Category: NPC Accounts

Patrick Steward’s Memorandum

Arunisiir Starport, 033–034 1107
Compiled for the record, with reluctance.

It appears that the party’s third consecutive day aboard the Martin II was, from all reports, as industrious as it was morally ambiguous. I was not present for the majority of the activities described below, which is just as well, as it spared me the necessity of pretending not to notice certain behaviours that would have earned sharp words in any properly run ship.

I am told that Miss Deanna – whose mechanical competence is undeniable, though her imagination occasionally runs ahead of her judgement – took a professional interest in the Martin II’s life-support systems. This interest extended, I gather, to determining whether the circulation system might be repurposed for the delivery of a “debilitating gas.”

I will refrain from comment, save to note that on the So Much For Subtlety our life-support systems exist solely to keep the crew alive, alert, and punctual. I should require that any other application would demand a properly-minuted meeting, a written proposal, and at least one raised eyebrow.

Dr Parsifal, meanwhile, appears to have conducted what I am assured was a therapeutic conversation with the treasure ship’s launch pilot, Ms Henshaw. This resulted in her confession – freely given, amid tears – that she is being blackmailed by the pirate Irontooth through threats to her child.

I am informed this revelation was received with sympathy, professionalism, and was in no way a resaponse to improvisational use of cutlery by the good doctor, who appears to have reached a turning point in his life of late.

Miss Anastasia’s attention seems to have been divided between alleged documents, suspicious inquiries regarding Tech World, and the unsettling realisation that half the ship’s senior crew appeared to be thinking very hard indeed about vaults. At lunch, she is said to have engaged in what can only be described as conversational baiting of the astrogator, Osha – discussing sensitive operational matters loudly while simultaneously rifling through the poor woman’s surface thoughts.

I understand that Osha reacted with alarm, guilt, and a fixation on removing “something” from the vaults at Tech World. I can only assume this “something” is not a set of our misplaced teaspoons, because if it were, I should press for Dr von Edelsburg to return to his less tolerant approach of former years.

Dr Parsifal later encountered a tense gathering involving Crewman O’Leary and Marine Jen Laral, who fell conspicuously silent upon his approach. This silence was broken only by the revelation – obtained with commendable tact – that the vault will not open until the ship reaches Tyokh, and then only with the captain’s physical presence, key, and DNA.

I am pleased to note that our own safe does not involve this degree of theatricality. It opens when authorised and remains closed when not, which is the correct behaviour for vaults, safes and other similar devices.

A Marine Sergeant named Harc – whose cranial jack Dr Parsifal had earlier repaired – expressed paranoia regarding the presence of psionics aboard the ship – a suggestion that caused a sharp intake of breath from his interlocutor – but laid the blame squarely at the feet of the Zhodani. Having noticed this pattern amidst conspiracy enthusiasts, I presume that the next escalation shall be the presence of the Ancients in the forward quarters.

Miss Deanna was later summoned to the bridge, where she encountered Captain Torsa in a state of visible insecurity. Demonstrating considerable social grace, she addressed him as “Sir” and “Captain” with sufficient frequency to restore his self-esteem. The result was an expansion of the party’s clearance to nearly the entire ship.

I note, with professional admiration, that flattery remains one of the most efficient tools in the armoury of those dealing with their intellectual inferiors.

That evening, both Captain Timaeus and Dr Parsifal observed a trader named Aparo taking surreptitious photographs of the So Much For Subtlety, the Shinkiro, and the Martin II.

I dislike surreptitious photographs. They are rarely flattering and never innocent.

On 034-1107, matters briefly improved.

The Imperium close escort Arshad arrived to resupply, and her captain, Johann Burghof, requested permission to visit the So Much For Subtlety. I was present for this engagement, and can therefore state with confidence that standards were upheld.

Captain Burghof explained – very politely – that he wished to avoid awkward questions of precedence between the Imperium Navy and our own service, whose lineage he was gracious enough to acknowledge extends back some two thousand years. I found this refreshingly sensible.

He expressed warm admiration for the actions at Acrid and Argona and displayed an enthusiasm for the details of the Argona cutting-out operation that bordered on the affectionate. He asked after logistics, boarding procedures, and sequencing, and listened with the intensity of a man who appreciates a well-executed plan.

He further mentioned, in confidence, a loose fraternity of senior and retired naval officers based around Empire, who view Drinax as a potentially stabilising force against Aslan expansion. I mention this only because it is gratifying to hear such things said aloud, rather than muttered in corridors.

