Hunter News Network
General Call - Truckee Dumpstar
Wanted - Alive
Rank - C
Bounty - 17,000r
Caller - Board of Directors, T-Net
Call - Truckee Dumpstar is wanted for his possible involvement in the theft of the Jewel of the Ancients, an item to be given out as the prize for the upcoming Race of the Ancients. Truckee Dumpstar is highly mobile, with a large budget. It is likely that he has at least C-Level protection, details are not clear.
Last Seen - T-Net Tower, Hojo City, Selba Prime. 72 hours ago
Deliver to - T-Net Tower, Hojo City, Selba Prime
After a nice lunch on a stick, or at least as nice as lunch on a stick could possibly be, Last and Cirrhosis decide a stroll around the mercantile district is in order. Open air shops line pedestrian walkways, with faster traffic riding rails above, or small boats in between. The shops vary between barge overstocks, strange wares from the Sprawl, and the normal sort of offshore items.
Last and Cirrhosis get a hearty chuckle over an argument between a Z’arkadar and a spinstery fishmonger. The woman is adamant that her fish is the freshest in the station, while the Z’arkadar politely points out (using a artificial voice box attached to its throat) that the fish is obviously from off-station, and quite old. Last can smell it from ten paces. The argument ends with the woman slapping the Z’arkadar with the offending mackerel, to which it (asexual alien race, Cirrhosis is pretty sure that they reproduce using rocks or something) responds by throwing the woman back using some sort of telekinesis or something. Cirrhosis reminds himself never to fuck with one of those guys.
“Well, we got five more hours of this, any ideas on where you want to go?”
“What, we can’t just watch this all day?”
“Fights over. Alien judo beats stale fish every time. That’s just science. You want to go catch a skiff, maybe see the rest of Oros before we grind?”
“If there are no more fish fights then I’m in.”
Some drunken stumbling and the asking of directions at least three times within a two block radius, Cirrhosis and Last Chance find themselves at Horo-D’ant’s Boats for Savants. A small shack overlooking a fleet of slim ‘wooden’ vessels, each capable of carrying perhaps four people with a driver. And that would be cozy. The shack is made of bits and pieces of old shacks, which is fine as Oros isn’t known for its tsunamis or anything. Inside Last and Cirrhosis find the Z’arkadar minding a register, talking to his offspring in the back office through a small window made out of an old tire. His vocoder retelling the fish-story with much more emotion than a computerized voice-box would be expected to.
The Z’arkadar, briefly, are a race of deep space aliens that were the second race humans came in contact with when going abroad. A tall slender race of bipeds, they look like very very tall humans. Only with deep red skin of a thick leathery texture, and with four ebony oval eyes and four arms. Also no mouth or nose. The Z’arkadar have lived in space so long, that they have evolved for it, and rarely will a settlement be made on an actual planet. Their heads are slender, and thinner of jaw, with a long thin neck. They have sort of thick tentacles where hair should be, and pointed ears like an elf. On their chests are several large holes, or nostrils or something. Regardless, this is where they take in rudimentary elements from the air, or from rocks, and digest them. That said, the Z’arkadar only really wear pants, their long clawed feet are usually bare as well. This one is wearing a pair of tan cargo pants with several keys on rings hanging from the belt-line.
“Oh, hello guests. What service are you inquiring about?”
“Do you have a boat tour we could go on? We have a bit of a layover.”
“Of course. Of course. N’ellandra! Please prepare a boat for… A two hour tour is acceptable, correct?”
“Sure. Fine.”
The Z’arkadar sort of bows, bends slightly, something to that effect. And leaves for the backroom. Last looks at Cirrhosis, who shrugs.
“You should record this for your thing. Good tour footage is always filler-worthy, in case you don’t get enough on Torch.”
“Hmm… Yeah, huh? I’ll start it when we get on the boat.”
