Chapter 13: Jen in "Down and Out with the Soulfuckers"

"Oh don't be that girl." Hannah crowed, rolling her eyes. "I should have just left you with Cole."

For most people, fear is the unknown.

"I thought you said these chicks were cool, man." Rob the bassist said, extracting his face from Hannah's cleavage, spilling out of her uniform.

When she sleeps, it's not the specters of what might have been that haunt Jen.

"Hey, we are cool!" Hannah protested. "Jenny's just fuckin' crazy." She pushed away from Rob and sat up on the limy leather couch in the club's green room, and instinctively smoothed the frills on her apron. "Seriously, don't get us kicked out."

"So? I like 'em crazy." Joe, the lead singer, smirked sidelong at Jenny, before running a hand through his hair. "Nothing's going to happen, honey, I've done this hundreds of times before."

She remembers.

He held the little bottle out to her. It almost slipped from between her fingers, for something so delicate to be so heavy.

"You just spread some on your tongue, and bam! It's like nothing you've ever experienced before, girl, that I can promise you."

"What's it do?" She asked hesitantly.

"It. . . It re-aligns the, uh, energy fields of the body. Basically, you get to look into the other person's soul."

She resisted chortling at the fellow's ignorance, but she was so flattered by his effort to impress her that she decided not to. Turning the bottle over, she looked into the sparkling, opaque fluid, and guessed that it was some sort of connective fiber that temporarily connected the nerve endings of whatever body part it was spread on. She'd be right, of course. With things like this, she always was.

"It's a fuck of a time." Joe said, still smirking. Ain't that right, Robbie?" The bassist moaned into Hannah's cleavage. "See?"

"Fuck, Jenny, just do it!" Hannah said, fumbling with the back of her dress. "Don't make me tell the rest of the girls that you wimped out."

Jen took a deep breath. She could handle this. She was stronger than some silly little-

"Really?" Joe sighed, taking the bottle from her hands. "Fucking virgins, man." Jenny briefly looked over to Hannah, who was somewhat distracted by the bassist pawing at her bra clasp.

When she turned back, Joe leaned in, and kissed her. Being the sort of age and the sort of girl that doesn't get kissed as often as she'd like, it took a moment for her to remember to fight back.

Of course, by that point, it was too late.

As Jen had deduced, the drug forms a link between the nerve endings of the body, bridging the gap between two people. It sounds a lot nicer than it actually is, most people describe it as like "having an extra set of retarded limbs", but the prohibitively high cost of manufacture keep it in high demand amongst the galaxy's idle rich.

For most people, it's a beautiful experience. For just a moment, you get a glimpse into the inner workings of someone you care very much about. You can follow their train of thought, see the factors that influence their decision making, and even see their deepest, darkest fears. You come to understand them better as a person, creating something beautiful in the process.

For Jen, things didn't work out normally. Once the connection took place, she found Joe's mind so utterly insignificant that she hardly noticed anything at all. It wasn't until a slow, bilious panic started to cloud his judgment and cause him to crawl, flailing, across the room that she realized anything at all was wrong.

"What the FUCK?!" He shouted, recoiling. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!"

Rob muttered something about chilling the fuck out into Hannah's neck, who giggled as his goatee tickled her neck.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" He pointed straight at Jen. "YOU'RE A FUCKING MONSTER! YOU'RE NOT FUCKING HUMAN!" He grabbed his coat off of the corner table and stumbled towards the door.

Although the physical connection had been severed, Jen could still see into the boy's head. She knew the horrible things he was thinking about her, could taste the sour revulsion and bitter tang of disappointment that he didn't get to-

". . . My God. Are all guys that perverse?" She couldn't help but to think to herself.

"FUCKING FREAK!" He shouted as he stumbled through the door. "FUCKING KILL THAT BITCH!" He shouted, careening down the hall. The backstage din filled the room like so much clutter, groupies and managers and technicians wearing oversized headsets peeked in, quizzically, and those not distracted by Hannah's fervent copulation (she was still wearing her uniform cat-ears) found Jen, trying her hardest not to cry.


She rolled over in her sleep, and found herself face-to-face with Philo's crotch, thankfully contained behind a bold yet flattering pair of bell-bottom jeans she bought for him at a retro boutique.

"It is infinitely fascinating how different humans are while they sleep. Do you cry often?" He asked, as if he were asking nothing more profound than the time of day.

"Sometimes." She said, wiping her wet and puffy face on her pullover sleeve. "You used to be human, don't you remember what it's like?"

He shook his head. "Not since they put my brain in this armor-plated jar." He said, thumping his chest. "It might be nice to remember who I used to be, but it doesn't matter now."

"You're really okay with that? With just losing huge parts of who you are?" She rested a hand on his shoulder, concern etched across her face.

"Do you miss your memories of what it was like, being an infant?" She shook her head. "Well, it's like that with me. Whatever happened, happened, and it left an impression upon my character, even if I can't recall what it was. Nothing has been taken from me, merely hidden." He said, smiling at her.

"Don't tell the rest of the guys, please? I don't want them thinking I'm a weepy and ineffective-"

"Girl?" Philo asked casually.

"Well, I was going to say captain, but if you want to be a jerk about it. . ." She muttered, pulling her hair back into a ponytail.

Philo picked up a remote sitting on the bed, and flipped through the available videos on the ship's media network. The viewscreen flickered briefly, as a man in a tweed coat dipped a baseball bat into a pool of fire and proceeded to bludgeon a group of ne'er-do-wells about like they forgot to cook dinner.

"I will never understand television." Philo confessed. "I don't miss my memories, but I do miss understanding social cues. Human interaction is damn complicated, not being able to read hostile body language."

"I bet." Jen added as she folded her newly purchased wardrobe and tucked it carefully into the many drawers and cabinets recessed into the walls of her cabin. It's certainly no palace, she thought to herself as she surveyed her room, but it'll do just fine.

There was a knocking at the door. Jen slid it open, as this ship was not fancy enough to have self-opening doors. She found herself face-to-face with a sheepish-looking Ennings, which is almost exactly as terrifying as an angry-looking Ennings, but for entirely unrelated reasons.

"Er, yeah. Two things." He said, turning a broken clock radio over in his hands. "One, it's time to make the jump, so we oughta get up to the bridge. Two, I've got a word to share with Philo, if'n you don't mind." Jen glanced at Philo, who had scarcely enough time to raise an eyebrow at those words.

"Anything you've got to say to me-" He said, demurely rising from the bed. "You can share with Miss Parwing."

"Er, well, I just wanted to apologize for, ah, thinking the things I did about you. I tried not to let it affect how I governed as a captain, but still, it was unprofessional of me and I am sorry." He held out the broken clock-radio. "Gizmo set me right, concerning your inner workings, and all that."

"Wait, what was that about being a captain?" Jen asked quickly. "Did someone mention being a captain?"

"Well, this is a surprise." Philo said, slinking across the room. "Ennings in all our years together I've scarcely seen you admit your faults more than a handful of times." He took the clock out of his hands, and turned it over. "You must feel mighty stupid."

"Someone mentioned captaining." Jen insisted. "What was that about?"

"I do." Ennings confirmed. "Found that in the engine room, I did." He pointed to the clock. "Figure you or Gizmo might be able to turn it into a death ray, or something." Philo smiled.

"Well, it's certainly less conventional than flowers, but it's welcome none the less. I forgi-"

He was interrupted by a sudden explosion and the violent see-saw like rocking that tends to accompany sudden explosions. After regaining his footing, the tiniest of tremors crossed Ennings' face, like he had to swallow something unpleasant and didn't want to upset polite company.

Then, he screamed. A bloodcurdling war cry for the ages, he ran down the corridor, straight for the cockpit.

"Wait!" Jen cried, running after. "What was that you said about being a captain?"

Chapter 12: Zen and the Art of Spaceship Piloting

The Circe pulled away from the Zone's airlock, propelling itself backwards through space like some sort of steely cephalopod nightmare. Ennings deftly navigated the ship between idling Military carriers and gunships, richly detailed personal yachts fleeing for economic safety, cargo-laden junks looking to hawk their wares, and unsuspecting consumers looking for a bargain on goods of questionable use and legality.

Parson sat to the left of Ennings, charting out a course through deep space. Their ability to leapfrog entire systems would give them no small edge over pursuers, who would have to navigate between planets and around debris in their journey between Interstates. It used to be that Parson could just draw a straight line between the Perse's location and their destination, and that would be that. However, the margin of error afforded to a ship of the Perse's size is hilariously large compared to the sort of danger a small ship faced. A misplaced micrometeoroid, a blown fuse, the tiniest thing could upset any number of delicate systems that would render the ship completely inoperable, stranding it in the absolute barren nothingness of space. A complete death sentence.

So, Parson opted to stick closer to occupied space. Skirting around the edges of privately-owned Agrarian systems, mining colonies, he charted a course that would leave them close enough to get help, should something unexpected happen.

Considering that this was the first time any of them would be traveling via teenaged girl, the unspoken agreement was to err heavily on the side of caution.

Gizmo, in his eternal quest to understand everything ever, pored over the screens of the computer bank opposite Parson. He ran diagnostic after diagnostic, reading through every instruction and log file he could find, occasionally hemming and hawing in that way smart people do when they really want you to ask them what they're doing, so they can launch into a long-winded explanation of thermal exsanguination or whatever, just to hear themselves talk. Nobody acknowledged his pleas for attention.

“Gentlemen, we need to talk.” Ennings said carefully. “There has been something bugging me for a while, and I think we need to settle things before we go making a mockery of conventional physics.”

“Agreed.” Gizmo said almost immediately. “This ship was antiquated when it was made. When you think about it, the very idea that we can travel via psychic is laughable. This is going to end terribly.”

“I wouldn't be so quick to say that.” Parson interjected. “Jen's smart. She wouldn't have survived as long as she has if she wasn't. I think there's a lot to this that she understands that we don't. Besides, we'll never understand the ship until we see what she can do.” Ennings raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“And, I've kept us close to fringe settlements. We'll be close enough to get help if we need it, and we'll avoid most of the Military presence in these parts. They don't much like to venture far away from the Interstate.” Parson continued. Gizmo nodded, taking off his cap to scratch at his scalp. “Either way, I don't think we should let her in on who we are and what we've done. I think she's hiding from the Military, same as we are, but we can't risk that yet. Not when we know so little about her.” Gizmo nodded again, grunting his approval.

“What? That's. . . What are you talking about?” Ennings shook his head, as if that would help the words make sense. “That's not what I meant at all.”

“No?” Parson asked.

