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.”