N’ellandra comes from the back, it is younger, so shorter and almost impossibly thin. It is wearing a sort of vague, white veil of a vest, open to expose the chest, and with frayed edges with very intricate bead work. Last starts recording she is so impressed with how intricate the bead work. Extremely delicate, particularly for a boat driver.
“Guests, follow me forward and out the door.”
“Thank you.” Last sort of mumbles, still fiddling with the levels on her recording suite. Cirrhosis puts his arm around her and they follow the alien down a wooden ramp to the waterway. The walkway above is a sort of cobblestone (made out of bits of the asteroid that lent a good chunk of Selba Station’s mass) held up by thicker stone beams, a sort of city on stilts. Hydraulics work below the water to assure a stable ground despite the stations obvious spinning, and various other tidal shift issues that could cause a minor tremor here and there if not handled. The water is very calm at the moment, filled with slow moving boats sliding around like errant leaves. Very relaxing.
“How long have you been here, N’ellandra?”
“This one has lived on Selba Station its whole life. My lifegiver and I have been running this shop for nearing twenty cycles. Please do watch your step as you enter the boat.” N’ellandra gestures down with one long thin hand, and gently assists Last with the other. Guests settled, N’ellandra grasps at a nearby oar, and pushes off.
“Twenty cycles, that’s about forty Selban years..”
“Approximately so. One day, this one would like to explore farther reaches of space. Spread its wings amongst the stars, like the ancestors and explorers of old.” N’ellandra looks of into the distance, all while moving the boat with remarkable precision and efficiency.
“Where are we going first?” Last says, fascinated by the elaborate struts and pillars holding the city above the water, probably not more than a foot or two most places. Light blinks the waterway in and out of shade; small wooden caged lanterns hold LED lights that give the whole causeway a magical sort of glow. Excruciatingly romantic. Last snuggles up with Cirrhosis, who is more fascinated with the movement of N’ellandra’s fingers. All the ligaments are visible under its skin, so each subtle movement or adjustment in grip pressure, is shown throughout its long arms.
“The mercantile district is behind us, where we had originated, so the next place of particular interest is the financial district. Shortly, we will emerge into a major plaza, which you should both find rather interesting to view. Right now, we are under several ostentatious auction houses, where overstocked barges trade goods before moving on to the Lagrange.”
The pillars and struts are getting thicker, braces with metal pieces creating elaborate lattice with the glowing lights stuck here and there. Large brickwork columns sit in between the smaller pillars, the buildings above looming heavy, as places with money in them always seem to. The boats are crowded around them, but N’ellandra moves with a delicate grace, flitting between heavy covered skiffs carting merchandise, with remarkable ease. As such they are moving at about twice the speed of every other boat, as lanes and more formal practices of roads simply do not apply to the world of boating. Even so, with a keen eye for the movements of people passing one another, as Cirrhosis has developed over years, one can see an order to the seemingly random trajectories of the boats. Small boats pass big boats, big boats tend to go as straight as possible to keep from wasting the driver’s energy; medium sized boats tend to follow the smaller craft, riding the holes they leave in traffic. An elaborate dance which Cirrhosis is perfectly content watching, attempting to guess where this and that craft will turn or shift along its way.
“It appears we are almost to the plaza. Look ahead, please and tha
nk you.”
“Holy shit.” Last mumbles. The tall buildings to each side suddenly give way to a large open plaza. Similar entrances line the many sides of a gigantic octagon, probably a mile across. Above, its walls are lined with auction houses, banks and office towers; in the center is a clear octagon upon which hundreds of thousands of people are wandering apparently aimless. All chattering, all dressed like bankers. Bankers from every world Cirrhosis could think of. Small ladders and clear stairs lead to the water, and hundreds of boats flit in and out through the openings on each side. Stairways lead upward as well, to clear bottomed conference platforms with full sensivise rigs and waitstaff with drinks. The economic center of the Selba System, and the largest in the Outer Arm, suspended above them about fifty feet. Small booths sporting small consumables and electronic gadgets line this and that spoke of the plaza. The sun shines directly upon it, casting dancing shadows as the finances of billions of people walk this way and that. On the edges, news reporters balk to specialists too stupid to walk away fast enough. Cirrhosis wonders if it would be as dazzling if they saw it at a regular angle.