“No, not at all. You couldn't be more wrong.” Ennings sighed. “I'm worried about Philo.”

“He's fine.” Gizmo stated assuredly. “I've been checking up on him, there's nothing out of the ordinary. I'll need to replace some of his fluid bodies in a few months, but they're well within acceptable tolerances.”

“He's gay.” Ennings stated that with such a gravity that Parson and Gizmo scarcely had time to supress their incredulity, instead sharing a clandestine glance.

“Is he, now?” Parson asked, leaning forward. “What makes you say that?”

“You saw the way he acted back on the economic zone. There wasn't a dress he didn't twirl in. He cooed over shoes like they were kittens. Tiny, fuzzy, adorable shoes. That's not natural.”

“That's it? That's what clued you in?” Parson asked, leaning his face upon his hand.

“Oh, also, he made out with a guy back on Bochco.” Ennings didn't seem to notice Gizmo's rapidly arching eyebrow. “Really hot and heavy, it was pretty disturbing.” Gizmo's other eyebrow arched.

“He what?”

“He kissed a guy. We needed his car, so I told Philo to distract-”

“Okay, that's definitely more than I really wanted to hear.” Gizmp protested. “Either way, I don't think Philo is gay.”

“Why not?” Ennings asked.

“He's a robot.”

“He could be a gay robot.”

“No, he couldn't.” Gizmo sighed and rubbed the arch of his nose. “Aside from everything wrong with that statement, Gizmo isn't gay because he's not a man.”

“I'm willing to argue that his chassis is decidedly masculine.” Ennings said shrewdly.

“Right, but he's got the brain of a woman.” There was a sudden silence as Ennings paused to consider the ramifications of what that said about Philo.

“So. . .” Ennings paused again, clearly grappling with issues larger than what he was used to dealing with. “He's a woman. . . Trapped inside a man's body?”

“No, he's a woman trapped inside a robot's body.” Gizmo corrected.

“A masculine robot.” Ennings added. Gizmo sighed.

“Sure, yeah. Whatever greases your axelrod.” Gizmo crossed his arms and sat back, very much enjoying the mental gymnastics Ennings was fumbling his way through.

“I can't decide if that makes it more or less horrifying.” Ennings said soberly.

“Honestly, I'm surprised this has weighed so heavily upon you.” Parson said, sharing a mirthful glance with Gizmo. “You never struck me as the sort to take offense to homosexuality.”

“Oh, I don't take any offense in it.” Ennings said quickly. “It's just, well, being a robot, that's one degree removed from nature. Same with being gay. So, being a gay robot, that's. . . That's double-unnatural.”

“Well, it's certainly hard to argue with that logic.” Parson said blithely.

“You don't agree?” Ennings asked.

“Not at all. I don't think being a gay robot is any more unnatural than humanity living in space, terraforming worlds all willy-nilly like we are. I mean, to be perfectly honest, I'm pretty sure natural stopped factoring into the equation once we figured out how to smelt metal.” Parson reclined in his chair, smug in his absolute demolishing of Ennings' thought.

“Well, what about blackmail?” Ennings asked. “Someone could find out his secret, and then use it as leverage against him, forcing him to work against us lest the world discover his dark secret!”

“Except that homosexuality stopped being a shameful secret about a hundred years before the colonization of space.” Parson said. “If these shadowy agents really wanted to turn Philo against us, the amazingly impressive legal record we've managed to earn would be far more effective an incentive than any dark personal secret he might have.”

“Really?” Ennings asked, concern crossing his face.

“Oh, absolutely.” Gizmo added. “If he wanted to turn us in, we'd have been tied together with our own limbs by now. Nothing short of an EMP going off inside his chest could stop that behemoth.”

“Well, what about the Warcrime?” Ennings asked, now legitimately curious.

“It would never rupture his power core. You could probably blow off his limbs, maybe fuck up his sensory array, but it wouldn't so much stop him as just make him angry.”

“You've created a monster, you do know that, correct?”

“Oh, totally.” Gizmo broke out into a wide grin. “Isn't it awesome?” Ennings slowly rose to his feet.

“I'm going to go, ah-”

“Apologize?” Gizmo asked, still grinning.

“Yes.”

“Good call.” Parson said, turning back to his console. “I'll get us far enough out to make the first jump out. Bring Jen with you, when you come back. We're not going anywhere without her.”

Ennings nodded before leaving the cockpit. As the door slid home behind him, Parson and Gizmo burst out into laughter.

Chapter 11- Christening

The People's Special Economic Zone was, at one point, an asteroid, located midway between the Intergalactic Interstates of the Enthusiastically Xenophobic Totalitarian Paradise of Economic Liberty and Virility, presented by Clockwerx Hedgemonic Domination and Heavy Industries system. It sat in the Lagrangian point between Cactuar II and the system's star, bathed in a nigh-lethal stream of solar radiation and micrometeoroids, rendering attempts to colonize the asteroid's surface effectively retarded.

It remained a barren cosmic cast-off until the development of lucrative bauxite mining colonies further down the Interstate, when an enterprising pirate crew hollowed out the asteroid and used it as a base of operations for launching raiding parties on convoys laden with riches. Given that the Clockwerx system was the first step in the Interstate off-ramp that ended with the Aetherial equivalent of a dead end, any ships not possessing a Sub-Aether drive would have to pass through.

Of course, that all stopped once Clockwerx captured the system, leveraging the full force of his armies against the system's police force and, once they were crushed, as much Military might as the Galactic Senate could approve funding for. Of course, the Interstate can only support so much traffic at once, meaning that the ships were effectively decimated, one-by-one. They had no choice but to surrender control of the system, and to broker a peace treaty (that he'd later frequently break, just to spite the Senate) they fulfilled his list of demands. While the complete list has since been forgotten, or accidentally shredded by an intern, a partial list, archived on one of the Bellnet's BBSes, includes:


A 20% increase in the discretionary budget of the Interstate Access Point Repair Department for that system
A signed copy of “Dr. Furious and the Throat-Punch of Justice” #1
Salvage rights on all vessels rendered derelict so by the Clockwerx invasion
Something he called “Letters of Highwaymanship”, which would effectively give him the freedom to rob any ship passing through the system. This was never utilized.
A fancy dress, crafted entirely out of bacon
Vigilante rights, which would enable him to chase pirate forces beyond the borders of his own systems without reprise. This was the easiest of his demands to grant, as he had bought out all of the system's pirates several years ago.
The schematics for Suzumiya Bioinformatics patented terraforming devices. He would later produce a line of similar devices for a fraction of the cost, but because of a miscommunication with the shipping company, they were used as ammunition in the war against Sinistar.


Exempt from the progressive social policies Clockwerx would mandate upon the planets he controlled, The People's Special Economic Zone quickly transformed into a gigacapitalists' wet-dream. Free from taxes and safety regulations, the Special Economic Zone became equal part flea market and black market, the sort of place you could get a 20-pack of sweat socks and a Quark Vaporizer Cannon. On good days, if you knew where to look, you'd be able to get them from the same vendor, no less.

Needless to say, a select few grew ludicrously wealthy at the expense of countless deaths and stupid accidents, the sort of thing that basic, common sense regulations usually prevent. Like, for instance, making sure that precarious walkways aren't situated over giant vats of liquid steel. Or, making sure that all chutes leading into the garbage furnace are clearly labeled as such and small enough that minions can't be tossed down them in the middle of a fight. However, little things like that are just one of the many casualties in the overwhelming pursuit of maximum profit.

It's vital to understand exactly what sort of a place the Economic Zone was, so that one might better understand the motivations of the exceptionally wealthy-well dressed individuals currently staging a protest in the center of the Mercantile district.

“WHAT DO WE WANT?” One dashingly handsome fellow shouted from the top of a scaffold attached to a fountain in the center of the district green.
“MONEY!” The crowd of well-to-do rabble-rousers cried in unison.
“HOW DO WE GET IT?” The handsome fellow (Whose name happened to be John Galt for absolutely no reason, honest) shouted back.
“FUCK THE WORKERS!” The crowd replied.

The call-and-response continued for several minutes, just long enough for the Security and Human Welfare Enforcement Officer, a mousy fellow with too-thick glasses, to grow impatient. The platoon of Marines dispatched with him tried very hard to look like they weren't at all involved with anything taking place nearby, staring listlessly through storefront windows like they were. The occasional drunk yokel loitering near the package store would occasionally hurl an empty container or slur in the direction of the protesters, then retreat back underneath the comfort of the store's awning.

“I'm not asking much, really!” The officer cried. “I'm just doing my job!”

“Do it somewhere else!” Galt cried. “Your job is destructive to freedom and justice, and thusly we shan't have you spreading your filth here!” A chorus of huzzahs arose from the protesters.

“I'm just making sure your workers are allowed a safe working environment!” He shouted, gesturing angrily with a thick sheaf of papers.

“If they don't like it, they should go somewhere else!” Galt spat. “They should be so lucky that we, veritable gods of industry that we are, allow them to work for us!” Another chorus rose from the crowd. “In the future, if they are so picky, it may behoove us to just replace the lot of them with robots!”

“They can't go anywhere else!” The officer shouted back. He shuffled through his papers and adjusted his glasses. “If I'm reading this right, you've actually made emigration for workers illegal!”

“They have chosen to be poor.” Galt said cooly, crossing his arms. “I choose to have no pity for their lot.”

“Well, fantastic, you can't choose to exempt yourself from laws-”

“Yes I can.”

“No, you can't.”

“Can too.” He sniped pedantically.

“No you can-” The officer paused. “Wait, really? Did we really just have that conversation?” Galt sneered at his confusion. “Really? That's your response to someone pulling you off your horse? You whine like a child? Gorramn, I'd have thought that someone of your wealth could at least afford manners.” The officer pushed his glasses up and began fishing through his pockets.

“Clearly, you underestimate how wealthy I am.” Galt sniffed. “I am the ultimate manifestation of my own will! There is no good nor evil, only a drive to realize one's own goals! With a simple reach of my hand, I can unmake empires! I rule my business as I see fit, and no-one else has a right to tell me what to do! If you insist upon asserting yourself where you have no right, then you shall be disposed of like. . .” Galt paused, trying to find the exact image to illustrate his point. “Some kind of leech! Or, uh, a parasitic worm! Yes, I shall apply the burning ember of the free market to you, and you shall writhe under its agonizing truth!”

