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.