proceed in such a manner as you have been doing, with the possible exception of certain excursions to places I shall dictate as they become....available."
His voice became as strained as a horse by the time he finished his sentiment. I decided to ask him one simple question before I left, so as not to cause him to expire in the answering.
"How long shall I proceed as such?"
His desk lit up, and a hologram of his secretary appeared in front of him. I couldn't hear the transmission, but the man obviously took steroids. "Very well, Clancy. I'll be finished presently." He shut the communication down and looked at me wide-eyed.
"Oh, it doesn't really matter. You could plumb away as you are all year as far as I care. Imperial Slavery only restricts people to Imperial Space. the slaves you transport are paid for by their relevant home system's administration to solicit your systems for travel if they do not own their own craft as a boon to them for their services. Commanders such as yourself may take as many Imperial contracts as you wish. It goes without saying the Federation is off-limits to you now, but you may visit home next Saturnalia. If you do well enough, we may even see to reducing your tenure by two weeks so you need not come back, but beyond that...well, I doubt you've got a King's writ in your pocket, so off with you! I've got Princes to shill you to, now go!"
He seemed like an honest enough fellow, if somewhat manic, and he had given me all the information I required. That bastard Springheel's sold me for a year, and I'm was going to repay that debt once I got out of here. I had until my Kingship to decide how to do it. Until then, well....I guess I've got to work out how to get those weapons out from under Orpheus' nose. The longer that takes me, the more chance they're going to force me into some military action. I have no doubt they would relish sending me against my pyrat brothers, and the idea of being gunned down by Hammer Time is the last thing I want. I'll have to try and send him a message. I must remember to keep making these logs on my Cobra as I always have. At least then I know they're staying put for you, future preacher, and not betraying the will and knowledge of the glorious Monolith into the hands of heathens.
Speaking of heathens, I've gotta put the Enlightenment Machines in this horrible Asp that Orpheus gave me. Apparently she's called "Eurydice". I can only assume the poor lad's unlucky in love, too.