“Fantastic.” The officer said, bringing a whistle to his mouth. A shrill report pierced the tense air, and with the hammering of many heavy boots, the platoon formed ranks behind the welfare officer. “While you might have a delusion of grandeur that would make Baron Munchausen shit himself, I have a number of very angry men with guns who would like to do nothing quite as play with their very shiny, very deadly toys. However,” The officer began pacing, hands clasped behind his back. “I'm not going to tell them to fire upon you. No, I have devised an alternative plan, which I believe will leave exactly half of you wishing for death. Am I assuming that, in your mad dash for profit, most of you could continue on with your lifestyle without much regretting the loss of your businesses, which will happen if you don't sign the gorram paperwork?”

“The virtue inherent in our might would assure our continued luxury, to which mighty spirits such as we are entitled!” Galt shouted.

“I'll take that as a yes. So, there's no real impetuous to you signing my paperwork.” The officer shrugged. “Sometimes, things like that happen. Your businesses will be incorporated, and probably sold for component parts, since I don't for a second believe any of you were actually selling legal goods to begin with.” Someone in the back coughed guiltily. “So, that's what'll happen to that. The businesses will be shut down, and half of you will go on with your lives as usual.”

“ALL of us will go on with our lives as usual!” Galt asserted.

“No, only half.” The officer contradicted. “See, if you had read the paperwork I handed out at the beginning of this meeting, instead of tearing it up and tossing it in the fountain, is that I have the right to assert retroactive fines and damages against non-cooperative agencies.” A deathly silence fell upon the crowd. “So, for every illegal good produced, every dead or injured worker, every levy thwarted, every abuse of the Human Rights Accord, every single goddamn illegal thing you've ever done, I will find out about it.” The officer grinned maliciously. “Don't think I won't. The lot of you have enough disgruntled workers to choke a rock concert, how quickly do you think they'd run to sell you out?”

“Then the lot of us will starve!” Galt shouted desperately. “We stand united against your tyrrany, and refuse the gentle yoke of forced altruism! We accept our fates!”

“No, you won't.” The officer smiled. “I don't for a second think that as vocal a group of self-interested tools as you will, for even a fraction of a second, entertain the idea of sacrificing themselves for some greater ideal. That is entirely endemic to what you stand for.”

“No it's not!”

“Shut up. Either way, there are going to be some of you who decide that spending a fraction of your earnings on basic goddamn safety procedures will be worth not starving in the street. Or, you could trust in your friends and fellow associates here to help bail you out once you start drowning in debt, right?” The officer barely suppressed a small chuckle from passing through his lips. “It's not as if the very idea of charity is endemic to your ideologies, right?” He quickly tabulated the number of people milling about the scaffolding, nearly shellshocked by the sudden blow to their convictions. He counted the number of pages he held, and made an uncomfortable noise in his throat.

“Well, what do you know. Looks like I only have enough left for half of you. Huh. Maybe if you hadn't torn up the ones I'd handed out earlier, there'd be enough for everyone.” He paused for dramatic effect. “In that case, anyone who wants immunity may feel free to fight for it.” And with that, he tossed the sheets high into the air.

A riot ensued.



MEANWHILE, BACK ON THE CIRCE:

“What a charming outfit!” Philo cooed over Jenny's new cardigan and blouse. “What else did you get?” he asked eagerly.

“Come back to my quarters, I'll show you!” Jenny grabbed Philo by the wrist and skipped out of the common area. Parson and Gizmo pretended not to notice Ennings poorly suppress a horror-twitch.

“Gizmo?” Ennings asked, rubbing his temples. “Has the Quartermaster finished provisioning the ship?”

“Yes, sir. Cargo's secure, outfitter finished upgrading the weapons system, and as soon as we get far enough out we can test the ship's shields, as well.” He added cheerily. “Also, a seat has been added for you in the cockpit. It's got manual weapons control, just like you asked.”

“Wonderful.” Ennings cracked his knuckles as his old, familiar grin spread across his face. “Gentlemen, I think it's time to get to realize that the Perse isn't coming back. Therefore, as Captain, I hearby decree that this ship is now known as-”

“- Circe, right?” Parson interrupted.

“Yes. How did you know that?” Ennings asked.

“You're never one to shy away from dramatics, old friend.” Parson smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Also, that's been the name of the ship since Jenny bought the damn thing.”

“Wait, really?” Ennings asked, clearly surprised.

“Yeah.” Gizmo said, resting his thumbs in the belt that he added to his jumpsuit for that specific purpose. “Weird, huh? It's painted on the nose of the ship. Kind of faded, but you still can-” he trailed off as Ennings bolted through the airlock.

Gizmo and Parson watched through the airlock window as Ennings stood in the hangar, mouthing out the letters “C-I-R-C-E.” Then he pulled down his goggles over his eyes, tapped a button on the side, and did so again, Then he pushed his goggles back up and walked back inside.

“Circe.” he said to Parson and Gizmo.

“Circe.” Parson replied as he and Gizmo solemnly nodded.

“MOONSHOES!” squealed an android from behind a closed door.

Chapter 10: Of Fashion and Flatworms

The drawback to Brainframe Clusters is, obviously, that they need brains. Lots of them, and of a specific type.Get them too young and they haven't yet plasticized correctly, so they don't sufficiently retain information. Get them too old or damaged and they're prone to processing errors and a shortened lifespan. The preferred brains came from healthy eighteen to thirty-four year-olds that had died peaceful deaths, preferably unrelated to drug use or cranial trauma.. To facilitate the growth of this new technology, the Galactic Average had set up Brain Trusts to purchase brains from various sources to fill the brain needs of both new and extant Clusters. In theory, most of the brains were to come from corporate accounts, such as the Galactic Average Hospitals and Coroner Services, but in practice the Brain Trusts were constantly visited by citizenry wishing to sell the brains of friends and family, so Galactic Average opened Brain Trusts as storefronts, and discovered it's a lot more profitable to not be too concerned from where a brain comes from.

Captain Christopher Ennings, nee Captain Trade Freewind, stood at Circe's airlock with a cryopack under his arm, as he had been for a good five minutes. What passed for his patience was wearing thin.
“No,” he repeated.

Jenny stood firm. “Look, we're both pragmatic people here. Everything I own is back in my shitty little apartment back in Sikking City. Meanwhile, I'm a wanted felon and you. . .” She paused for a moment, making the sort of face that ignorant buffoons the world round recognize as indicating the use of psychic powers. “. . . Well, I haven't exactly figured out what you are yet, but either way, something less conspicuous and flouncy would be a strategic investment.” Enning's face remained stoically impassive, like apathy chiseled from solid granite.

“No. It's too risky, and we're too poor.” He hoisted the cryopack and displayed every intention of leaving. “I'm sure Gizmo has a spare jumpsuit you can borrow.” he added.

“There's no way in Hell it would fit!” she shouted, desperate for an edge.

“Philo can tailor it, I'm sure.” he looked over Jenny's shoulder. “Isn't that right, Philo?”

“Yes, sir!” Philo was his usual perky self. “Miss Jenny, you'll be pleased to know that I am fluent in over sixty-three thousand distinct forms of seamsmanship! I have also taught myself how to identify all known species of flatworm by sight, smell, or taste, and I will be happy to assist you with any such needs that may arise!”

Jenny knew her forced smiles were quite unconvincing. “That's great, Philo, I am sure you, um, worked quite hard at figuring all that out about flatworms. Ah, and sewing.”
Philo seemed oblivious to Jenny's discomfort. “The secret is to hold them between the cheek and gum!”

“You know, Gizmo was just telling me that he had some flatworms that he just couldn't figure out.” Jenny found Parson's calm voice a welcome change from Ennings' sarcasm and Philo's not-quite-right inflections.

“Oh dear!” Philo attempted a frown. “I shall go assist him with due haste! I do hope he doesn't make the amateur mistake of putting them under his tongue.” Philo squeezed past Parson and headed for Gizmo's makeshift lab in the cargo bay. He then popped his head back around the corner and whistled a jaunty tune. “Remember that song. In the event that the flatworms develop some sort of group intelligence and overpower us, our kinetic weapons will be no good against their magic.” He left a room full of puzzled faces.

Parson shook his head at the vanished android. “I swear, I haven't seen so much awkward and uncomfortable since we were hired to chase that troupe of Cyborg Space Clowns out of the children's hospital on Phoenix II.” He turned to face Jenny. “What's all the shouting about?”

“John, maybe you can talk some sense into Ensin Knumbskull. I can't keep walking around looking like Pinky the Space Kitten!”

“I assume you mean Ennings, and I hate to tell you this but he's out the airlock and apparently sprinting across the hangar.” Parson peered over Jenny and through the airlock's windows. “I haven't seen him run like that since we first saw that troupe of Cyborg Space Clowns at the children's hospital on Phoenix II.” He paused. “I wonder if the hospital ever got rid of them.”

“You seem unusually fixated on them today.” Jenny observed.

“The nightmares. . .” Parson continued staring out the window, mouth slightly agape as if he was going to explain himself. He shrugged and looked at her.

Jenny began to vent her spleen upon the airlock. “I swear as soon as I can get this door open I am just going to. . .” She paused, trying to harness the might of the TIARA and either open or vaporize the door. “. . . Reduce him to nanoparticles. Yeah. With my bare hands.”

“Calm down, Jenny. Gizmo had to fix the airlock door and he doesn't know how to patch it into the Circe's control systems yet. You have to open it manually and it still has a tendency to stick.”

“That is going to delay my murdering Ennings and I am really not at all okay with that.” She pouted.

“Just forget Ennings for now. While he's taking care of business, I've got some clean creds that I'm about to go use to buy some supplies for the ship. I'm sure I can slip in a change of clothes or two. Hell, it's been so long since I've gone shopping for a lady, you probably ought to come with me. Stretch your legs out and what-not, take in the system's best recycled atmosphere.”

“John, I'd hug you but every second I am in this getup is like full body Bad Touch.”

“Don't sweat it. Now let's go, and don't be too surprised if people start tossing money at you.”


The Doomsquad had gone, and Conrad Eriksen ran his fingers through his graying hair as he surveyed the ruins of Hangar 18. The building had been blasted, scorched, burned, battered, and shattered even before the old corvette had clusterfuckled its way out of it, but there was still information to be had here. The short, thin man opened his scanner as he slowly walked through the wreckage. He was shortly rewarded with a beep. He knelt and vaporized the rubble, only to find...

“A synthetic thumbnail.” He smiled slightly as he held his prize in front of him. She'd used those before, as covers for the datachip implanted in her thumb. He didn't need to look at the scanner to see that the genetic material was a match. Eriksen stood and turned to his companion on the other side of the debris.

“Stinson!”

“Yeah, boss?”

“We're done here. Call the ship and have them get ready for takeoff. And have Bonesaw get his lab ready for another sample.”