“Almost all financial transactions of this system pass through Crystal Plaza at some point. Oso and the station in general, are paid for by the transaction fees generated here. Also, there is talk of pulling an asteroid into orbit here as well, forming a larger colony. Such talk is still highly speculatory. The plaza was a gift from Mr. Corialis, which is thought to be why his city was built so quickly and with so little regulation on Selba Prime.
“The plaza is said to symbolize the slow growth towards galactic unity that Corialis envisioned with the ongoing proliferation of FTL mobility. He is said to have viewed the crystal as the most perfect natural object, reflecting light but also bearing supreme clarity. He hoped that one day everyone could live open and pure, which he attempted to create physically in this construction.”
“What’s that?” Last states, pointing directly upward. At some point they had reached the center of the plaza, weaving gently around more deliberate movements of business people and more generic robotic tour boats. The lower center is a few staircases with docking areas for boats, as well as a below decks restaurant serving up exotic cuisines of the various races represented above. The center of that circular restaurant is a large glass pillar, which now that Cirrhosis focuses on it, goes straight up about as far as someone can see. At the very top is a glowing thing, the obligatory sculpture of any donated structure. That much is obvious. But now that Cirrhosis saw the top, he can see that the pole is glowing too. A swirling, gaseous sort of glow.
“It’s full of deuterium?”
“Correct. Corialis had a spike planted in the center of Crystal Plaza to represent the stake every being has in the universe. At its apex is a fully operational Jumpgate, the original technology for Human FTL travel. The gate is made of a very strong, highly unusual composite, which is of similar properties to the Plaza itself. Inside is FTL ship fuel, or heavy helium. Deuterium, as the guest has said.”
“Has anyone ever used that gate?”
“Jump technology is highly advanced at this point in our collective history, and the gate above uses technology that is most likely incompatible with any currently functioning ship. Much as many races are several steps ahead of humans, humans have moved several steps from such primitive FTL.
“The use of a functioning gate was more of a metaphor for how this station will be for commerce as a gate is for travel. The center of; and modus for. Guests, would you like to talk more on this subject, or will it be acceptable if this one steers the ship elsewhere?”
“I think I’ve seen all I can from this angle, you can take us wherever you feel is interesting.”
“It is seen. This one was told that guests, such as yourselves, would find the agricultural district of interest, then perhaps it would be possible to take a dark-canal in a return trip to the lake and view the central pillar more closely.” The Z’arkadar gestures in wide arcs, always careful to move slowly as to not rock the boat. Something Cirrhosis and his constant fidgeting might take to heart, as he nearly topples into the water craning his neck to see one of the rarer sights, a powered boat. A little red canoe with an off-board motor, putting quickly from behind them and through a few slower crafts, then diving below the water.
“Sounds fun.” Last mutters, she’s struggling not to fall asleep. The liquor wearing thin, and the tour meshing to produce a relaxed fit. The boat suddenly pushes in a sharp right angle, snapping into a queue for the corner opening nearest by, which wakes Last from her half-sleep. She looks around like she forgot where she is.
“You okay there?”
“Long trip so far, Cirrhosis.”
“Oh. Right.” He forgot she was recording. Cross-promotion for his advertisers couldn’t hurt, besides they are going to be on Torch together anyway, so what’s the problem here. Keep Toro from ‘disappearing’ him as well. Cirrhosis relaxes into it, getting himself into his “on” mode. Although, to think about it, she has been recording for a while now. It’s hard to remember what is televised and what isn’t when you are one of the most recognizable faces in Federation Space.
“So what are your plans? Once we get to Torch, I mean.”
