ONE WEEK KING - Bracewell Port III
16 Apr 2018Commander-Wingnut
As Lord Archer approached the hangar bay, he had to pass the Outfitting office.
The man at the office - Archer had become very good at spotting the cloned Imperial Slaves.
They often looked very much like he did - that is, how Archer looked - though their names and their jobs were quite varied.
Far too many names to remember, he later admitted.
For the sake of brevity, he'd decided to call them Steves.
It made things much easier to keep track of.
(Come to think of it, the ground controller he'd quibbled with was a Steve, he just hadn't known it at the time.)
An additional note on the Steves:
Archer also would come to realize there were female clones, too, from the same genetic template.
They too looked severe, exhausted and often older than they actually were.
Even in the 34th century, there was still a little trouble in mass-producing clones that could age gracefully.
It was a discomfiting thought to Lord Robert Archer that he had been surgically altered to resemble a Steve.
That.... made almost everything on the starport side of business awkward.
He decided to name the female clones Stevettes.
This too made it easier for his Lordly stomach to digest life in the Empire.
The Steve at the Outfitting Desk flagged Archer over with an urgent wave.
"You have a guest, Lord.
I felt it was prudent to let her intrude, she awaits you on Pad 04."
"You let her in?"
"She ranks, my Lord."
Archer thanked him and continued on, his step a little quicker.
A visit? In person?
This was irregular.
It could only mean...
::--::
"Hello, Lord Archer." The woman was tall and swathed in a floor-length, ultra-black* cloak, giving her sinister figure the impression of a two-dimensional shape cut out of space itself.
Engineer Hera Tani. The one who had assigned him to this post as an Outsider in the first place.
Her voice bore notes of needle-pointed fangs and puffs of smoke.
"I see you've been making progress. I took the liberty of..."
Alarmed, Archer looked up at his ship, a dread note rising as he remembered what came next.
The INS "Selfless Jester" was gone.
Archer sank to his knees and screamed in terror.
::-::
In its place gleamed something else.
Something larger. Sparkling white and majestic, with sweeps that drew the eye along.
The finest, most luxuriant chrome highlights.
Plush carpet on the bridge, complete with sweeping handrails and overstuffed Command Chairs by Laz-Y-Fly*.
And the curiosity of actually having bulkheads plated in black marble was a whole other thing altogether.
(*Laz-Y-Fly is a registered subsidiary of Sirius Furniture Wholesalers, which is a registered subsidiary of the Sirius Corporation.
This message will expire in thirty days.)
For fuck's sake, it even had excessively opulent teal under-lighting system that bathed the landing pad in a soft, cool blue.
That was just Gutamaya, once again going WAY too far.
::--::
"What have you DONE?!" he cried, practically clawing at his hair.
"I had an agreement with your people!"
Somehow, in the last five minutes, the Imperial Eagle had been surreptitiously swapped out for the much larger, much grander Imperial Clipper.
Then he saw the nameplate and knew the ship had been completely rebuilt on the spot.
This - monster - was - the "Selfless Jester."
"I have altered her," purred the Engineer. "Pray, that I do not alter her further."
As she swirled and fled the room, Archer gasped and jumped to his feet to pursue her back into the station.
::--::
She was fast - by the time Archer made it to the Outfitting Desk, Engineer Hera Tani was already gone.
Archer glowered at the Desk Steve, who shrugged back with a hopeless I-don't-get-paid-to-run look on his mug.
"Do you want Engineers?" he demanded wheezily, pointing the way Tani had probably fled.
"Because *that's* how we get Engineers!"
::--::
"Fairest of the Emperor's Blessing upon this meeting, My Lord Robert Archer, Master of the Brotherhood of Gits, Squire and Serf of the House of Grieves. I am Envoy Narissa Layton of the HIP 8444 Natural Corp, and it would be my privilege of patronizing His Lordship at our establishment.
How may I be of service today?"
Archer sighed. "Blessings be, Envoy. I have come to collect missions.
Let's see.
This one.
This one.
These three right here.
No, no salvage jobs, I'm not equipped.
Oh, yes, definitely that one, please and thank you.