“Will do, boss.” Eriksen heard his subordinate conversing with whomever had coordinator duty today. He closed his fist over the thumbnail. His patience was wearing out. He enjoyed a good chase as much as the next Hunter, but this had gone on for much too long. She was starting to make a fool of him. Even his own crew was beginning to talk. Eriksen needed to find her soon, both to maintain his reputation and so he could use her to show his crew that he was not to be trifled with. After all the bounty said “Alive,” not “Intact.” Or “Sane”. Psychos or ESPers or whatever they're called, they break same as any other person. Nothing said she had to be delivered right away, someone like her could be a mighty good bloodhound, if'n you knew how to maker her pliable.

Her screams will have show them all.

They're warming up the ship, boss.” Stinson had walked up behind him during his reverie. “McNeely said there was a bounty you'd be interested in.”

Eriksen turned to face Stinson. “We're already on a bounty.”

Stinson took a step back. “I- I know boss, but this one is for Ennings.”
There was a name Eriksen hadn't heard in awhile. “He's dead. Blew his entire damn ship up to kill Clockwerx, I heard.”

Stinson shrugged. “The security system on one of those labs outside of town, the ones they grew the Dirtsharks in, earlier today the cameras caught Ennings and one of his old buddies breaking in and stealing a hovertruck. I'm willing to bet there's more, but the Millitary has totally blackboxed bulletin updates.”

“Probably to re-establish control in the area.” Eriksen mused. “They don't want private contractors muddling up stings or what-have-you, they want everyone to see their big shiny Marines busting in and taking out the bad guys.” He threw Stinson a sly smile. “Knights in shining armor the lot of them, ain't that right?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Stinson's muscled frame didn't betray a hint of sarcasm, but anyone who knew him would have found that hilarious.

“Stinson, you didn't read the Doomsquad report on what happened here, did you?”

“No sir, reading is for those too cowardly to act.”

“Right, I forgot you were an officer in the Galactic Military. No matter. Call the Damocles again. Tell then to accept the Ennings bounty and that he and Parwing are traveling together now.”

“Ennings and Parwing? But how-”

“Do you want to talk, Stinson, or do you want to act?” Eriksen's glare alone would have been enough to silence Stinson.

“As for how, Stinson, this is how.” Eriksen held up the thumbnail. “She finally slipped up. And
Bonesaw will tell me all I need to know from it.” He cackled.

Stinson tittered nervously in response.

Eriksen let loose with a long, maniacal belly laugh, and soon Stinson had joined in, both men laughing uncontrollably.

Eriksen straightened suddenly. “STINSON!”

Stinson jerked upright, moth open in surprise as tears of mirth still streaked his face.

“Stinson, why are you laughing? Did I say something funny? Are you mocking me, Stinson?”

“N-No sir! I- ah, I was just-”

“SILENCE YOUR FLALING MANDIBLE YOU WASTE OF A GENETIC HELIX! NOW GET BACK TO THE SHIP ON THE DOUBLE AND MAKE SURE BONESAW IS READY YOU CENTAURIAN FUCK LARVA!” Eriksen's bellow reverberated off of the empty hangars around them.
Stinson screamed and ran.

Eriksen laughed to himself as we watched Stinson run. Sometimes it was good to be the boss.
Then Stinson jumped into their hovercar and took off.

Eriksen watched the hovercar shrink from sight, then slowly sealed the thumbnail in one of his belt pouches and fished his communicator out from another.

“Eriksen to Damocles.”

“This is Damocles. McNeely here.”

“McNeely, When Stinson gets back there with my hovercar, please have Symons pistol-whip him and then fly back out here to pick me up.”

“Aye, sir. You know, you really should stop antagonizing Stinson. You know how jumpy your murder-eye makes him.”

“Well just imagine what it's like having to live with it.”

“I'd prefer not, if it's all the same to you, sir.”

“You're wise, McNeely. Eriksen out.”

Eriksen sat down on the rubble, and retrieved the thumbnail fron his belt pouch. He stared at it, turning it over and over between his fingers. “Soon,” he muttered.
Soon.

Chapter 9: Ersatz Nomenclature and the Unknown Alias.

The Gellar drive was the latest innovation in a long line of failed technology developed in an attempt to usurp the Galactic Average's chokehold on intersystem commerce.

You see, the Galactic Valet was more than just a convenient plot device, it acted as a passport for the Intergalactic Interstate, containing the ship's registry and the vital data of everyone on board. However, the Galactic Average was the only governing body able to certify biometric data into the Valet, meaning that it cost whatever the Hell they felt like charging at that given moment. They were able to leverage this considerable authority to impose such huge fees that most spacers spent their entire professional careers indebted to the Galactic Pentabank, which may have well been a subsidiary of the Galactic Average corporation. Thanks to a few sinister clauses in the loan paperwork, this basically gave the Galactic Average carte blanche access to an army of indentured cargo space.

However, one of the last really respectable acts of the Universal Senate was to rule that, since it was a private corporation (no matter how much money they dumped into the Senate) that violating the laws governing Valet usage could only ever result in a fine, nothing more.

Furthermore, in the years before man's ascent into the stars, there had been a stringent crackdown on tort law, meaning that the financial impact of fines issued for punitive damages by private corporations had been greatly limited. Limited to the point where it was just as economically feasible to pay the fines and never bother registering your crew.

It's believed that this law originated sometime in the 21st century, during a rocky period in history where the entertainment industry was regularly being attacked by pirate stereotypes, but the records from that era are fragmented at best.

Of course, attempts to overturn the law were ruled as unconstitutional thanks to limits installed by public referendum, before the Senate realized what an ass-headed idea it would be to let the thousands of billions of humans each have their own vote in things. That legal infrastructure was quickly dismantled sometime during the colonization of the Sol system, about a hundred years before the development of the Intergalactic Interstate.

Or you could make like Ennings and hijack a craft so powerful that you could act the gleeful scofflaw and blow large, intimidating holes in any authority figure that tried to interrupt their, you know, rampant destruction of everything inconvenient.


Of course, with the scant firepower available to him now, that certainly wouldn't be a feasible strategy now, Ennings concluded, slowly spinning the amber vial between his fingers. With this, their whole reason for assaulting Clockwerx's heavily armored murderporium, he'd be able to afford a nicer ship than current events had afforded him, as well as work a powerful force of good in the universe. .
“Well, the good's really only a happy side effect, all told.” He muttered to himself.

“Captain to the bridge” Gizmo's voice called over the intercom, snapping and popping like he forgot to reconnect the wires correctly. “I'm referring to you, Ennings, since Jenny's still out cold.”
Ennings pocketed the little vial, and jogged smartly to the bridge.
Gizmo spun in his chair, sitting in front of the recently repaired bank of navigational computers, stacked to the back left of the cockpit. He jumped to another console, punched in a specific series of buttons, and a glittering array spread across the interior of the cockpit. An ocean of stars poured out in front of them, dotted with planets, large scintillating orbs of color, all flanking the titanic inferno of this system's sun, a distant signpost that, despite it's considerable distance from their current location, commanded attention.

“Organic LEDs.” He said, smiling widely. “Much longer life-span than the crystal holofields they use on GA ships. Isn't that cool?” He clapped his hands excitedly, and continued punching buttons on his console.

“You called me away from my me-time just to brag about how our walls are coated in radioactive bacteria?” Ennings asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“No, not at all.” Gizmo said, scowling. “It's an oxidized, ion-doped polyacet-” He paused. “Microscopic fireflies. It's powered by fireflies.”

“See, now I know you're lying to me.” Ennings chided, wagging a finger at Gizmo.

“How ever did you figure that out?” He asked, rolling his eyes as hard as he possibly could.

“I could follow what you were saying. So, what do you need?”

“We're going to be shortly arriving at the Brain Trust. You need to hail them so we can make our final approach.” Gizmo pulled a lever, and the background lights of the cockpit dimmed slightly. The heads-up display on the forward chair glowed brightly as a diagnostic confirmed that, yes, the manual controls were fully functional and all weapons were on-line.

Ennings sat and buckled himself in, before tapping in some commands on a nearby keypad, bringing up the solar atlas. “Where'd Philo get himself to?” He asked while pinpointing the Brain Trust's location. It honed in quickly, a formidable station carved into the center of an intimidating asteroid, not more than a half-hour's flight from their current location.

“Went to go set up personal spaces, I think he said.” Gizmo answered. “Wanted to free up some space in the cargo hold, make this old girl feel a little more like home.” He paused, peering intently at his screen. “Hey, Captain?”

“Yeah?” Ennings asked, fishing a small sheet of paper out of his pocket.

“Do you see a debris field from Clockwerx's ship?” Gizmo lifted his cap and itched at his bald pate, peering intently at his screen. Ennings tapped a few more commands into his keypad, before licking the back of his note and sticking it on the side of his communication screen. He ran down the list of names, settled on a good one, and set a hail request out to the Trust.

“Not a bit, no.”

“That ain't natural. There's no way scavagers could have cleaned up something that big that quickly. Something weird's going on.” Gizmo buckled himself to his seat, just in case things suddenly started exploding.

“Think the Millitary might have had a hand in it?” Ennings asked over his shoulder.

“Not a chance. There were some spare battalions stationed on border systems, just in case, they jumped as soon as word of his destruction started spreading, they haven't arrived yet. This is nothing the Provincials could have done, they were decommissioned them as soon as he took over.”

“Fascinating.” Ennings muttered as the hailing channel initiated. “Remind me, what part of that is our problem now?” Gizmo remained silent. The picture on Enning's communication screen quickly came into focus, a professional-looking woman in her mid 30s, sitting behind an important-looking desk.

“This is Lehman Brain Trust, how may I help you today?” She asked crisply.

“Hi, this is-” Ennings drew a breath in between his teeth as his eyes glanced to the list stuck to the side of his screen. “- Captain Trade Freewind, requesting permission to dock.”

Chapter 8: Low Boil

Chris Ennings made a mental note to himself, as he inspected the ship Parson and Gizmo had acquired, to re-bestow upon himself the title of “Captain” as he once again had a ship to command. She was small, much smaller than the Perse, smaller than the three ships he'd had before that, with the exception of his old Larsa freighter. He'd not yet had much of a chance to look around this new ship, as he and Philo had been tied up at the cargo door offloading the hovertruck.

Parson and Gizmo were still sequestered on the bridge, Gizmo undoubtedly having dismantled half the cockpit in the course of doing something that anyone else would accomplish by flipping three switches and Parson was left to fly with whatever controls Gizmo had left him. Captain Christopher Ennings surrounded himself with associates that he could trust to do what needed to be done and not give him any surprises to deal with. The manner with which they did what they needed to do, now that was another matter.