Captain Burghof also proposed – rather eagerly – that if Irontooth were indeed hunting the Martin II, then perhaps the hunters might themselves be hunted. He envisaged a joint action involving Imperium assets, the treasure ship, and ourselves, resulting in “a damnably glorious fight” and an appreciable improvement in Drinax’s standing.

I made a mental note to polish the railings on the Captain’s bridge walkway.

Most importantly – and here I am guilty of saving the best for last – Captain Burghof turned out to be a connoisseur of starship internal design and decoration, expressing admiration for the interior of the So Much For Subtlety. What a joy to see ability, discretion and impeccable taste in a single human vessel.

While this was occurring, Anastasia and Dr Parsifal confronted Purser Vaughn. Under questioning – augmented by psionic intrusion, which I shall not dignify with further description – it became clear that Vaughn is attempting to place a forged treaty into the vault at Tech World, believing this will secure him a life of leisure courtesy of GeDeCo.

I am continually amazed at the optimism of dishonest men regarding the honesty of others.

At lunch, Dr Parsifal spoke privately with Astrogator Osha, who displayed compulsive attention to the backs of her hands. With professional sensitivity, he drew out her fear that a genetic flaw might manifest, leading to social exile and the loss of her future family prospects. She believes she will soon have sufficient funds to correct this at Tech World.

I sincerely hope she does. As one raised above the petty tyranny of genetics, I feel that genetic misfortune is quite enough without pirates, conspiracies, and forged treaties complicating matters.

In summary:

The Martin II is a ship in distress, captained by a peacock, crewed by frightened people, infiltrated by at least three groups of conspirators, and residing upon a system in which entirely too many parties are paying attention.

By contrast, the So Much For Subtlety remains clean, orderly, and properly run.

I trust this contrast will continue.

– Patrick Steward

The party receive a message, using the royal code, from Princess Rao, on 020-1107, two days after the signature of the Acrid War peace treaty, dated six days after the Battle of Argona, so she cannot have known the outcome at that point. It was sent with Sal Dancet in her J3-ship: this is rare, since Rao is subtle about her direct use of the smuggler.

“003-1107 Drinax

Sources indicate a Third Imperium Treasure Ship has been damaged and separated from its convoy. Believed to be stranded at Arunisiir Lowport. This represents a rare opening: these ships carry staggering wealth, quite apart from the value of such a ship itself.

By the time you receive this, she will have been on Arunisiir for over a month, and an Imperium rescue fleet is to be expected in a matter of several weeks, so this may be a fleeting opportunity.

I am aware that you are engaged in prosecuting war on His Majesty’s behalf, and that the conflict may last some time, so use your judgement as to the prioritisation of this opportunity, and as to what individuals you put to the task. The defence of Acrid must not be imperilled, but my father has set his heart on half of the bounty of which We are alerting you, believing that it will represent substantial liquidity. It is to be hoped that he is correct.

I trust in your proven wisdom to adopt an approach that is discrete enough not to bring down the ire of the Imperium upon us: take as much as you can, but do not leave any undeniable link to Drinax. Use your most capable and subtle assets.

On a related note, your Iuwoi princeling is recruiting at Kteiroa and is, I believe, intent on making for Arunisiir later in the year. Given his lack of subtlety, it is fortunate that you have yet to summon him there. The involvement of an army would be hard to obfuscate.

R.“

Krrsh’s Official Tactical Log of Extreme Flamboyance and The Time I Basically Won a Space Battle By Myself (With Help)

Location: Argona Orbit (Briefly) / Running Away to Exe

So, we arrived at Argona. Well, eventually. First, we arrived in the middle of nowhere because someone (I’m not naming names, but it rhymes with “Bars”) did the math wrong. I don’t blame him. Math is cold and unfeeling, unlike Dance or Piloting, which are arts of the soul. We had almost no fuel. We were running on fumes and hope. It was very dramatic. I loved it.

Anyway, the plan was simple: I take the Mercifuge – which flies like a dumpster full of wet carpet – and I act like a distraction.

Timaeus told me: “Krrsh, draw their attention. Be conspicuous.”

I said: “Captain, I was born conspicuous. I am a neon sign in a world of beige. I am a glowing sequin on a funeral suit.”