That will be all, Envoy, thank you."
Lord Archer smartly stepped back from the desk with a sharp click of his heels.
"Well met," he returned the salute that the Envoy (a Stevette, naturally) had presented.
And took one step to his right.
The Steve at this desk looked up and smiled.
"Fairest of the Emperor's Blessing upon this meeting, My Lord Robert Archer, Master of the Brotherhood of Gits, Squire and Serf of the House of Grieves. I am Friend Marcus Trilby of the HIP 8444 Ahaut Front ..."
Archer siiiiiighed with the sort of deep-throated shudder that would have impressed a saber-tooth tiger...
And as one more note of ominous foreshadowing, it would be interesting to note, a small voice would start yelling as loudly as it could.
This was the identity of Commander Wingnut English, trying to alert Lord Robert Archer of something very important.
Archer was too busy trying to remember names and titles long enough to forget them, and would only brush Wingnut's thoughts away in his own self-absorbed sense of urgency.
Not that it would have changed anything if he'd let himself think, but there would have been a whole lot less yelling along the way.
--:-:--
Interstellar Factors Office
Somewhere far away from Imperial ears...
--:-:--
"How did they know?"
Commander Wingnut exhaled. Here, in this room alone, he was not the Count of HIP 8754 and HIP 8444, His Lordship Sir Robert Archer, Master of the Brotherhood of Gits, Serf and Squire of the House of Grieves. Here, he was just another pilot, his identity carefully scrubbed and anonymized for this report.
Normally, Interstellar Factors was a handy way to pay fines or collect bounties from distant systems - especially those which may not particularly appreciate your visit.
Here, this was his link back to Winters. He told the Shadow President's liasion, also anonymous through the audio-only link and their voice scrubbed so he couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman.
As long as no names were exchanged, and Wingnut was careful to speak of himself or his assumed identity only in the third person, they could speak freely.
--:-:--
"The Generals went on to inform Archer a little bit about this particular system.
I warn you, the story is a little distressing.
About four hundred years ago, the Empire went through another cloning program.
There was an exhaustive selection process that only produced a small handful of viable candidates."
::--::
The little General Gilbert was seated at the coffee bar of the lavish Passenger Lounge, gently sipping at a fine china teacup.
As he spoke, his free hand stroked the razor-sharp goatee on his chin, and his feet dangled in the air.
"Nobody remembers the name of the candidate whose stock wound up populating HIP 8444, I'm afraid.
That has been lost to history.
At first, there was only a few hundred.
And of course, the population grew as visitors moved in from other systems and became residents."
Archer blew in his cup and arched an eyebrow.
"The common understanding is that clones didn't reproduce, I thought."
"Oh no, my dear Viscount -
--:-:--
"Viscount?" demanded the androgynous voice. "The last time we spoke, he'd just become a Master"
"They skipped Baron." Archer replied. "The ceremony takes three hours."
".... continue."
--:-:--
Oh no, my dear Viscount." grumbled the hulking General Hofer. In his giant hands, a teacup much like the one Gilbert enjoyed looked like a toy for a doll - dwarfed by the enormous pinky that extended from the handle.
"This stock was as virile as they come, very adaptable and very versatile."
Archer's neck began to prickle as the enormity of this revelation began to take weight.
"You mean... industrial in-breeding?"
"Oh yes," chuckled the little General Gilbert.
Chuckling while sipping tea was a talent only the stiffest of the upper crust seemed to have.
"Our dirty little secret."
From the far end of the coffee bar, Sir Marlin Grieves (now on his first day as Viscount Archer's personal lieutenant and not terribly happy about the fact), tried his best to maintain his haughty airs.
"Most of - if not all - HIP 8444 and 8758's population are slave clones from the same common ancestors."
::--::
"Not counting the working representatives of extra-stellar groups like Ahaut Front, every single resident that lives in -758 and -444 is from the same genetic stock as you."
Hofer chuckled, and the sound of bowling balls grumbled in the Lounge.
"I can't keep track of all the names and titles, so I just call them all Steve."
::--::
Archer learned something new that day - Imperial coffee is four times as hot when being ejected from the mouth and nostrils at speed.