Ennings paused at the entrance to the galley. It was uncommonly large for a corvette and well equipped. He wondered if this ship had been rigged as a large pleasure craft sometime during its storied history. At any rate, there was certainly room in the freezer for a few deep dish pizzas and space on the counter for a halfway decent cappuccino machine, if he could find a way to keep Gizmo from turning it into a Portable Dimensional Closet or another poofy android. He could hear Philo whistling some Crab Nebula shanty as he finished lashing down the cases of Moonbeer in the cargo hold.

In a way, it was just like old times, back before he got the Perse and hired on that crew of mostly useless space barnacles. With any luck, the only thing he'd have to deal with is naming this new ship. She was old, sure, but solid. A well-made ship like this would-

Ennings' thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a dark-haired young woman staggering drunkenly through the door opposing his on the far side of the galley. She gripped the counter surfaces for support as she lurched over to the dispenser. “Water,” she mumbled as she fidgeted with the device, trying to make it work. Ennings quietly reached past her, thumbed the dispenser's power to ON, and pressed the cycle button. The young woman eagerly grabbed the materialized mug and took a deep drink.

And choked. She coughed up most of the water, drenching Ennings' shirt and spilling the rest of the water down his pants as she slumped forward. Ennings' arms extended and caught her as she collapsed against his chest. His left eyebrow twitched slightly.

Parson entered through the same door as the girl had. “Jen, your brain is still recovering from the Tiara, You need to stay- Oh, hello Chris!” Parson's eyes locked on the damp Ennings and the unconscious Jenny. Parson ran his hands through his hair, as Ennings knew him to do whenever he expected trouble.

“John,” Ennings' voice was calm. “A quantum heroin addict is stowing away on my ship. Where is the closest airlock?”

“Come on now, Chris. You're not going to just throw an unconscious girl out of the airlock.”

“Of course not.” Ennings replied. “First you are going to tell me why you know her name. And then, depending upon what you tell me, I will adapt my plan to the situation like any good captain. I may throw Jen here out of the airlock, or I might throw you out, or hell, Parson, after the day I have had I may put on this tiara you mentioned and pirouette out of the comet-choked thing myself. So there is no 'just' here, Parson. Rest assured there will be deliberation on many aspects of this airlock-throwing before it happens.” Ennings paused, and looked down and Jenny's vulnerable form for a long moment.

“Parson?”

“Yes, Chris?”

“Parson, I am almost completely certain that Jen here has began to drool on me. Let's continue this discussion at the airlock. Call Philo and tell him to dig out some napkins.”

“Chris, you're not throwing anyone out the airlock because its atmospheric sensor isn't working and therefore the door will not open. It's a safety feature.”

“Get Gizmo on that, but tell him not to, you know, turn it into anything. There's not much joy in being a pirate if you can't make people walk the plank. Now grab her ankles and let's get her to a bunk. I need some dry clothes and for you to tell me what's going on here.” Ennings sighed. “And in that order.”

One costume change later, the remnants of the once mighty Perse sat gathered around the galley table, watching Gizmo slide a disk labled “DARK SECRETS OF THE GALAXY vol 4.” into a projector. It cast a flickering glow upon the far wall, and a soothing voice began in a voice that can only be described as gloriously expository:

“There was a time, many generations ago, when human science had shocked the world by learning that mental powers such as ESP, telekinesis, and telepathy were in fact real and measurable. Those so gifted were known as Espers. However, the combinations of genetics that gave rise to Espers were so improbable that the population of humanity was nearing a trillion before more than one was being born in a generation, and even then it took the most powerful computer ever used by humanity to find them. A computer, some might say, that rivaled even the Espers themselves in power.

At the time that Espers were discovered, The Galactic Average Corporation had established its first Brainframe Cluster, a collection of two hundred million human brains, all suspended in nutrient gel jars and networked through a quantum computing matrix. One of the first jobs assigned to it was to sort, catalog, store, and maintain a listing of every Galactic Average citizen, to be later used as the world's largest marketing database. All of their purchasing habits, daily movements, entertainment choices, and a full genetic workup were logged, cross-referenced, indexed, tagged and numbered in the biggest bio-computing project in human history.

And when dealing with such a wide variety of statistical data on such a vast number of people, whole new vistas of realization were unveiled. Asimovian Psychohistory became possible, though used only to predict upcoming consumer trends, which were then exploited to such an astonishing degree that underground movements were being commercialized before they could develop. This resulted in a critical irony shortage, which had a dire affect on the secondhand book and album economy of Mecha-Cambridge. The Brainframe made quintillions of logical connections and correlations every GA second. In the human genome, the long-elusive genetic traits responsible for Alzheimer's Disease, Down's Syndrome, and Shoe Collecting were discovered and quickly patented, sometimes with royalty invoices going out to the afflicted within a Galactic Average Week.

And then anomalies AMB415-0016 and AMB626-1987 were discovered.

AMB415-0016 was strongly linked to incidents of sudden and inexplicable changes in plans or behavior, most of which spared the subject from imminent death or harm, displays of great charisma or persuasion, and several of the more intense varieties of psychotic mental illness that could not be explained by any known cause or trigger.

AMB626-1987 had strong correlations with strong, unexplained cyclical mood disorders, extreme reclusivity, unusually successful diplomats and otherwise unexplainable neurological conditions such as migraines.

Psionics and Empathy, respectively. Espers.

These genetic codes were swiftly patented. The mutations were hard to produce and harder to manipulate, so the Galactic Average employed a program of eugenics and child abductions to breed stronger, more exploitable espers. Stable zygotes were implanted into willing, unwilling, and even unknowing hosts. Espers were soon bred with the mental abilities to move objects, read minds, and even interface with sophisticated neurotronic computer systems, leading to the development of the Geller ships, designed to be operated by Espers, that saw high profile use in the Trade and Secession Wars.

But Galactic Average had reached too far, too soon. The few viable genetic lines they had available were crossbred and rebred rapidly, looking for stronger psionic traits, and mutations were overlooked. Empathy became mutually exclusive to the other, more financially exploitable abilities, and fell into disuse. The new crops of children became immune to the devices and drugs used to train and control them. In the span of a generation Espers went from heroes and celebrities to brutal villains as they became uncontrollable sociopaths, monsters trapped in the bodies of children.

The Galactic Average frantically searched for ways to eradicate the unfeeling gods they had created, resorting to banned nanoweapons to assassinate the most powerful ones, some of whom had since dominated entire systems through careful manipulation. New strains of Espers were created in an attempt to make them more controllable, but with no success. The last Esper Farm was lost to a patient uprising fifteen solar years ago, destroyed by the GA via induced meteoric deorbit. It was the only way Galactic Average could be sure none of the Espers escaped.”

Gizmo flicked the lights back on.

Parson and Philo sat in silence, astonished by none of what they had seen. Ennings raised his hand.

“Yes, Chris?” Gizmo asked.

“I have two questions. First, what does that have to do with me not being able to space Jen?”

Gizmo sighed. “Because this is a Geller ship and the only Galactic Valet we have is both blank and entirely devoted to figuring out why it's broken, which bars me from trying to fix it without damaging it. Basically we can't use the local Interstate, and the fusion drive was only added as an afterthought so non-Espers could get on and off world, so it'll take us around” Gizmo contorted his face into a mask of concentration as he did a furious amount of math in his brain- “Fifty-four thousand solar years to get anywhere habitable. So Jenny's ability to both power and control the Psionic Drive is our only chance to get anyplace before we all die.”

“So I can't space the freeloader because she's a psychic battery with a sob story.”

“We're technically the freeloaders here. This is Jen's ship, and we're volunteering as crew to get passage off of Bochco.” Gizmo corrected.

“I am still pretending that is not the case.” Ennings replied. “My second question is why the omnipotent emotionless space-god hasn't killed or mindwiped us or something. Or, for that matter, the whole planet of Bochco. She didn't look terribly murder-inclined when I ran into her.” He paused. “Just thirsty.”

“I don't know.” Gizmo answered. “She's not acting like an Esper.”

“Because she is not just a psionicist.” Parson said. “She's also an empath.”

“That's impossible!” Gizmo interjected. “No one ever got the Pionic and Emapth genestrains to breed back together.”

“On the contrary, it happened all the time.” Philo commented.

“Wait, really?” Gizmo asked.

“The information about them being sundered originated in a propaganda film designed to misinform the population about the precise nature of Galactic Average's problems with Espers. The director later admitted to inventing the whole thing.” Philo scratched his nose. “The film's commentary is really interesting, if nothing else.”

“I'm getting really sick of being the only one at this table that doesn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of whatever the Hell is going on here.” Ennings kicked his still-muddy boots up on the table and leaned back. “Parson, how sure are you on this empath thing?”

“Absolutely.” He replied.

“Sweet, I consider the matter settled, then. So, this begs us a very important question.” Ennings leaned forward. “Gizmo, where did you dig up that old documentary?”

Gizmo shrugged. “Where else? Starbay.”

Ennings clapped his hands. “Okay, let's crew this ship. The conference room is now once again the mess hall. Gizmo, go fix the, uh, inside things. Philo, go to the bridge and keep an eye on any outside things. Once that's all square, get ready to take us to that brain-bank so we can get this Greg thing all squared away. I'm going to see what I can make us to eat with what food things have survived from Perse. Now go.”

“Stay seated, Parson.” Ennings added as Gizmo and Philo departed. The galley door closed.

“Chris, I-”

“Not that.” Ennings shook his head. “Jen. This not how we operate. It's not even how you operate. But I know you have your reasons so I'm backing you up on this 'promise to keep her safe' thing. But you got us into this, so she is your problem. Keep her out of my hair and take care of her so she doesn't end up in the mass driver or something. We're her crew but she's our engine.” Ennings paused and rubbed his forehead. “Now get out of here. I need to to cook and think.”

Parson left without a word.

Ennings headed for the hold. He needed food, pots, and his ablative apron. Everything else may be going to Hell but at least he could still make an oven do what he wanted.

Before Gizmo gets his hands on it.

Chapter 7: Blastoff!

Four things happened simultaneously in the spaceport that day: Ennings bashed in the door, Gizmo patched a cable into the correct outlet, someone tried breaking into the Circe, and everyone in a three-mile radius had an orgasm.