So I go in. I’m flying the Mercifuge toward the Highport, but I’m doing it badly on purpose. I’m wobbling. I’m revving the engines. I’m broadcasting a transponder signal that basically says “HELLO I AM DEFINITELY THE STEELGRINDER AND I AM VERY CONFUSED.” It was the greatest acting performance of my life. I channeled the energy of a drunk Virushi.

And it worked! The PRQ security ships came out. The Defiant. A D-Class System Defence Boat. Big. Ugly. A particle bay the size of a house. Nasty piece of work. They thought: “Oh look, a helpless idiot Vargr in a salvage hauler, let’s go bully him.”

JOKE WAS ON THEM.

While they were looking at my majestic wobbling, the So Much For Subtlety was sitting right there. Invisible. Silent. Like a predator waiting in the tall grass. Or like the philistine Sharyl when he’s waiting for me to try to play music.

The Defiant flew right past them. I turned around and pretended to run away (also majestically), and then: ZAP!

Eric shot their sensors off. Blinded them!

Then Dr. Parsifal used the particle barbette. BOOM! Hit their engines.

Suddenly the big brute of a ship is drifting like a dead fish. If fish could drift in space. Actually they probably just need a shove. The real trick is probably for a living fish to drift in space.

BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT. Anyway, the Vespexers and the droids went in. I didn’t see that part, but there was a lot of screaming over the comms. Good screaming, I think? The “we are winning” kind.

We stole the whole ship.

Next came the hard part, and the bit that had everyone in awe of their favourite Krrsh. It showed why they gave me the hard job. I had to turn the Mercifuge around and clamp onto a hostile military ship while people were shooting at us.

Do you know how hard that is? It’s like trying to hug an angry cactus while riding a unicycle.

But I did it. Of course I did. I clamped them tight. Ace clamping.

We literally stole the police car while the police were still inside it. Well, figuratively literally. But we do have a whole bunch of frozen space police, now.

So I heroically refuel the sneaky ship and next thing we know we are jumping to Exe and I am towing a 200-ton warship clamped to my hull. My fuel usage is horrific. The structural groaning sounds would have turned a lesser Vargr’s fur white. Not mine: it remains a glorious mix of platinum and anthracite.

So we won. And I looked good doing it.

Music Selection for the Battle:

Catch Me If You Can (Tiznee Zazzle, The Glitterball Remix).

Perfect tempo for evasive maneuvers. Inspirational. The crew obeyed my strict orders to enjoy it.

Crew Roles by Krrsh (Updated for Battle of Argona)

Name	Title	Notes
Krrsh	The Bait	I risked my beautiful argent fur to lure the enemy. A hero.
Eric	The Blinder	Shot the eyes off a ship. Very precise. Scary.
Dr. Parsifal	The Hammer	He usually fixes people, but today he broke an engine, showing good range.
Timaeus	The Other Boss	Came up with the plan. It worked, so he stays on the list.
Lars	Math Issues	We misjumped. But the boarding was almost as good as my bit.
Vespexers	Coughing Army	They boarded the ship. Very brave. Very sickly. Need anti-radiation lozenges.
The PRQ	Losers	Fell for the “Wobbly Vargr” trick. Embarrassing for them.

Krrsh’s Chronicles of Ascendance: I Harness the Power of the Atom

Location: Acrid Orbit (Smells like victory and burnt ozone)
Mood: Radioactively Magnificent

They tried to put me at the helm. Can you believe it? Timaeus looked at me with his human face and I knew that he was saying, “Krrsh, we need your evasive maneuvers.”

I looked him in the eye – well, I looked at his chin, which is very noble, I suppose – and I said, “Nay, my Captain. Today the pack does not dodge. Today the pack bites.” At least, I remember it being something like that.

I marched to the Dorsal Turret. I strapped in. The Particle Beam requires a touch of finesse, a soul of fire. It is not a weapon for droids. It is a weapon for an artist.

And then: The S-4.

A System Defence Boat. Ugly thing. Looked like a flying brick designed by an accountant. It thought it could stop us. It thought its armour was strong. Which, technically, is entirely true.

It did not account for Krrsh.

I didn’t just fire the beam. I played it.
HMMMM-CRACK!
First shot: Shields flared blue. Beautiful colour.
HMMMM-CRACK!
Second shot: Direct hit on their port maneuver drive. I saw the armour boil off. It looked like soup.
HMMMM-CRACK!
Third shot: Right down the throat. I imagine the PRQ captain spilled his coffee as he realised the rumours were true: Krrsh was here!