--:-:--
"But that doesn't explain how they -knew-, Commander."
Wingnut rubbed the bridge of his nose - Archer's nose - patiently.
"Okay, so to summarize, Steves are like NPC's. *
They're created for one purpose, and that's to work.
*
Navy Provisional Crewman
But they can only do one job at a time.
You can send a Steve to deliver data, you have have a Steve run a counter in the Missions Office, you can put a Steve on ground crew duty or traffic control.
They can take one job, and do it very well.
Why, in some missions, it's not unusual for an opposing faction to hire a few Steves to try and get rid of a rogue Commander.
But once you put them to a job, they can only do that job and nothing else.
And they sure as hell can't do two jobs at once, let alone twenty.
Something to do with slave rights, labour unions and debt abatement regulations.
It hasn't even dawned on anyone in the last four hundred years, that delivery missions can be stacked!
That's Commander thinking, not something a Imperial Slave can do."
--:-:--
"Now, in my first three days, I'd handed in over two hundred data courier missions, did a few dozen cargo deliveries, and one salvage operation along the way. Plus I sold explodata to United Cartographics."
The exasperation came through.
"This is all sounding like a very standard routine, Commander.
Everyone knows how to do a rep grind to curry favor with any minor power."
"Yes. But the entire economy of both HIP 8754 and 8444 is engineered around Steves.
They're not ready for someone who can do ALL the work at once.
The officials thought Archer was some kind of freakish SuperSteve, a revolutionary of their labor force, and word went up the ladder -fast-.
Before you know it, he was ranking meteorically."
"So now Viscount Archer is the owner and reigning monarch of -two- starports - The Coriolis "Firscoff Orbital" and the platform "Bliss Base" - because of a simple clerical error? Do I read this part right?"
"Count, actually."
--:-:--
"I'm sorry?"
"As of fifteen minutes ago, Archer is a full Count."
"Clerical error?"
"No."
"Assassination?"
"No. The existing Count was so terrified of Archer taking his job, that when the news finally arrived, he had a heart attack at his desk.
That one was a promotion of opportunity."
The silence was interminable.
--:-:--
Finally the voice sighed electronically.
"Good to know irony is still fashionable in the Empire."
"You have no idea."
::--::
The doors hissed open and Count Robert Archer - clad in mechanics' coveralls for a maintenance evening about the newly renovated ship "Selfless Jester" - staggered into the common hallways of Bracewell Port, stifling a loud yawn.
Next to his door, Sir Marlin Grieves of the Brotherhood of Gits stood at parade rest, hands tucked behind his back and half-lidded eyes locked straight forward.
"Sir Grieves," Archer acknowledged sparingly, wondering if the man even had a bed to sleep in.
"Milord Earl of Archer." Grieves' lips hardly even parted.
"Count," Archer's correction was pure, unthinking reflex, brought on by three days of conditioning.
Nobody seemed to be able to keep track of all this knobbing about in high society.
"Earl."
The Earl of Archer stopped mid-stride.
He exhaled towards the floor. "Earl?"
"Earl."
"Earl, then.
Thank you, Sir Grieves.
Walk with me."
::--::
The Desk Steve representing the HIP 5700 Telecoms Corp lit up.
An early riser, Envoy Marster Strife was quite happy in his assigned role as a mission coordinator at Bracewell Port.
"Fairest of the Emperor's Blessings be upon our meeting, my Lordship -"
Leaning across the desk, Archer reached out with both hands, clamped them into a double-fisted bow-tie and pulled the Envoy's face towards his own.
Their noses were almost touching.
"Yes, yes, we -know- who I am.
I've been checking in for -four days-.
Could you kindly dispense with the pleasantries?"
"Of course, Lord Robert Archer, ah... Earl, I mean... I -"
::--::
Though his face remained stoic and petrified, Sir Grieves' eyes were dancing between the two men as if watching a high-intensity tennis match.
::--::
"Dispense harder, please."
"Mister Archer?"
"A little more."
"Robert - I'm sorry, my L-"
"Tell you what.
I don't even have the patience for two syllables right now.