Now, with most coincidences, you can usually explain them away using little more than half-remembered statistical quirks. A butterfly beating its wings on the shores of Olympus certainly isn't responsible for the tidal wave that destroyed a Mennonite village on the far side of the moon. Friction can attest to that. Thinking of someone before they call can usually be explained with the law of averages. Palmistry and such associated silliness is usually equal parts pop psychology and cold reading, with a dash of showmanship thrown in for taste. Tarot cards were, at one point, a highly powerful tool used in ritual magic. However, centuries before the development of the starship, a massive ritual was undertaken by a sex-crazed syphilitic lunatic in a monastery in Venice which rendered every Tarot card in existence inert, save one, which was then promptly lost to history. Everyone associated with this project then promptly denied ever knowing the man and years later he died, only to have his traditions exploited and watered-down by posers and the sorts of wastrel hangers-on that tend to flock to eccentric personality cults near their decline.

However, none of that was evident to anyone involved when the damn thing went down. Sarah Slaughter, one of the most feared Doomsquad in the area, and her deadly squad of Doombots were engaged with a furiously one-sided gun battle with the Circe, who sat quiet and austere within the dusty confines of Hangar 18.

"Keep firing!" she shouted, ducking behind a barrel loaded with something about as flammable as teenage romance. She loaded an EMP charge into her bazooka, took careful aim, and fired. It slammed into the side of the ship like a vengeful stoat, then clattered to the ground, totally inert. Sarah grimaced and made a mental note to put the screws to the backhanded Merchant who sold her the defective ordinance.

Never being one to shy away from spectacle, she leaped atop of a nearby crate to rally her troops. "Doombots! Forward!" She leaped again and rolled, zigzagging to the back of the ship, where she somersaulted to the door set into the cargo hatch. She did a quick survey of the room, bazooka in hand, before she set about cracking the keycode on the door's control panel. The Doombots formed a protective circle around her and continued firing with their rifles. The ship continued to not give a shit, reflecting every round fired at it.

The resounding echo of the fist-sized projectile slamming into the ship was utterly drowned out in the screaming chaos of the ship's interior. Gizmo, completely underestimating how infuriatingly complex Gellar ships were, had begun to disassemble one of the computer banks near his seat. Parson, after successfully engaging the fusion reactor and then accomplishing nothing else, was hell-bent on figuring out how to bring the weapon systems online, or at least send out some sort of emergency signal on the Valet, which had been running diagnostics ever since Jen had resorted to the "Push every god damned button you see" method of piloting. Thankfully her reach was mercifully short due to the fact that she was both strapped into the sort of chair used most frequently in torture-porn films and the fact that the Tiara's drain on her mental faculties was now so intense that she began to blame every societal ill on the Liberal party.

"Welfare!" She shouted crazily, picking at a few blinking lights recessed into the armrests on her chair. "Wealth distribution! Public education!"

"She's getting worse!" Parson shouted. "God dammit, Gizmo, do something!" He punched a few more buttons and the cockpit's viewscreen turned orange and displayed an external view of the ship, Henchbots and all. A deep humming spread through the ship.

"Kay!" Gizmo shouted from beneath a mess of wires and disassembled parts. "I think I patched the fusion core through to the primary controls!" He pulled his head out from behind the mess he had created. "Or was that not something?" He asked sarcastically.

Unseen to both of them, a white button lit up on Jen's armrest. She hammered it gleefully. Something significant then exploded, but we'll get to that in a moment.

While all that was happening, Ennings was leaning nonchalantly against the car, Warcrime slung manfully over his shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the tearful farewell occurring behind him.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met." The unnamed man confessed. "I've never connected with anyone like I have with you." He ran a hand through his short black hair. "Will I ever see you again?"

"No." Philo said. "Given the duration and scope of my current mission, the probability of my returning to this system during your lifetime are insignificant, rendering any long-term emotional investment fallacious at best." Philo paused for a moment. "Also, there is a slight chance that, at some point during my mission, I may explode." He shrugged.

The man wiped the tears from his face. "Wh-what are you trying to say?"

Philo paused, then, as emotionlessly as possible, said; "What we had is special. Let's enjoy the time we shared together and move on with our lives." Thankfully, being a robot, Philo felt neither remorse for using the man nor shame for how utterly ridiculous his words were, so the emotionless part came easily. The man nodded, wiped his face once more, climbed into his car, and drove off.

"How charmingly poignant." Ennings declared. "Now, if you don't mind, we've got a big damn hero moment to walk in on. Care to join me?"

"You didn't have to wait." Philo said, walking to the hangar door. "The lock's been blown clear off." He readied himself against one side of the door, shaking out his artificial muscles. Philo was the sort of fellow who, instead of using weapons, would much rather bludgeon his opponent into submission with his bare hands.

"I knew that." Ennings retorted defensively, noting the tell-tale scorch marks of the Doorchime charges. "I'm not foolhardy enough to go into combat without someone watching my back, is all."

"Yes, you are." Philo corrected.

"Yeah, you're right. I totally am." Ennings ran full tilt at the door, knocking it off it
's hinges with a single mighty kick at the exact same moment that Sarah began her attempted ingress of the cargo hatch, which was the exact same moment that Jenny pushed that significant little button.

And now, for a history lesson: During the early years of the 21st century, a therapy called "transcranial direct current stimulation" developed wherein a nine-volt battery would be attached to portions of the brain. Depending on where the electrodes were placed, there could be any number of results ranging from a decrease in migraine frequency and intensity, an improvement in memory or hand-eye coordination, or relief from the symptoms of neurological disorders. Of course the most common side-effect was a marked propensity for these practitioners to up and die, due to the fact that they went ahead and wired a battery into their brains.

However, that was due more to the absolute crudity with which 21st century regarded the brain than any fault with the therapy. Once doctors and scientists REALLY realized how blastedly complicated a system the brain was, they were able to more effectively electrocute precise areas, leading to a number of jaw-dropping developments. The most shocking of which was the effects an Esper could have on the space-time continuum when given sufficient power.

Given how vastly superior an Esper's mind is compared to ours, imagine the sort of things it could do when attached directly to a fusion generator. In this case, a whole fuck of a lot.

As soon as Jenny pushed that fateful button, she could feel her consciousness expand faster than waistlines at an all-you-can-eat ham buffet. She became instantly aware of everything happening around her, she could feel Sarah Slaughter's burning hatred, could feel Parson's panicked urgency, she instantly knew that the bum digging through the dumpster three hundred feet to the south was the greatest mathematician born in fifty years. She could tell that, beyond the shopping plaza where Ennings left the Hovertruck, there was a boy sitting in a cafe who will grow up and develop a novel use for reactor waste because a girl rejects him two years from tomorrow.

Every thought, sensation, realization, insight, every possible nuance of everyone within a three-mile radius was hers. For one shocking moment she was gloriously united with these people, the fundamental gap between personalities became nothing more than a stitch in reality she traipsed over with all the effort of stepping across a seam in the sidewalk. She reached out a hand and in a single sweeping moment became one with an entire city block, instantly understanding each and every one of their dreams and motivations.

Just as swiftly as it happened, she came back into herself, utterly shocked at what had just taken place. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and she fell blissfully asleep. Gizmo, after recollecting his wits, unplugged the cable, and went about reconstructing the bank of computers. Parson, after falling to the ground as his knees gave out underneath him, sat panting, trying to figure out exactly which way was up.

Outside the ship, Ennings leaned heavily against Philo, who bore a most distressed expression.

"I didn't know I could do that." he said, dragging Ennings over the ring of blissfully smoking Doombot rubble.

"Add that to a growing list of things I had no desire of ever learning about you." Ennings quipped, waiting for control of his lower half to return.

"There are wonderful secrets hidden within everyone." Philo gently chided. "Just because my skin is artificial, does not make me any less nuanced than you. My brain was once alive too, you know." Philo set Ennings next to the ship's hatch, gently carrying Sarah a safe distance from the formidable engines.

"We'll be leaving soon, so you probably ought to be leaving soon, yes?" The soon-to-be-demoted commander nodded mutely, temporarily having lost her voice during a religious experience. She stumbled off into the street, wincing at the sudden intensity of the light.

"Gizmo!" Ennings called, hammering against the door. "Let us in! I have had quite enough of this damned shark-invested ball of filth!" Ennings tried to stand, teetered a bit, and sat back down. "Philo, help me stand. I intend to shoot the door apart." Gizmo shook his head, picked Ennings up like an ornery sack of murder-potatoes, and gently stroked the keypad.

"A ship is like a woman-" He said to Ennings "-In more ways than one." The doors shuddered, then slowly slid open.

"You used your brain radio to call Gizmo, didn't you?"

"You suck the romance out of everything."

The door slid shut behind them. Moments later, the ship lifted off the ground, burst through the hangar sideways, and soared off into space.

Moments after that, they fell back to ground with all the grace of a cement kite, loaded the cargo from the Hovertruck, and took back off again.

Chapter 6: Doomsquad

The advent of space travel had exposed the human body to strange new environments and stresses. Zero-gravity, cosmic rays, a massive spectrum of different radiations, and things that forced human society to invent whole new words, and, in one notable case, a new verb tense. New branches of medicine and biometric technologies had been birthed and fed by the demand to adapt the human body to an environment in which it had never been meant to exist. Cyborgs and the genetically modified soared and danced through the heavens and space just as the ancient humans might have seen angels frolic through the heavens, a testament to the sheer boundlessness of the human spirit.

However, one thing almost never demanded of the body of a spacer is the ability to sustain a prolonged sprint.

At first the advantage in the frantic run from Crazy Ivan's to the spaceport was decidedly Parson's. Parson was younger than Gizmo and in much better shape physically from a reasonably balanced diet and being dragged into countless bar fights of extraordinary length by Chris Ennings. Gizmo's shorter legs, portly physique, and tendency to eat potted meat and synthocheez while figuring out how to turn Ennings' new pizza oven into a Neutron Alchemist soon left him red and wheezing in Parson's wake.

But like all of the inner circle of the Perse crew, Gizmo knew how to play to his strengths. Mopping the sweat from his brow with one hand, Gizmo pulled a small, dark gray rectangle from his back pocket. With a few quick twists and folds, carbon nanotubes interlocked and micronic circuits had activated to produce a small, reddish mat, already refining solar energy into contragravitational forces in the form of hovering. Its middle bowed slightly as Gizmo stepped aboard, and with a slight shifting of weight he was zipping forward, easily swerving around Parson.

“Hold on a second!” Parson called after Gizmo, who obligingly whipped the rug around with a deft turn of ankle and came to a stop facing Parson.

“You've had that thing all this time?” demanded Parson, panting slightly from his run.

“Around four years.” Gizmo shrugged. “I made it from Captain Ennings' cappucino maker. I was going to call it a 'Shagway' but every time I said it Ennings would try choking me for some reason.”

“You don't say. So why haven't you used it before now?”