The vibration of the P-Beam… it travels up your spine and shakes your very teeth. It is the best feeling in the universe, second only to a really good belly rub. I was screaming. The crew said I was “howling incoherently,” but it was actually a very specific Vargr war-chant about crushing enemies and eating their food.

The S-4 is ours now. It’s floating there, smoking gently. A prize.

I overheard the crew discussing names for the captured vessel. They were suggesting boring things like The Liberator or Acrid’s Hope. I stayed silent, smiling my mysterious smile. Because we all know the truth. You don’t watch a warrior single-handedly dissect a warship with a beam of pure ions and not name the ship after him.

They are just being shy about it. They want to surprise me.

Welcome to the fleet, His Drinaxian Majesty’s Ship Warlord Krrsh.

Filed by Krrsh, Gunner-King of Acrid.
P.S. The ozone smell stuck to my fur. I have decided not to wash. It intimidates the droids.

Location: The Gunner’s Seat (Surrounded by screens, eating dried meat)
Status: Analyzing the Victory (and the lag)

We didn’t drop from the sky like meteors. (Which is a shame, because I have practiced my atmospheric entry vector and it is terrifying). No, we were already there. Tucked into the docking bays like ticks in the fur, waiting for the signal. The Trojan Horse maneuvre. But with more lasers.

I wasn’t watching through a window; I was plugged into the tight-beam, encrypted feeds from our droids. Hundreds of little windows, seeing through their eyes.

Let me tell you something: We need better Battle Management Software.

Trying to coordinate a hundred combat droids and a pack of irradiated Vespexers using their video feeds is like trying to conduct an orchestra using a wet noodle. It is undignified for one of my stature and station. If we ever get to pirate again – which I begin to doubt – I am going to stop saving up for Project Ermine and I’ll buy the Tactical-Commander Pro Suite. I deserve it.

But even through the grainy, glitching video feeds, it was beautiful.

One second, the PRQ guards were checking manifests and drinking bad coffee. The next second – static, flash, crunch – the cargo ramps dropped and our metal boys walked out.

I watched the action. The feed was black and white and lagging by half a second, but I lapped it up like a fresh bowl of wine. The Vespexers poured out of the ships like angry water, but Cauldron was the shark: boom went the armoury. The pixels couldn’t keep up with the action. The Vespexers moved through the hangar, and wherever they went, the enemy icons just… deleted.

The droids lack flamboyance – they just march and shoot – but when they saw their Alphas move, they surged. It wasn’t a battle; it was a system purge. Acrid fell in two hours, and I didn’t even have to strafe anything. (I am slightly disappointed I didn’t get to strafe, but the efficiency was… tasty).

Filed by Krrsh, Warlord (future)

P.S. Droid 84 got shot in the face and the static feedback made me spill my drink. I am deducting the cleaning bill from its maintenance budget.

Report of Sharyl, Pithos to Falcon (118–142 1106)

At Pithos, the Sindalian base, we walked through halls colder than death, –120°C in the dark, with the air long fled. Frost clung to every surface. The place was gutted, scavenged, abandoned. Each step made the metal groan, as though the moon itself resented our intrusion. I thought: this is what becomes of empires. Their strength drains away, their halls are stripped, and only silence remains.

At Cordan, there was bustle: ships in and out, trade flowing, people alive with commerce. In such a place, intrigue follows close. A minister of Baroness Lux spoke of plots and rivalries, and dangled land before us. Land — sixty thousand acres. Land is life, even if offered as bait. I felt my claws stretch, unbidden, with the ache of longing.

Krrsh saw it, of course, and launched into an interminable tale of how he swept aside Miria Silverhand and single-handledly defeated Ferrik Redthane. I have heard this version before. It is best to humour him and listen with grinding teeth, the better to keep the pup happy. Such is my honourable duty to the Lords of the ship. Although I must say that in my frustration the land-longing did pass, washed aside by his insolent boasting. Perhaps he is not quite such a fool?

At Exe, the talk was of warships and mercenaries. Captain Kaashukiin of the Retribution drank with us, her mind sharp, her knowledge wide. She spoke of the Excalibur, Sword Worlder steel, and sought tidings. The humans caroused and told stories; I listened. To drink to excess, to boast of triumphs, that is their way. To watch, to weigh words and silences, that is mine. Kaashukiin has a general’s mind. I would rejoice to fight against her, but prefer to fight alongside her.