“Well, I have meetings with the Board of Directors of Captain Suzaku’s Hot Lickin’ Go-Go Chicken. Also I am to meet with some people behind the Race, seems that me quitting just isn’t in the cards.” Cirrhosis grins to Last, trying to make him being strong-armed seem jovial. Avoiding the trip he has to make to find Code Name, the particulars of which are probably not what Last’s employers are looking for in tour coverage. She smiles back.
“So why were you going to quit the Race anyway?” She must know how expensive that question is, her grin widens. Money signs behind the eyes. Cirrhosis goes stoic, looks at the beams and struts as they float by. What the hell kind of lie is he going to have to tell now?
“I felt like… I felt like the Race had stopped being about the GAME of it. The real meaning behind the sport. That I was doing this to sell things, which is fine, but I mean...” Cirrhosis digs for his acting ability, looks away. His eyes glittering with emotion when he makes contact with Last again, his icy blues staring directly into her cameras. “I couldn’t sell it short. I love this game so much. I love the roar of the fans, the LTs from all over. I just couldn’t bring myself to make it this… This bastardization. One where I would race just to get some bauble. It all just seemed so fake to me. So I quit.”
Pause. Have to think of what to say, have to end this with some sort of logical conclusion. The boat floats into a clearing, the sun flashing behind him as he starts to speak again. Perfection that cannot be planned for. He continues his voice deep and strong. “And I stand by that decision, but I came to realize how much other people rely on me to perform. The Suzaku Company, the Abobo Concern, and hell, the fans. They rely on me to race, to sell chicken, to take photo ops and make speeches like I am doing now. An entire industry follows in my dust, tethered to me like I am to my horse, and I think I forgot just how many people expect me to keep leading this train. I realized that I can’t quit without betraying their trust, by derailing everything that we’ve all taken so long to build. So I came back. For the people of Selba, and for everyone else that I owe for everything that I, until recently, took for granted.”
Last blinks slowly, absorbing all Cirrhosis had to say. The awkward laugh he gives at the end, as he turns to look out over the station as they reach the agricultural district. “Look at this, Last. It’s actually kinda beautiful.” He grins, pointing straight ahead.
The quarter ahead of them, a full quarter of the station, is hanging gardens. Thick vegetation layered over other vegetation. Long tracks of ripe fruits being picked by robotic arms. Small edible animals from various planets wander down green tracks between the plants. Homegrown meat bred from hybrid animals. The area is just dense
with the smell of fresh life. A sort of exhilarating smell when it hits you after being in an aseptic spacecraft for any particularly long period of time. Small waterfalls pour over the edges and a thick mist hovers all around. The buildings closest are covered in thick condensation. The amount of air duct work that keeps this part so humid and the rest so dry must be intensely complex. Last smiles, looking all over the place.
“Does this supply all the food the people here eat?” Last asks, fascinated by all the plant life. Being from Lowers, she hasn’t seen this much green since going to Corialisana. And before that… she couldn’t even guess.
“Not nearly. It is said that the Hanging Gardens supply about a third of the necessary foods for the population of Selba Station. Mostly that is the fresh produce you see before you, some livestock are also kept, but mostly for dairy products. Everything else is imported with the barges that come through.”
“Interesting. So you couldn’t survive long alone then?”
“Correct. The station has a store of foods, but that would likely last no more than a month. The satellite is just too small to grow a sustainable amount of food stuffs. Particularly considering the varying types of nutrition required between the different resident races.” Selba Station isn’t particularly worldly, but as a major hub in the galactic travel circuit there are a fair number of people from various places in residence. The human race has been in direct contact with some forty races of spacefaring capabilities, and between five and ten that are considered ‘developing’. There is some debate on the races farthest behind. Of those races, ten or so regularly deal with humans and are welcome to colonize Federali space. Of those, six have conclaves somewhere on Selba Station. The Z’arkadar being one.
“Is that why they are considering expansion?” Last asks, looking around quickly, attempting to catch everything on video.