“Well I never really needed it for myself before. I'm always in my lab on the ship, I seldom go planetside. But I usually use it to move bigger parts. It's how I got that trifusion cascader down to those methane caves quickly enough to thaw Ennings out of the wall. And you see this part?” Gizmo waved his arms through the empty air around him, “That's the part that doesn't protect me from dirtsharks.”

“I see,” Parson replied. “But I was asking why you started out running from Ivan's.”

“Years of experience with you and Ennings has taught me that when one of you starts running that I should follow immediately and worry about everything else later.”

“That is certainly wise.” Parson paused. “So, do you have another one of those magic carpets?”

“Yes.” Another pause. “OH! You want to use it! Sure, here you go.” Gizmo quickly produced a second Shagway and tossed it to Parson.

Parson railed an eyebrow as he stepped on. “Pink?”

“I'm hoping Ennings needs it someday.” The two men laughed as they zipped toward the Spaceport.


Ennings frowned as a sea of stained concrete, broken windows, and a complete lack of activity came into view. “What the hell is this dump?” he demanded.

“The spaceport, sir.” Philo didn't look over from beneath the sunglasses he'd procured from their vehicle's owner. “The autonav says-”

“To hell with the autonav! It's probably as broken and defective as the rest of this ruined planet. I know spaceports. I've been to hundreds of spaceports. I, in matter of fact, grew up in spaceports. This is not a spaceport. Spaceports have activity. Ships and people and electricity and that stink of scorched atmosphere and terrible caustic chemicals and people who haven't bathed in a solar year. This has none of these things but the stink.” He sniffed.

“Sir, as I was telling you during our landing, the main planetfall here was relocated to Clockwerx City by Clockwerx when he seized power, and as a consequence the spaceport here was abandoned.”

“Well what in the flaming supernovas of crunched quasars would Gizmo and Parson find so important in an abandoned- wait. Did you say you were telling us about the planet during our LANDING?”

“Yes, sir. As you may remember I always take the time during planetfall to give you an overview of the planet.”

“Philo, did the fact we were screaming and crashing not tell you that we weren't listening?”

“In point of fact, sir, we so frequently find ourselves in a situation with an overabundance of screaming, crashing, shooting, or some other form of chaos that were I to interrupt my normal functions and duties for them they would remain off indefinitely.”

Ennings opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again. “Well I can't really argue with that.” Ennings admitted, stroking his chin. “Good job on adapting to the unexpected. Now as I was saying before, What would Gizmo and Parson want in an abandoned spaceport?”

“Well as they were tasked with locating a ship, the logical assumption would be that they have found one. As you'll recall from my briefing, there are rumors that Merchants have starting using the empty buildings.”

“Philo, the only thing I recall about your briefing is everyone but you screaming, various things on fire, a minicryo with my ex-cook's head in it and making a sizable crater in a dirtshark nest. If the topic is not one of those things I assure you that I do not recall it.”

“Understood, sir.”

Ennings yanked the wheel and pulled off into a parking lot for an abandoned Meet 'N' Cheez.

“Sir-” Philo started as he noticed Ennings' suddenly grim face. Ennings pointed to the squadron of red-and-black vehicles, troopers, and Doombots heading into the rows of hangars.

Philo took a picosecond to scan his vast data banks. “Oh.” he said. “Fuck.”


Gizmo and Parson folded up their Shagways as they stood in front of Hangar 18.

“Should we knock?” Gizmo asked.

“No,” Parson replied as he walked through the office door. A Merchant had been here- Parson saw, and smelled, that the inside of the door frame had recently been ringed with Doorchime charges. A bit excessive when dealing with an old corvette, but then again this Merchant had to work under Clockwerx.

Parson pushed open the door into the hangar. “I can see why this thing was so cheap. It sure doesn't look like much. Were those pirates hauling garbage with it?”

Gizmo gasped as he followed. “The kid wasn't joking! That's a Geller ship!”

Parson whistled. “Damn thing's an antique. Weren't they designed for, like, wizards, or something?”

“Psychics.” Gizmo corrected. “These things predate the goddamn Interplanetary Interstate. Supposedly, they could jump into Aetherspace without using a drive. Less than a hundred were ever produced, or so I've been told.”

“Why so few?” Parson asked.

“How many psychics do you think there were, exactly?” Gizmo asked.

Parson shrugged.“Well, you always hear stories about psychics finding murder victims, or mansions haunted by ghosts, or wizards curing cancer without hyperscalpels. . .” Parson said. “Just seems like the past was a might bit more magical than the world we're living in.” Gizmo nodded.

“Right on that count. There's no wonder in living, anymore.” He then scratched his butt with the heel of his Shagway controller and spat. “I reckon we could make a killing just selling off the parts as mementos. There are an awful lot of eccentric rich weirdoes into stuff like that. I know a guy who designed his entire mansion to run on steam.” Gizmo twitched his moustache in contemplation.

“I don't care what you do with it. A psidrive's as useful as a diesel engine- there's nothing to run either of them anymore. But first let's find the buyer and work out a deal.” Parson unconsciously hitched his pants, feeling the weight of his pistol bounce against his thigh. The two men walked around to the stern loading hatch. Gizmo inspected the controls. “It's unlocked. Stand clear.” The door silently swung down to form a boarding ramp that the pair strode up and into the ship.

“Anyone here?” Parson called out as they walked up the narrow gangway. As they approached the bridge door an autogun unfolded from the ceiling and pointed at them. The men wisely froze.

The bridge door slid open and a young woman stepped out, wearing a poofy pink dress with ruffed sleeves, a skirt-apron bastard spawn, and a headband with matching kitty ears. Her dark hair made the crimson band across her forehead even more noticeable. Cold eyes measured their worth. The autogun's barrel moved in tandem with them.

“Who are you and why are you on my ship?” she demanded.

There was a long pause, finally broken by Parson.

“Are- are those kitty ears?” Parson stammered.

“What?” The girl's hand went to her head and pulled off the headband. “I'd completely forgotten about this thing.”

Parson and Gizmo looked at each other and started laughing hysterically.

“Damn it this is not funny!' the girl fumed, causing the two men to laugh even harder. She looked down over the work uniform she'd forgotten she was wearing, the pink fuzzy cat ears in her hands, and let loose a few choking gasps of laughter as well, equal parts nerve and shame.

Gizmo was doubled over against the wall. Parson had tears running down his face and was on the floor, pointing at the cat ears. Jenny dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her apron and tried to regain command of the situation. Laughter echoed throughout the ship.

The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve, and the autogun fired, leaving a smoking hole in the floor. The laughter abruptly stopped as all three stared wide-eyed at the wisps of smoke curling up from the floor.
“Huh. I didn't actually expect that gun to work.” the girl admitted.

“Well, that was about as sobering as seeing your mother naked.” Parson said, climbing to his feet. “Look, kid-”

“Jenny.” the girl interjected.

“Jenny.” Parson nodded. “My name's John Parson and my associate here is called. . . Gizmo.” Gizmo nodded. “We are in a really bad way right now, and we want to buy your ship. Just name your price.” this was not the first time that Parson had gambled on Ennings' money-making abilities.

“It's not for sale.” The coldness had returned to Jenny's eyes.

“Really, with the money we give you you can go buy another ship, a much nicer one. We just need-”

“Wait, Parson.” Gizmo stepped closer to Jenny. “That's a T.I.A.R.A.” It wasn't a question.

Jenny nodded warily.

Parson's eyes widened. “You're an Esper?”

“There's no hiding it now!” Jenny grumbled.

Parson found himself at a loss for words for one of a very small number of times in his life.

The ship shook from a massive explosion outside. The crown seemed to hum and Jenny gasped and paled. She braced herself against the door to keep herself upright.

“Doomsquad” she gasped in reply to everyone's unvoiced question. “Shot through the door. I'm new to this and I didn't think to scan outside the ship. I've got the forward shields up. Run out the back door- there's no one that way.”

Parson tensed up. He saw something familiar in Jenny's eyes. Something he used to see in himself, not so long ago, before he met Ennings.

“No.” Jenny and Gizmo both looked surprised. Parson looked at Jenny. “Look, we need you and right now, you need us. Let us through and you have my word we'll help you.” He put a reassuring hand on Jenny's shoulder. Jenny stared at him, looking for something in his eyes.

The ship shook again.

Neither Parson nor Jenny moved.

Finally, Jenny sighed and stepped aside. The bridge door slid open.

“You won't regret this, Jenny.” Parson helped Jenny into the command chair before turning to Gizmo. “Find the Systems console and see what we've got in the way of hauling ass out of here. I'm going to check defenses.”

Gizmo nodded. “I'll try to get the reactor up so everything isn't running off of her.”

“you mean-”

“Yes. Psidrives use Psi energy and she is the source.”

Parson looked at Jenny. “Stars, Gizmo, she's just a kid . . .”

Gizmo was working on a console. “She's older than most of them were. Fusion up in 30 seconds.” Gizmo tapped at a few keys, and squinted. “There are a pair of mass drivers embedded in the nose of the craft. Think they're loaded?” Jenny shrugged, almost falling out of the chair from the sudden burst of vertigo. She tightened the six-point restraint system currently securing her bepoofed butt to the chair.

Parson sat down at a console showing shield information. “Chris is going to love this.” he muttered, as he started locking down the ship.

Chapter 5 Part 2: On Negotiating

The Galactic Average corporation, being the prolific testaments to Capitalism they were, had long ago defined itself into several branches in order to best expedite the squandering of public funds on fancy projects that never actually produced anything of any use to anyone. There was Galactic Average Medical, who produced three hundred metric tons of gauze on any given Tuesday, Galactic Average Industrial, responsible for making sure that televisions expired exactly two weeks after their warranties did, and Galactic Average Provisions, responsible for propagating corn across the untold reaches of space and time.

There was also the Galactic Average Bank, but that particular organization had been forcibly separated from the rest of the Galactic Average during the rush to construct the Interplanetary Interstate. Ever since the split the organization developed certain. . . eccentricities.

At the moment, former captain and notorious space jerk Chris Ennings stood in the central courtyard of the Galactic Average System Headquarters, three tall buildings uniform in their absolute drabness, the combined force of which controlled the majority of the commerce in the Hauser system. He clutched in one sweaty palm an elixir torn from the hateful breast of Doctor Clockwerx, an android who represented the absolute zenith of science gone batshit.

From the documents he read, Ennings knew that the Doctor's serum was capable of repairing every feasible damage the human person could withstand without being reduced to the consistency of a fine chutney. He knew that whatever organization got their hands on it could put Galactic Average Medical out of business so fast Adam Smith would shit bricks of fire. In his weaker moments, he'd even fantasize leveraging that for a posh position as some sort of undersecretary, or manager, or whatever the sort of thing that middle-aged men spent their days doing, but that wasn't going to be the case.

