An Account of Recent Occurrences by Patrick Steward, Gentleman’s Gentleman (099–118 1106)
At Hernon’s Claim, my employers were invited to dinner with one Tiyaheio and his employer’s distinguished houseguest, none other than Prince Hteilotorl of the Iuwoi clan – otherwise known as the Aslan bounty whose very existence has caused every mercenary and bounty hunter from here to Tyokh to salivate at the mere sight of fur.
Reports suggested that the dinner was formal, in the Aslan style, though the hosts’ means fell somewhere between “rustic” and “discount.” I approve heartily of the creative use of less expensive cuts. As the sole steward on the ship with responsibility for maintaining the facilities, I am grateful to report that the meal was, mercifully, digestible for humans.
Hteilotorl himself was gruff, reserved, and managed to play the part of the Senior Guest with commendable dullness. From what I have heard, he represented the finest traditions of war criminals as respectable dining commpanions with whom one would quite contentedly leave one’s offspring.
Upon leaving the dinner, there was detected a microdrone scarcely larger than a breadcrumb. It tailed us faithfully, like a charmingly affectionate mosquito. Half the party went to a bar to provide the drone with a pleasing distraction; the others purchased mesh for a stateroom-sized Faraday cage, apparently planning on turning Hteilotorl into the Aslan equivalent of leftovers wrapped in foil.
Mr Chang, quite the bad penny, turned up on Hernon’s Claim but my employers remained polite, which I consider a moral triumph and a quiet testament to my persistent tutelage.
The following day we departed Hernon’s Claim under the guise of legitimate traders. Once safely out of range, we detoured 1000 kilometres to Tarkus Mining Camp 4a, where we discreetly collected our princely stowaway and, in a moment of by-now quite predictable impulse-buying, purchased an Offworld Construction Master Robot and eight drones for the trifling sum of 2.34 million credits. I await their inevitable repurposing as butlers.
At Acrid, we were greeted by the sight every pirate dreams of: an Imperial treasure fleet – four treasure ships and four patrol cruisers – preparing to jump to Hilfer. Our marines salivated. Our officers sighed. I ensured the silverware was secured.
Lady Penelope piloted us in with her usual aplomb, threading the ship carefully through an atmosphere apparently composed of nitric acid, ammonia, and malice. While refuelling, members of the crew were approached by Elisabet Zhong, leader of the Consolidated Acrid Union of Mineworkers and Associated Workers – or CAUMAW, which sounds like a distressed cat. She confided that PRQ’s abuses had made revolution inevitable, but that success was uncertain. She asked for our help. When we explained that we were somewhat short on spare troops, she looked as if we had claimed to be short on gravity. Nevertheless, she seemed encouraged by our willingness to engage.
Departing, we passed a titanic Agri-ship at the GeDeCo highport, an agricultural leviathan disgorging crops. The very thought of the grain lodging amongst the upholstery was enough to send me hurrying back to the galley.
From Acrid we leapt to the Pandora system where, after thirty-six hours of calculations, the company descended to a canyon on Pillidia 6’s fifth moon, accompanied by Hteilotorl, who announced with evident relish that he was eager for “one last battle.” I suggested that, if being granted wishes, then perhaps expressing the desire for seventeen or eighteen last battles was more wise, but he was not in the mood for my wisdom.
The base proved abandoned, its atmosphere gone, its turrets and machinery looted and its crates scattered in a manner that suggests that its previous tenants cared little for their security deposit. But from the shadows emerged a Troll-class military droid, a relic of such size and surliness it made our table-bot The Manichean seem like the most charming and convivial of companions.
The Troll was dispatched, albeit not as efficiently as one might wish, with my employers apparently going to great lengths to ensure a fair fight for all concerned. Sir Timaeus, alas, received a personal demonstration of the static maul, which demonstrated admirably the excellent value for money represented by such hardware. A second strike would have enabled him to greet heartily his illustrious ancestors in person, but fate – and perhaps some good fortune – intervened. At last the Troll collapsed in a heap of smouldering circuits, its long vigil ended. This is not the first such encounter and I do worry that my charges will one day choose to engage a robot whose batteries are positively brimming with both electricity and vim.
The company, somewhat dented, retreated to our ship to lick wounds, repair egos, and consider the warnings offered by ancient poets regarding entering a cavern in a canyon.
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