“Correct, in part. They intend on expanding the agrarian output of the station, but with additions of several square miles of living quarters, it would be expected that the increase in population would make the sustainability of any homegrown output unattainable. Insofar as this is a trading station, however, that is not terribly important. Selba’s Lagrange is at a perfect location to reach most of the Sprawl, and the Outer Arm would have to take a much more circuitous route to Earth and the Central7 were it to cut ties with Selba. As such, the necessity is unlikely to be worth the cost.”
“I mean the big cities don’t grow sustainable amounts of food either. The money keeps everything flowing. That plaza makes it so this whole station can live on just this garden.” Cirrhosis chimes in.
“Precisely.”
“Still, fresh meats and dairy have to be really expensive here.” Last rebuttals.
“Most obviously so. However, with synthetics for cooking, such cost premiums are kept minimal. Would you like to see the lake again before we return?”
“Yes, please.” Last smiles demurely to the alien, and then sticks her tongue out at Cirrhosis, who laughs heartily. Last leans into Cirrhosis, who holds her gently, pointing out interesting looking things as the boat takes a seemingly random route to get back to where they had started. Some channels are quite crowded with other boats, mostly people on business in sharp suits, but occasionally a more interesting vessel will pass. One such was a small green boat that looked to be made out of stained glass, the pilot is a Hulandian. Sort of a small squat hairy wolf sort of race, not common outside of the distant Sprawl.
“What kind of boat is that, it looks almost like it might break at any second…” Cirrhosis asks almost just thinking out loud. The Hulandian is wearing a dark robe, tied very tightly. His fur is dyed in places and in those places braided with beads. The boat is very thin glass, with intricate veins and very subdued colors varying only in shades visible when quite close. He is using a very long piece of wood to push himself, and the rod seems to be engraved with words in his native tongue.
“That is a monk to Mu’halla. He is probably on duty with the Church as we speak, hence the urgency in his movements.”
“Mu’halla. The suicide cult?” Last mutters, half remembering a video she’d seen on a group of radical religious groups bombing another group on some planet she hadn’t ever heard of. N’ellandra’s hands clench the oar very firmly, and they take a turn a bit harder than usual. Cirrhosis notices that the design on its vest seems somewhat similar to the designs in the glass of the monk’s boat. He gives Last a significant look, but she remains oblivious to her social ineptitude.
“The Church does not condone such acts. While acts of terrorism have occurred in Her name, it isn’t wise to so blatantly call attention to news items one is not fully in understanding of. The Church follows our Goddess, who with the Divine Council of Seven, has created the multiverse for us all. Through Her actions this one is here to speak to you now, and it is that monk’s calling to try and learn of the why of those actions. It is a holy calling to be sure, one not to be made light of.”
“We’re sorry. Selba isn’t known for its religious diversity. All we know is what we see on the news vids.” Cirrhosis attempts to defuse the situation. The Church of Mu’halla is the second largest religion in the Selban System, and the first largest overall. Its origins are older than the Earth.
Despite it being literally everywhere, and quite popular (particularly with first-lifes and the Bychosi), many people consider it a cult. Largely as the Goddess has a corporeal body, and is currently the Queen of Centromere. It’s hard to tell people who are used to worshiping long dead gods that you’re god just happens to be a three-hundred year old monarch on a planet that sits in the middle of a almost impenetrable haze of cosmic radiation.
“Such things are understandable, guest. Please accept my apologies for going on in such a personal manner so freely. This one should be focusing on the needs of the guests first, and learn well to ignore comments not made with malice.”
“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t know much about your Church, so I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.” Last says with a frown. Cirrhosis is amazed Last had so little knowledge of a major faith. He makes a note to keep her away from any public events. Can’t have her screwing up anything major with a snafu that extreme.
“Acceptable. Let us focus on the tour. We are about to leave the more congested sections behind. Ahead is the lake.”