At Falcon, we came upon the crippled Western Fire. Her life’s-breath seeping into the black, her crew desperate. I led the first wave aboard, as is right. Boarding must be swift, disciplined, honourable. Later, Krrsh swept aboard. I could not believe what I saw: he had a cape! It was in the old Sindalian style, upon which he had apparently spent sufficient Imperial credits for gravitics technology to make it billow. Billow! In space! For the same cost, he could have had… well, costs mock me and money is a foolish abstraction but I imagine a deadly weapon could be acquired for such a sum.

Krrsh insists that his “billowing cape” strikes fear into the hearts of foes. In truth, it strikes me only with the desire to throttle him with it. He called himself the leader of the “second wave,” and makes light of it. I know he has boarded a ship against the will of its crew, and yet he treats it as an act of theatre. He is a fool. Although, to be fair, he is a brave fool. It is wearying, like sharing a den with a cub.

The engineer was revived, the captain thanked us. The others jested, drank, and turned the story to farce, but they had forfeited the right to their craft. What others cannot hold, we should take. It is not wrong to rule where others show weakness.

Krrsh’s Heroic Log, 118–142 1106

At Pithos Base I strode through frozen halls at –120°C, frost in my fur, breath like a dragon. The walls creaked beneath me. Not, as Sharyl claimed, from the weakness of steel at such low temperatures (what Aslan males know of science I could write on my favourite biretta hat) but from awe.

At Cordan, I dazzled a whole bar full of dolphins in robot suits. Yes, dolphins. They sang to me in clicks and whistles, and I replied with a Colliewood jig that shook the floor. Minister Phoil offered us land — 60,000 acres! Obviously meant for me, though he mumbled some formalities about Drinax or the like. I strongly suspect that I shall be asked to rule it in my beneficent style. I shall perhaps allow Sharyl a little corner somewhere: he clearly longs for somewhere to murder things: whenever I speak to him I can see his claws emerging in sheer frustration, no doubt at not owning land. Even my longest and most dazzling accounts of my deeds cannot entirely prevent his growing tension.

At Exe, I drank every man and machine under the table in the Gen Eric Bar & Grill, until even the rather obsessive Captain Kaashukiin of the Retribution forgot about hunting the Excalibur and nodded at me with the glazed expression of one who has seen and heard the unbelievable.

At Falcon, we found the Western Fire, half-dead and gasping. Sharyl led the first boarding wave, of course: the serious, honourable one, but also the easy one with the advantage of surprise!

But then the crew turned to me, with pleading in their eyes. “Krrsh,” they said, “the time has come. Lead the second wave to glory and conquest.” Ah! The wave that sweeps in upon a forewarned enemy, taking the real risks. Cometh the hour, cometh the Vargr! I surged aboard, axe aloft, cloak billowing (yes, without life support in zero-G it billows). The rescued crew were baffled at the sight of me, certain they had been delivered by a benificent, canine god.

I saw the obvious doubt in Sharyl’s eyes at my entrance. He seemed not to be able to believe what he was seeing. This, I was demonstrating, is how one seizes a ship!

The engineer was revived, the captain swore eternal gratitude – I believe he hinted that his firstborn would bear the honourable name of Krrsh – and the bar at Falcon is still retelling the saga of Krrsh the Magnificent, Lord of the Second-Wave, Billower-of-Cloaks, and Liberator of the Western Fire. By next week I expect statues.

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.

An Account of Recent Occurrences by Patrick Steward, Gentleman’s Gentleman (065–095 1106)

On Technology and Temptation

At Tech World, my companions indulged their twin vices of self-mutilation and consumerism. They upgraded their cyberware, recovered from surgeries that would make a butcher blanch, and pressed their noses against showroom glass like children at a sweetshop – except in this case the sweets were heavily armed military droids. One prays the glass holds.

The highlight was a meeting with Dern Vass, a cyborg salesman of Dietler Fabrication Services, who explained the many, very expensive, reasons why reviving 1,500-year-old Sindalian machinery is futile. My employers, of course, took this as encouragement.

To crown the day, they also commissioned six additional “Patrick-units” from BetterLife Robotech Ltd. Yes, I am to be cloned in mechanical form and placed aboard every vessel in our flotilla, each fitted with discreet spyware. One can only imagine the joy of being multiplied, mechanised, and weaponised for management purposes. I have already resigned myself to being outvoted on matters aesthetic by my mechanical cousins at staff meetings

On Matters of Genealogy and Murder

It was also at Tech World that the party debated whether to pursue a bounty of five million credits on a bona fide, alleged war-criminal or to follow up Princess Rao’s cryptic message about a mysterious cargo. The argument ended when Sharyl revealed that the bounty target’s name identified him as a son of the Iuwoi clan – precisely the same clan offering us the cargo contract. Even my most obtuse companions – by which I mean the Manichaean Table – grasped the connection, a moment of rare synchronicity between intellect and opportunity.