Let's go with Bob. Okay?"
"B..." the Steve was pale as a sheet at what - to the Imperial culture - was a grave breach of protocol.
".... you wish for this humble servant to address you as ...
... Bob?!"
Archer released the man, and made a show of patting the shirt smooth.
"Good man. Now, let's see your outstanding delivery jobs, please."
::-::
Three millimeters, Grieves' eyebrow climbed.
Exactly three.
::-::
"You are learning the ropes quite well, milord, I must admit.
Much faster than expected.
I suppose the Generals were right about what a Commander can do that our slaves cannot."
Archer was seated at the galley table, his plate untouched.
Grieves had politely pointed out that the Earl could have chosen to take his dinner in his quarters.
But somehow, this seemed wrong.
If Archer was supposed to be one of the Steves, it seemed somehow distasteful to eat like royalty while everyone else was jockeying for 3D-printed hot dogs.
"The Steves - I mean, our slaves are good people, Sir Grieves.
They seem like honest, upstanding folks, if you can look aside the whole - y'know, indentured slavery thing."
::--::
Grieves cocked his head.
"You understand, milord, that slavery is essential to the Empire and its vassals.
Without it, our economy would starve overnight from labour shortages across our vast territories."
"And -you- understand that the economy almost tanked overnight because one Commander came in and shouldered what you believed was an impossible workload."
"Granted, milord," conceded Grieves. "I shudder to think what would have happened if only -three- Commanders had come through that night, instead.
Or five."
"Has the .... clerical error... been addressed? It's been four days already."
"We are looking into it. This will take time."
Another Steve must be looking into it.
This was almost as bad as a Federation committee.
Archer sighed in resignation.
"I hope it gets resolved.
Outsider, Serf, Squire, Knight, Master, Lord, Baron, Viscount, Count, Earl...
your system is horribly broken.
If it's not too much to ask, I would like it to get fixed before I wind up becoming your new Emperor."
::--::
That was when the lights in the galley suddenly went dark, plunging the massed diners into darkness.
There was a collective gasp of horror from the Steves.
Bracewell Port remained dark and silent for a very long moment.
The lights turned from blue to red.
An alarm began to blare.
::--::
BWONK
BWONK
BWONK
::--::
Steves everywhere dropped what they were doing and began to clamor, running about aimlessly.
At least one of them was flailing his hands in the air as he ran screaming.
The ubituitous Imperial-blue trim lighting of Bracewell Port faded out as well, before coming back on in blood-red colors that bathed the station interior.
Archer's eyes were wide.
Grieves only pinched his nose and sighed.
What was this?
Were the Thargoids attacking?
Had there been a terrible accident in the hangars?
Was the Empire going to war?
The holographic viewscreens, which normally advertised everything from Rem-Lok helmets and Gutamaya's latest model of iClipper to Mega Gin and extruded food products, went dark.
::--::
In perfect Orwellian unison, in the blazing crimson halls and the furiously crimson hangar pads, enormous red letters glared in grave offense.
HERESY DETECTED screamed one holo screen.
HERESY DETECTED screamed the rest of the holos in reply.
HERESY DETECTED the accusation flashed in neat, laser-like tracers down the long access corridors that lined Bracewell Port's facilities. The horns blared louder.
::--::
"Heresy!" gasped a Steve. "Here, on Bracewell?!"
"Find the Heretic!" bellowed another, already frothing at the mouth.
"Suffer not this insult!" screamed a third, shaking his fists in the air.
They all clambered about, searching for anyone whose face was not in order.
"The Heretic MUST BURN."
"Find him!" then after a moment - "Or her! Heresy knows no gender identity, and I wish not to offend anyone today!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" came a rousing scream, a hundred battle cries welling at once.
::--::
Only Archer still sat at his table, his eyes so wide pupils seemed to disappear in the blaze of incredulous fury that surrounded him.
Which was probably for the better, because had he given in to his gut reflex and began running, the surging tide of Steves would have clued in, caught up and torn him to very little pieces.
Had it not been for the timely intervention of Sir Grieves, Robert Archer - and Commander Wingnut by proxy - would most certainly have died that day.