He took one step towards the building, knowing that this invention was going to get patented and buried so deep that, uh, some other famous person would be totally, um, surprised. Or something.

"Do you need backup, Captain?" Philo asked, disentangling himself from the tall drink of water leaning nonchalantly against the car.

"No. . . Really. Please, don't let me, uh. . ." Ennings tried to banish the terrifying spectacle of heavy-robot-petting from his brain. ". . . Inconvenience you."

"Assisting our egress is never an inconvenience." Philo said. "Furthermore, without my assistance, how can you hope to find the president of the medical wing?" Ennings shrugged.

"I was planning on figuring that out once I got in." Ennings smiled a wry, charming smile. Philo sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Do you even know which building is the right one?" He asked, exasperated. Ennings stared blankly at the android for a moment, and then pointed at the large caduceus decorating the front of the nearest tower. "Right, well, best of luck then." Philo replied, not missing a beat.


The inside of the tower was oddly subdued, even for a hive of pencil-pushing office drones slowly counting down the days until their inevitable death. Ennings, who had set his brain to 'Take-no-shit badass,' strode manfully forward, and impositioned himself most disconveniently for the harried, mousy secretary, quietly nursing instructions into the phone.

"Hello." Ennings said, smiling a smile that conveyed just how large his teeth were. "I'm here to speak to your president. I have a business proposition that I think he will find most. . ." Ennings paused dramatically while suggestively tapping the elixer upon the poor woman's desk. ". . . Compelling."

The woman stared at him with the same mixture of awe and fear with which cattle regard an oncoming murdertrain. She pressed a secret button and handed him a small key on a fine gold chain.

"First elevator to your left, sir." She quickly withdrew her hand and continued to stare at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Ennings paused, shocked that his plan actually worked.

"Well. . ." He rapped the vial once more. "Thanks." He swiftly turned and walked for the elevators. He passed a pair of security guards, assault weapons slung over their shoulders, and he suddenly became cognizant of exactly how muddy and disheveled he was. The guards gave him a once-over on his way to the elevator, which was rather disconcerting. Ennings considered himself much more deserving of suspicion, and he couldn't help but feel the least bit slighted.

The elevator he had been directed to slid open, unleashing a crowd of people into the lobby, all of which tried very hard to pay Ennings no mind, all the while giving him a wide berth. Entering the elevator, the well-dressed man in charge of sitting on a stool and pushing the button accidentally bumped into his shoulder with a force that is hardly ever indicative of an accidental anything.

Ennings tried very hard to push the nagging sensation of disease out of his brain as he slid the delicate gold key home. The doors closed as the carriage rocketed upwards, and Ennings focused mostly on the thought of escaping this afflicted ball of mud.

"Eventually" He said out loud to noone in particular "They're going to figure out who I am. Better to escape with my life, I can do more good alive than I'd accomplish dying for a grand gesture." He concluded, failing to convince even himself. He laughed the sad, forced laugh of someone choking on their morals.
The elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open, revealing a long hallway crafted of large slabs of smoky marble. He knew that it wasn't real marble, rather, it was a semi-permeable membrane that would allow burly men with scary energy weapons to perforate Ennings in all manner of ways, without affording him the opportunity to return fire. The realization that he was surrounded on all sides by the advanced version of tinted glass did little to expel the nagging worry in the back of his skull.

The hallway terminated in a heavy red door, bare except for a black bar at eye-level, presumably for some sort of retinal scan. Hesitating for a moment, Ennings gently knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked, more forcibly. Nothing continued to happen. Reverting to brute force, he kicked the door as hard as it could, and it flew open. Ennings winced as the sound of something expensive shattering echoed across the spartan office.

"I knew you were coming." The tactiturn man at the desk spoke carefully. "So I left the door open." He said, measuring his words like precious gold powder.

"Well, I know that now." Ennings retorted, not knowing what else to say.

"Well I'm glad you know that now." The man replied, mockingly. "I would find your cognative abilities highly suspect if. . ." One could observe the gates being thrown back on the lion's cage of seething fury raging in this man's cockles. He flexed his hands like he wished they were full of vertebrets and pasted another veneer of politeness on his jowls. "Please." He said, gesturing to a single black seat set before his empty desk. "Join me."

Ennings strode quickly across the sable carpet laid out across the smoky marble floor that he guessed might actually be marble this time. He paused to gaze out across the expanse of Sikking City, a giant mud-crusted testament to a collapsing economic infrastructure, and decided he liked the view better from the plush seat in front of him.

Mostly because it framed the other Galactic Average buildings in such a way that it looked like the ham-faced man before him was a little red ball in an unfathomably huge game of Pong. Ennings giggled a little, and a ripple of confusion danced across the man's flab.

"What do you want?" The President (whose name was Gilbert, which you know for no other reason than a sudden shocking shortage of pronouns) asked slowly.
"Why, I'm here to make a business proposition." Ennings said cheerfully. "I have something you want. . ." He said, leaning back. "And I went to no small lengths to retreive it, either." He twirled the little vial dexterously between his fingers, and sinisterly between the fingers on his left hand. "I expect compensation."
"Of course." The man replied, reaching for something under the desk. "Name your price." This caught Ennings attention.

"Well, we can start with whatever you've got in your wallet." He said.
"Wouldn't you rather I just make a deposit into your Valet? I can promise the utmost discrepency upon my part, the sums will be small and wired through puppet accounts, we can parse it over a few days, the Bank won't suspect a thing." Gilbert stared into Ennings's eyes with a strange mix of hate and desperation that would confuse even the most seasoned empath. Ennings subconsciously crossed a leg across his knee and set his hands in his lap defensively.

"My Valet was recently destroyed." He said plainly.

"Of course." Gilbert did little to conceal his biting sarcasm. "How professional."

"Don't presume that my sub-par planetfall is any indication of my abilities as a businessman, Mr. Gilbert." Ennings said, wagging his finger. "There ain't more than a handfull of pilots who'd even think of running a light transport through the goddamned blockade of a planetary defense you've got here. Hell, ain't more than a scant handful anywhere that would even think of trying to land anything at all what's had most of it's thrust capacity shot to shit." He bit his bottom lip has memories of explosions ran through his brain. "Those mass drivers are nasty." He stated.

"Look, I don't care." Gilbert said, throwing ettiquite to the wind. "I know you must think you're some almighty badass for what you've done, but I want you to know that I don't give one god damn shit for what you think you can do." He tossed a fine leather billfold upon the table, it slid straight into Ennings' lap. "Take the money. Empty my fucking account if you want, I keep my passcode written on my access card, I don't fucking need it. Now do what you were god damned paid for," He rose and leaned across the table intimidatingly. "And give me my goddamned cargo!" He growled. Ennings, sufficiently cowed, handed the man the vial.

He didn't take it.

Instead, he looked at it with the same mix of indignant outrage and confusion that rich people get when their many butlers prepare them salmon caviar instead of sturgeon. He grabbed Ennings by the collar and began shouting.

"What is that?" He scrunched his face up, like it was some sort of magic eye puzzle that would reveal itself that way. Ennings paused. Disparate half-realized suspicions began clunking around in his brain, like an irregular granite Rubik's cube.

". . . This is the stuff."

"What stuff?"

"The stuff I stole from Clockwerx. You know, his miracle medicine." Ennings smiled as disarmingly as he could. Gilbert's face rippled meatily, dissolving into a mixture of fear and queasy disgust that most people experience during a gas station sandwich-induced BM. He walked towards the large wrap-around windows of his office, and stared out at the crumbling city beneath him.

"I want my family back." He said quietly. Enning's stomach dropped twenty floors, then went flying back into his throat.

Shit.

Gilbert slowly turned, stared Ennings right in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but the fear scrawled across Ennings' features caught his attention. He hesitated.

"You're not one of the kidnappers, I take it?" He asked, anger quickly subsiding. Ennings stood, tucked the wallet into his pocket, and backed slowly out of the room.
"Ah, no." He said, standining in the threshold of the imposing red door. "Terribly sorry." And with that, he turned and ran as quickly as he could to the elevator.
"Hey, my wallet!" Gilbert shouted, just as the doors closed.

Ennings hammered the ground floor button as quickly as possible, until the elevator began to descend at near free-fall speeds towards his waiting egress. He pulled the wallet out of his pocket and inspected the contents. Several thousand pentacreds (just enough for a ship capable of getting them out of the system), a long string of sentimental photos, and a collection of bank cards, the most notable of which was a matte black, with nary a clue as to it's use. As loath as Ennings was to pass up such a tantilizing little incite to adventure, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

He pocketed the money as the elevator doors opened into the lobby, still crowded with similarly dressed office drones migrating in groups. Not missing a beat, Ennings pulled the fire alarm in the elevator, trigginer a klaxon that didn't so much encourage an orderly exit from the building, as freeze everyone in their tracks for a moment. Realizing what was happening, the drones went absolutely rip-shit, and began charging for the nearest exit. Never letting a good panic go to waste, Ennings charged out of the elevator, slammed through the same group of security guards from before, taking the opportunity to slip Gilbert's wallet into an unsuspecting pocket, and didn't stop running until he was behind the wheel of the hatchback that Philo's robo-whoring had secured them.

"Good to see you made it back safe and sound, Captain." Philo said cheerfully, ready and waiting in the passenger's seat. "Gizmo called, he wants to meet us at the Spaceport, he said it was urgent. Did you sell the vial?"

"No, but I got us money." Ennings kicked the ignition into high gear and pulled out into the hectic traffic. Behind him, he saw a pair of Millitary dropships unloading a number of heavily armed and armored warriors into the plaza, pouring like a human river into the Medical building. Enning's heart skipped a beat, but he consoled himself in the knowledge that no-one saw him.

Except the plethora of cameras that probably adorned every street corner and hidden crevice in that building. Shit. Ennings silently cursed the wonderful security blanket that modern day technology provided the average layperson. If nothing else, he told himelf, it makes my job damn tough.

"In the interest of avoiding any self-incriminating action," Philo said, noticing the near-riot taking place in the Galactic Average System Headquarters, "I shall refrain from asking any questions."

"Good." Enning breathed. "Hey, what happened to your boyfriend?" Philo slung a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the disheveled comatose heap in the cramped back seat.
"Goddamn, dude." Ennings said. "Did you at least buy him a drink first?" Philo shrugged and smiled, letting the wind from his open window ruffle his synthetic blonde hair.