On the Bugle Call

In Sperle system, we were asked by traffic control to investigate the Bugle Call, which had recently been perforated by the mercenary cruiser Bayern. We approached in what the company describes as “stealth mode,” which largely consists of not waving.

The Bugle Call had more holes than hull. Survivors included Captain Antoine Marais, a man whose defiance is inversely proportional to his judgment, and Quiet Foyle, who was only quiet because he was unconscious. Their astrogator, the optimistically named Early Bob, had already gone (earlier than he wished, if you will forgive by foray into humour) to whatever reward awaits those who sign on with contrarian, ethnically-French captains. The Bayern had boarded, shot the crew, stolen part of the cargo, and then leapt away.

Our company salvaged what remained, and – in a rare nod to bureaucracy – actually reported the incident to the insurers, which certainly added a blushing glow of hypocrisy to the affair. One imagines the underwriters will be thrilled to learn that customs cruisers in the Reach are now in the business of blasting traders apart. Insurance premiums can only go one way.

On Carousing and Conspiracies

At Sperle Lowport, the company sold cargo and embarked upon that noble tradition they call “carousing.” Information was extracted in between rounds: whalers detest GeDeCo’s monopoly. A conspiracy theorist then revealed – with all the gravity of a prophet – that Theev is secretly run by GeDeCo. It was a dangerously seductive theorem.

On the Recruitment of Mariners

In a fit of optimism, Mr Timaeus attempted to recruit Marais and Foyle as pirates. Having just been shot, wrecked, and impoverished, both declined. They did, however, agree to crew the Lady Luck on respectable trade runs, thereby liberating our Vespexers for their more cherished pursuits of looting, drinking, and detonating. A victory of sorts.

On Samaritan Duties

On our way to Argona, we encountered the Sam’s Leaky Bucket, a Type-S Scout captained by an amiable ancient named Samuel Kegii. He was hovering over a manoeuvre drive in pieces, abandoned mid-service by one of two Aslan passengers who had been carried off by the corsair Phalangist. Cauldron and company reassembled the drive, restoring function. Kegii was so grateful as to talk in charming aphorisms, claiming to be “as happy as a clam at high tide,” a comparison which failed to land convincingly with his audience.

On Lady Penelope’s Aplomb

Our descent into Argona was handled by Mistress Penelope, who guided us through the ice-cavern approach with such elegance that even the barge pilots – a species usually characterised by surliness, xenophobia, and barely-concealed racism – were moved to buy her drinks. Miracles are possible. It transpired that Argona’s labourers are feeling unusually restless (a terrifying thought for a group who settle disputes by dropping glaciers on their negotiating partners) while Acrid’s unions are on the verge of raising the red flag. I cannot claim to approve of such reversals of the traditional order of the classes.

On the Matter of Cargo and Deadlines

We then met Joachim Streussen of the Borderland Alliance. He explained the Iuwoi contract: pick up cargo from Inurin, deliver it to Tyokh by 210-1106, or depart unpaid and under a cloud. Others are spending fortunes to intercept it, which speaks poorly of our survival odds. Payment is generous: half a million now, another half million at pickup, and a million upon delivery. Such sums for a small cargo suggests that we are going to be transporting an aggrieved vampiric lord or a particularly irascible bomb.

Streussen advised us to disguise ourselves as ordinary merchants wandering aimlessly through the Voidsedge Cluster. My companions agreed – a sure sign that they in fact intend to hoist the black flag and spend their evenings capturing innocent hauliers.

On Gibraltar Station

Finally, at Gibraltar Station in Inurin, we were greeted by fighters and told not to refuel at the gas giant due to a “serious hazard to navigation,” which we took as a polite warning that they’ll blow us up if we try. Thank the stars that Monsieur Marais, late of the Bugle Call and impatient with assumed authority, was no longer aboard to take this as a challenge. The precise hazard was left unspecified, which is always reassuring. We are to meet with Eanzuearrgzoerraer Freight and Brokerage tomorrow at an hour so ungodly it may constitute a war crime.